The Best American Mystery Stories 2015

Doug Allyn The Snow Angel From Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

I smiled when I saw the dead girl. Just for a moment. Reflex, I suppose.

In Kabul, I once clawed through a busload of bodies after a bomb blast, desperately seeking any sign of life. Didn’t find it.

As a Detroit cop, I saw victims almost daily, and even after transferring home to Valhalla, on Michigan’s North Shore, I’ve seen more corpses than I care to.

But never one like this.

The teenager was sprawled on the snow-covered lawn, her honey-blond hair wreathing her face like a halo. She was surrounded by lighted holiday figures, a laughing Santa in his sleigh, eight wire-framed reindeer, gaily winking and blinking. The girl’s white satin gown was dusted with ice crystals that reflected the flickering LEDs, making her glitter like the display’s centerpiece.

A snow angel.

The scene was so perfect, it almost looked posed, like the girl had dozed off in the middle of a photo shoot for a Hallmark card.

She hadn’t, though.

Her face and lips were a pale pastel blue, her brows and lashes rimed with frost.

In her last moments, she’d thrashed about, striving to rise. To live. But the bone-deep cold sapped her strength. She slipped into an icy coma and then away, leaving her body centered in the image her struggles had created.

A perfect snow angel.

And at first glance, I couldn’t help smiling. Instinctively reacting to the scene. Who doesn’t love a snow angel?

My partner, Zina Redfern, caught my smile and gave me an odd look. I turned away, trying to morph my grin into a wince. I doubt she bought it. Zina is short, squared-off, and intense. All business. Raven-haired, with dark eyes and a copper complexion, she favors Johnny Cash black on the job. Slacks, boots, and nylon jackets. If she owns a dress, I’ve never seen it. Her heritage is First Nation. Anishnabeg. But she’s a sidewalk Indian, grew up tough in Flint’s east-side gangland. She’s a solid partner, but not an easy read.

“Who called this in?” I asked.

“Mail lady,” Zina said. “She dropped a package at the house around eight this morning. Spotted the girl on her way in, took a closer look on the way out. Called 911. Van Duzen caught the squeal, found the girl. He pounded on the front door but nobody answered. He thought he’d better wait for us. Mail lady didn’t know anything, so he sent her on her way.”

“Okay.” I nodded, then I turned in a slow circle, scanning the crime scene.

We were in Sugar Hill, the richest enclave in Valhalla. Homes here don’t have addresses, they have names. This one, Champlin Hall, was an honest-to-God nineteenth-century mansion. A sprawling brick Beaux Arts estate with ornate stonework, towering Gothic windows.

Built by one of the old lumber barons, the estate had been updated over the years. The carriage house became a six-car garage, servants’ quarters now housed exchange students from the Sudan, Serbia, or Ontario, depending on which sports they specialized in.

A half-dozen cars were parked in the circular drive, all of them dusted lightly by last night’s snowfall. No one had come or gone. The only fresh tire tracks were from the mail truck, my Jeep, and Van Duzen’s prowlie, still idling in the driveway, its exhaust rising white in the icy air.

A pristine, snowy Saturday morning. The kind they put on magazine covers.

Except our star attraction wasn’t breathing.

Joni Cohen, Valhalla PD’s intern tech, was kneeling beside the girl, collecting her nonexistent vitals.

Tall, gawky, and permanently perky, Joni’s a junior at Michigan State majoring in forensic anthropology. Her class schedule keeps her in constant transit between Valhalla and the capital down in Lansing. Somehow she pulls a 3.9 GPA and still does a first-rate job as a crime-scene tech.

Ordinarily, Joni’s totally absorbed by her work. Whistles softly to herself amid the carnage of a five-car pileup. No tunes today, though. With Santa and his reindeer beaming over her shoulder, she couldn’t even fake “Jingle Bells.”

“So?” I prompted.

“First impression, it’s pretty much what it looks like,” Joni said, frowning down at the angel. “Hypothermia. There are no tracks but hers, no signs of violence. It looks like she took a shortcut across the lawn, headed for a car in the driveway. Maybe felt woozy, sat down to rest a minute? It was eighteen degrees last night and she wasn’t wearing a coat. She nodded out and... well. She froze to death.”

“Are you all right?” Zina asked.

“No,” Joni said flatly. “I know this girl. Not personally, but I’ve seen her around the Vale Junior College campus. A freshman, I think.”

“Whoa, take a break, Joni,” I said. “The state police Forensics Unit will be here in a few minutes—”

“No, I’m okay. Really,” she said, taking a ragged breath. “My uncle warned me if I did my internship in Vale County, sooner or later I’d be working on people I knew. At least this girl wasn’t mashed by a road grader. Let’s just — get on with it.”

“Okay,” I said. “Time frame?”

“Her body temp’s twenty-one degrees above ambient. I’d estimate she walked out here around eleven. Actual time of death was probably between one-thirty and three A.M. We may get tighter numbers after the autopsy. There’s no scent of alcohol. If she’d been drinking, it wasn’t much.”

“Wasn’t legal either,” Zina said. “I found her purse in the snow beside the driveway. Her driver’s license says she’s Julie Novak. Seventeen. Poletown address, north of the river. But her student ID is from Valhalla High, not the college.”

“Vale Junior College offers advanced courses for gifted kids,” Joni said.

“I’m not sure how bright this girl was, considering,” Zina said. “Do you think her dress is odd?”

“Odd?” I echoed, but she wasn’t asking me.

“Definitely off,” Joni agreed. “It’s more like a prom dress than something you’d wear to a house party. She looks like...”

“A snow angel,” I finished. “What are we now, the fashion police?”

“Nope, we’re Major Crimes,” Zina conceded. “And a lot more went wrong for this girl than her taste in clothes. It was seriously freakin’ cold last night. What was she doing out here without a coat?”

“Let’s ask,” I said.

The front porch was the size of a veranda, three stories tall, supported by Gone With the Wind columns. I hit the buzzer beside the massive front door. No response. Leaning closer, I could hear the faint sounds of tinny TV laughter, somebody yelling for somebody to get the goddamn door. No one came. I tried the knob. It wasn’t locked.

Stepping inside, I felt an instant jolt. Time travel. Frat party funk, the morning after. The aroma of stale beer, cold pizza, reefer, and sex hanging in the air.

Smelled like teen spirit.

I started down the hall toward the TV room.

“Where are you going?” Zee asked, hurrying after me.

“They’ll be in the game room.”

“Who will?”

“Everybody who’s ambulatory.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“Once or twice.”

The end of the hall opened into a giant playroom. Pinball machines, foosball, and pool tables lined the walls. In the center, a long, curved leather couch faced a jumbo flat-screen TV.

None of the pool tables was in use, unless you counted a moose-sized lineman who’d wrapped himself in his Val High letterman’s jacket and conked out amid the cue sticks.

Several college-age kids were sprawled across the couch in various states of disarray, bleary-eyed and hungover. Four young guys, three girls, watching a soccer game on the big screen.

“Hey, guys,” I said, holding up my badge. “I’m Sergeant LaCrosse, Valhalla PD. Who’s in charge here?”

They looked at each other, then back at me. A few shook their heads, no one answered. They weren’t belligerent, just baffled and groggy.

“Okaay,” I said, “easier question. Are the Champlins at home? Parents, I mean?”

“I’m Sissy Champlin,” one of the girls said, nestling deeper in the arms of her bull-necked boyfriend. She had a nose ring, spiky blond hair with blue highlights. “My folks are in... Toronto, for the weekend. We had a little bash last night. We’re the survivors.”

Her boyfriend was staring at me. Sloped shoulders, head the size of a watermelon. U of M sweatshirt. “I know you,” he said slowly. “You played hockey for Val High back in the day, right? Defense?”

