The Best American Mystery Stories 1997

Brendan Dubois The Dark Snow from Playboy

When I get to the steps of my lakeside home, the door is open. I slowly walk in, my hand reaching for the phantom weapon at my side, everything about me extended and tingling as I enter the strange place that used to be mine. I step through the small kitchen, my boots crunching the broken glassware and dishes on the tile floor. Inside the living room with its cathedral ceiling the furniture has been upended, as if an earthquake had struck.

I pause for a second, looking out the large windows and past the enclosed porch, down to the frozen waters of Lake Marie. Off in the distance are the snow-covered peaks of the White Mountains. I wait, trembling, my hand still curving for that elusive weapon. They are gone, but their handiwork remains. The living room is a jumble of furniture, torn books and magazines, shattered pictures and frames. On one clear white plaster wall, next to the fireplace, two words have been written in what looks to be ketchup: GO HOME.

This is my home. I turn over a chair and drag it to the windows. I sit and look out at the crisp winter landscape, my legs stretched out, holding both hands still in my lap, which is quite a feat.

For my hands at that moment want to be wrapped around someone’s throat.

After a long time wandering. I came to Nansen, New Hampshire, in the late summer and purchased a house along the shoreline of Lake Marie. I didn’t waste much time, and I didn’t bargain. I made an offer that was about a thousand dollars below the asking price, and in less than a month it belonged to me.

At first I didn’t know what to do with it. I had never had a residence that was actually mine. Everything before this had been apartments, hotel rooms, or temporary officer’s quarters. The first few nights I couldn’t sleep inside. I would go outside to the long dock that extends into the deep blue waters of the lake, bundle myself up in a sleeping bag over a thin foam mattress, and stare up at the stars, listening to the loons getting ready for their long winter trip. The loons don’t necessarily fly south; the ones here go out to the cold Atlantic and float with the waves and currents, not once touching land the entire winter.

As I snuggled in my bag I thought it was a good analogy for what I’d been doing. I had drifted too long. It was time to come back to dry land.

After getting the power and other utilities up and running and moving in the few boxes of stuff that belonged to me, I checked the bulky folder that had accompanied my retirement and pulled out an envelope with a doctor’s name on it. Inside were official papers that directed me to talk to him, and I shrugged and decided it was better than sitting in an empty house getting drunk. I phoned and got an appointment for the next day.

His name was Ron Longley and he worked in Manchester, the state’s largest city and about an hour’s drive south of Lake Marie. His office was in a refurbished brick building along the banks of the Merrimack River. I imagined I could still smell the sweat and toil of the French Canadians who had worked here for so many years in the shoe, textile, and leather mills until their distant cousins in Georgia and Alabama took their jobs away.

I wasn’t too sure what to make of Ron during our first session. He showed me some documents that made him a Department of Defense contractor and gave his current classification level, and then, after signing the usual insurance nonsense, we got down to it. He was about ten years younger than I, with a mustache and not much hair on top. He wore jeans, a light blue shirt, and a tie that looked as if about six tubes of paint had been squirted onto it, and he said, “Well, here we are.”

“That we are,” I said. “And would you believe I’ve already forgotten if you’re a psychologist or a psychiatrist?”

That made for a good laugh. With a casual wave of his hand, he said, “Makes no difference. What would you like to talk about?”

“What should I talk about?”

A shrug, one of many I would eventually see. “Whatever’s on your mind.”

“Really?” I said, not bothering to hide the challenge in my voice. “Try this one on then, doc. I’m wondering what I’m doing here. And another thing I’m wondering about is paperwork. Are you going to be making a report down south on how I do? You working under some deadline, some pressure?”

His hands were on his belly and he smiled. “Nope.”

“Not at all?”

“Not at all,” he said. “If you want to come in here and talk baseball for fifty minutes, that’s fine with me.”

I looked at him and those eyes. Maybe it’s my change of view since retirement, but there was something trustworthy about him. I said, “You know what’s really on my mind?”

“No, but I’d like to know.”

“My new house.” I said. “It’s great. It’s on a big lake and there aren’t any close neighbors, and I can sit on the dock at night and see stars I haven’t seen in a long time. But I’ve been having problems sleeping.”

“Why’s that?” he asked, and I was glad he wasn’t one of those stereotypical head docs, the ones who take a lot of notes.

“Weapons.”

