Page 33 of At Midnight Comes the Cry
The ramp connecting the deck to the hill felt more like a ship’s plank with Dillon looming behind her. She put Ethan’s carrier in the backseat, fastened it, and got behind the wheel, all while carefully ignoring the man standing beside his truck.
She headed down the overgrown drive, checking her rearview mirror. The Dodge Ram followed, not too close behind, and turned in the same direction she did onto the county highway. She had a moment’s panicked heartbeat, wondering if he was going to follow her all the way back to Millers Kill, or if he was just checking to make sure she wasn’t going to double back to the Marches’ house.
He kept pace as she drove into the center of the village. She pulledinto a gas station near the Route 9 intersection and felt a cool wash of relief when his truck kept rolling past. She got out, deciding she might as well top off the tank, and reached in her pocket for her wallet. And discovered the card with her phone number, which should have been in Tiny’s hand, was still right there.
5.
Knox had argued with him about where to wait in the inn. He had wanted to bundle up and sit in a rocking chair on the front porch. She had pointed out that first, no one sane sat outside at night in the snow “in the Adirondacks in freaking December, Chief.” More convincingly, she’d suggested anyone with information to share might not want to be seen entering the well-lit front door, visible to drivers on the road.
Instead, they were inside, which was a great deal more comfortable, he had to admit. Knox was on her phone in the kitchen, trying to talk her son Hudson through his paper on a book about rowing in the Olympics.
“Okay, so this paragraph is where you’re telling us about the lead character, but it has to relate to the first paragraph.” There was a pause. “That’s interesting, but does it tie into the theme?” She swung back and forth on the island stool. “I know, but just writing down things about him isn’t analyzing the book, it’s just making a list.”
God help him. He was going to be doing this in… Russ mentally calculated the years until Ethan was in seventh grade. Sadly, despite being an old dad, chances were low he’d be dead by then and thus able to weasel out of helping withthemes.
He shut the Paul Doiron mystery he’d brought along and tossed it on the coffee table. As compelling as it was, he was in no mood to get lost in a book. What had he been thinking of, taking them up here and just announcing to the world and his wife that they were looking for Kevin? He didn’t have any more authority than a school-crossing grandmother. Less. He should have taken the evidence from Yíxin Zhào to Lyle and the Essex County Sheriff. Yeah, they might alertthe militia nuts, but at least they could go door-to-door. How was he going to proceed tomorrow? Hang around the post office asking everyone coming through the doors? Wasn’t that some sort of federal offense?
A rap broke his concentration and brought him upright. “What was that?”
Knox pointed to a dark hall off the kitchen. “Babe, I gotta go. Keep working and I’ll call you back later if I can. Love you.” She pocketed her phone.
A hanging chain turned on an old overhead light. The short hall, lined with hooks and barn coats and shallow pantry shelves, led to the back door. He could see the outline of a man through the rippling glass panes. The man rapped again, then gestured toward the doorknob.
“Here.” Knox twisted an ancient rotary switch, and the outdoor light went on. The man turned so they could see the patch on his olive-drab parka.
It was a New York State Forest Ranger.
Russ opened the door. “Hi, Officer. What can we do for you?”
“May I come in?” He didn’t quite wait for an invitation, stepping into the hallway and causing Russ to step back. He pulled his knit hat off his head and brushed the dusting of snow that had accumulated on his shoulders. He looked expectantly toward the kitchen. “Maybe we could move in to where we’re not squeezed together like sardines?”
He had a good technique, polite, but putting himself on the first foot. Russ gestured toward Knox, still pressed into a jumble of hanging jackets, and let her precede him into the kitchen. The ranger’s gaze swept the open room and he moved to the archway, where he had a clear view of the living room and the stairs. “You two the only ones in the inn?”
“We were told it’s not snowmobile season yet.” Knox sounded annoyed. “Can you identify yourself, Officer, or do you not do that in the Department of Environmental Conservation?”
He finally looked at her—twice, that was the Knox effect—and managed an apologetic smile. “I’m Paul Terrance. I’m a ranger, whichyou obviously recognize if you know the DEC. Can I ask you two folks who you are and what you’re doing here?”
She crossed her arms. “Is this the greeting everyone gets in Newcomb?”
“Knox,” Russ growled.
“Everyone who shows up and announces they’re looking for a white supremacist militia.”
“Knox, show him your ID. Officer Terrance may be able to help us.”
She sighed ostentatiously. “I don’t think you should bow to police overreach.” She pulled her badge out of her purse and flipped it open for the ranger, whose eyebrows went up.
“Police overreach? You’re a little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you,Officer?” He turned toward Russ. “And you are?”
“Russ Van Alstyne. Recently retired chief of the Millers Kill PD.”
“Very recently.” Knox snapped her badge shut. “His picture’s still on the town’s website.”
“It is? Huh.”
Terrance had been standing at an erect posture that would have made Russ’s first drill sergeant proud. Now he unzipped his parka and leaned against the archway. “Explain. Please.”
“We’re trying to locate a former officer of mine,” Russ started.