“Have we met?”

“Nah,” he grinned, “I’ve seen you on game film. Mark shows that scrap in the playoffs when you and your cousin wiped out Traverse City’s front line. The refs tossed everybody out. Awesome, man.”

“What’s your name?”

“Laslo. Metyavich. I’m goalie for the Vale Vikings.”

With his dark hair buzzed down to fuzz, he looked more like a Cossack warrior in pajamas from The Gap. He was wide enough to be a goalie, though. “Were you here last night, Laslo?”

“I live here, man. We all do,” he added, gesturing at his bleary comrades on the couch. “Exchange students.”

“A girl left your party last night and — got into some trouble. Julie Novak? Does anybody know her? Or who she was with?”

Again, baffled looks.

“Wait a sec,” Sissy Champlin said, frowning. “Julie? A young chick? Wearing a white formal, like a freakin’ bridesmaid?”

“You know her?”

“I know she came to the wrong party,” Sissy sniffed. “That Indian kid brought her. What’s his name, hon? The geek who tutors the basketball players?”

“Derek, you mean?” Laslo offered.

“Last name?” Zina prompted.

“Some foreign name,” Laslo said, without irony. “Patel, I think. Derek Patel.”

“Any idea where we could find Mr. Patel?”

“He crapped out early.” Laslo shrugged. “Lot of guys did. I think some wiseass spiked the punch. Derek’s probably crashed in one of the guest rooms. I’ll show you.” He started to rise, wobbled, then quickly sat back down. “Whoa,” he said, looking a little green.

“Stay put,” I said. “I know the way.” Laslo slumped back on the couch. Sissy brushed his arm away. She was on her cell phone, frantically texting.

Zina and I headed into the guest wing, an eight-room addition added back in the fifties. Working opposite sides of the hall, we rapped once, then stuck our heads in, scaring the bejesus out of various young lovers. On my third knock, I found an Indian kid conked out atop one of the twin beds, fully dressed in a dark suit and tie. Tall, slender, skin the color of café au lait, thick curly blue-black hair. He sat up slowly, blinking, dazed and confused.

“Derek Patel?”

“I... yes?” He shook his head, then knuckled his eyes. Trying to remember his name. I totally sympathized. Been there, done that.

“Do you know a girl named Julie Novak?”

“Julie? Ah... sure. She was my date last night. Is she okay?”

“Why shouldn’t she be?”

“She ditched me and went home. Said she wasn’t dressed right. I was in no shape to drive, so I gave her my keys and... oh damn! Did she wreck my car? My God, my dad’s gonna kill me—”

“She didn’t wreck your car, Derek. Were you two drinking a little last night?”

“Just the virgin punch,” he said. “Julie’s underage.”

“If you were drinking nonalcoholic punch, how’d you get wrecked?” Zina asked.

“I did a few Jell-O shots with some of the guys. I’m not a big drinker.”

“What about Julie? Did she do a few shots too?”

“No! Only the punch, like I said. I promised her dad — oh God, her old man’s gonna be totally pissed. He hates me anyway. He’s prejudiced, I think. Is he here?”

“No. Put your shoes on, Derek. We have to go.”

“Are you arresting me?”

I didn’t answer, hoping he wouldn’t push it. He didn’t. Glumly slipped into his tassel loafers instead. I sent Zee off to scout the rest of the house while I walked Derek out.

Outside, the scene had gone from Christmas-card quiet to crime-scene chaotic. Valhalla PD prowl cars had sealed off both ends of the circular driveway, their emergency strobes flashing in the gentle snowfall, blocking in the half-dozen cars parked in front of the house. A third prowlie was sitting astride the rear drive that led back to the garage.

The snow angel was blocked from view by the state police CSI van, and the area around her had been taped off with yellow police lines. Techs in black nylon state police CSI jackets were crouched over the vic while Joni looked on. She still wasn’t whistling.

I marched Derek to the nearest prowl car. Joe Van Duzen, VPD’s greenest patrolman, hurried to meet us, six foot, with a blond crew cut. In khaki slacks and his bulky brown VPD jacket, he’s a recruiter’s dream.

“What’s up, sarge?”

“This is Derek Patel, Duze. He’s a material witness. Park him in your prowlie, keep him on ice. He doesn’t leave and nobody talks to him, understand?”

“Copy that. What the hell’s going on in there, Dylan?”

“The morning after the night before, Duze. Don’t lose this kid, okay?”

“You got it.” Duze eased Derek into the prowlie’s back seat and closed the door.

Zina was waiting for me at the front door, her mood darker than before.

“We’ve got problems, Dylan,” she said. “C’mon.”

“What’s up?” I asked, falling into step.

“I found the famous virgin punchbowl,” she said. “In the living room. There are two of them, actually. One with fruit punch, one with margaritas.”

“Sounds right.”

“I also found these,” she said, holding out her open palm. Three small red capsules.

“Oh hell,” I said, feeling my stomach drop like a freight elevator. “Roofies?”

She nodded. “Date-rape drug. Found ’em on the floor near the punchbowls. Both concoctions are murky, but you can see the remains of some caps on the bottom. I think somebody laced both bowls with GHB—” She broke off as I tapped my collar mike.

“Barden? Is your prowlie blocking the driveway?”

“Yes, sarge.”

“Take a walk, check the parked cars in the drive, make sure nobody’s asleep in one. I don’t want any more angels.”

“Angels?” he asked.

“Check the damn cars, Tommy.”

“Copy that.”

“You said you’ve been here before?” Zina asked, as I switched off.

“Right. To parties, back in high school. Mark Champlin was older than we were, but he’d been a three-sport all-star back in the day, and his folks were big athletic boosters. This place was jock central. Parties almost every weekend, free beer, groupies, and Mr. Champlin was good for a few bucks if a player was short. From the looks of this crew, things haven’t changed much.”

“Ever go upstairs?”

“No, it was off-limits. Why?”

“C’mon,” Zee said. “You’re gonna love this.”

She was right. The second-floor rooms were larger, plusher, complete with en suites and walk-in closets. And at the end of the corridor, a single door stood wide open. Its latch was shattered. It had been kicked in.

I rested my hand on my weapon as I eased through, but there was no need. None at all.

“Wow,” I said, turning in a slow circle, taking in the room. “What have we here?”

The bedroom looked like the honeymoon suite at a Vegas bordello. Mirrored ceiling, angled mirrors on the walls, king-size beds in each corner. A larger, circular bed occupied the center of the room, all five of them close enough for easy hopping, covered in what looked like faux ermine.

A large-screen TV loomed over one corner. On a shelf beneath it, a Sony video recorder was flanked by a long row of DVDs. Half of them were clearly commercial porn, garishly labeled. The other half weren’t labeled at all, only numbered. I opened one. No labels inside either, just a handwritten number on the disc that matched the jacket.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“I think this room’s wired up,” Zee said, pointing out nearly invisible lenses mounted in the mirrored ceiling. “If they’ve been making home movies, I see my future on a beach in Bimini. Check out the gear on the nightstands.”

Against the wall, between the beds, small bedside tables held a selection of lubricants, massage oils, and sex toys. Some had obvious purposes, a few I could only guess at.

“Okay,” I said, still taking in the room. “We’ve got a party going on downstairs, somebody kicks open the door to this playroom, but does no other damage I can see.”

“The beds aren’t even mussed,” Zina agreed. “Maybe somebody was hoping to get lucky later?”