“Weapons?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I miss my weapons.” A deep breath. “Look, you’ve seen my files, you know the places Uncle Sam has sent me and the jobs I’ve done. All those years, I had pistols or rifles or heavy weapons, always at my side, under my bed or in a closet. But when I moved into that house, well, I don’t have them anymore.”

“How does that make you feel?” Even though the question was friendly, I knew it was a real doc question and not a from-the-next-barstool type of question.

I rubbed my hands. “I really feel like I’m changing my ways. But damn it...”

“Yes?”

I smiled. “I sure could use a good night’s sleep.”

As I drove back home, I thought. Hell, it’s only a little white lie.

The fact is, I did have my weapons.

They were locked up in the basement, in strongboxes with heavy combination locks. I couldn’t get to them quickly, but I certainly hadn’t tossed them away.

I hadn’t been lying when I told Ron I couldn’t sleep. That part was entirely true.

I thought, as I drove up the dirt road to my house, scaring a possum that scuttled along the side of the gravel, that the real problem with living in my hew home was so slight that I was embarrassed to bring it up to Ron.

It was the noise.

I was living in a rural paradise, with clean air, clean water, and views of the woods and lake and mountains that almost broke my heart each time I climbed out of bed, stiff with old dreams and old scars. The long days were filled with work and activities I’d never had time for. Cutting old brush and trimming dead branches. Planting annuals. Clearing my tiny beach of leaves and other debris. Filling bird feeders. And during the long evenings on the front porch or on the dock, I tackled thick history books.

But one night after dinner — I surprised myself at how much I enjoyed cooking — I was out on the dock, sitting in a fifties-era web lawn chair, a glass of red wine in my hand and a history of the Apollo space program in my lap. Along the shoreline of Lake Marie, I could see the lights of the cottages and other homes. Every night there were fewer and fewer lights, as more of the summer people boarded up their places and headed back to suburbia.

I was enjoying my wine and the book and the slight breeze, but there was also a distraction: three high-powered speedboats, racing around on the lake and tossing up great spray and noise. They were dragging people along in inner tubes, and it was hard to concentrate on my book. After a while the engines slowed and I was hoping the boats would head back to their docks, but they drifted together and ropes were exchanged, and soon they became a large raft. A couple of grills were set up and there were more hoots and yells, and then a sound system kicked in, with rock music and a heavy bass that echoed among the hills.

It was then too dark to read and I’d lost interest in the wine. I was sitting there, arms folded tight against my chest, trying hard to breathe. The noise got louder and I gave up and retreated into the house, where the heavy thump-thump of the bass followed me in. If I’d had a boat I could have gone out and asked them politely to turn it down, but that would have meant talking with people and putting myself in the way, and I didn’t want to do that.

Instead, I went upstairs to my bedroom and shut the door and windows. Still, that thump-thump shook the beams of the house. I lay down with a pillow wrapped about my head and tried not to think of what was in the basement.

Later that night I got up for a drink of water, and there was still noise and music. I walked out onto the porch and could see movement on the lake and hear laughter. On a tree near the dock was a spotlight that the previous owners had installed and which I had rarely used. I flipped on the switch. Some shouts and shrieks. Two powerboats, tied together, had drifted close to my shore. The light caught a young muscular man with a fierce black mustache standing on the stern of his powerboat and urinating into the lake. His half a dozen companions, male and female, veiled and cursed in my direction. The boats started up and two men and a young woman stumbled to the side of one and dropped their bathing suits, exposing their buttocks. A couple others gave me a one-fingered salute, and there was a shower of bottles and cans tossed over the side as they sped away.

I spent the next hour on the porch, staring into the darkness.

The next day I made two phone calls, to the town hall and the police department of Nansen. I made gentle and polite inquiries and got the same answers from each office. There was no local or state law about boats coming to within a certain distance of shore. There was no law forbidding boats from mooring together. Nansen being such a small town, there was also no noise ordinance.

Home sweet home.

On my next visit Ron was wearing a bow tie, and we discussed necktie fashions before we got into the business at hand. He said, “Still having sleeping problems?”

I smiled. “No, not at all.”

“Really?”

“It’s fall,” I said. “The tourists have gone home, most of the cottages along the lake have been boarded up and nobody lakes out boats anymore. It’s so quiet at night I can hear the house creak and settle.”

“That’s good, that’s really good,” Ron said, and I changed the subject. A hall-hour later. I was heading back to Nansen, thinking about my latest white lie. Well, it wasn’t really a lie. More of an oversight.

