Cause of Death

5

We approach the spot where my wife veered off the two-lane road and died.

I’m following the MCPSO cruiser. The nose of my Nissan Pathfinder points up the steep hill. I pull onto the shoulder and park behind Terry.

I get out and join him. We walk to where her sedan left the road and tumbled down the steep slope of grass and dirt, rolling and rolling. Finally coming to rest just before a dense forest of oak, pine and hemlock, interlaced with an eerie tangle of brush.

I see on the asphalt a thick black skid mark from her panicked braking. At the end of the skid are dots and streaks of dark blood. This isn’t Pax’s, of course, since she died in the car well down the hillside. This dark-brown patch is from the unlucky deer.

“You been back since?” Terry asks.

“My first time.”

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?”

“I’m okay.”

Terry and I start down slowly — the incline must be twenty degrees or more — making a lazy S search pattern, staring at the ground as we make our way along and around the path of the Altima’s wild tumble. It is easy to follow; the ground is soft.

“Was it a big one? The computer?”

“Normal size. Not huge. Fifteen-inch, Dell. Silver.”

“And her phone?”

“iPhone. In a gold case.”

For a half hour we comb the ground.

“Couldn’t’ve gone that far. Was the computer in a bag?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hey. Got something here.” He bends down and picks up a mobile phone. “This hers?”

“Never seen that one.”

The deputy exhales — in surprise, it seems. “Well, this’s a burner. I know the brand. Prepaid.”

I watch TV. I know what a burner is. “Maybe it’s Heart-in-Hand’s. The charity she volunteered for.” He hands it to me. It doesn’t power up. “Maybe somebody else dropped it. Rescue worker.”

“Nobody reported missing one.”

“I’ll see if there’s a charger at home.”

We arrive at the place where the Altima came to a stop near the bottom of the valley, at a line of trees.

“Sorry, Jon. That’s a shame. Might be somebody did walk off with ’em.”

“Not a huge deal. Just wanted the pictures mostly.”

“You could check the cloud, you know. Maybe she uploaded them.”

“I will.”

Then Terry’s eyes are on the ground, beside the muddy brook. “Well. Look here.” He’s gesturing at a bouquet of flowers — fresh — sitting where the Nissan had come to rest. The petals are yellow and pale red. He starts toward them.

“Watch your step there, Terry. It’s a bog.”

“Ah. Thanks.” He skirts the swamp and looks at the flowers, then at the broader area. “Footsteps too. But not from the rescue workers.” He’s frowning. “Looks like whoever left the flowers hiked down through the forest, not from 420.”

We’re gazing up into the woods, along an even steeper slope from the valley floor than the one we just hiked down from 420. At the top of that hill is Ellicott Road, an old logging trail, now paved.

Terry says, “Other thing is, maybe he — I’m going male — came all the way down here to scrounge the scene, bringing the flowers like a cover, an excuse to be here.” He picked up the flowers, wrapped in a black sash. “Don’t think I’ve seen this sort before. You know what they are?”

I tell him I don’t.

“I’ll ask a florist’r two. Maybe they’ll know who bought ’em. Might be our thief.”

My eyes are on a pair of grackles, hunched in a pine bough. Then the sky, a circle of blue defined by the tips of the tall trees. I whisper, “Something’s wrong.”

“How’s that?”

I’m looking at Route 420, high above us. “Let’s climb back up.”