“It doesn’t matter why. The drugs flip this thing from a teenage tragedy to something a lot messier.” I pressed the eject button on the recorder, removed the DVD, and slid it into an evidence bag. “C’mon, let’s round up the usual sus—”

“Hey! You guys can’t be in here!” a kid said. “You know the rules. Second floor’s family only. No guests!” The boy in the doorway was maybe fifteen, wearing a green Michigan State sweater, but I doubt he was college bound.

His heavy-framed glasses housed twin hearing aids. His eyes were wide apart and guileless, with the slight Asian cast of Down syndrome. I guessed his emotional age at ten or twelve.

“It’s okay,” I said, showing him my shield. He glanced at it, but didn’t react. I doubt he knew what it was. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Joey Champlin. You can’t be up here. My dad doesn’t allow it.”

“Do you know how the door got broken, Joey?”

His face fell, and the look in his eyes was as good as a signed statement.

“You — still have to leave,” he repeated.

“Sure,” I agreed. “Whatever you say.” We already had what we needed, and in a house with an all-star dad and an army of jocks, I doubt many folks paid attention to this kid.

So we did as he asked. When I glanced back, he was gone.

The next hour flew by in a fury. I had patrolmen seal off the house and herd the kids into separate rooms. We took names, ages, and vital stats. No talking. No breathalyzers either. They were of age, in a private home. How they partied was their business.

All we wanted was info about the girl on the lawn.

What we got was doodley squat.

A few kids knew Derek Patel from school. Nobody seemed to know his angel date at all. Time to change tactics. Maybe Derek had sobered enough for a conversation.

Leaving Zina to finish questioning the final few, I headed out the front door. And went from hangover central into a grab-ass free-for-all.

Derek Patel was sprawled on his back in the driveway, his face a bloody mess. Van Duzen was wrestling with a big guy in a flannel shirt, who was clearly trying to break free to have another go at the kid on the ground.

I came on the run. Crashing into Van Duzen’s opponent from behind, I snaked an arm around his throat in a crude chokehold. I managed to haul him off Duze, but he was bull-strong and enraged. He kept kicking wildly at Derek on the ground. It was all I could do to hold him back.

I drove a quick body shot into his rib cage, but he was so wired he didn’t even feel it. I had no idea who he was or what the hell was up, and it didn’t matter. We had to shut him down.

Throwing my weight backward, I hauled him down on top of me, still locked in a stranglehold. I tried scissoring my legs around his knees to immobilize him, but it was like wrestling a bear. Couldn’t hold him.

Patrolman Tommy Barden came charging up with his nightstick drawn. He slammed it down hard across the big guy’s midsection, driving his wind out, locking him up for an instant. Barden was drawing back for another swing when Van Duzen shouldered him aside.

“Don’t hurt him, damn it! He’s the girl’s father!”

Duze and Barden piled on, each seizing one of the big guy’s arms, pinning him down with sheer bulk. The four of us lay entangled in a squirming rugby pileup in the snow, straining, struggling.

“Mr. Novak,” I panted, trying to keep my tone level. “Stop fighting us, please. I’m going to ease my hold to let you breathe, but I need you to calm down.”

He didn’t reply. For a moment, we lay frozen in a tableau, a violent counterpoint to the holiday display on the lawn.

I released my hold a little. Novak gasped in a quick breath. And then he broke, sagging back against me. Sobbing like a child.

I had Duze drive Carl Novak into Hauser Center, the “house” shared by Valhalla PD, the state police, and the Vale County sheriff’s department. No handcuffs. Novak wasn’t under arrest, but he wasn’t going anyplace either.

I ran Derek Patel into the emergency room in my Jeep, pedal to the metal, with lights and sirens. Derek didn’t say a word. Probably couldn’t. His nose was flattened, clearly broken. I guessed his jaw was dislocated as well. I turned him over to the ER staff, and was pacing the crowded waiting room like an expectant dad when my partner rolled in. We stepped out to the corridor, away from the others.

“What the hell happened?” Zina demanded.

“Derek felt woozy, so Duze let him walk around to get some air. Carl Novak showed up, saw his daughter dead on the ground. When Derek tried to talk to him, Novak lost it. Laid him out, broke his nose, maybe his jaw. I warned the ER staff Derek might be high, so they’ll have to run a tox screen before they can work on him. He won’t be talking for a while. Your turn,” I said. “What did you get from the interviews?”

“Short version? Julie Novak left the party early,” Zina said. “Only a few kids noticed and they’re pretty vague on the time. Pretty vague on everything, actually. Half of them are still hammered, the other half are so hungover they wish they were dead.”

“One of them is,” I said. “Any luck with their smartphones?”

“I collected a half dozen. Joni’s downloading them now. She thinks she can patch together a highlight reel of last night’s action—”

“What in the devil’s going on here!” An Indian doctor in a white lab coat bulled between us, grabbing my shoulder, jerking me around. “The staff says you people brought my son into emergency. Beaten! What have you done to him?”

“Yo! Calm down!” I said, backing him off, flashing my shield. “I’m Detective LaCrosse. Who are you?”

“I’m Dr. Patel—”

“Derek’s father?”

“Yes, I—”

“You need to cool down and listen up, doctor,” Zee said, stepping between us. “Your son was assaulted. The man who attacked him is in custody. So is Derek. A girl he took to a party last night is dead, possibly of a drug overdose. Does Derek have access to GHB or similar drugs in your home, doctor? Or your office?”

Patel stared at her, stunned. “Drugs?” he stammered. “Derek? Are you out of your mind?”

“GHB, specifically,” I pressed, keeping him off balance.

“Dear God.” Patel looked away, swallowing. “The, ah, the party Derek attended? It was held at the Champlin home?”

“That’s right.”

“Then I have a — conflict. The Champlins are my patients. By law, I can’t disclose any information—”

“Then you’d better hire your son a good lawyer, sir,” Zina said.

“Wait! Please,” Patel pleaded. “I can’t discuss my patients, but I can tell you that my son did not take GHB nor any other drug to that party. He would never do such a thing. And there would be... no need to.”

“Because... the pills were already there?” Zina pressed. “Are you saying someone in the family has a prescription for them?”

“I can’t comment on that, detective,” Patel said. “But in good conscience, I cannot deny it either. Do you understand what I’m not telling you?”

“Got it,” Zina nodded.

“Without a release from the Champlins, that’s all I’m free to say. I’m — sorry about before. May I get back to my son?”

“Go ahead,” I said. “But if I were you, doc, I’d get that release. We’ll be talking again.”

As Patel stalked off, my cell phone hummed. I turned away to take the message. Listened, and frowned. “Okay,” I said. “I’m on my way.”

“Is something wrong?” Zina asked.

“That was the district attorney. The Champlins’ lawyer wants a meet-up, at the Jury’s Inn.”

“Looking for a deal?” she said, surprised. “The case just opened.”

“He doesn’t want a deal,” I said. “He says he can close it for us.”

I left Zina at the hospital. She’d get Derek Patel’s statement as soon as he could talk.

I headed into Valhalla, a quaint, shoreline resort that’s exploded from a small town into a small city in the past dozen years. Internet money, mostly. Yuppies from Detroit, Flint, and Chicago fleeing the cities to get away from it all. And bringing a lot of it with them.

As a boy, raised in the backcountry, I couldn’t wait to get out of here. But after two tours as an MP in Afghanistan, then police work in Detroit, I’m happy to be back. Most of the time.

The Jury’s Inn is a convenient hangout for cops, lawyers, and media people, catty-cornered from the county courthouse, just up the block from police headquarters. You can order a burger or a beer, cut a plea deal, or nose out a headline without leaving your barstool.

On a snowy Saturday morning, the place was half empty, the jukebox murmuring Motown oldies while three deputies coming off the mid shift swapped fibs and a pair of lawyers huddled over cocktails, dealing their clients’ rights away like penny-ante poker. Our criminal justice system at work.

