Darkness the Color of Snow (8 page)

T
HE FIRE HAD
been on the fourth of January, 2006, almost four years earlier. Gordy had been asleep for more than two hours when the phone rang. It was another call that began, “Chief.” He got out of bed and went to his closet to dress. “Gordy,” Bonita said. “What is it?”

He hadn't wanted to wake her, and he was doing his best to dress quietly, in his closet, in the dark. He fumbled in the drawer for his underwear, turned them around several times before he found the front. He pulled them on, nearly losing his balance and falling heavily into the side of his closet. “A fire,” he said. “The gazebo. The gazebo is burning.”

“You're going?”

He took a shirt from a hanger and got it on, then felt in the dark for his pants. “It has to be a set fire,” he said. “That's what Laurie just said. ‘A set fire.' ”

“Why do you have to go? It's so late.” Bonita was still recovering from the amputation of her foot, an effect of her diabetes. She was not doing well, and was heavily medicated.

“My job,” he said. “It's my job. Do you need anything before I go? Another pill? Do you need another pill?”

“No,” she said, still groggy.

“How about the bathroom. Do you need to go to the bathroom before I go?”

“I'm all right. I have the wheelchair if I need to get up.”

“Be careful. You're still a little unsteady getting in and out of that thing. Don't take a fall.”

“I'm sleepy. I'll go back to sleep. You be careful, too. The roads. The snow.”

“I'll be careful, and I'll be back as soon as I can.”

He got his boots and coat in the living room, found his keys, and trudged out the door to the cruiser. It was slow going. The cruiser, a Crown Victoria, heavy and rear-­wheel-­driven, didn't have snow tires. In an effort to cut costs, they had outfitted the cars with all-­weather tires that didn't do very well in snow, rather than switching between regular tires and snow tires. The snow was light, now, lighter than it had been when he went to bed, but many of the roads, including his, would still be unplowed, as public works concentrated on the main roads before they did the mainly residential streets. He backed out of the driveway slowly, turned the car on the road, and, even going slowly, felt the back end slip and slide in the few inches of snow that covered the road.

A mile away he could see the glow of the fire through the bare trees. He pushed on, taking it slow, letting the car wobble on the unplowed pavement until he reached Hunter Road, which, also unplowed, had deep tire tracks from other vehicles that kept the old Vicky pointed straight ahead.

The gazebo was nearly gone when he got there. The roof had fallen in and the supporting columns were leaning, all completely engulfed in fire, despite the water the volunteer fire department was spraying, which froze before it reached the burning timber.

He found Pete next to the fire truck. Pete had the earflaps of his hat down and the fur collar of his parka pulled up. Gordy was wearing a similar parka, but he had put on a ball cap, Lydell Police, instead of his winter hat. His ears were already cold. “What happened here?”

“Call came in about forty minutes ago. Plow truck spotted it. Took almost half an hour for the fire truck to get here. Whole thing was engulfed. It's gone. Letting it burn, now. There's not going to be anything to salvage.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“No. Just a big old fire.”

The gazebo was less than a year old. It had been a town project. Built by Public Works with a little money from the state and a lot of volunteer labor, the gazebo sat in a small field off Route 232. The town's one lumberyard had donated much of the materials. Public Works mowed the field once a week in spring and summer, and the town had its first park. The local papers played it up big, an example of a community coming together to improve itself in an economy going to hell.

“Know what caused it?”

“Not only what, but who.” Pete walked over behind the fire truck and came back with a red plastic gas can. He held it up so that Gordy could see the initials in black Magic Marker. R. Laf.

“Roger Laferiere? He helped build this thing.”

“Well, not Roger. But his kid. That's what I think. Of course someone could have stolen the gas can, but I figure this is kid work. Nice of him to leave this for us.”

“Anything else?”

“Beer cans. Tire tracks.” Pete walked Gordy over to a scattering of Natural Light beer cans. “Kid beer,” Pete said. “Lots of footprints, more than the fire crew made. Kid party. Got your four-­wheel drive, your beer, can of gas, matches, and there goes the gazebo. Pretty much a Matt Laferiere special.”