I hadn’t told Ron about the hang-up phone calls. Or how trash had twice been dumped in my driveway. Or how a week ago, when I was shopping, I had come back to find a bullet hole through one of my windows. Maybe it had been a hunting accident. Hunting season hadn’t started, but I knew that for some of the workingmen in this town, it didn’t matter when the state allowed them to do their shooting.

I had cleaned up the driveway, shrugged off the phone calls, and cut away brush and saplings around the house, to eliminate any hiding spots for... hunters.

Still, I could sit out on the dock, a blanket around my legs and a mug of tea in my hand, watching the sun set in the distance, the reddish pink highlighting the strong yellows, oranges, and reds of the fall foliage. The water was a slate gray, and though I missed the loons, the smell of the leaves and the tang of woodsmoke from my chimney seemed to settle in just fine.

As it grew colder, I began to go into town for breakfast every few days. The center of Nansen could be featured in a documentary on New Hampshire small towns. Around the green common with its Civil War statue are a bank, a real estate office, a hardware store, two gas stations, a general store, and a small strip of service places with everything from a plumber to video rentals and Gretchen’s Kitchen. At Gretchen’s I read the paper while letting the mornings drift by. I listened to the old-timers at the counter pontificate on the ills of the state, nation, and world, and watched harried workers fly in to grab a quick meal. Eventually, a waitress named Sandy took some interest in me.

She was about twenty years younger than I, with raven hair, a wide smile, and a pleasing body that filled out her regulation pink uniform. After a couple weeks of flirting and generous tips on my part, I asked her out, and when she said yes. I went to my pickup truck and burst out laughing. A real date. I couldn’t remember the last time I had had a real date.

The first date was dinner a couple of towns over, in Montcalm, the second was dinner and a movie outside Manchester, and the third was dinner at my house, which was supposed to end with a rented movie in the living room but instead ended up in the bedroom. Along the way I learned that Sandy had always lived in Nansen, was divorced with two young boys, and was saving her money so she could go back to school and become a legal aide. “If you think I’m going to keep slinging hash and waiting for Billy to send his support check, then you’re a damn fool,” she said on our first date.

After a bedroom interlude that surprised me with its intensity, we sat on the enclosed porch. I opened a window for Sandy, who needed a smoke. The house was warm and I had on a pair of shorts; she had wrapped a towel around her torso. I sprawled in an easy chair while she sat on the couch, feet in my lap. Both of us had glasses of wine and I felt comfortable and tingling. Sandy glanced at me as she worked on her cigarette. I’d left the lights off and lit a couple of candles, and in the hazy yellow light, I could see the small tattoo of a unicorn on her right shoulder.

Sandy looked at me and asked, “What were you doing when you was in the government?”

“Traveled a lot and ate bad food.”

“No, really,” she said. “I want a straight answer.”

Well, I thought, as straight as I can be. I said. “I was a consultant, to foreign armies. Sometimes they needed help with certain weapons or training techniques. That was my job.”

“Were you good?”

Too good, I thought. “I did all right.”

“You’ve got a few scars there.”

“That I do.”

She shrugged, took a lazy puff off her cigarette. “I’ve seen worse.”

I wasn’t sure where this was headed. Then she said, “When are you going to be leaving?”

Confused. I asked her, “You mean, tonight?”

“No,” she said. “I mean, when are you leaving Nansen and going back home?”

I looked around the porch and said, “This is my home.”

She gave me a slight smile, like a teacher correcting a fumbling but eager student. “No, it’s not. This place was built by the Gerrish family. It’s the Gerrish place. You’re from away, and this ain’t your home.”

I tried to smile, though my mood was slipping. “Well. I beg to disagree.”

She said nothing for a moment, just studied the trail of smoke from her cigarette. Then she said, “Some people in town don’t like you. They think you’re uppity, a guy that don’t belong here.”

I began to find it quite cool on the porch. “What kind of people?”

“The Garr brothers. Jerry Tompkins. Kit Broderick. A few others. Guys in town. They don’t particularly like you.”

“I don’t particularly care,” I shot back.

A small shrug as she stubbed out her cigarette. “You will.”

The night crumbled some more after that, and the next morning, while sitting in the corner at Gretchen’s, I was ignored by Sandy. One of the older waitresses served me, and my coffee arrived in a cup stained with lipstick, the bacon was charred black, and the eggs were cold. I got the message. I started making breakfast at home, sitting alone on the porch, watching the leaves fall and days grow shorter.

