It didn’t matter if Carolyn Potter ever understood. The Potter estate passed down to male heirs. It was the beneficence of this young boy that was needed to keep this community whole. Nason hoped the boy wouldn't be as distant as his mother seemed to be. She could switch off her brain like he'd never before seen.
Enough.
Nason’s mind had been wandering again. He needed to take this woman home and get some sleep.
He looked at Carolyn Potter’s back, head bent down, huddling with Nancy in her office, both of them shutting Nason out. They’d be here awhile.
“I’ll be right back.”
That pleased Nancy, a slight nod and smile.
Nothing from the Potter woman.
He crossed the street and ducked into the sanctuary of his office, maybe catch a few winks, let her walk across and get him.
The wretched flashing light on his answering machine stopped him from sinking into the comfort of his chair. One message waited. He pressed the button.
It beeped, then, “Sheriff, this is Sally Gilpin. Bruce never came home last night and we’re worried. Did something happen? Can you call me?” The machine clicked and beeped. The electronic voice announced, “End of final message.”
Nason picked up the phone and dialed her number.
The phone rang twice. “Hello?”
“Hi, Sally. This is Phil. Bruce get home yet?”
“No.” Her voice shook, worried and afraid. “What happened last night? He said he was just going to the committee meeting.”
“We got there late. He was already gone.” His chair invited.
Impossible.
“I’ll check the road. Maybe he got stuck in the snow.”
Stupid.
That was probably the source of her fear; that Bruce had gotten stranded and had frozen to death. Her long silence proved it.
“Sally?”
“Thank you, Phil.” She whined and hung up.
Nason hung up and cleared his answering machine.
By the time he crossed the road and re-entered the clinic, Carolyn and Nancy were standing, saying their goodbyes.
The Potter woman’s bloodshot eyes reached inside him. “What about Jason? Is he in some kind of trouble?” She stepped closer, very tired but ready to fight for her son. “Because, if he is, I’ll swear it was me.”
Nason cuffed the cobwebs in his brain, trying to grasp her meaning. “You?”
“I brought that calf into our barn. I’ll swear to it on a stack of Bibles.”
“Oh, it was your son who took the calf?” That's what she'd said an hour earlier.
“No!” She stuck her chin out, daring him to take a poke. “I just told you.”
“Don’t worry.” He suppressed a grin, wanting to laugh with relief. “We’re not pressing charges.” He wouldn’t know how to proceed with any of that. “I needed for you to understand what can happen. We have a system up here that works. Best if you stand back and let it be.” He opened the door. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
She smiled and he followed her out.
He drove the length of River Road in silence. They were both tired. He turned up her driveway.
“Can I make you some coffee?”
He took the loop by her barn, thinking how nice that sounded. He stopped at the bottom of her front steps.
“You look tired. Coffee?”
“Thanks, but I better not. I have another call to make.”
“Olen?”
“No.” He left it there, not wanting her to worry about Gilpin.
She climbed out and poked her head back into the truck. “If there’s anything I can do . . .”
“We’ll let you know.” Nason inched his truck forward and she closed the door.
CAROLYN CLIMBED HER front steps slowly, exhausted and feeling guilty. Why hadn't she just left good enough alone? Who was she to come up here and tell these people what to do?
She shoved the front door but it didn't budge. She depressed the Baldwin latch, it clicked and she opened the door.
Willis.
She smiled and went inside. She took off her coat and hung it from the antler rack by the door. She looked into her office, shook her head and climbed down three steps into their large living room.
"Willis?"
Someone had placed a beautiful silver spruce in the corner by the large window that looked up River Road toward the village. It had been mounted on a wooden stand, ready to be decorated.
HE DROVE BACK ACROSS the crest, down the curved driveway and back onto River Road. He stopped in front of Gilpin’s dirt road and shifted into four wheel drive, no need for chains. Gilpin’s tire tracks had already turned to slush in bright sunlight.
He drove slowly toward the suspension bridge and scanned both sides of the road, looking for tire tracks. He rounded the last curve and drove down the grade toward the bridge.
Oh, no.
The railing on the down river side of the bridge had been broken. He stopped a few feet from the bridge, set the brake and placed his truck in neutral.
Shaded by the trees near the river, the snow looked a foot deep. Two days of sunshine had turned the rest to slush. He stepped out, closed the door and walked onto the bridge. He grabbed the broken cable and leaned out to look below.
“Holy Christ.”
Thirty feet straight down, Gilpin’s truck sat in 4 foot deep, fast moving water with the top nearly torn off, maybe from a bridge's suspension cable. A large boulder had held the truck from moving downstream toward the steep waterfall, about a mile below, where the river cascaded down to Pickle Meadow.
Numb with exhaustion, he returned to his truck, took off his boots and pulled on his hip waders. Tiny spots swirled in front of his eyes, all the bright white snow, his heavy eyelids. He took off his coat and pulled a sweatshirt from behind the back seat. He pulled on the sweatshirt and crossed the wader suspenders over his