At the rear corner of the dining room, a massive octagonal table sits apart from the others, ensuring privacy for anyone who chooses it.

Today it was Todd Girard, prosecuting attorney for the five northern counties. Tall, blond, and male-model handsome, Todd is North Shore royalty. Lumber money, a Yale grad. A local legend.

Three years ahead of me in Valhalla High, Todd was a deadeye shooting guard in basketball. Our sports shared part of the same seasons, so we passed in the locker room and hit some of the same parties, including a few at the Champlin estate. We weren’t pals at the time, but I knew who he was. Everybody knew who Todd was.

The Girards own lumber mills, paper mills, and pieces of everything else. Their homes are estates in gated enclaves. A hundred-plus years ago, they rode the timber trains into Vale County and logged off the northern forest like fields of wheat.

My mother’s people, the Métis, mixed-blood descendents of the original French voyageurs and the First Nation, arrived around the same time, fleeing a failed rebellion against the Canadian government. In Canada we’d been woodsmen, trappers, and traders. And, finally, rebels on the run.

In Michigan we became loggers, ax-men, sawyers, top men. The LaCrosses and our kin did the grueling, dangerous work that made the lumber barons rich. After the timber played out, the Girards stayed on in their Main Street mansions, to manage banks and businesses and wield the local reins of power. Shrewdly, for the most part.

The Métis stayed on too, doing whatever work came to hand. Lumbermen, merchants, mechanics, and carpenters. A few outlaws.

And one cop.

Todd Girard is Old Money, but doesn’t flaunt it. His lambskin sport coat was comfortably distressed and his jeans were faded. A blue chambray shirt, open at the throat. No tie. Business casual for the north.

In school he was a party animal, but his National Guard unit served a hitch in Afghanistan. He came back changed. We all did. He takes Vale County crime personally now, which keeps his conviction rate in the high nineties.

His number two, Assistant DA Harvey Bemis, was beside him. Suited up in his usual three-piece pinstripe and a U of M tie, Harvey is an eager beaver who looks a bit like one, protruding front teeth, anxious eyes. He’s an attack dog in court, a guy you want on your side. But I’ve never had a beer with him afterward. I think he wears his tie to bed.

The third man at the table was plump and sleek, casually dressed in a tweed jacket over a golf shirt. Jason Avery is the most expensive mouthpiece north of Detroit. His silvery mane was a bit disheveled and he hadn’t shaved. I guessed his Saturdays rarely started this early.

“Detective Dylan LaCrosse,” Avery said. “Thanks for coming.”

“Counselors.” I nodded, dropping into the chair facing them. “I’m here as a courtesy to the prosecutor, but I’m in the middle of a homicide case so I’m short on time. What’s this about?”

“The Champlin case,” Todd said. “I’ve known Mark Champlin for years. To avoid any appearance of impropriety, I’m stepping away from this one. Harvey Bemis will take it to trial if it comes to that.”

“Which I hope to avoid,” Avery interjected smoothly. “We need to resolve this mess before it becomes a disaster for the whole North Shore.”

“What kind of a disaster?” I asked.

“Before I get to that, I’ll need a guarantee,” Avery said. “I’m willing to reveal information damaging to my clients, but this conversation will remain confidential.”

“We’re all gentlemen here, with the possible exception of Dylan,” Todd said drily. “Okay, we’re officially off the record, Jason. What’s your big secret?”

“The Novak girl, for openers. I can close that case.”

I stiffened; so did Todd. He had our full attention now.

“I’m listening,” I said.

“It’s my understanding that the girl drank nonalcoholic punch, passed out on the lawn, and... succumbed to the cold. In fact, a tox screen will reveal the presence of a drug. GHB. You have Julie’s date, young Derek Patel, in custody, I believe. As a suspect?”

“He’s one possibility,” I admitted.

“The wrong one,” Avery said flatly. “The punch was spiked. GHB, commonly referred to as a date-rape drug, was added to it.”

“By whom?” Todd asked.

“I’m coming to that,” Avery said. “For the record, the drug was legally prescribed and properly secured under lock and key—”

“It was locked in the playroom, wasn’t it?” I said, getting it.

Avery nodded. “Quite so. GHB is a legal sleeping pill, but on occasion the drug is used by my clients to enhance... well. Recreational sex. All those involved are consenting adults. I can supply their names, if necessary.”

“Skip that for now,” I said. “What happened to the girl?”

“Her date, Derek Patel, brought her to the house party. The elder Champlins were away for the weekend, and such parties aren’t uncommon. Their daughter, Sara, was present, as well as a number of exchange students, all of whom are of age—”

“What exchange students?” Harvey Bemis asked.

“Jocks, Harvey,” I explained. “They attend Vale Junior College on sports scholarships.”

“They keep the school competitive and give Mark a new audience for his highlight reel every year,” Todd added. “Cut to the chase, Jason. Who doped the punch?”

“Joey Champlin,” Avery said simply.

The room went dead still. No one spoke for a moment.

“The... handicapped kid?” I said at last.

“I’m afraid so. Last evening Joey was watching TV with the exchange students when his older sister ordered him to bed. The boy took offense. He has a history of difficulty with impulse control. He broke into the playroom, grabbed a fistful of pills, and dropped them in the punch as a prank.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Todd said, looking away.

“The boy had no idea what the pills were, or what the consequences might be,” Avery continued. “Joey confessed to his sister this morning. He’s very sorry, but...” He opened his hands expansively. “I doubt the boy’s capable of comprehending the damage he’s done.”

“How old is this boy?” Harvey asked.

“Sixteen,” Avery said. “His IQ is in the mid-sixties, which places him in legal limbo between juvenile court and adult incapacity. I doubt he can be tried.”

“He can’t just walk either,” Todd said grimly. “What are you offering, Jason?”

“There’s a bit more to it,” Avery said. “Vale Junior College is being vetted at the state level to become a fully accredited four-year institution. I don’t have to tell you what a blessing this would be for the North Shore. Kids who lack the resources to pursue a higher education downstate could live at home, attend school here.” He glanced pointedly at me.

“That’s good news,” I conceded. “How is it relevant?”

“Mark Champlin is heavily involved in those negotiations. A scandal at this time could derail the process, perhaps permanently.”

“The snow angel isn’t a scandal,” I said. “She’s a homicide victim.”

“Snow angel?” Bemis echoed, frowning.

“Julie Novak,” I said. “When we found her in the snow, that’s how she appeared.”

“By whatever name, her death was inadvertent,” Avery said. “A regrettable accident.”

“Or negligent homicide,” Bemis countered. “A mentally challenged kid made an awful mistake. Fine. He can plead to it, the judge will place him in a state institution for evaluation—”

“And any hope for his future will disappear,” Avery shot back.

“Joey Champlin’s record will clear at twenty-one,” I pointed out. “Julie Novak isn’t going to see twenty-one.”

“The point is moot,” Avery said. “The Champlins are unwilling to ruin the boy’s life for what was, in every sense, a juvenile mistake.”

“We might be open to a compromise,” Bemis said, glancing at Todd. “If one of the parents pleads to negligence—”

“To be held up to public ridicule and shame?” Avery asked.

“Somebody damn well should be ashamed!” I snapped.

“Dylan’s right, counselor,” Todd said. “My office can’t just write this off. Especially since Mark and I are friends. You have to give me something, Jason.”

“I’ve been authorized to offer a hundred thousand dollars,” Avery said.

No one spoke for a moment.

“A hundred for what?” I asked.

