The Last Policeman Part 11

I was twelve years old and Nico was only six when we moved from the house on Rockland to the farmhouse on Little Pond Road, halfway to Penacook. Nathanael Palace, my grandfather, only recently retired from forty years in banking, had a wide range of interests: model trains, shooting, building stone walls. Already by prep.u.b.escence a bookish and private person, I was uninterested to varying degrees in all these activities but was forced by Grandfather to take part. Nico, a lonesome and anxious child, was avidly interested in all of them and rigorously ignored. He once got a set of World War IIera model airplanes, and we sat in the bas.e.m.e.nt, the three of us, and Grandfather harangued me for an hour, refusing to let me quit until I'd successfully attached both wings to the body, while mechanically minded Nico sat in the corner, clutching a handful of tiny gunmetal gray airplane parts, waiting for her turn: at first excited, then restlessly, and finally in tears.

That was springtime, I think, not that long after we moved in with him. The years have been like that, for her and me, a lot of ups and downs.

"So, you'll go back."

"No."

"Why not? Can't Culverson get you another appointment? Maybe Monday."

"Nico."

"Henry."

"Nico." I'm leaning forward, sort of hollering into the phone, which is on speaker on the pa.s.senger seat. We've got a terrible line, cell to cell, all kinds of stops and starts, which isn't helping. "Listen to me."

But she's not going to listen.

"I'm sure you just misunderstood him or something. He can be weird."

"That is true."

I'm parked in the abandoned lot next to what remains of the Capitol Shopping Center, a several-block stretch just east of Main Street along the banks of the Merrimack. The Presidents' Day riots burned away the last remaining shops here, and now there are just a few scattered tents full of drunks and homeless people. This is where Mr. Shepherd, my scout leader, was living when the Brush Cuts ran him in on vagrancy.

"Nico, are you okay? Are you eating?"

"I'm fine. You know what I bet?" She's not fine. Her voice is raspy, haggard, like she's been doing nothing but smoking since Derek's disappearance. "I bet he just didn't want to say anything in front of the guards."

"Nope," I say. "No, Nico." Exasperating. I tell her how easy it was for me to get in there, how few guards are watching over Derek Skeve.

"Really?"

"There's one woman. A reservist. They don't care about some kid who went joyriding on a military base."

"So why can't you get him out?"

"Because I don't have a magic wand."

Nico's denial of reality, as maddening as her husband's dull obstinacy, is a long-standing aspect of her character. My sister was a mystic from an early age, a firm believer in fairies and miracles, and her starry little spirit demanded magic. In the immediate aftermath of our becoming orphans, she could not and would not accept that it was all real, and I'd gotten so mad, I'd stormed away, and then I'd reeled back around, shouting. "They're both dead! Period. End of story. Dead, dead, d-dead-d-dead! Okay? No ambiguity!"

This was at Father's wake, the house full of friends and well-meaning strangers. Nico had stared back at me, tiny rose lips pursed, the word ambiguity vastly above her six-year-old pay grade, the severity of my tone nevertheless unmistakable. The a.s.sembled mourners staring at the sad little pair of us.

And now, the present, new times, Nico's powers of disbelief unwavering. I try to change the subject.

"Nico, you're good at math. Does the number 12.375 mean anything?"

"What do you mean, does it mean anything?"

"I don't know, is it, like, pi or something, where-"

"No, Henry, it's not," she says quickly, coughs. "So what are we going to do next?"

"Nico, come on. Are you not listening to me? It's military, which is on a totally different set of rules. I wouldn't even know how to try to get him out of there."

One of the homeless guys stumbles out of his tent, and I give him a small two-fingered wave; his name is Charles Taylor, and we went to high school together.

"This thing is going to fall out of the sky," says Nico, "it's going to fall on our heads. I don't want to be sitting here by myself when it happens."

"It is not falling on our heads."

"What?"

"Everybody says that, and it's just-it's just arrogant, is what it is." I'm so tired of this, all of it, and I should stop talking, but I can't. "Two objects are moving through s.p.a.ce on separate but overlapping orbits, and this one time, we'll both be at the same place at the same time. It's not 'falling on our heads,' okay? It's not 'coming for us.' It just is. Do you understand?"

It suddenly seems incredibly, weirdly, quiet, and I realize I must have been yelling. "Nico? I'm sorry. Nico?"

But then she's back, her voice small and flat. "I just miss him, is all."

"I know that."

"Forget it."

"Wait."

"Don't worry about me. Go solve your case."

She hangs up, and I sit there in the car, my chest trembling as if struck.

Bam!

It's a science-fiction serial, is what it is, Distant Pale Glimmers, one new half-hour episode coming out every week, running like gangbusters since Christmastime. Here in Concord it's showing at the Red River, the indie house. Apparently it's about an intergalactic battleship called the John Adams, piloted by a General Amelie Chenoweth, who is portrayed by a bombsh.e.l.l named Kristin Dallas, who also writes and directs. The John Adams charts the distant reaches of the universe circa 2145. Of course the subtext, as subtle as a blow to the head, is that somehow, someone makes it, survives, prospers, the human race resurgent among the stars.

