Читать книгу The Devil's Dust - C.B. Forrest - Страница 15

Darkness is falling. The lights of Main Street burn with a phosphorous glow. This far north, the aurora borealis appear on the coldest nights, these dancing and twisting snakes of coloured vapour — smeared streaks of green and yellow and sometimes blue. Nolan often pulls the cruiser over to the side of the highway just to sit and watch the spectacle. It reminds him of being a boy, how his father would do the same thing in his pickup truck. And Nolan remembers how the cab was always warm, how it smelled of his father — Old Spice and stale sweat — and how perfect life was as they sat there on the side of the dark highway, the world silent and uncomplicated. His father was a miner, and yet Nolan had always sensed there was something untapped within the man, some unnamed sensibility. Life was good back then, simple and easy to understand.

“Front row centre for one of nature’s greatest shows,” his father would say.

“What causes them?” Nolan would invariably ask.

“It’s magic,” his father would say. And later, when he had started the truck and was pulling back onto the road, he’d always offer a variation on this existential observation. “Those dancing lights,” he’d say, “prove just how small we really are. A man remembers that, and he’s got his place figured out just right.”

Nolan is at the wheel of the cruiser, thinking about his father and remembering how the old man had talked about leaving Saint B, moving southwest to Elliot Lake, because his father had seen a brochure about the town. Once a mining centre in its own right, Elliot Lake had reinvented itself as a retirement mecca, offering cheap bungalows and peace and quiet, good hunting and fishing. His father only ever talked about it, and now it was too late. The big man was lying in a bed, withering away to bonelike fruit left on a shelf.

He is on Main now, headed west out of town. As he passes the police station, nestled between the one-room public library and the two-room town hall, he spots a strange vehicle. He slows to a crawl. The vehicle is a black SUV — a loaded Suburban — with Michigan plates. He glances in the rear-view, stops, then puts the vehicle in reverse and eases back to the station. He pulls into a spot beside the Chief’s Jimmy. The Chief always drives his own vehicle, and charges mileage to the town, something he says is a holdover from his sheriff days.

Nolan enters the station and the small squad room. Chief Gallagher is leaning back in his swivel chair, boots up on his desk, his guest seated across from him with his back to Nolan. Gallagher is ruddy-faced and his eyes are shining. Nolan spots the tumblers of amber booze. The Chief keeps a bottle of scotch locked in his bottom drawer for special occasions, which are rare in Saint B these days. He keeps his only weapon, a pearl-grip .38 revolver, locked in there, too, and Nolan catches a glimpse of the handle. Gallagher is not a heavy or frequent drinker, and the booze always rushes blood to his face. Nolan has witnessed the rapid transformation of the man’s demeanour after just a single drink. He smiles too much and his head lolls as though it is too heavy to hold up, his cheeks and nose flushing red.

“Constable Nolan,” Gallagher says, and swings his boots to the ground.

The visitor turns around. He is an olive-skinned man of about forty, and when he stands to greet Nolan, the constable sees that the man is dressed in designer blue jeans and a navy sports coat with pinstripes, no tie, an expensive black overcoat draped on the chair. Nolan holds out his hand and they shake.

“Tony Celluci,” he says.

“Ed Nolan.”

“Chief Gallagher was telling me about your head,” Celluci says, patting the side of his own head in illustration. “I know how you’re feeling. I had two concussions back when I played college football. It’s like you’ve got the worst hangover in the world and you just can’t shake it.”

Nolan finally has an analogy that works for his condition. He smiles and nods.

“Want a drink?” the Chief asks as he reaches into the drawer. He stops and looks up, and points to the side of his head. “Are you supposed to drink with your, you know?”

“No, thanks,” Nolan says. “I’m on my way out to talk to Wade Garson.”

The smile falls from the Chief’s face. He straightens up, shakes his head slowly.

“Wade Garson? Why would you be going out to see Wade Garson at this hour, with your head all bandaged up, and you supposed to be on office duties anyway?”

Celluci looks at a poster on the wall that has suddenly attracted his attention.

“We should talk in private,” Nolan says.

The Chief nods and closes the drawer, lifts up with a sigh.

“Excuse me just a minute, Tony, but police business calls.”

Out in the hallway, Gallagher puts his hand on Nolan’s shoulder and gives a gentle squeeze. This close, Nolan can smell the peaty Scotch.

“Who is this guy?” Nolan asks with a nod toward the office.