Countdown City: The Last Policeman Book II (Last Policeman Trilogy) (10 page)

People talk about the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs, like it just happened one day. All the dinosaurs were hanging out, all together in an open field, and the asteroid slammed down and destroyed them, killed them all and all at once.

Not so, of course. Some died on the day, no doubt about it, and probably a lot—but the whole business took years. Generations, maybe. They can’t say for sure. They know that a ten-kilometer asteroid exploded into the crust of the earth in the Yucatan Peninsula 65.6 million years ago, tearing a great gash from the planet and darkening the sky, and some of the dinosaurs drowned and some burned and some starved when the plants stopped growing, and some stumbled on through the new cold world. They ate what they could find and fought for scraps and forgot there had been an asteroid. Brains like walnuts, creatures of need, they knew only their hunger. A lot of
species died. A lot of species didn’t.

This time, too, it’ll go both ways: Most people will die in October and in the brutal cataclysms that follow, and then many more will die later. The sudden death versus the lingering; the instant and certain versus the drawn-out and unpredictable. My parents both died suddenly, a finger-snap, a crack in time: One day my mother was here, and then she was buried, and then soon after that my father, bang, gone. With Grandfather, it was the long way: diagnosis, treatment, remission, relapse, new diagnosis, the wayward course of illness. There was one afternoon when we huddled at his bedside, Nico and I and a handful of his friends, said our goodbyes, and then he got better and lived for another six months, pale and thin and irritable.

Naomi Eddes, the woman I loved, she went the other way, the first way: bang and gone.

The best available scientific evidence suggests that on the day itself, the earth’s atmosphere will be riven by flame, as if by a prodigious nuclear detonation: over most of the planet, a broiling heat, the sky on fire. Tsunamis as tall as skyscrapers slam into coasts and drown everyone within hundreds of miles from impact, while around the globe volcanic eruptions and earthquakes convulse the landscape, splintering the crust of the world at all its hidden junctions. And then photosynthesis, the magic trick undergirding the entire food chain, is snuffed out by a blanket of darkness drawn down across the sun.

But no one knows. No one really knows. They have computer models, based on the Yucatan event, based on Siberia. But it all depends on final velocity, on angle of approach, on the precise makeup
of the object and the soil below the impact spot. Probably not everyone will die. But probably most people will. It will definitely be terrible, but it’s impossible to say exactly how. Anyone making promises for afterward is a liar and a thief.

* * *

When I get home there’s a thick manila envelope jammed between the screen door and the front door, so that when I pull open the door the package falls out and lands on the porch with a thump. I crouch down and tear open the envelope with one finger and slide out a single manila file folder, thickly packed, stamped N
EW
H
AMPSHIRE
S
TATE
P
OLICE
F
ILE
: B
RETT
A
LAN
C
AVATONE
(
RET
.).

“Thanks, Trish,” I murmur, and turn eastward toward School Street to toss her a salute, soft and sweet as blowing a kiss.

Stepping inside I close the front door carefully, not wanting a sharp slam to wake Houdini, who is snoring lightly on the sofa, curled with his face smushed into his own warm side. In the kitchen I light three candles and make tea. The police file is written in the clipped language of all such reports: a short story written in brief static bursts of institutional prose. The subject is referred to throughout as O. Cavatone. “O.” for officer. O. Cavatone graduated the police academy on such-and-such a date. On such-and-such a date he was assigned to Troop D of the Division of State Police with the rank of Trooper I; transferred north, then, to Troop F; recognized with a commendation and a small ceremony for saving the life of a traffic accident
victim; promoted to Trooper II. Taken together, the pages speak to an admirable, steadfast career: no citations, no warnings, no blemishes on the record.

“The Governor’s Medal,” I say to myself quietly, turning a page, nodding appreciatively. “Very nice, O. Cavatone. Congratulations.”

Halfway down the fourth page, the quick log-line bursts of information give way to one long detailed paragraph, delving in some detail into one particular incident. It begins with the arrest report: four suspects accused of trespassing. The location is a slaughterhouse operated by a dairy farm called Blue Moon, near Rumney. The apparent mission of the alleged trespassers was to install hidden videotaping equipment, but they tripped alarms and were apprehended fleeing the scene. Subsequently, the suspects explained to the arresting officer—O. Cavatone—that their action was intended to gather evidence of inhumane and unhealthful treatment of the cattle: to “provoke horror and outrage,” says the report, “toward Blue Moon in particular and U.S. agricultural practice in general.”

