No one.
Walking quickly, he started toward the dark opening in the trees, where he would pick up the dirt road. He felt the cryptlike heaviness behind him, and despite himself kept taking quick glances over his shoulder. Only the black line of his own footprints disturbed the charcoal-shaded landscape.
Not paying proper attention to the ground in front of him, he’d gone less than a dozen steps when he stubbed the toe of his running shoe on a rock and tumbled forward. He sprawled onto what felt like a sheet of plywood that sagged under his weight. He quickly rolled off, got to his feet, and, using his light, looked more carefully at where he’d fallen. Sure enough, a four-by-eight rectangle, the standard size of a plywood sheet, lay outlined in a dusting of snow. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, remembering what would be under it.
The well.
They’d avoided it like the plague as kids. Avoided all wells. Every mother in Hampton Junction drummed the rule into her children from birth. Still, now and then a kid tumbled down an uncovered shaft, driving the point home with brutal clarity.
These wells had been dug deep, sometimes 150 feet to reach a stable water table, and the water was cold. A few children had actually survived the ordeal of falling in, hypothermia having kept them alive until they could be retrieved and resuscitated.
Mark lifted the board and saw a four-foot-diameter hole lined with mortared rock. These were the old kind, drilled and dug by hand a century ago and made to last. Cautiously leaning over, he probed the darkness with his flashlight. He saw water about forty feet down. It had been raining a lot, so the level was high. God knows how deep it was. He picked up the rock he’d tripped over and dropped it in. The splash echoed back up at him, and air bubbled to the surface for what seemed a long time.
Better tell Dan to have the Braden caretakers get it fixed before some child fell in. He wasn’t sure if that would still be Charles Braden’s responsibility.
The run through the forest seemed darker than before, and he used his light. The snow had started to penetrate even here, reaching the ground and creating a glistening carpet of white that sparkled in the beam. Overhead it accumulated along the tops of twigs and branches, making silver webs throughout the trees, as if giant spiders had been at work while he’d been inside.
He rounded the bend that had kept the grounds private from people peeping in at the gate. Feeling chilled, he pulled the hood of his jacket tighter and picked up his pace.
He still kept looking over his shoulder. The solitary line of his footprints ran back as far as he could see, and he thought of all the four-legged prey that would now leave distinct tracks as they fled the men with guns.
When he returned his attention to the path ahead, he saw two figures silhouetted against the gray opening at the end of the road.
He stopped.
They just stood there, absolutely still.
“Hey!” he cried out, shining his light in their direction. The beam barely reached them. He couldn’t see their features by it, but it illuminated the area enough to make out the shape of the rifles they were carrying, the barrels vaguely pointed at him. “I’m Dr. Mark Roper, the coroner. You shouldn’t still be out here after dark.”
No reply.
Not that he expected them to jump when he spoke. His authority over hunters kicked in only after they shot one another. “There’s no trespassing here,” he added, remaining motionless. He didn’t think for a moment they’d take a potshot at him, but being in front of anyone who might be liquored up and have their weapons off safety made him very cautious.
He heard them laugh, then saw them turn and walk back toward the highway.
Mark exhaled, his breath white on the frost. Only then did he realize he’d been holding it. He quickly ran the rest of the way to the road, feeling a sense of relief once he emerged from the murk of the forest to the lighter shades of darkness.
“Assholes!” he muttered, starting toward home. After thirty yards he spotted where their tracks led back into the forest. He ran by, trying not to look in that direction, but he could feel their eyes on the back of his neck all the way to the next bend.
“I’ll go out there, but they’ll be long gone,” Dan said, sinking his fork into an extra wide wedge of apple pie.
Mark sipped his tea. “I figured you might find their truck or car at the side of the road somewhere and ticket the hell out of it.”
They were in Hampton Junction’s best eating establishment, its name, The Four Aces, scrawled in big purple neon letters across the front windows. Inside the lighting was as dim as in any New York City lounge. The room itself was long and narrow, a bar running the length of the back wall, the booths for eating lined across the front. It boasted the finest home cooking of any restaurant in the state, and most of the townspeople agreed, barring Nell, of course.
Dan and he were at their usual table in the corner, where they could talk privately and see anyone approaching in time to shut up before being overheard.
“I’ll try my best, Mark. Did you have a good run, otherwise? You don’t look as relaxed as usual.”
“Not really. By the way, there’s also a well on the property that needs a cover.”
“Really? Shit. I’ll have to contact old man Braden’s caretakers. What did you go in there for anyway?”
“Last night I found clippings about the place in an old file my father had on Kelly.”
Dan’s fork stopped midway between his plate and mouth. “Oh?”
For the next five minutes the man didn’t eat a bite as Mark summarized what he’d found, leaving out the specifics of the medical entries. “I’ll make you copies of the articles and the letter. As for Dad’s clinical notes, there’s nothing much there anyway.” They’d worked enough cases together to develop a routine. Medical records remained confidential and off-limits to the sheriff. But Mark had no hesitation signaling when they weren’t relevant anyway.
Dan went back to his eating. “Shit! You’ve been busy.”
“Except we’re not much further ahead. The letter just confirms that she had a lover. It isn’t enough to get Everett back on the case.”
Dan chased down the last few crumbs of crust on his plate. “Probably not.”
Mark sat staring out the window, saying nothing.
“Hey. Are you sure you’re all right?” Dan asked, after downing the remains of his coffee in one swallow.
“Of course. Why?”
“You got that look in your eye.”
“What look?”
“Like you’re about to take another trip.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’ve taken a lot of trips this year. Let’s see, there was London, San Moritz, Cancún, Hawaii, South Beach in Florida-”
“Those were conferences.”
Dan grinned. “Yeah, right. As if you suddenly forgot so much medicine you need twice as many refresher courses?”
“Have you got a point to make?”
“I do. This comes from one who has been there. Don’t let yourself get bushed. You remind me of myself after Marion left.”
On the drive home Mark turned the radio up loud, hoping a dose of music would blast his brain free of the day’s dregs. As if the Bradens and the McShanes weren’t enough, the last thing he needed was a little homespun advice. He knew Dan meant well, but the guy’s butting into his private life irritated him. The trouble was Dan had no one to care about, nothing coming of the attempts he’d made to start dating again. Being a forty-year-old cop in a town most people considered as exciting as Mayberry, he’d only been able to muster a few summer romances with women who’d come here to vacation. Predictably, they left in the fall.
Not much different from his own ladies, he had to admit, and cranked up the volume even more as the strains of a familiar song filled his Jeep.