Paul stared into the freezer.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes. I heard you.”
“Should I call the state police now?”
“Yes. It’s time.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m all right, Sam.”
“Will you be okay here-alone?”
“Sure. Fine.”
“Are you certain?”
“Sure.”
Sam hesitated, finally turned away. He took the steps two at a time, thunderously.
Paul touched the boy’s cheek.
It was cold and hard.
Somehow he found the strength to pull the body, stiff as it was, out of the freezer. He balanced his son on the edge of the chest, got both arms under him and lifted him. He swung around and put the boy on the floor, in the center of the room.
He blew on his hands to warm them.
Sam came back, still as pale as the belly of a fish. He looked at Mark. His face twisted with pain, but he didn’t cry. He kept control of himself. “There seems to be some trouble with the telephones.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“Well, the lines have been blown down between here and Bexford.”
Frowning, Paul said, “Blown down? It doesn’t seem windy enough for that.”
“Not here it isn’t. But it probably is much windier farther on toward Bexford. In these mountains you can have a pocket of relative calm right next to a fierce storm.”
“The lines to Bexford . . .” Paul brushed strands of stiff, frozen, blood-crusted hair from his son’s white forehead. “What does that mean to us?”
“You can ring up anyone you want in town or up at the mill. But you can’t place a long-distance call.”
“Who told you?”
“The operator. Mandy Ultman.”
“Does she have any idea when they’ll get it fixed?”
“Evidently, there’s been a lot of damage,” Sam said. “She tells me a crew of linemen from Bexford are already working. But they’ll need several hours to put things right.”
“How many hours?”
“Well, they’re not even sure they can patch it up any time before tomorrow morning.”
Paul remained at his son’s side, kneeling on the concrete floor, and he thought about what Sam had said.
“One of us should drive into Bexford and call the state police from there.”
“Okay,” Paul said.
“You want me to do it?”
“if you want. Or I will. It doesn’t matter. But first we have to move Mark to your place.”
“Move him?”
“Of course.”
“But isn’t that against the law?” He cleared his throat “I mean, the scene of the crime and all that”
“I can’t leave him here, Sam.”
“But if Bob Thorp did this, you want him to pay for it. Don’t you? If you move-move the body, what proof do you have that you actually found it here?”
Surprised by the steadiness of his own voice, Paul said, “The police forensic specialists will be able to find traces of Mark’s hair and blood in the freezer.”
“But-”
“I can’t leave him here!”
Sam nodded. “All right” “I just can’t, Sam.”
“Okay. We’ll get him to the car.” “Thank you.”
“We’ll take him to my place.”
“Thank you.” “How will we carry him?” “You-take his feet.” Sam touched the boy. “So cold.” “Be careful with him, Sam.” Sam nodded as they lifted the body. “Be gentle with him, please.” “Okay.”
“Please.”
“I will,” Sam said. “I will.”
5
2:00 P.M.
THUNDER CANNONED, and rain shattered against the windows of the police chief’s office.
Two men, employees of other governmental departments that shared the municipal building, stood with their backs to the windows, trying to look stern, authoritarian, and eminently reliable. Bob Thorp had provided them with bright yellow hooded rain slickers with POLICE stenciled across their shoulders and chests. Both men were in their middle or late thirties, yet they expressed an almost childish delight at the opportunity to wear these raincoats: adults playing cops and robbers.
“Can you use a gun?” Salsbury asked them.
They both said that they could.
Salsbury turned to Bob Thorp. “Give them guns.”
“Revolvers?” the police chief asked.
“Do you have shotguns?”
“Yes.”
“I believe those would be better than revolvers,” Salsbury said. “Don’t you agree?”
“For this operation?” Thorp said. “Yes. Much better.”
“Then give them shotguns.”