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  "He's fine," he soothed her. "Banged up a little, too, but on the mend."

  She closed her eyes. "Thank God. Poor boy."

  Joe smiled at that, considering the man's age. The door to the room opened, and a nurse stepped in, smiling. "So," she said brightly, "you decided to join us, after all? I would have, too, with a good-looking son like that hanging around."

  Joe's mother narrowed her eyes as she scrutinized him. "How long have I been like this?"

  "A few days, Mom," he told her, bending quickly to kiss her cheek. "We've been keeping you company in shifts. You just missed Gail. She had to go back to Montpelier."

  "Oh, my," she reacted, her cheeks pinking up, as if she was embarrassed at being caught napping too long.

  The nurse set about checking her vitals and asking her questions. Joe rose and crossed to the window. The surrounding trees had maintained their thick mantle of snow in the windless cold and so now were almost hard to look at in the sun's glare.

  "Mr. Gunther?"

  He turned at the nurse's voice.

  "The doctor will be wanting to check your mom out. If you'd like to take a small break and maybe grab a cup of coffee, now would be the perfect time. She'll be in good hands, I promise."

  He smiled at the roundabout, practiced verbiage. "You'd make a good bouncer." He reached out and touched his mother's foot. "You have fun with the doc. I'll go torture Leo a little. Tie a knot in some of his tubing."

  "You're an awful child," she told him, but he could see that he'd hit a nerve with the mention of tubing.

  "Never claimed otherwise," he said, adding, "I'll be back with a report card."

  That, as it turned out, was going to be a bit tricky, assuming the news was to be upbeat. Leo was still in intensive care, was in fact still hooked up to multiple tubes and wires, and, if anything, was in slightly worse shape than when Joe had seen him last.

  He remained coherent, however, though only barely.

  "Hey, Joe," he said weakly as his brother came into view by his side.

  "Hey, yourself. Got good news: Mom just woke up. They're checking her out, but she seems fine. Just needed to sleep it off."

  Leo closed his eyes briefly with relief. "Jesus." He then tried to move his hand to grasp Joe's, but grimaced and failed. Joe took his fingers in his own and gave him a squeeze. "Relax, Leo. It's going to be fine. All that's left is for you to get better."

  Leo nodded quietly, taking his time. Joe noticed a tear building up in the corner of one of his brother's eyes. He reached out and wiped it away.

  "I don't know," Leo said, so softly his words were almost lost in the whir of the surrounding equipment.

  Joe leaned over to be near his face when he whispered. "Leo, you've got to do this. It's not like I have any spare brothers, and Mom'll make my life hell if you kick the bucket. Stop thinking of yourself, for Christ's sake."

  Leo smiled slowly. "You are a son of a bitch."

  Joe kissed his bristly cheek. "I love you, too."

  His brother sighed and gave a halfhearted nod. "Okay. What about the car?"

  "The nut on the tie rod went," Joe said, hoping that made sense.

  Leo's eyes widened. "No shit? How the hell would that happen?"

  "You had it serviced lately?"

  "Yeah, but not for that. It's too new. The tie rod ends should be factory fresh."

  "You bring it to Steve's, right?" Joe asked. "Exclusively?"

  His brother nodded, beginning to fade.

  "You ever have problems with them?"

  Leo didn't respond immediately. Joe bent close again, not wanting to miss his chance. "Leo?"

  "No problems," Leo mumbled.

  Joe straightened back up. That would have to be it. He placed his palm flat on Leo's forehead and told him, "Hang in there. Mom's fine. That part's over. But we need you back, okay?"

  He thought he could feel his brother nod agreement under his hand, but it was too slight a gesture to trust.

  Their mother was discharged later that day. Joe had remembered to salvage her wheelchair from the trunk of the shattered Subaru, and used it to roll her out of the hospital and into the cold New England sunlight. As they cleared the overhang of the main entrance portico, she tilted her head back and let the sun hit her full in the face.