I wondered if Sandy was on her own or if she had been scouting out enemy territory on someone’s behalf.

At my December visit. I surprised myself by telling Ron about something that had been bothering me.

“It’s the snow,” I said, leaning forward, hands clasped between my legs. “It’s going to start snowing soon. And I’ve always hated the snow, especially since...”

“Since when?”

“Since something I did once,” I said. “In Serbia.”

“Go on,” he said, fingers making a tent in front of his face.

“I’m not sure I can.”

Ron tilted his head quizzically. “You know I have the clearances.”

I cleared my throat, my eyes burning a bit. “I know. It’s just that it’s... Ever see blood on snow, at night?”

I had his attention. “No,” he said, “no, I haven’t.”

“It steams at first, since it’s so warm,” I said. “And then it gets real dark, almost black. Dark snow, if you can believe it. It’s something that stays with you, always.”

He looked steadily at me for a moment, then said, “Do you want to talk about it some more?”

“No.”

I spent all of one gray afternoon in my office cubbyhole, trying to get a new computer up and running. When at last I went downstairs for a quick drink. I looked outside and there they were, big snowflakes lazily drilling to the ground. Forgetting about the drink, I went out to the porch and looked at the pure whiteness of everything, of the snow covering the bare limbs, the shrubbery, and the frozen lake. I stood there and hugged myself, admiring the softly accumulating blanket of white and feeling lucky.

Two days after the snowstorm I was out on the frozen waters of Lake Marie, breathing hard and sweating and enjoying every second of it. The day before I had driven into Manchester to a sporting goods stoic and had come out with a pair of cross-country skis. The air was crisp and still, and the sky was a blue so deep I half-expected to see brushstrokes. From the lake. I looked back at my home and liked what I saw. The while paint and plain construction made me smile for no particular reason. I heard not a single sound, except for the faint drone of a distant airplane. Before me someone had placed signs and orange ropes in the snow, covering an oval area at the center of the lake. Each sign said the same thing: DANGER! THIN ICE! I remembered the old-timers at Gretchen’s Kitchen telling a story about a hidden spring coming up through the lake bottom, or some damn thing, that made ice at the center of the lake thin, even in the coldest weather. I got cold and it was time to go home.

About halfway back to the house is where it happened.

At first it was a quiet sound, and I thought that it was another airplane. Then the noise got louder and louder, and separated, becoming distinct. Snowmobiles, several of them. I turned and they came speeding out of the woods, tossing up great rooster tails of snow and ice. They were headed straight for me. I turned away and kept up a steady pace, trying to ignore the growing loudness of the approaching engines. An itchy feeling crawled up my spine to the base of my head, and the noise exploded in pitch as they raced by me.

Even over the loudness of the engines I could make out the yells as the snowmobiles roared by, hurling snow in my direction. There were two people to each machine and they didn’t look human. Each was dressed in a bulky jump suit, heavy boots, and a padded helmet. They raced by and, sure enough, circled around and came back at me. This time I flinched. This time, too, a couple of empty beer cans were thrown my way.

By the third pass, I was getting closer to my house. I thought it was almost over when one of the snowmobiles broke free from the pack and raced across about fifty feet in front of me. The driver turned so that the machine was blocking me and sat there, racing the throttle. Then he pulled off his helmet, showing an angry face and thick mustache, and I recognized him as the man on the powerboat a few months earlier. He handed his helmet to his passenger, stepped off the snowmobile, and unzipped his jump suit. It took only a moment as he marked the snow in a long, steaming stream, and there was laughter from the others as he got back on the machine and sped away. I skied over the soiled snow and took my time climbing up the snow-covered shore. I entered my home, carrying my skis and poles like weapons over my shoulder.

That night, and every night afterward, they came back, breaking the winter stillness with the throbbing sounds of engines, laughter, drunken shouts, and music from portable stereos. Each morning I cleared away their debris and scuffed fresh snow over the stains. In the quiet of my house, I found myself constantly on edge, listening, waiting for the noise to suddenly return and break up the day. Phone calls to the police department and town hall confirmed what I already knew: Except for maybe littering, no ordinances or laws were being broken.