I went with Nico and Derek once, a few weeks ago, the first Monday in March. I didn't care for it much, personally.

I wonder if Peter was there, that same night? Maybe alone, maybe with J. T. Toussaint.

I bet he was.

"Detective Culverson?"

"Yeah?"

"How reliable are the snow chains on the Impalas?"

"How reliable are they? What do you mean?"

"The chains. On the cars. They're good, right? They stay on, for the most part?"

Culverson shrugs, engrossed in the newspaper. "I guess."

I'm in my chair, at my desk, blue books arranged in a neat rectangle in front of me, trying to forget about my sister, move on with my life. A case to investigate. A man is dead.

"They're f.u.c.king tremendous," calls McGully from his desk, and his p.r.o.nouncement is punctuated by the slam of his front chair legs. .h.i.tting the floor as he leans forward. He's got a pastrami sandwich from the Works, he's got a napkin for a bib, spread out like a picnic blanket over his stomach. "They won't come off for s.h.i.t, not unless you latch 'em wrong. What happened? You spin out?"

"I did. Yesterday afternoon. Hit a tree."

McGully bites his sandwich. Culverson mutters "Jesus," but not about the accident, about something in the newspaper. Andreas's desk is empty. Our window unit is clanking, burping out drifts of heat. Outside, on the sill, a slowly deepening shelf of new snow.

"It's a tricky little latch on those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, and you really gotta keep the slack out." McGully grins, mustard on his chin. "Don't beat yourself up."

"Yep. But, you know, I've been doing them a while. I did a winter on patrol."

"Yeah, but were you servicing your own vehicle last winter?"

"No."

Culverson, meanwhile, sets down his newspaper and looks out the window. I get up and start pacing. "Someone could have uncoupled them pretty easily, right? If they wanted to."

McGully snorts, swallows a big bite of sandwich. "In the garage, here?"

"No, out in the field. While I was parked somewhere."

"You mean-" he stares at me, lowers his voice, mock-serious, "somebody who's trying to murder you?"

"Well-I mean-sure."

"By unlatching your snow chains?" McGully brays laughter, hunks of pastrami erupting from his maw and bouncing off the napkin, onto the desk. "I'm sorry, kid, are you in a spy movie?"

"No."

"Are you the president?"

"No."

People have been trying to a.s.sa.s.sinate the president, that's one of the deranged features of the national scene, the last three months-that's the joke there.

I look at Culverson, but he's still up in his head somewhere, eyes fixed on the drifting snow.

"Well, then, no offense, kid," says McGully, "but I don't think anybody's trying to murder you. n.o.body cares about you."

"Right."

"Nothing against you. n.o.body cares about anything."

Culverson stands abruptly, drops his newspaper in the garbage.

"What's up your a.s.s?" says McGully, craning his head around.

"The Pakistanis. They want to nuke it."

"Nuke what?"

"Maia. They made some kind of a proclamation. They cannot leave the survival of their proud and sovereign people in the hands of the Western imperialist et cetera et cetera et cetera."

"The Pakistanis, huh?" says McGully. "No kidding? I thought Iran were the p.r.i.c.ks to worry about on this thing."

"No, see, the Iranians have uranium, but no missile. They can't fire it."

"Pakistanis can fire it?"

"They have missiles."

I'm thinking about my snow chains, feeling the lurch of the road spinning out from under me, remembering the shudder and the thud of impact.

Culverson's shaking his head. "So the State Department is saying, basically, you try to nuke it, we'll nuke you first."

"Good times," says McGully.

"I have a pretty clear memory of checking the chain latches," I say, and they both look over at me. "Monday morning, first thing."

"Jesus, Palace."

"But, so, wait. Let's just imagine I am a murderer. Let's imagine there's a detective who's working the case, and he's, he's"-I pause, conscious of coloring a little-"he's closing in on me. So I want this detective dead."

"Yes," says McGully, and I think for a second he's being serious, but then he sets down his sandwich, rises slowly with a solemn expression. "Or maybe it was a ghost."

"Okay, McGully."

"No, I'm serious." He comes over. His breath smells like pickles. "It's the ghost of this hanger, and he's so annoyed that you're trying to pretend he got murdered, he's trying to scare you into dropping the investigation."

"Okay, McGully, okay. I don't think it was a ghost."

Culverson has pulled the Times out of the trash, he's reading the story again.

"Yeah, you're right," says McGully, going back to his desk and the remainder of his lunch. "You probably forgot to latch the chains."

Another of my father's favorite jokes was the one he rolled out whenever people asked why we lived up in Concord, considering that he worked at St. Anselm's, half an hour away, outside Manchester. He would reel back, astonished, and just say, "Because it's Concord!" as if it that were explanation enough, like it's London or Paris.

This was to become a favorite joke between Nico and me, in our years of surly teenage discontent, which for Nico have never really ended. Why couldn't we find a place to eat a decent steak after nine p.m.? Why did every other city in New England get a Starbucks before we did?

Because it's Concord!