“Joey’s a mentally challenged minor, with emotional problems,” Avery said quickly. “No good purpose will be served by trying him. The Champlins offer fair compensation instead. Joey will be placed in a secure facility, for appropriate treatment. The Champlins will issue a public statement of regret for the incident and, privately, will proffer a financial settlement to the girl’s family. One hundred thousand.”

Bemis glanced nervously at Todd. The prosecutor’s face showed nothing.

“If, on the other hand, formal charges are brought,” Avery continued, “my admission of Joey’s involvement and the offer of compensation will vanish. The Champlins will resist any attempt to incarcerate the boy, and they have formidable resources. We’re dealing with a tragedy, not a crime.”

“That’s for the courts to decide,” I said.

“You can pursue legal action, of course,” Avery nodded. “But what can you win? Joey will most likely be remanded to counseling and the Novak family will get nothing. Are you willing to risk that, Todd?”

“As a friend of the family, I can’t be a party to this,” Todd said. “It’s your call, Harvey.”

“I... sympathize with the Novak family, of course,” Bemis said, reading Todd’s eyes as he spoke. “But there’s not much point in convicting a mentally handicapped minor of a charge he’ll barely comprehend. And a court fight could be disastrous for the college.”

Bemis paused, waiting for his boss to comment. Todd didn’t.

“Let’s make it two hundred thousand,” Avery said. “That’s my final offer and it expires in sixty seconds.”

Bemis glanced at Todd, who gave a barely perceptible nod.

“All right,” Bemis nodded. “We can live with that.”

I wasn’t sure who “we” were, but he didn’t speak for me.

“Slow down,” I said. “Before we agree to a settlement, shouldn’t we consult the Novak family?”

“Sorry, but that’s out. They can’t know about Joey,” Avery said. “And an offer of compensation could be interpreted as an admission of guilt. Any approach must be made unofficially, without revealing any part of this discussion. Mr. Novak works as a logger. He might be more receptive if the offer came from one of his own.” He glanced pointedly at me.

“You’re kidding,” I said. “You want me to sell this to Novak? Without telling him anything?”

“He’s free to decline, of course,” Avery said. Taking a checkbook out of his vest pocket, he jotted in a few figures, then slid the check to me.

“This is drawn on my personal account, detective. Two hundred thousand dollars. When Mr. Novak cashes it, he’ll be given a release to sign, acknowledging it as a final settlement.”

“This is a mistake,” I said. “At least let me tell Novak the truth about what happened.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not an option,” Avery said. “It would violate privilege and open the Champlin family to litigation. I can’t allow it.”

“Novak could be facing felony charges for assaulting the Patel boy,” Harvey Bemis added. “Remind him of that, Dylan. Given a choice between a paycheck and jail time, he’ll do the right thing.”

“Right for who?” I asked. “Novak’s a wood-smoke stud. He’s used to getting up off the deck to come back at you. He won’t take this.”

But I was wrong.

By the time I got back to Hauser Justice Center, Carl Novak had been cooling off in an interview room for over an hour.

Locked up alone in a ten-by-ten concrete box, he had time to absorb the death of his daughter. And to consider a future that could include months, even years, locked in rooms like this one.

He was seated at a small steel table bolted to the floor in the center of the room. I took the chair facing him. It was just us. Off the record. No one observing from the other side of the two-way mirror, no recorders, no video cams.

Novak was dressed for work, in a faded flannel shirt, bib overalls, and cork-soled boots. His shoulder-length shaggy hair was shot with gray, his face seamed and weathered by the wind. His knuckles were oversized, scarred from rough labor.

Red-eyed, coldly furious, he listened with folded arms as I offered my sympathies on the death of his daughter, then outlined Avery’s offer of compensation. His eyes widened at the figure. Cocking his head, he eyed me curiously.

“Two hundred grand?” he echoed. “For real? Jesus. Do you know how many cords I’d have to drop to make that much?”

I nodded. “My dad was a logger.”

“I know. I worked with your old man years ago, on Moose’s crew, cuttin’ pulpwood in the Comstock. He’s dead now, right? Car crash?”

“Killed by a drunk driver,” I said.

“Tough break. Anybody offer you two hundred thousand for him?”

I didn’t answer.

“Nah, of course not,” he said. “I liked Dolph, he was steady, a good worker. But your old man wasn’t worth no two hundred grand, dead or alive. But that’s what them people figure my Julie’s worth, eh?”

“Mr. Novak—”

“Save it, LaCrosse,” he said, waving me off. “This ain’t on you, I know that. And it sure ain’t on Julie. It’s on me, and I ain’t even got enough put aside to bury her decent. Been working two jobs just to keep her in school, and I got three more kids to think of. I—” He looked away, swallowing hard. “I’ll take the money. Got no choice.”

“You realize if you do, it’s over. You can’t sue later.”

“Never figured to. But off the record? Just two wood-smoke boys sittin’ in a room? Who done this, Dylan? Who killed my girl?”

“It’s an open case, Mr. Novak. I truly can’t comment. But I can tell you this much. Nobody meant Julie harm. It was an accident, or close to it. Hard as it might be, it’s best to accept that, and move on.”

“Is that what you’d do?”

“I don’t know what I’d do, Mr. Novak.”

“My Uncle Matt was killed in Vietnam,” he said absently. “My ma’s only brother. Know what his wife got? Ten thousand. And a flag to lay on his coffin. Ten grand for his life. I’m getting a lot more for Julie. Maybe I should be grateful.”

He waited for a comment. I didn’t have one.

“Hell, maybe you’re right,” he sighed. “There’s no help for a thing like this. No way to set it right. Tell your people I’ll take the deal.”

“They aren’t my people,” I said.

He met my eyes dead-on. Cold as the big lakes in January.

“Sure they are,” he said.

I didn’t attend the snow angel’s funeral. I wasn’t sure how the Novaks would react and I didn’t want to intrude.

A week passed, and then another. Christmas was in the air, and as an early present, Vale Junior College won state approval to become a fully accredited, four-year institution.

Good for us.

I began to think Jason Avery had been right. We’d salvaged a positive outcome from a god-awful situation. Won the greatest good for the greatest number.

I thought that right up until the night Derek Patel disappeared.

Ten days after Julie Novak’s funeral, Derek Patel vanished from the campus of Vale Junior College. His folks weren’t overly concerned when he didn’t show for dinner; the boy often stayed after class on lab nights. But when he wasn’t home at ten, his mother called the school.

A security guard answered. The school was locked down, but Derek’s VW Bug was still parked in the lot. The guard found it unlocked, with the driver’s door slightly ajar. Odd, but not necessarily ominous.

Until he noticed Derek’s keys in the snow beside the car.

And the bloodstains on the headrest.

The crime occurred on school grounds so jurisdiction initially fell to the state police. But when my chief informed their post commander the missing kid was part of an open case, they kicked it to us.

Not that it made any difference.

We had nothing. CODIS, the combined DNA index system run by U.S. and Canadian crime labs, identified the blood spattered in the car as belonging to Derek Patel. Violence had obviously been done, but in the swirling snow and the bustle of the busy parking lot, nobody had noticed anything out of the ordinary.

A few students mentioned a rust-bucket white pickup truck parked near Derek’s V-dub around the time he vanished, but nobody got a good look at the driver, caught a plate, or could even swear to the make of the truck.

Maybe a Ford. Maybe a Chevy. White. Rusted out around the wheel wells. Big guy behind the wheel. A working stiff, not a student.

Why a working stiff?

“You know. Tractor cap, canvas vest, wild hair? A wood-smoke boy. Cedar savage. You know the type.”

I knew. Which narrowed my list of potential suspects down to the sixty thousand blue-collar folks who didn’t live in Sugar Hill or the condos along the lakeshore strip.

Rusty white pickups? That slimmed our suspect list down to a thousand or so. But I didn’t need a thousand names. I already knew the name.