On one particularly loud night, I broke a promise to myself and went to the tiny, damp cellar to unlock the green metal case holding a pistol-shaped device. I went back upstairs to the enclosed porch, and with the lights off, I switched on the night-vision scope and looked at the scene below me. Six snowmobiles were parked in a circle on the snow-covered ice, and in the center, a fire had been made. Figures stumbled around in the snow, talking and laughing. Stereos had been set up on the seats of two of the snowmobiles, and the loud music with its bass thump-thump-thump echoed across the flat ice. Lake Marie is one of the largest bodies of water in this part of the country, but the camp was set up right below my windows.

I watched for a while as they partied. Two of the black-suited figures started wrestling in the snow. More shouts and laughter, and then the fight broke up and someone turned the stereos even louder. Thump-thump-thump.

I switched off the nightscope, returned it to its case in the cellar, and went to bed. Even with foam rubber plugs in my ears, the bass noise reverberated inside my skull. I put the pillow across my face and tried to ignore the sure knowledge that this would continue all winter, the noise and the littering and the aggravation, and when the spring came, they would turn in their snowmobiles for boats, and they’d be back, all summer long.

Thump-thump-thump.

At the next session with Ron, we talked about the weather until he pierced me with his gaze and said, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

I went through half a dozen rehearsals of what to tell him, and then skated to the edge of the truth and said, “I’m having a hard time adjusting, that’s all.”

“Adjusting to what?”

“To my home,” I said, my hands clasped before me. “I never thought I would say this, but I’m really beginning to get settled, for the first time in my life. You ever been in the military, Ron?”

“No, but I know—”

I held up my hand. “Yes, I know what you’re going to say. You’ve worked as a consultant, but you’ve never been one of us, Ron. Never. You can’t know what it’s like, constantly being ordered to uproot yourself and go halfway across the world to a new place with a different language, customs, and weather, all within a week. You never settle in, never really get into a place you call home.”

He swiveled a bit in his black leather chair. “But that’s different now?”

“It sure is,” I said.

There was a pause as we looked at each other, and Ron said, “But something is going on.”

“Something is.”

“Tell me.”

And then I knew I wouldn’t. A fire wall had already been set up between Ron and the details of what was going on back at my home. If I let him know what was really happening, I knew that he would make a report, and within the week I’d be ordered to go somewhere else. If I’d been younger and not so dependent on a monthly check, I would have put up a fight.

But now, no more fighting. I looked past Ron and said. “An adjustment problem, I guess.”

“Adjusting to civilian life?”

“More than that,” I said. “Adjusting to Nansen. It’s a great little town, but... I feel like an outsider.”

“That’s to be expected.”

“Sure, but I still don’t like it. I know it will take some time, but... well, I get the odd looks, the quiet little comments, the cold shoulders.”

Ron seemed to choose his words carefully. “Is that proving to be a serious problem?”

Not even a moment of hesitation as I lied: “No, not at all.”

“And what do you plan on doing?”

An innocent shrug. “Not much. Just try to fit in, try to be a good neighbor.”

“That’s all?”

I nodded firmly. “That’s all.”

It took a bit of research, but eventually I managed to put a name to the face of the mustached man who had pissed on my territory. Jerry Tompkins. Floor supervisor for a computer firm outside Manchester, married with three kids, an avid boater, snowmobiler, hunter, and all-around guy. His family had been in Nansen for generations, and his dad was one of the three selectmen who ran the town. Using a couple of old skills, I tracked him down one dark afternoon and pulled my truck next to his in the snowy parking lot of a tavern on the outskirts of Nansen. The tavern was called Peter’s Pub and its windows were barred and blacked out.

I stepped out of my truck and called to him as he walked to the entrance of the pub. He turned and glared at me. “What?”

“You’re Jerry Tompkins, aren’t you.”

“Sure am,” he said, hands in the pockets of his dark-green parka. “And you’re the fella that’s living up in the old Gerrish place.”

“Yes, and I’d like to talk with you for a second.”

His face was rough, like he had spent a lot of time outdoors in the wind and rain and an equal amount indoors, with cigarette smoke and loud country music. He rocked back on his heels with a little smile and said, “Go ahead. You got your second.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Tell you what, Jerry, I’m looking for something.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’m looking for a treaty.”

He nodded, squinting his eyes. “What kind of treaty?”

“A peace treaty. Let’s cut out the snowmobile parties on the lake by my place and the trash dumped in the driveway and the hang-up calls. Let’s start fresh and just stay out of each other’s way. What do you say? Then, this summer, you can all come over to my place for a cookout. I’ll even supply the beer.”

