We were running short of milk and bread, the two things we usually took for granted. But we had plenty of volunteers. The Red Cross had people from far away as California.
Then Father Joe Doyle did something to relieve the gloom. He offered hot showers to one and all.
The rectory was only a three block walk from the shelter. During the storm Father Joe had stayed at the rectory, saying that people knew they could find him there if he was needed. The farm supply store set him up with a big generator for power and bottled gas for his water heater.
The offer of a hot shower was a big morale boost, even with a five minute time limit and bring your own towel. I was signing up people for it when I was called to the phone.
It was my friend Sergeant Early. “About your Reverend Daniel Fisher, Hank. He is a minister; he does have a correspondence school degree. He runs mail scams out of his home in Orlando. Always uses the religion angle to ask for money. He’s been tagged twice.”
“How does he get his prospects’ names?”
“He works a computer to get magazine subscription lists. Sometimes he snags the names of credit card holders.”
I thought about the letters in my pocket. “The people he reached up here all belong to a garden club.”
“There you are. Maybe they all take the same magazine. Or maybe their names were on a seed catalogue mailing list. Whatever. Tell your friends to save their money.”
“Right. Thanks, Vern.”
As I hung up, I glanced out the window. The rain had changed to snow. That had to be a good sign. Maybe we could close the shelter soon.
What I wanted to do now was get the cast off my ankle. What I didn’t want to do was hand those letters back and tell the people they had been suckered by a scam artist in Florida.
“Where’s Charlie?”
“He’s gone to pick up our car,” Elaine said. “Somebody told him a highway crew cut up that big tree.”
“How did he go?”
“I think he caught a ride with a truck going to Malone.”
I looked through the rooms of the shelter. No Ken, no Jerry. I hobbled to the rear of the building and looked over our motor pool. Only two pickups in sight. The first one had a stick shift; with my leg I couldn’t manage that. The second one was automatic, and the key was in the ignition. Thankfully, the windshield was clear of ice.
I used the edge of the pickup’s roof to haul myself up and levered my leg inside with my cane. Somebody yelled as I drove away, but there was no time for explanations.
The side road where Charlie Silva’s car was trapped was about ten minutes north on Route 22. On the side of the highway a line of fresh stumps followed the path of the power poles.
The snow had stopped, but the sky was threatening again. What had happened five days ago was that a low pressure front had stalled directly over northern New York. High pressure Arctic air had funneled down to meet a jetstream loaded with warm tropical air from the Gulf. We got an instant Ice Age. The last thing we needed now was more snow.
I wanted some answers from Charlie Silva. I didn’t think he would leave the area without taking Elaine with him. And she was back in the shelter; he would have to pass me to get there.
The oak tree had been cut into sections and dragged aside. I turned down the lane and stopped in front of the blue Pontiac. Charlie was trying to scrape the ice and snow off the windshield and windows.
He was surprised to see me.
“Morning, Mr. Sessions,” he said cheerfully. He went on with his scraping.
“You weren’t going to leave without saying goodbye, were you, Charlie?”
“Oh no. I thought I’d catch you when I went back to pick up Elaine. I think we can get out of here today.”
The front door of the old barn was about ten yards away. I saw tracks in the snow from the car to the barn, but I assumed Charlie had gone in to look around. I walked around the car, trying to see in the windows.
Casually I asked, “Frank Gratto isn’t really your uncle, is he, Charlie?”
“No,” he admitted. “He’s a guy I do things for sometimes.”
“Jobs like picking up this car in Montreal?”
He nodded.
“Where’d you pick it up? In a body shop?”
He stopped and looked at me. “So what if I did?”
“It must have been in a body shop, Charlie,” I said lightly. “You ever notice that the upholstery on the doors is different from the seats?”
“So what if it is?” He wasn’t cheerful now. “And what’s with the questions anyway?”
I turned to face him. “And why would a young couple driving south from Montreal to Long Island turn off the highway and stop in front of this old barn?”
Charlie looked around uneasily. The sky was overcast and promised more snow. The barn was to his left, the ruins of the oak tree to his right, my truck blocked the way to the main road. He realized he was afoot and with noplace to go.
“I’ll tell you what I think, Charlie,” I went on. “Somebody working with Frank Gratto hid something in this car. Something illegal. And when they were ready to send it across the border, Uncle Frank sent you to drive it down.”
I waved my cane at the old barn. “I think you were supposed to meet someone here, Charlie. Were you going to switch cars or unload this one? Too bad the weather turned sour on you.”
He didn’t say anything; he wouldn’t look at me. I changed the subject. “That Elaine is such a nice girl. Is she in on the deal?”
That surprised him; he shook his head. “Nah. She’s just my girlfriend. She works in a gift shop.”
I knew Charlie had used the telephone in the shelter. Part of my theory was that he had been asking for instructions.
“What did Uncle Frank tell you to do when the storm is over?”
He shrugged. “The deal’s off. Take the car back.”
“That’s not what’s going to happen,” said a man’s voice behind me.
I shouldn’t have let him sneak up on me. He must have seen my truck, left his car on the main road, and walked down. He wouldn’t have made any noise in the snow.
I turned; he was standing a few feet away. In his early forties, dark, muscular, wearing cold weather gear and a red hunting cap that looked very out of place.
“Stand easy, Pop.” His right hand was in his pocket. I had no doubt as to what he was holding.
To Charlie the man said, “All right, kid, so we were real late that day. Lousy weather. Time we got here you were gone, and we didn’t know how to move that friggin’ tree.”
“Sure, okay, that’s all right,” Charlie said nervously.
The man took his hand out of his pocket, holding a black automatic that looked like a .38. He pointed it at me.
“Now, here’s what we do. Kid, you move Pop’s truck out of the way and give me the keys to the car here. Then you go down the road and hitch a ride someplace outa here.”
To me he said, “Pop, you forget you ever saw...”
Some forty years ago in this part of the forest a young white pine seedling grew proud and straight. It grew taller each year, giving shelter to animals, sanctuary to birds, shade to the barn. Then a week ago the forest was ravaged by a catastrophic ice storm. The pine withstood the assault for days and finally — now — a mighty limb split away with a loud report.
The man was startled; he turned to look as the limb crashed to the ground a few yards away. There was time enough to reverse my cane, take one step, and bring it down on his wrist. The gun fell into the snow at my feet.
The man gasped and clutched his arm. “You old bastard!”
“Watch your mouth, creep,” someone said. “What’s going to happen is you’re going to jail.”
Two men had appeared from the door of the barn. They both looked like lawmen, and they both held pistols.