I questioned Carl Novak, of course. Spoke to him on the porch of his double-wide in Poletown, a Slavic enclave in the smokestack shadows of the Deveraux hardboard plant. Novak didn’t invite me to step in out of the weather, a deliberate breach of etiquette in the north.

His alibi was rock solid, though. Novak could account for every minute of the day Derek Patel disappeared. Witnesses could vouch for his whereabouts the entire time.

Which proved beyond a doubt that he was involved. Nobody keeps total track of a day, unless they expect to answer questions about it. Innocents don’t need alibis.

Still, on the face of it, Novak was as pure as the new-fallen snow. Probably felt ten feet tall and bulletproof. He was sure that he’d won, and he wanted me to know it.

And I did. But there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

Dr. Patel and his family were out of their minds with worry. The state police assigned an electronic intercept team to their home to deal with a possible ransom demand.

They tapped their landline home phone and their cells, ready to identify the relay tower as soon as the call came, then triangulate the signal and home in on it.

But there was no call. No ransom demand. No threats.

As the shopping days before Christmas dwindled down to the final few, there was no word at all.

Derek Patel had vanished as though he’d never been.

And when the dreaded phone call finally came, it didn’t ring at the Patels’ home. Or even at my office. It came to Bowie Cadarette, a conservation officer with the DNRE.

A farmer named Pete DeNoux capped a coyote that had been killing piglets. Pete hurried his shot, didn’t nail the rogue cleanly. Gut-shot him, he thought.

That would have been sufficient for some folks. The wound would likely prove fatal. The predator would crawl off into the brush and bleed out. Even if he survived, he’d be minus his taste for bacon.

But DeNoux was a wood-smoke boy, born in the north. Raised on some unwritten rules. If you shoot something, you damn well put it down. You never leave a wounded animal to suffer. Ever. Not even a thieving coyote.

Pete had no trouble following the blood spoor through the snow. Trailed the rogue male back to the farthest corner of his land, near his fence line.

He found what was left of the animal near its den at the base of a toppled pine. The poor bastard had made it home, only to have his own pack turn on him. Maddened by the blood scent, they ripped him to pieces.

The deep-woods wild has countless graces, but mercy isn’t one of them. It’s a human concept, and not all that common with us.

Satisfied, if a bit dismayed, Pete turned to leave, then hesitated. There were a lot of bloody bones around that den. Too many for a rogue coyote. The pack had been working over another carcass. DeNoux took a closer look, expecting to find the remains of his piglets. The bones weren’t from a shoat, though. Nor a deer, nor anything else he recognized.

At first.

Pete was no biologist, but he’d butchered enough game to know the basics of bone structure.

Even so, it took a good twenty minutes for his mind to accept what his eyes were seeing. Even then he harbored some doubts.

Until he found the remains of a torn tennis shoe...

DeNoux was so shaken, he wasn’t sure who to call. So he rang up the conservation department. And they called me.

Ordinarily the district attorney would check out a crime scene personally, but Derek Patel’s skeletal remains were tied to a case Todd Girard had stepped away from. I guessed he’d be stepping away even farther now. Faster than a buck on the run.

ADA Harvey Bemis arrived at the coyote den dressed for heavy weather. In his L.L. Bean down-filled parka, with matching tanker cap and furred earmuffs, he looked ready for a trek across the polar ice cap. I was wearing my usual leather car coat and jeans. In the shelter of the tall pines, twenty degrees doesn’t seem that cold. Especially when you’re seething.

“Is there any question the remains are the Patel boy’s?” Harvey demanded.

“Not much,” I said. “We haven’t found the skull yet, but the shoe is the brand and size described by the family and the blood type’s a match.”

“Why haven’t you... found the skull?” Harvey asked, glancing around the savaged ground as though my officers and the state police CSI team had overlooked it somehow.

“This isn’t the original dump site,” I explained. “My partner and a conservation officer are backtracking it now. Most likely the body was ditched out near the shore highway. The coyote pack found it there, tore it apart, then carried the pieces back to the den.”

“I thought coyotes were afraid of people,” Harvey said.

“That was before the Internet boom, when folks realized they could do business anyplace you can plug in a laptop. The population along the north is exploding, Harve. We’re crowding onto their habitat, and coyotes don’t read Darwin. As they get used to seeing us around, they lose their fear. If they find us dead on their turf, we’re lunch. Like roadkill, chickens in a coop, or a fawn frozen in the snow.”

“Coyotes didn’t kill this boy,” Bemis said grimly. “We both know who did this.”

“Actually, we don’t. Whatever the time frame for the killing turns out to be, I guarantee you Carl Novak’s going to have an alibi the KGB couldn’t break. A family reunion, a christening? He was there, surrounded by fifty witnesses.”

“Then he hired it done!”

“You’re exactly right. He did. And we helped him.”

“Helped him? What—?”

“Novak was working two jobs just to keep his daughter Julie in school, Harvey. He didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Then she was killed and Avery wrote him a check. Tipped him like a bellhop. Two hundred thou for his daughter’s life. And now?” I gestured at the savage clearing. “Look what a backwoods boy can accomplish with a few bucks.”

“He’s not going to get away with this,” Bemis said furiously. “Alibi or no alibi, I want that sonofabitch arrested! I want him hauled into the House in cuffs—”

“No,” I said.

“What do you mean, no?”

“I mean I’m not going to bust him, Harvey. He’ll just lawyer up, and we’ll get nothing. Novak’s not the one I want anyway.”

“Of course he is! What are you talking about?”

“His daughter died in the snow, and nobody was held accountable. And now we’ve got another dead kid, or what’s left of one. We gave Novak money instead of justice. So he used our cash to buy his own justice.”

“He bought murder!”

“Damn right. And that’s the guy I want. The sonofabitch who killed this boy for money. And Novak is going to give me his name. Because he’s angry and hurting, but most of all, because he feels justified! He thinks he bought retribution. When I tell him the truth, that he killed the wrong boy, he’ll unravel like a cheap suit.”

“But you can’t tell him! It was revealed in confidence!”

I almost decked him. It was a near thing. I snatched up a piece of Derek Patel’s shattered femur instead, and dragged the jagged end of it across Harvey’s new parka, smearing his coat with blood and slime.

“What—? What the hell are you doing?” Bemis stammered, staggering back, horrified.

“Take a deep breath, counselor. That’s what justice smells like in the deep woods. Avery cut Novak a check for his daughter and expected him to take it. I warned you it would blow back, and now it has. I helped make this mess, so I’m going to fix it, but I’m done playing games. I’m going to tell Novak the flat-ass truth about what happened. And he’ll give me a name and I’ll bring that bastard in. It won’t be justice, but I’ll have to live with it. This,” I said, tossing the bone at his feet, “is the part you have to live with.”

As I turned away, Bemis grabbed my arm.

“Just a damn minute, LaCrosse—”

Pure cussedness on my part. As he jerked me around, I used the momentum to slap him across the face. Harder than I meant to. He went down like a sack of cement, staring up at me in stunned disbelief.

“I’ll — I’ll have your badge for that!”

“No, you won’t. I’d love to tell a judge about this mess, Harve, but your boss wouldn’t like it. And just so we’re clear? If you ever lay hands on me again, I’ll break your goddamn jaw. C’mon, get up.” I offered him my hand, but he brushed it away angrily and staggered to his feet.

A black carrion beetle the size of my thumb was working its way through the muck on his overcoat.

“You’ve got a bug,” I said, pointing at the beetle.

“What? Oh!” he gasped, horrified. He tried to brush it away, but the beetle clung stubbornly to the fabric, scarfing its lunch.