He rubbed at the bristles along his chin. “Seems like a one-sided deal. Not too sure what I get out of it.”

“What’s the point in what you’re doing now?”

A furtive smile. “It suits me.”

I felt like I was beginning to lose it. “You agree with the treaty, we all win.”

“Still don’t see what I get out of it,” he said.

“That’s the purpose of a peace treaty,” I said. “You get peace.”

“Feel pretty peaceful right now.”

“That might change,” I said, instantly regretting the words.

His eyes darkened. “Are you threatening me?”

A retreat, recalling my promise to myself when I’d come here. “No, not a threat, Jerry. What do you say?”

He turned and walked away, moving his head to keep me in view. “Your second got used up a long time ago, pal. And you better be out of this lot in another minute, or I’m going inside and coming out with a bunch of my friends. You won’t like that.”

No, I wouldn’t, and it wouldn’t be for the reason Jerry believed. If they did come out I’d be forced into old habits and old actions, and I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do that. I couldn’t.

“You got it,” I said, backing away. “But remember, Jerry. Always.”

“What’s that?”

“The peace treaty,” I said, going to the door of my pickup truck. “I offered.”

Another visit to Ron, on a snowy day. The conversation meandered along, and I don’t know what got into me, but I looked out the old mill windows and said, “What do people expect, anyway?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“You take a tough teenager from a small Ohio town, and you train him and train him and train him. You turn him into a very efficient hunter, a meat eater. Then, after twenty or thirty years, you say thank you very much and send him back to the world of quiet vegetarians, and you expect him to start eating cabbages and carrots with no fuss or muss. A hell of a thing, thinking you can expect him to put away his tools and skills.”

“Maybe that’s why we’re here,” he suggested.

“Oh, please.” I said. “Do you think this makes a difference?”

“Does it make a difference to you?”

I kept looking out the window. “Too soon to tell, I’d say. Truth is, I wonder if this is meant to work, or is just meant to make some people feel less guilty. The people who did the hiring, training, and discharging.”

“What do you think?”

I turned to him. “I think for the amount of money you charge Uncle Sam, you ask too many damn questions.”

Another night at two A.M. I was back outside, beside the porch, again with the nightscope in my hands. They were back, and if anything, the music and the engines blared even louder. A fire burned merrily among the snowmobiles, and as the revelers pranced and hollered, I wondered if some base part of their brains was remembering thousand-year-old rituals. As I looked at their dancing and drinking figures, I kept thinking of the long case at the other end of the cellar. Nice heavy-duty assault rifle with another night-vision scope, this one with crosshairs. Scan and track. Put a crosshair across each one’s chest. Feel the weight of a fully loaded clip in your hand. Know that with a silencer on the end of the rifle, you could quietly take out that crew in a fistful of seconds. Get your mind back into the realm of possibilities, of cartridges and windage and grains and velocities. How long could it take between the time you said go and the time you could say mission accomplished? Not long at all.

“No,” I whispered, switching off the scope.

I stayed on the porch for another hour, and as my eyes adjusted, I saw more movements. I picked up the scope. A couple of snow machines moved in, each with shapes on the seats behind the drivers. They pulled up to the snowy bank and the people moved quickly, intent on their work. Trash bags were tossed on my land, about eight or nine, and to add a bit more fun, each bag had been slit several times with a knife so it could burst open and spew its contents when it hit the ground. A few more hoots and hollers and the snowmobiles growled away, leaving trash and the flickering fire behind. I watched the lights as the snowmobiles roared across the lake and finally disappeared, though their sound did not.

The nightscope went back onto my lap. The rifle, I thought, could have stopped the fun right there with a couple of rounds through the engines. Highly illegal, but it would get their attention, tight?

Right.

In my next session with Ron. I got to the point. “What kind of reports are you sending south?”

I think I might have surprised him. “Reports?”

“How I’m adjusting, that sort of thing.”

He paused for a moment, and I knew there must be a lot of figuring going on behind those smiling eyes. “Just the usual things, that’s all. That you’re doing fine.”

“Am I?”

“Seems so to me.”

“Good.” I waited for a moment, letting the words twist about on my tongue. “Then you can send them this message. I haven’t been a hundred percent with you during these sessions. Ron. Guess it’s not in my nature to be so open. But you can count on this. I won’t lose it. I won’t go into a gun shop and then lake down a bunch of civilians. I’m not going to start hanging around 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. I’m going to be all right.”