  "God, that feels good."

  Joe was relieved by the gesture. She'd refused to leave without first visiting Leo, and the sight of her last born, rigged up like a science experiment, had clearly shaken her. But she'd spoken to his physician in detail and had been told of a probable, though long-term, full recovery. Joe hoped that had helped with the worst of her concerns. But he wasn't sure. She hadn't spoken until hitting the sidewalk-she was, after all, of hard-core Yankee stock, a people who were not cold, as was their weather and their reputation, but who were indeed prone to self-containment. By instinct, people bred and brought up among these ancient mountains didn't speak of their feelings and didn't pry after those of others. For that matter, he hadn't asked her outright himself.

  She worked at being upbeat during the drive home, insisting on stopping by the market to pick up a few things she thought he'd enjoy, and chatting about everything but the accident and her broken son. Joe let her find her emotional bearings, which, he sensed, would only really fall into place once they reached home. He therefore wasn't surprised when she quieted as he topped the same rise in the driveway that had similarly affected him the day before. He did, however, reach out as he stopped the car before the house, and squeeze her hand.

  "He'll be fine, Mom. We'll see him through it."

  She turned to him then, her eyes glistening. "He wouldn't be there now if he hadn't taken me to the movies."

  Joe actually laughed as he leaned over and kissed her. "You probably saved his life. He would've been driving at twice the speed with some bimbo in one of his favorite wrecks. Tell me I'm wrong."

  She smiled despite her sadness. "He doesn't carry on as much as he claims. But I suppose you're right."

  Joe hadn't told her about the missing tie rod nut.

  They spent much of the day getting used to each other. Joe hadn't been at home without Leo in more years than he could recall, and he had a hard time gauging between too much together time with his mother and too little. She and Leo were like an old married couple, working on instinct, memory, and habit. Joe had only the first to draw on, and that was dulled by their both thinking of the missing member of their small company. He had to ask her about lunch, to discover if and when she napped, whether she could handle the bathroom on her own, what her rhythm was for reading, watching TV, and moving about in pursuit of various errands or tasks.

  For her part, of course, he appeared like a fish out of water. He did nothing like his brother, had little here that belonged to him or would occupy him for long, and knew even less about the house's organization.

  Still, they managed, mostly with humor, sometimes with reservations, and were clearly relieved when the doorbell rang.

  At that moment they were both in the kitchen, where she was giving him a crash course on product geography, as he mentally termed it, struggling to retain how she liked her groceries organized.

  More to the point, since dinner was looming, they'd also been discussing the upcoming meal. Sadly, Leo was the house's primary cook-Joe had no such talent, being of the opinion that all food should come packaged and ready to eat, preferably unheated-and it was becoming clear that the kitchen was where their cordiality might collapse.

  "Who would that be?" Joe asked, the sound of a doorbell being a rare thing in a farmhouse.

  "Maybe one of the neighbors," his mother suggested, "seeing we were home and knowing my son was about to poison me."

  Joe moved toward the door. "Just trying to broaden your mind, Mom. We came out of the caves eating with our fingers. Sandwiches are an homage to a cultural heritage."

  "We came out of the caves eating other people, period," his mother corrected him. "Go see who it is."

 
The other oddity, of course, was that the doorbell belonged to the front entrance, which almost everyone knew to ignore in favor of the kitchen door, around to the side, where the car was parked at the bottom of the wheelchair ramp.

  As a result, Joe was expecting either a salesman or a Bible thumper as he opened the door.

  Instead, there was a tall, slim, long-haired woman, looking both expectant and nervous.

  Joe stared at her in astonishment, his hand frozen on the doorknob and his mouth half open in a generic greeting he didn't deliver.