“Son of a bitch,” Gordy said.

“Yep. Son of a bitch.”

“All of this hard work,” Gordy said. “And now, nothing. And for what? A few minutes of entertainment for some bored, drunk kids.”

“Mother was right,” Pete said. “Can't keep anything nice.”

“Anyone looking for the kids?”

“John went out. He's going to cruise around for a while, then make his way over to the Laferieres'.”

“Yeah. They wouldn't go home right away. Must have stayed around to watch it burn. No point, otherwise.”

“No point anyway. No point at all. Just stupid destruction for the sake of destruction.”

“We'll haul them in in the morning. We don't need Spenser to solve this one.” He nodded toward the gas can.

“The stupidity just goes on and on, doesn't it?”

“Can't stop it.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, when Gordy got in to work, Pete and John had Matt Laferiere, Paul Stablein, Bobby Cabella, and Ronny Forbert in the office. Laferiere, Stablein, and Cabella were familiar figures to Gordy. They had been hauled into the office half a dozen times, together and separately. The charges, when there had been enough evidence to charge them, were misdemeanors—­possession of alcohol, rowdiness, vandalism. Kid stuff.

Forbert, though, was new. While the three others sat slumped in chairs, looking alternately bored and cocky, the tall, skinny kid stood against the wall, behind the others, doing a bad job of hiding his nervousness. Like the other three, he was dressed in a flannel shirt, jeans, unlaced work boots, and a hooded sweatshirt, as if it weren't cold enough to put on a coat.

“So, you gentlemen had a party last night.”

Laferiere shrugged.

“Didn't you?”

“School's out. We hung out last night.”

Gordy walked over to the skinny kid. “I don't believe we've met. I'm Police Chief Gordon Hawkins.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“And you are?”

“Forbert. Ronald.”

“Well, Forbert, Ronald. I hope I don't come to know you as well as I know these other three. I know them pretty well.” Gordy turned back to Laferiere. “I know you hung out last night. Over in the park. By the gazebo.” He watched Forbert straighten and stiffen.

“We were there for a while.” Laferiere was always the spokesman. He was pretty good, admitting to enough that he wasn't easily tripped up on a lie he didn't need to tell.

“I know that, too. You left a lot of beer cans there.”

“We'll pick them up.”

“No need. We picked them up for you. They're evidence, now.”

“And you're going to test them for DNA. CSI: Lydell. No need. We were drinking beer in the park.”

“That was just the start,” Gordy said. “Like your little party. We're more interested in what came later.”

“We went home.”

“Yeah. Eventually. But first you poured gasoline on the gazebo and burned it down.”

“I heard that,” Laferiere said. “But it wasn't us. We just hung out in the snow for a while, then went home.”

“No, Matthew. You didn't. You burned the gazebo. And you were kind enough to leave us with evidence for that, too. You're not very good at cleaning up after yourselves. We found your father's gas can.” Forbert was shifting his weight from leg to leg as if he had to pee.

“My father burned the gazebo down?” Laferiere asked with a smile.

“Doubt that, since he helped build it. No. You burned it down.”

“Nope. Didn't do it.”

“Why don't you just admit that you did it, and we'll move on?”

“Move on where?”

Gordy turned and nodded toward the holding cell to their left, the only lockup Lydell had. It was primarily for drunks to sleep it off before they got shipped over to Warrentown for arraignment. Gordy thought it would do the whole bunch some good, and Forbert was looking at it like it was Attica.

“Bread and water?” Laferiere smiled again.

“Oh, no. We'll get you a nice lunch before you head off for Warrentown and your arraignment. Want to try it out for a while? Your dad's going to be here in a bit. You can wait for him there.”

“You're taking my dad out of work? He's going to be pissed off about that.”

“I'm sure he's not going to be a happy guy. I think he's got a lot to be pissed off about.”