Harvey plucked it off and cast it aside, but his fingertips came up smeared with Derek Patel’s remains. It was too much. Stumbling into the brush, he dropped to his knees in the snow, retching up everything but his spleen.

I almost felt sorry for him.

But I couldn’t spare the time. I needed to get to Novak fast.

To tell him the truth. And destroy him with it.

I picked up my partner at the shore highway, where patrolmen were taping off the original dump site. Racing back into Valhalla with lights and sirens, we crossed the river to Poletown, to Carl Novak’s run-down double-wide.

I carried the femur with me. Technically it was evidence, but the forest den wasn’t really a crime scene. The coyotes were only guilty of being coyotes.

When Carl Novak answered my knock, I simply handed him the savaged bone, explained what it was and where I’d found it. And what had actually happened the night his daughter died.

It took a moment for the horror of it to sink in. But when it did, Novak sagged against the doorjamb like he’d been slammed across the knees with a Louisville Slugger.

And then he gave us the hired killer’s name.

A familiar one.

Joni Cohen was right. When you do police work in your hometown, you’re bound to run into people you know.

“Holy crap,” Zina said, scanning the screen of her laptop. We were in my Jeep, idling in Novak’s driveway, waiting for a prowl car to show, to take him into custody.

“What have we got?” I asked, keeping an eye on Carl Novak, as he said his goodbyes to his wife and remaining kids on his porch. Dry-eyed now, but he looked decades older. In utter despair.

“Oskar Sorsa, Big Ox,” Zina read. “Six foot seven, two-eighty. Two-time loser, both busts tied to the meth trade, three years on the first fall, four more on his second. Ganged up in prison with the Aryan Militia. The LEO lists him as a violent offender. Presume to be armed, approach with caution. Paroled to Valhalla after his latest hitch. Elkhart Road? I don’t recognize that address.”

“It’s in the state forest. His grandfather had a cabin back there.”

“You know this guy?”

“I used to see him around logging jobs, back in the day. Never worked with him. He had a rep as a bad-ass then. Sounds like prison made him worse.”

“How do we handle him?”

“We don’t,” I said, swiveling in my seat to face her. “He’s a wood-smoke boy, a survivalist. If we go out there with an army, he’ll rabbit into the backcountry and we’ll be chasing him for a year. If I talk to him one-on-one, maybe he’ll come in peacefully.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“If I’m alone, at least he won’t run.” I shrugged. “You wait here with Novak for the prowl car. Make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”

“So you can go after Sorsa alone? You’re making a mistake, Dylan.”

“At least I’m consistent. I’ve botched this thing from the beginning, Zee. I’m going to close it out.”

She was right. Going alone is always a mistake. And I knew it.

But I was past caring. I needed this done.

Elkhart Road trails off into the bottomlands east of Valhalla. Low swampy ground, only fit for ducks and muskrats.

And poachers. When I rolled into the overgrown yard at Sorsa’s backwoods cabin, he was dressing out a deer.

The swamp buck was hanging from a large pine, spread-eagled and eviscerated, eyes glassy, its tongue lolling. Ox was peeling off its hide like a bloody blanket, rolling it down from a circular incision at the animal’s throat. He straightened slowly as I stepped out of the Jeep. Still holding the dripping skinning knife.

I’m six-one in my socks, but the Viking type facing me was nearly a foot taller, dressed in grimy coveralls, his hands and wrists streaked with gore from the gutted buck.

Forty or so, his sandy hair was a wild tangle around the edges of a greasy engineer’s cap. Hard gray eyes. His narrow face was permanently reddened by the wind and prison hooch, and marked with a striking set of scars. Three vertical gashes in one cheek, livid as war paint. Gouges from a chainsaw kickback. Savage and ugly. And not uncommon in the backcountry.

He eyed my back trail uneasily a moment, expecting an army to come roaring in behind me. When he realized I’d come alone, he relaxed a bit. Probably figured he could handle me. Maybe he was right.

I checked out the yard as I stepped out of my Jeep. A rust-bucket white pickup was parked beside a cabin so warped and faded it looked like a natural part of the forest. Cords of firewood were stacked neatly along the outer walls. A trio of antlered deer skulls were nailed over the door. Trophy bucks. None smaller than ten points. A Model 94 Winchester lever-action was leaning against the doorframe.

“Who are ya?” Sorsa demanded. I could smell whiskey off him six feet away.

“Detective Dylan LaCrosse,” I said, showing him my shield. “Major Crimes.”

“I ain’t done nothin’ major.” He gave me a screwball grin, showing broken teeth, stained meth yellow. “Nothin’ minor, neither.”

“Rifle season closed December first, Ox. That buck’s illegal.”

“Ain’t no season on roadkill. Found this bastard dead in a ditch. Kilt by a truck.”

“Then the truck must have shot it in the eye. I can see the bullet hole from here.”

Sorsa frowned at the deer, then jammed a thumb into the bloody eye socket, obliterating the wound by gouging out the flesh.

“C’mon, LaCrosse, the DNR don’t care if a man takes meat off-season to feed himself. You gonna rat me out?”

“I don’t give a rip about the deer, Ox. I’m here about a boy. Derek Patel.”

He didn’t say anything. But his eye strayed to the Winchester on the porch. Figuring his odds. The gun was only a few yards away. Loaded? Damn straight. He’d only used one round to kill the buck and probably reloaded that one immediately. Out here, weapons stay loaded. Plus, he was still holding the skinning knife. I could practically see the wheels turning in the big guy’s meth-fried mind as he mulled over the geometry of murder. It was painful to watch.

I could have pulled on him then, taking control of the situation. But I didn’t. I waited instead.

“I got nothin’ to say about no boy,” he said at last.

“I don’t need a confession, Ox. Carl Novak already gave you up, chapter and verse. But you can still do yourself some good. Did you do the killing alone? Or did you have help?”

He thought about saying nothing. Or go screw yourself. Same answer, really. But we were past that now. And we both knew it. He edged sideways a half-step. Casually, like he was relaxing. But it moved him a foot closer to the rifle on the porch.

“I didn’t need no help,” he spat in contempt. “The kid was mud people.”

“Mud people?”

“Brown people, or black. One of them low races. Not like us.”

Low races? This snaggle-toothed Neanderthal, butchering a buck like a freaking caveman, actually thought he was superior — I took a breath.

“Okay, you took him alone. How’d you manage it?”

“Easy. I pulled up next to his car, asked him for directions. Clocked him with a sap. Not hard really, but he was already bandaged up. Sap put him down, all the way. Never moved once on the run out to the woods.” Ox edged sideways, another step nearer to the gun. Maybe two yards to go. A single stride for a guy his size. I let him do it, more interested in getting the absolute truth now. Keeping him talking.

“Where did you dump the body?”

“On state land, near the highway. Lot of coyotes around there. I zipped him open. Scavengers will shy away from the scent of people, but if you slit the belly open, spill the guts out on the ground? They don’t smell like people no more. Just guts. Coyotes freak out, fight each other to rip it up. They’ll eat anything if you open it up first. Even mud people.”

He said this last inching over the final half-step, watching my eyes. When I didn’t react, he nodded. He knew then that I wasn’t going to.

“Last question,” I said. “This one’s important, Ox. When you zipped that kid open and left him for the coyotes? Was he dead? Or just unconscious?”

Sorsa grinned at that, shaking his head. Almost ready now. Not caring that I knew it.

“To be honest, LaCrosse? I can’t really say for sure. What’s the difference?”

“It matters. To me.”

“Nah, it don’t,” he said, shaking his shoulders, loosening up. “All that matters now is, I ain’t goin’ back to prison.”

“No,” I agreed. “Probably not.” But I kept my hands at my sides. Made no move for my weapon.