He smiled. “I have never had any doubt.”

“Sure you’ve had doubts,” I said, smiling back. “But it’s awfully polite of you to say otherwise.”

On a bright Saturday, I tracked down the police chief of Nansen at one of the two service stations in town, Glen’s Gas Sc Repair. His cruiser, ordinarily a dark blue, was now a ghostly shade of white from the salt used to keep the roads clear. I parked at the side of the garage, and walking by the service bays, I could sense that I was bring watched. I saw three cars with their hoods up, and I also saw a familiar uniform: black snowmobile jump suits.

The chief was overweight and wearing a heavy blue jacket with a black Navy watch cap. His face was open and friendly, and he nodded in all the right places as I told him my story.

“Not much I can do. I’m afraid,” he said, leaning against the door of his cruiser, one of two in the entire town. “I’d have to catch ’em in the act of trashing your place, and that means surveillance, and that means overtime hours, which I don’t have.”

“Surveillance would be a waste of time anyway,” I replied. “These guys, they aren’t thugs, right? For lack of a better phrase, they’re good old boys, and they know everything that’s going on in Nansen, and they’d know if you were setting up surveillance. And then they wouldn’t show.”

“You might think you’re insulting me, but you’re not,” he said gently. “That’s just the way things are done here. It’s a good town and most of us get along, and I’m not kept that busy, not at all.”

“I appreciate that, but you should also appreciate my problem.” I said. “I live here and pay taxes, and people are harassing me. I’m looking for some assistance, that’s all, and a suggestion of what I can do.”

“You could move,” the chief said, raising his coffee cup.

“Hell of a suggestion.”

“Best one I can come up with. Look, friend, you’re new here, you’ve got no family, no ties. You’re asking me to take on some prominent families just because you don’t get along with them. So why don’t you move on? Find someplace smaller, hell, even someplace bigger, where you don’t stand out so much. But face it, it’s not going to get any easier.”

“Real nice folks,” I said, letting an edge of bitterness into my voice.

That didn’t seem to bother the chief. “That they are. They work hard and play hard, and they pay taxes, too, and they look out for one another. I know they look like hell-raisers to you, but they’re more than that. They’re part of the community. Why, just next week, a bunch of them are going on a midnight snow run across the lake and into the mountains, raising money for the children’s camp up at Lake Montcalm. People who don’t care wouldn’t do that.”

“I just wish they didn’t care so much about me.”

He shrugged and said. “Look. I’ll see what I can do...” but the lone of his voice made it clear he wasn’t going to do a damn thing.

The chief clambered into his cruiser and drove off, and as I walked past the bays of the service station, I heard snickers. I went around to my pickup truck and saw the source of the merriment.

My truck was resting heavily on four Hat tires.

At night I woke up from cold and bloody dreams and let my thoughts drift into fantasies. By now I knew who all of them were, where all of them lived. I could go to their houses, every one of them, and bring them back and bind them in the basement of my home. I could tell them who I was and what I’ve done and what I can do, and I would ask them to leave me alone. That’s it. Just give me peace and solitude and everything will be all right.

And they would hear me out and nod and agree, but I would know that I had to convince them. So I would go to Jerry Tompkins, the mustached one who enjoyed marking my territory, and to make my point, break a couple of his fingers, the popping noise echoing in the dark confines of the tiny basement.

Nice fantasies.

I asked Ron, “What’s the point?”

He was comfortable in his chair, hands clasped over his little potbelly. “I’m sorry?”

“The point of our sessions?”

His eyes were unflinching. “To help you adjust.”

“Adjust to what?”

“To civilian life.”

I shifted on the couch. “Let me get this. I work my entire life for this country, doing service for its civilians. I expose myself to death and injury every week, earning about a third of what I could be making in the private sector. And when I’m through. I have to adjust, I have to make allowances for civilians. But civilians, they don’t have to do a damn thing. Is that right?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Hell of a deal.”

He continued a steady gaze. “Only one you’ve got.”

So here I am, in the smelly rubble that used to be my home. I make a few half-hearted attempts to turn the furniture back over and do some cleanup work, bin I’m not in the mood. Old feelings and emotions are coursing through me, taking control. I take a few deep breaths and then I’m in the cellar, switching on the single lightbulb that hangs down from the rafters by a frayed black cord. As I maneuver among the packing cases, undoing combination locks, my shoulder strikes the lightbulb, causing it to swing back and forth, casting crazy shadows on the stone walls.