  He knew her, but not from around here. It was from a case a couple of years ago, when they'd met in Gloucester, Massachusetts, and he'd interviewed her in her capacity as a local bartender. She'd been helpful, aiming him toward someone who proved useful later on, but more importantly, in giving him a single kiss after a conversation laced with a subtle and meaningful subtext. That gesture had filled his head with thoughts, questions, yearnings, and possibilities that he'd retained ever since. By then, he and Gail had begun their slide away from each other, if only in small increments, and the woman now standing before him had loomed as an occasionally comforting fantasy to ease the transition.

  But he'd never called her, had never thought of her except at odd moments, and had certainly never expected to lay eyes on her again. He didn't even know her last name.

  At his stunned befuddlement, her nervousness yielded to an embarrassed smile. She stuck her hand out. "Joe Gunther…"

  "Evelyn," he blurted, interrupting her.

  She wrinkled her nose, the smile expanding. "You remember. I never figured how that got out. It's my real name-Evelyn Silva-after my grandmother." She added with a laugh, "But I don't like it much. Wasn't too crazy about her, either. Most people just call me Lyn."

  He was still processing her appearance. Names could come later. "What are you doing here?" he asked, the host in him hoping it didn't sound too hostile, while the cop wondered if maybe it should.

  "I read about your family's accident in the paper," she explained. "I wanted to see if you needed any help."

  He stared at her. "In the Gloucester paper?"

  She shook her head, her cheeks flushing. "No, no. The Brattleboro Reformer. I live in Brattleboro now. I moved."

  "Who is it, Joe?" his mother asked from behind him.

  Joe stepped aside to reveal his mother rolling up to them. Lyn broke into a wide smile. "You're all right," she exclaimed. "They said you were in the hospital." She hesitated only a moment and then took one step forward and stuck her hand out. "I'm Lyn Silva, Mrs. Gunther. I'm really just an acquaintance of your son's, but I wanted to see how you were doing."

  Joe's mother looked at her son. "I'm freezing. You're heating the whole state." Then she smiled brightly at their unexpected guest and shook hands. "He's still in training. I'm happy to meet you."

  Joe removed his fingers from the knob as if it had been electrified. Like most locals, he was usually compulsive about open doors and drafts. He reached out and gently steered Lyn across the threshold. "I'm sorry," he said. "Wasn't paying attention."

  "Come into the living room," his mother said, preceding them. "We have a fire going in the woodstove. Where are you from, Miss Silva?"

  "Brattleboro now," Lyn told her, entering the cluttered, homey living room, adding, "Oh, I love this room. When was the house built?"

  "Eighteen-thirties," Joe told her, bringing up the rear. "And we haven't done much to it since, except for the modern amenities."

  He studied the back of their guest as if she might suddenly pull a gun. He kept retrieving fragments of the one time they'd met, and coming up with only good memories. She was a single mother of a then twenty-year-old girl, a bookkeeper by day and a bartender at night, and at the time, at least, she'd been genuine, smart, sexy, and remarkably appealing-just as she appeared today.

  But what was she doing here? When they last parted, he'd felt they had forged a definite connection, one that he would have pursued in Gail's absence. He'd even thought of locating her after his breakup, but had been stalled by both geography and a general emotional inertia.

  On that level, therefore, he was astonished and pleased to see her again. But at his core he remained a cop and, as such, wary and watchful. Once the social niceties were dealt with and he found a quiet moment, he planned to inquire about the details behind this visit.

  His mother parked her chair in her docking station of tables before asking, "What brought you to Brattleboro? And did I overhear that you came from Gloucester?"

  "Yes, ma'am," Lyn answered. "I was a barkeep there, and I just bought a bar in Brattleboro-I found it through the Internet, if you can believe that."

  "And how did you two meet? Have a seat in that armchair."

  Joe glanced up at that question, trying to read between the lines. His mother's face was cheery and her eyes bright, but he knew her well and had clearly heard the interrogator's edge in her voice.