The case rings a bell, the thing about the slaughterhouse. I get up and pace around the dark kitchen a little bit, try to remember it. According to the date on the file it was two and a half years ago, this arrest. I probably read about it in the
Monitor
, or maybe they went over it with us in the academy. An interesting sort of crime, an unusual category of motivation for this part of the world: political provocation, college kids in tie-dyed ski masks, planting video cameras.

Houdini murmurs in his sleep, growling a little. I sip my tea.
It’s cold. I lift the file again, read the names of the perpetrators, all of whom had been charged with trespassing and two counts of criminal mischief. Marcus Norman, Julia Stone, Annabelle Demetrios, Frank Cignal.

I read these names again, study them, tapping my fingers. Why does O. Cavatone’s file include a detailed report of this particular case, why the full paragraph on this one arrest, when there must have been hundreds over the course of a six-year career?

The answer, as it turns out, is not hard to find. It is, indeed, highlighted—literally highlighted, on the next page of the record.

“Charges against all suspects dismissed; O. Cavatone failing on several occasions to provide appropriate testimony.”

The Blue Moon incident is the end of Brett Cavatone’s file. There is no discharge information, no report given of his dismissal or early retirement. The rest of his story I already know, more or less: Brett leaves the state troopers a few months later, at age thirty, and takes a job at his father-in-law’s new pizza restaurant. And then, three days ago, he disappears.

I rise and stretch, feeling my bones ache along the length of my body. My body is crying out for sleep—for sleep or for coffee. There’s a dull throbbing at my temple, and it’s only when I raise one finger to the small divot beside my eye do I recall that I was shot earlier today with a staple gun. I gently move Houdini over and lie down beside him in the darkness and then a few minutes later I’m up again, reopening the file—reading it again—and again—unable to stop—the impulse to discover speaking up in me like morning birds, like
unruly children.

* * *

“I’ll have the lobster Thermidor,” says Detective Culverson.

“We don’t have that,” says Ruth-Ann, sighing elaborately.

“Coq au vin?”

“We don’t have that either.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Sorry.”

It’s midmorning the next day, Friday, and Culverson and Ruth-Ann are doing the kind of flirtatious give-and-take that I normally find amusing, but now I’m rat-a-tatting my fingers on the edge of the booth, shifting impatiently while they go through their bit. Detective McGully isn’t here yet, but that doesn’t matter, it’s Culverson’s opinion I want.

“Here,” I say, as soon as Ruth-Ann turns and heads back to the kitchen. “Okay.” I slide him the file. Not the whole thing, just the last two pages. “Tell me what you see.”

“This is the Bucket List guy?” He slowly unfolds his reading glasses. “Your babysitter’s boyfriend?”

“Husband.”

“Oh, I thought boyfriend.”

“Can you just have a look?”

Culverson lifts the pages and scans, glasses perched on the end of his nose, and quickly comes to the exact same conclusion that I
did. “Looks like he got fired.”

“Yes.”

“But someone doesn’t want to say that.”

“Yes!” I beam at him. “Exactly.”

“Where the hell is McGully?” says Culverson, straightening up and peering at the door.

“I don’t know,” I say quickly, and tap the file. “But the question is why, right? Why is this guy fired? I mean, so he fails to testify.”

“Right. But he’s not getting fired for a no-show.”

“Right.” Pause. Take a breath. “But, what if he
couldn’t
show up.”

“What do you mean? You saying he was a drunk?”

Ruth-Ann returns with two bowls of oatmeal. “Lobster Thermidor,” she says, putting one down in front of me. “And coq au vin,” giving Culverson his.

“No,” I say, when she’s gone. “No, not a drunk.”

“Listen, Stretch, if you got some kind of stunning breakthrough to lay on me, then go ahead and do it,” says Culverson. He tucks a napkin into the collar of his shirt, spreads it down across his chest like a bib. “Maybe you haven’t heard, but life is short.”

“Brett named the specials.”

“What?”

“At the pizza place. Rocky told me—that’s the boss, the father-in-law—he told me. Brett leaves the force after this thing at the dairy farm, he comes to work at his wife’s father’s pizza restaurant, and one of his first jobs is: name the specials. All of them get classic rock names. Layla: a very unusual and specific name. Hazel: unusual and
specific. Sally Simpson: unusual and specific. And then—Julia.”