The night air is cool and crisp, and I shuffle through the snow around the house as I load the pickup truck, making three trips in all. I drive under the speed limit and halt completely at all stop signs as I go through the center of town. I drive around, wasting minutes and hours, listening to the radio. This late at night and being so far north, a lot of the stations that I can pick up are from Quebec, and there’s a joyous lilt to the French-Canadian music and words that makes something inside me ache with longing.

When it’s almost a new day, I drive down a street called Mast Road. Most towns around here have a Mast Road, where colonial surveyors marked tall pines that would eventually become masts for the Royal Navy. Tonight there are no surveyors, just the night air and darkness and a skinny rabbit racing across the cracked asphalt. When I’m near the target, I switch off the lights and engine and let the truck glide the last few hundred feet or so. I pull up across from a darkened house. A pickup truck and a Subaru station wagon are in the driveway. Gray smoke is wafting up from the chimney.

I roll down the window, the cold air washing over me like a wave of water. I pause, remembering what has gone on these past weeks, and then I get to work.

The nightscope comes up and clicks into action, and the name on the mailbox is clear enough in the sharp green light. TOMPKINS, in silver and black stick-on letters. I scan the two-story Cape Cod, checking out the surroundings. There’s an attached garage to the right and a sunroom to the left. There is a front door and two other doors in a breezeway that runs from the garage to the house. There are no rear doors.

I let the nightscope rest on my lap as I reach toward my weapons. The first is a grenade launcher, with a handful of white phosphorus rounds clustered on the seat next to it like a gathering of metal eggs. Next to the grenade launcher is a 9mm Uzi, with an extended wooden stock for easier use. Another night-vision scope with crosshairs is attached to the Uzi.

Another series of deep breaths. Easy enough plan. Fop a white phosphorus round into the breezeway and another into the sun-room. In a minute or two both ends of the house are on fire. Our snowmobiler friend and his family wake up and, groggy from sleep and the fire and the noise, stumble out the front door onto the snow-covered lawn.

With the Uzi in my hand and the crosshairs on a certain face, a face with a mustache, I take care of business and drive to the next house.

I pick up the grenade launcher and rest the barrel on the open window. It’s cold. I rub my legs together and look outside at the stars. The wind comes up and snow blows across the road. I hear the low hoo-hoo-hoo of an owl.

I bring the grenade launcher up, resting the stock against my cheek. I aim. I wait.

It’s very cold.

The weapon begins trembling in my hands and I let it drop to the front seat.

I sit on my hands, trying to warm them while the cold breeze blows. Idiot. Do this and how long before you’re in jail, and then on trial before a jury of friends or relatives of those fine citizens you gun down tonight?

I start up the truck and let the heater sigh itself on, and then I roll up the window and slowly drive away, lights still off.

“Fool,” I say to myself, “remember who you are.” And with the truck’s lights now on, I drive home. To what’s left of it.

Days later, there’s a fresh smell to the air in my house, for I’ve done a lot of cleaning and painting, trying not only to bring everything back to where it was but also to spruce up the place. The only real problem has been in the main room, where the words GO HOME were marked in bright red on the white plaster wall. It took me three coats to cover that up, and of course I ended up doing the entire room.

The house is dark and it’s late. I’m waiting on the porch with a glass of wine in my hand, watching a light snow fall on Lake Marie. Every light in the house is off and the only illumination comes from the fireplace, which needs more wood.

But I’m content to dawdle. I’m finally at peace after these difficult weeks in Nansen. Finally, I’m beginning to remember who I really am.

I sip my wine, waiting, and then comes the sound of the snowmobiles. I see their wavering dots of light racing across the lake, doing their bit for charity. How wonderful. I raise my glass in salute, the noise of the snowmobiles getting louder as they head across the lake in a straight line.

I put the wineglass down, walk into the living room, and toss the last few pieces of wood onto the fire. The sudden heat warms my face in a pleasant glow. The wood isn’t firewood, though. It’s been shaped and painted by man, and as the flames leap up and devour the lumber, I see the letters begin to fade: DANGER! THIN ICE!

I stroll back to the porch, pick up the wineglass, and wait.

Below me, on the peaceful ice of Lake Marie, my new home for my new life, the headlights go by.

And then, one by one, they blink out, and the silence is wonderful!