“He usually does.”

“All right,” Gordy said. “Pete, lock them up until Roger and the rest of the parents get here.”

Pete walked to the holding cell, unlocked it, and swung the door wide. “All right, gentlemen, single file into the cell. Empty your pockets on the desk there.” Laferiere rose slowly and shuffled over to where Pete held the door open.

“Shit, man. It's cold in here.”

“Maybe you'll find something to burn. You guys know how to make a fire.”

“This sucks.”

“So much in life does,” Pete said.

R
OGER
L
AFERIERE ARRIVED
forty-­five minutes later.

“Roger,” Gordy said. “Thanks for coming. Sorry to interrupt your day like this.”

“What did he do?”

“These four had a little party last night in the park. They burned down the gazebo.”

Roger Laferiere had the haggard face of a man struggling with way too many problems, one who was never surprised when another arose. It was like he collected problems, which he probably did. He was tall, well over six feet, and bone-­thin. His face was weathered and unshaven, and it didn't register much, though his eyes were always moving, looking for the next bit of trouble that was going to stick to him. Gordy thought of him as a kick dog, always expecting the next kick, but not sure where it was coming from. He looked like he might bite and run.

Roger took a ­couple of steps toward the holding cell where his son sat on the edge of the cot. “You do that?” Matt Laferiere didn't look up. He just shrugged.

“You sure it was them?”

Gordy reached down to the floor next to the desk and picked up the empty gas can. “This yours?”

“Shit,” Roger said.

“Yeah. Shit.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Honestly? I haven't really figured that out yet. I thought we would wait for the other parents to get here and see what we can hash out.”

Again, Roger Laferiere nodded, as if the whole situation was completely out of his control. Gordy guessed this was only one of many things Roger found out of his control. He had that look. He was a receiver. Things happened, and he accepted that. He had no power to change or avoid what came at him.

“Why don't you have a seat, Roger? The others should be here shortly.” Gordy pulled a chair out from one of the desks in the office. “Again. I'm really sorry to have to pull you away from things I'm sure you'd rather be doing. I hope this won't take too long, though the situation is pretty serious. I can't just let the boys go on their own. You want some coffee or some water? Just ask Steve here. He'll get you anything you need.”

Roger nodded, still glum.

G
ORDY MADE HIS
way back to his office and Pete followed him. “So what are you thinking?” Pete asked.

“I don't really know. What about you?”

“It's arson. They're going to have to be charged.”

“And then they get sent to jail.”

“Yeah. If that's what the judge decides. It'll be up to the judge.”

“It's an option.”

“But not one you like.”

“It seems like giving up, Pete. We'd just be passing the problem on to someone else. It's a town problem. I'd like to handle it in town.”

“A stretch in prison would teach them a lesson.”

“What lesson, though? What does jail teach anyone, except how to be a crook?”

“That's what happens when you commit a felony, Gordy.”

“Yeah. They have committed a felony.”

“How many times has this bunch been in here? We haven't managed to teach them anything on our own.”

“I know. I can't really argue with that.”

“But you're going to handle it?”

“Pete, I just don't know. I don't know. Personally, I would like to kill the little shits. But I can't do that. We have to figure something else out.”

“No such thing as a bad boy?”

“No. There is such a thing. We have prime examples in the holding cell. But these boys are more a nuisance than anything else. It's when they grow up into bad men that we really have to start worrying about them.”

J
ACK
S
TABLEIN WAS
the next to arrive. He came in wool slacks and a camel-­hair topcoat. Underneath it, a sport coat, sweater, and tie. He sold cars in the next town over. He had youthful good looks, though he was no longer young. He had a good smile and a firm handshake. Gordy guessed he was pretty good at selling cars. He looked over to the holding cell where his son sat on the cot next to Matt Laferiere. Bobby Cabella and another kid, one he didn't recognize, sat on the floor across from the cot.

“Chief,” he said. “How are you doing?”

“Not bad, but I was better before the gazebo burned down last night.”