“Well, she can cross him off her list now,” I said, rubbing my tired eyes. “What about the other one-Sewall?”
“Prester?” Corbett grinned and shook his head. “He’s one of our favorite people over to the jail. We’ve had him in for just about everything-drunk and disorderly, B and E, check kiting, receiving stolen property. Nothing violent, though. A lot of these guys like Cates enjoy having a sidekick to tell them what big-time gangsters they are. Prester’s actually a nice guy when he sobers up, which is almost never. It’s probably all the antifreeze in his system that kept him alive out there.”
I remembered how Sewall had skulked around the McDonald’s, a small guy trying not to draw attention to himself. “Does his sister work at the McDonald’s in Machias?”
“Jamie? Yeah.”
“I was actually in there this morning and noticed her.”
“She’s easy to notice,” Corbett said with the sort of smile that didn’t belong on the face of a married man.
“Prester and Randall were there, too. They were giving her some grief, and she ended up taking food out to their car.”
“You’ll want to put that in your report.”
Standing in the Spragues’ entryway, I found myself leaning against a wall for support. I had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours, and I still had to shovel out my Jeep and drive back to my trailer.
“I should say something to Mrs. Sprague,” I said.
“You’re probably better off just hitting the road,” said Corbett. “The poor woman seems pretty shaken up. When I told her I needed to get an official statement from her, she asked if she could clean Joey’s room first.”
“I need to give her back her snowmobile keys.”
“You can leave them with me.”
I shrugged and handed him the keys.
Ben Sprague had plowed a lane past my Jeep, pushing snow up against the tops of the windows. I had to use my cupped hand to scoop out a hole deep enough to get the tailgate open. From there, it was all shovel work. Beneath my layers of polypro, wool, and Gore-Tex, I began to perspire heavily.
Every once in a while, I took a break from my labors, leaned on the shovel, and looked around me at the dawning world. The last clouds that made up the rear guard of the storm were marching away to the northeast. The blizzard was off to punish Nova Scotia next. The wind came up and rustled the loose strips of paper hanging from the birches. Two silent crows bounced along on gusts overhead.
I’d wondered if my tires had sharp-enough studs to claw their way up that hill, but I had no problem getting back on the road.
As I crested the hill, I thought about the snowmobiler who’d played chicken with my Jeep the night before. Who was he? A neighbor of the Spragues out for a midnight ride? Or the man Cates and Sewall had met down in the swamp? I’d need to make a mention of his phosphorescent green sled and snowsuit in my report. I wondered what make and model of snowmobile Barney Beal rode. According to Rivard, the big kid was a drug addict who frequented this area.
I never knew you could sprain muscles shivering, but I was sore in places I rarely had cause to contemplate. As my cheeks and extremities began to warm, they started to throb rhythmically. I touched the tip of my nose. There was a trace of frostbite, but at least I wasn’t going to lose it. If Prester Sewall survived the week, he was going to have a mug like the Phantom of the Opera’s.
God, what a couple of days: from a frozen zebra to two frozen drug dealers.
If you ask police officers what they like best about the job, nine out of ten will probably tell you it’s the surprises. Going on patrol, you honestly never know what you’re going to encounter next: despicable crimes; bloody accidents; cries of despair and rage; displays of the most jaw-dropping perversity; lies so bald-faced, you don’t know whether to laugh or vomit; self-destroying bouts of intoxication; every form of abuse and neglect known to man; but also acts of heroism from the most unexpected quarters; generosity, too; and those simple good deeds that are so important and yet so undervalued in this fucked-up world.
Everywhere, every night: the human comedy showing for your viewing pleasure.
By the time I got home, dawn had broken and patches of blue showed between the clouds. A titmouse was calling emphatically from the big beech behind the trailer. Peer! Peer! The swaying treetops made moving blue shadows on the snow.
The electric heater had failed again, and no amount of messing with the fuse box was enough to restart it. I’d need to call my landlord in Lubec. In the meantime, I boiled some water on the propane stove and used a hand towel to clean the sweat from my body. It was the least satisfying bath of my life. I’d considered taking a nap before driving into Machias, but with the temperature inside the trailer hovering around the freezing mark, I worried I might never awaken. I shaved, put on my olive-drab uniform, and resigned myself to the fact that this was going to be one of those thirty-six-hour days all wardens experience from time to time.
I dialed the Washington County jail and asked the receptionist if I could speak with Sheriff Rhine.
“The sheriff is having a breakfast meeting with the Maine Drug Enforcement Agency, but she said it would be OK for you go over there.”
“Where’s the meeting?” I pictured coffee and bagels in the district attorney’s office.
“The usual place-McDonald’s.”
What else should I have expected? A disquieting feeling came over me as I recalled Jamie Sewall’s smiling face. Had anyone notified her of her brother’s condition? What if I found her behind the counter?
The plows had barely made a dent in the snowpack. At best, they’d shaved a few inches off the top, sprayed some ineffectual salt brine down to melt the slick spots, and scattered pebbles, which now rattled around my truck’s chassis. The sun had finally emerged from wherever it had been hiding to pour sterile light down on the blinding roadsides. The morning was as white as a laboratory.
When I entered the McDonald’s, I looked for Jamie Sewall, but she was nowhere to be seen, except inside the frame of her Employee of the Month portrait. I exhaled-out of relief or disappointment, I wasn’t sure.
I saw Sheriff Rhine at a back booth, sitting with her face to the door, across from a man whose stiff posture and bristly haircut suggested he too worked in law enforcement. The sheriff had a long, handsome face with the profile of a cigar-store Indian, dyed black hair gathered in a ponytail, and strong-looking hands. She wore a navy suit over a light blue roll-neck sweater. Even seated, she appeared to be a tall woman. She caught my gaze and held it, as if she wanted me to approach.
Her companion was in his mid-forties and anonymous-looking in the way of some law-enforcement officers: dressed in a black ski jacket over a black cotton sweater, sandy hair clipped short.
As I neared the table, I heard him raise his voice.
“All we want is some goddamn cooperation, Roberta,” he said. “We’re on the same team here.”
“Not according to your boss. He says one of my guys is dirty.”
The agent heard me and glanced over his shoulder. We made eye contact briefly and he dropped his tone again. “You can’t keep going on TV and accusing the MDEA of malfeasance.”
“If the shoe fits.”
I knew from reading the newspaper that the Washington County Sheriff’s Department and the Maine Drug Enforcement Agency-known locally as the MDEA-had a feud that made the tussle between the Hatfields and the McCoys look like a polite disagreement between perfumed gentleman, but no one had yet explained to me the grievances that had fueled the conflict.