landed it made no sound. As if it had never landed at all.
“Tell you what, Gordon,” Moran said, facing him again. “I think we’d best call this whole thing a wash. I’ll take care of this headlight and you go on home and get some sleep. Some serious sleep. I won’t tell anyone you pointed a loaded rifle at me, and you’ll get some sense into your head again.” He stood staring at him. “That work for you?”
Gordon said nothing. He hadn’t moved since he’d let go of the rifle. He did not know if he would ever move again. Just stand here until the blood stops flowing, until the heart stops beating. Some old farmer coming along in his pickup and seeing the Crown Vic, seeing you standing here in the middle of the bridge, in the snow, Blue and just stone-dead on his feet, Officer, never seen nothin like it in all my days . . .
“Go home, Gordon,” said Moran. “We both of us dodged one here, and tomorrow will look a whole lot better.”
Moran turned then and walked back to his cruiser. He took off his hat and climbed in, and there was the sound of the shifter dropping into gear, and the single headlight began to withdraw toward the far end of the bridge. When the light was beyond the bridge it swung away, lighting up the trees to the side of the road, and then it swung away again as Moran completed his three-point turn and accelerated back the way he’d come. The two red taillights trailed away into the darkness until they were small as the eyes of an animal, and Gordon watched as they rounded the bend, as they shone briefly on the county road, as they blinked through the trees and were gone.
56
She had seen a light, several lights, small and moving way off in the darkness, way off in the trees, and she’d said, There’s someone in the park, Daddy.
What?
There’s someone in the park.
She was nine and riding shotgun. They’d been out for pizza and they were driving home and it was November and already dark out and you could see the moving lights from the road that went alongside the park; they looked like jumpy little fairies way deep in the woods. He’d leaned to look past her and after a moment said, That’s a sharp eye, Deputy. Why are there flashlights in the park at this hour?
Because it’s dark out, Sheriff.
Why are there people in the park at this hour, I meant.
Are we going to check it out?
Well, he said. He watched the road ahead. Then he turned to her again. What do you think, Deputy?
She didn’t like going into the park at night. At night the park was not a park; it was a woods so dark and deep it made the hair on your arms stand just to think about it—and that was before they pulled Holly Burke out of the river.
I think we’d best check it out, Sheriff.
All right then, he said, and they pulled into the park and drove toward the far-off lights. There were three of them, they saw as they came closer, but when they rounded the bend toward the river the lights all blinked out and did not come on again.
He pulled over and switched on his spot and swept it over the line of trees that ran between the road and the river, lighting up the trunks one by one like faces, and the beam lighting up the black water in the distance between the trees, and he swept it over the white wooden cross and its faded flower wreath, and lastly he swept it over the trees of the woods on the other side of the road.
They’re gone now or else they’re just gonna ride this out, he said.
Who?
The people with the flashlights. Who do you think?
She didn’t answer—not so sure now that it was people at all. Or flashlights.
He got on the speaker and said, The park is closed after dark. Go home. Then they sat in the silence watching the woods for any movement, but there was none, and Audrey turned back to look at the white cross and the wreath, visible in the glow from the headlights.
That’s where it happened, isn’t it, she said.
He looked where she was looking. Then he placed his hand on her head and moved it like a hairbrush to the back of her head and then down to her neck, and