He looks where I’m pointing, where I’ve laid my finger across the case file, at the list of suspects. Marcus Norman, Julia Stone, Annabelle Demetrios, Frank Cignal.

“Palace.”

“Of all the girls’ names in all the songs in the world?”

“
Palace
.”

“Even all the girls’ names in all the Beatles songs? Who picks Julia?” I jab my finger at the page. “Who but a man with a woman on his mind?”

“I’m not really a Beatles man,” says Culverson, stirring honey into his oatmeal. “You got any Earth, Wind, and Fire related clues?”

“Come on, Culverson.”

“I’m teasing you.”

“I know. But do you think it makes sense?”

“Honestly? No.” He grins. “You have gone for a walk, my young friend. You have wandered so far from the available evidence that I cannot see you anymore, tall as a telephone pole though you may be.”

“Maybe,” I say. I cross my arms. “But I’m right.”

“It’s possible,” he says. I’ve known Culverson for longer than anyone now living, except for my sister. Long ago, when I was still a child, it was Detective Culverson who solved the murder of my mother. “And hey, you know what? The world’s about to blow up. So, you know, knock yourself out. You have a last-known address for young Julia?”

“Yeah,” I say, tapping the file. “Durham.”

“Durham?” he says.

“Yeah. At the time of the incident, she was a rising junior at UNH.”

“So her last-known is on the grounds of the Free Republic. You’re ready to go door to door down there?”

“No. Maybe.” I grit my teeth. This is the hard part. “I actually know someone who might be able to help.”

“Oh yeah?” Culverson raises an eyebrow. “Who’s that?”

I’m saved by the bell. The door chimes, and McGully comes in with an old Samsonite suitcase like a traveling salesman. We look at him, Culverson and I, and Ruth-Ann looks over from her spot at the counter, at old McGully with his suitcase and his boots. No one says anything. That’s it—it’s like he’s already gone, fading from full color to black and white before our eyes. He stands at the threshold of the restaurant, in the antechamber by the cash register where the pictures still hang of the owner, Bob Galicki, shaking hands with various politicians, where there’s an old-fashioned gumball machine. The gumballs are gone now, the glass sphere shattered a long time ago.

Culverson leans back in his seat; McGully stares back at us in silence.

“Wow,” says Culverson. “Where to?”

“New Orleans,” says McGully. “I’m going to hoof it to 95, look for a southbound bus.”

Culverson nods. I don’t say anything. What is there to say? In the corner of my eye, Ruth-Ann is ramrod straight at the counter,
carafe in hand, watching McGully in her doorway.

“You tell Beth?” Culverson asks.

“Nah.” McGully flashes his monkey’s grin, real quick, and then looks down at the floor. “I’ve been telling her, you know, we should get outta here, we should make a change, but she’s … she’s settled, you know? She’s not leaving the house. Her mom died in that house.” He looks up, then down again, mutters into his shirtfront. “I left her a note, though. Little note.”

“Hey,” I say. “McGully—” and he says, “No—no, you shut up,” and I say, “What?” and then suddenly he’s hollering, furious, stalking across the diner toward me. “You’re like a little kid, you know that?”

He leans over me in the booth. I shrink back.

“In your tidy little universe, with your notebooks, and the good guys and the bad guys. That shit is moot, man. That shit is over.”

“Easy,” says Culverson, half rising, “take it easy now,” but McGully keeps his finger in my face. “You just wait until the water runs out. You just fucking wait.” He’s snarling, showing his teeth. “You think this trooper you’re looking for, you think he’s a bad guy? You think I’m a bad guy?”

“I didn’t say that,” I murmur, but he’s not listening. He’s not talking to me, not really.

“Well, you wait until the taps stop working.
Then
you’ll see some fucking bad guys.” He’s bright red. He’s out of breath. “Okay?”

I don’t say anything, but he seems to want an answer. “Okay,” I say.

“Okay, smart guy?”

“Okay.”

I meet McGully’s eyes and he nods, eases off. No one else says anything. The boots squeak on the linoleum as he turns around, Ruth-Ann tsk-tsking at the scuff he’s leaving on her floor. Then the door chimes, and he’s gone: off and running. We look at each other for half a second, me and Culverson, and then I stand up, my oatmeal untouched on the table.