Darkness the Color of Snow by Thomas Cobb Read Free Book Online

sober. “Matt Laferiere got killed last night.”
    â€œYeah. I just heard that. I know he was your friend. I’m sorry.”
    â€œNot so much anymore. Friend, I mean. We didn’t have much in common.”
    â€œStill. It must be hard. But you’re OK. What happened?”
    â€œI was trying to arrest him. Drunk and disorderly. We fought. He ended up in the road and got hit by a hit-­and-­run driver. Dead at the scene.”
    â€œWell, glad to hear you’re OK. I have to get back to work. Big remodel north of Warrentown. Don’t know where ­people get the money, but glad they do.”
    His father is a finish carpenter and master cabinetmaker. He had wanted Ronny to join him in the business, but Ronny couldn’t take the idea of a life of sawdust and cutoff fingers for almost no money at all. Just living from one bottle to the next.
    T HE L AFERIERES LIVE on Twisted Root Road, a dirt road that was once a wagon trail. There was contention about whether it was an actual town road, but the town has been plowing it for as long as Gordy can remember, so he guesses it is. There are only two houses and the ruins of a nineteenth-­century spring factory on the road. The Laferieres live just beyond the ruins.
    It’s a rambling mess of a place that sprawls over two acres. The center of it is a double-­wide trailer that has been added on to three or four times. The additions jut out at odd angles. Roger Laferiere is a decent builder, but a terrible architect. There are three outbuildings, two of which seem to be chicken coops and the other a tack room or shop. There are junked cars, trucks, and tractors scattered about and old farm implements rusting into the ground. There has been an epidemic of thefts of farm equipment, but this stuff is far too old to be part of that.
    Gordy parks the cruiser next to the house, or whatever it is, and walks to the front door and knocks. It’s a chore he’s performed many times before. There’s no answer. He knocks again, waits a bit, and turns toward the cruiser. There is a beaten but intact Ford F150 between the house and the chicken shacks, so he assumes that at least one of the Laferieres is home. He walks between the cruiser and the truck, toward the shack, calling, “Hello.”
    â€œChief.”
    He turns to see Roger Laferiere walking from the direction of the shop building. Roger’s dressed just as Gordy had last seen him, and as he always sees him—­jeans and boots, a barn coat covered in grease and torn at both sleeves (in summer this is replaced by a cotton long-­sleeved shirt). He always wears a battered, billed plaid cap.
    â€œGood morning, Roger.”
    â€œNot a goddamned thing good about it.” Roger puts a cigarette to his lips and lights it. Out of habit, Gordy guesses, Roger extends the pack toward Gordy, who waves it off.
    â€œWell, no. Of course not. I’m so sorry, Roger.”
    Roger nods and tilts his head waiting to hear more from Gordy.
    â€œMostly, I’m here to offer my condolences, something I should have done more of last night. I’m terribly, terribly sorry for your loss.”
    Roger nods, starts to say something, then stops.
    â€œI also have some information for you. The autopsy is being performed this morning, and they should release Matt’s body to you by late this afternoon.”
    â€œThey cut him up?”
    â€œI’m sorry. It’s the law. There’s no way around it. I can’t do anything to stop it.”
    â€œWhy do they do that?”
    â€œLike I said. The law. This is a criminal case, and there will have to be evidence presented in court.”
    â€œAgainst who?”
    â€œWhoever killed him. The driver of the car. We don’t know, yet, who that is, but we will soon.”
    Roger again starts to say something and stops. He takes the cigarette from his mouth and crushes it into the ground with his boot.
    He hears a