Making it his call. Either way.

The wind was picking up, swirling snow devils across the yard, twisting the gutted buck slowly at the end of its rope, dark blood oozing down from its body cavity, pooling beneath it. I felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the wind. Only the emptiness in Sorsa’s eyes—

He glanced toward his truck — but it was a feint. Flipping the bloody knife at my head with more force than I thought possible, he lunged for the rifle.

Instinctively I ducked away from the flashing blade. Too late! It banged off my forehead, slashing it open, stunning me. Dropping to one knee, I clawed for my weapon, pulling it just as Ox rolled to the rifle on the porch.

He threw the Winchester to his shoulder just as my gun came up, both of us cutting loose in the same split second, our shots nearly simultaneous. I couldn’t tell who fired first.

His rifle slug burned past my cheek, so close I felt the heat of the muzzle blast. My first round flew high and wide, blowing a chunk out of the doorframe.

He was jacking in a fresh round when my second shot nailed him dead center. So did the next three.

Pete DeNoux wasn’t the only one raised on the rules. When you shoot something, you damn well put it down.

I spent three days on suspension while the state police conducted an independent investigation, then I had to face a shooting board, in a conference room at Hauser Center. Three command officers from Lansing and me. I was entitled to have an attorney present. Didn’t ask for one. Maybe I should have.

Some officers serve their entire careers without drawing a weapon. I’m guessing the bureau chief who chaired the review was one of them.

He kept rephrasing the same pointed questions. Why had I sought out a violent felon, a suspected murderer, alone? Why had I attempted an arrest without calling for backup?

Had I ever met the decedent? Had any previous dealings with him? Did I bear him a grudge?

“I knew who Ox was,” I admitted. “In high school, I spent my summers working in the woods, swinging a chainsaw. You hear about guys who are okay, guys to avoid. I thought Sorsa would be more likely to come in peacefully with someone he could relate to.”

“But you couldn’t convince him?” the captain pressed. “How hard did you try?”

“Not very,” I admitted, tired of the dance. “When I suggested it, he threw a skinning knife at my head and went for his rifle.”

He waited for me to expand on that. I didn’t.

“I’d say you misjudged the situation pretty badly.”

I didn’t rise to that either. He was certain I’d gone after Ox alone for reasons of my own.

He was right.

Sorsa had taken blood money to murder a boy he didn’t know. There’s no redemption for a crime like that, no way back. But there was no grudge involved. If he’d surrendered peacefully, I would have brought him in alive.

He didn’t.

So I kept my answers brief, my tone neutral. And in the end, the board decided the case on the facts. Sorsa was an enforcer for the Aryan Militia, a convicted felon in illegal possession of a firearm, and the sole suspect in a homicide. He died with a loaded rifle in his hands and I had a gash in my forehead that took eight stitches to close. The board conferred for twenty minutes. Then ruled the shooting as self-defense.

Justified.

I’d won, I suppose. It didn’t feel like it.

After the hearing, I headed back to my office at the House. I needed time alone, to think things through. But Todd Girard was there, waiting for me. It was just as well. It saved me the trouble of tracking him down.

He was in the visitor’s chair beside my desk. I dropped into my swivel chair, facing him. Neither of us offered to shake hands.

“You roughed up Harvey Bemis,” Todd said.

“Sorry about that,” I said. “It should have been you.”

“Me?”

“You served in the sandbox, right?”

“Helmand, eight months,” he said. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Ever sit in on a tribal council?”

“No. Look, Dylan—”

“Bear with me. Tribal councils are pretty straightforward. No judges, no lawyers. Just clan chiefs and their bodyguards, an imam for a referee. Everybody comes strapped, nobody pretends to be neutral. They all push for their own interests. Like we did at the Jury’s Inn.”

“What’s your point?”

“Avery was protecting the Champlins,” I continued. “The Champlins were protecting their boy, all of us were looking out for the college. Everybody had a voice. Except the one who mattered most. The snow angel. Julie Novak. That was your job, Todd. To speak for the victim. Instead you gallantly stepped aside, to avoid a conflict of interest. And you handed the case off to Bemis. Only he didn’t speak for the victim. Didn’t even pretend to. He thinks his job is keeping you happy. And he did that, by protecting your friends.”

“I never asked him to.”

“You didn’t have to ask! You knew how he’d play it. So did the rest of us. But we let it pass. Because it gave us the outcome we wanted. A closed case, a four-year school, serious cash for the Novaks. A good outcome, till it went off the rails. I’m not laying the blame on you, Todd, we all own a piece of it. All we can do now is try to set it right.”

“What do you want, Dylan?”

“Two things,” I said flatly. “First, Bemis is out. Kick him to the curb. He doesn’t have the soul for this job.”

I expected an argument. Didn’t get one. He just nodded. “And the other?”

“Give Novak a break, Todd. Some kind of a deal.”

“Not a chance,” Girard said, shaking his head. “The man paid for a murder, Dylan. He caused the death of an innocent boy.”

“He didn’t know he was innocent! If we’d given him the truth instead of buying him off—”

“Maybe he would’ve murdered the Champlin boy instead!” Girard snapped. “We’ll never know, will we? We only know what he did.”

“We put him in a lousy situation and he made a lousy choice. I’m not saying he walks, but we owe him something. What can you do?”

“I — hell.” Girard looked away, chewing the corner of his lip. “If he serves the minimum with no more trouble, I’ll consider a humanitarian release. That’s the best I can offer.”

“Then I guess it’ll have to do.”

“Not quite,” he said, meeting my eyes dead-on. “I need a straight answer from you. About Sorsa.”

“What about him?”

“If you’d brought him in breathing, I could have used his testimony against Novak to put them both away for life. You told the board you went alone, hoping he’d surrender. Was that true?”

I didn’t say anything.

“I didn’t think so,” he said, rising, looking down at me. In every sense. He waited a moment for me to say something in my defense. When I didn’t, he turned and stalked out.

He left angry, thinking the worst. Thinking he knows an ugly truth about me.

But he’s wrong.

I chewed over his question a good long while after he left.

I’ve known Todd since high school. I didn’t want to lie to him.

But I couldn’t tell him the truth.

Because I don’t know what it is.

Some night, many years from now, maybe I’ll wake in the dark and know to a certainty what really happened in that clearing. I’ll know that I gave Ox Sorsa a choice because I hoped he’d surrender. Or because I hoped he wouldn’t.

For now, I’ll have to live with not knowing.

So will Todd.

I worked at my desk the rest of the afternoon, catching up on paperwork. When I headed out into the fading twilight, a gentle snow was falling. Downy flakes, swirling on the wind. But as I walked to my car, I slowed, then stopped.

Listening.

Up the block, in Memorial Park, a children’s choir was on the bandstand singing Christmas carols, their voices carrying clear and pure in the gathering dusk.

Without thinking, I fell in step with a throng of shoppers and families and passersby, all of us drawn by the music, gathering around that small stage. Letting the old songs carry us back to a time when the world was a simpler place. Or we were too young to know the difference.

Peace on earth, good will to men.

It’s tough to argue with that.

But as I listened to the voices ringing in the icy air, my gaze strayed to the far corner of the park, where a winged figure stands watch over a memorial, a stone tablet that bears the names of the Great Fallen. Local boys who died in the first War to End All Wars. And in all the wars since.

It’s a long list.

The mourning angel that guards it was aglow, decorated for the holidays with glittering lights, her hands spread wide in benediction, a marble teardrop frozen on her cheek.

And my throat seized up. And I couldn’t breathe.

I wonder if I will ever see an angel again without remembering that shining schoolgirl sleeping in the snow.

I hope not.