  Lyn sat carefully in the old leather armchair. "Your son came to Gloucester to investigate a murder-a man who lived over the bar where I worked." She looked over at Joe with a smile. "He sat at the end of my bar drinking Cokes for a couple of nights before he said anything, just watching the crowd. It was fun seeing him study people." Again she reddened slightly, adding, "Including me. He's quite an observer. And when we finally did talk, he had me remembering things I didn't know I could." She touched her forehead with her fingertips. "You had me close my eyes and slowly redraw the scene in my head, detail by detail, until I could see that guy you were after-the one with the scar on his hand. Did you ever catch him?"

  Joe nodded. "We did, thanks to you. It was a good description."

  With her reminiscence, he, too, was recalling that trip, and how he'd spent those many hours, in part surveilling the crowd she served-and in part admiring her.

  "That must have been fascinating," his mother interjected. "I've never actually seen Joe at work. But what are you doing way up here? Brattleboro's a long drive."

  Lyn laughed. "I know. That must seem a little weird. No, I promise, I had to be up here anyhow, to get some supplies for the bar-I'm totally renovating it-and like I said, the newspaper was full of what happened. I figured I'd kill two birds with one stone."

  "But how did you find the farm?" Joe asked.

  Her expression brightened. "That was good, huh? I knew the accident happened near here; I figured you must live nearby, so I asked around. I felt a little like Dorothy asking directions to Oz-'Could you tell me where the Gunthers live?' Good thing your last name isn't that common. The young woman at the Mobil station knew all about you. Is your brother named Leo? The paper just said he was your brother."

  Both her companions burst out laughing.

  "Sorry," Joe explained. "Leo's pretty popular with the local ladies."

  "Especially those who are supposedly interested in cars," his mother added.

  Lyn nodded in comprehension. "She did seem to know him pretty well."

  "He's also the local butcher," Joe continued, "which adds to his appeal. Not," he said quickly, catching a warning glance from across the room, "that he isn't also a very skilled and professional guy. I don't want him to sound like a stud or anything."

  The source of the glance explained, "The two of them have this running gag about Leo and his women. I can attest to his being more of a braggart than a practitioner. Either Joe doesn't know or won't admit it, but his little brother is a virtual homebody."

  "How is he doing, by the way?" Lyn asked. "The paper said you were both in serious condition."

  "Mom was in a deep sleep for a couple of days," Joe told her. "But she woke up good as new. Leo's pretty beaten up. He's conscious and can talk, but he's in the ICU. He's getting better, though."

  This part of the conversation created an awkward silence, which prompted their hostess to push away from her tables and offer, "Anyone for tea or coffee?"

  Both Lyn and Joe asked for the latter, allowing the old woman to escape to the kitchen
and her own thoughts.

  In her absence, the two of them remained silent, not looking at each other, groping for something to say. In Joe's case, the inhibition was compounded by a wary curiosity struggling with his pleasure.

  Lyn spoke first. "I'm sorry I barged in like I did. I didn't really expect anyone to be here. I just sort of yielded to impulse." She finally looked up at him. "When you opened the door, I couldn't believe my luck, but your mom being home just makes me embarrassed. This is not when I should be here."

  "Not true," he said candidly. "I'm sorry I was such a dope at the door. I figured I'd never see you again."

  She nodded silently, back to studying the rug.

  "Not that I didn't want to," he added.

  That brought her head up. "Really?"

  He thought back to one of the few short conversations they'd shared in Gloucester, when, prompted by his observations of her at work behind the bar, she'd admitted to being at once forthright and shy with others, especially men.

  "The reason we met may have been a little offbeat," he understated, "but it left a lasting impression. A really good one."

  He was tempted to expand but resisted. She smiled slightly, more with her eyes than with her mouth. "Yeah," she said. "For me, too."

  SNOWGIRL: how old r u?

  THUMPER: 18. U?

  SNOWGIRL: 14. feel lik 100 THUMPER: im sorry. Bad day? SNOWGIRL: bad life THUMPER: me 2 SNOWGIRL: y? THUMPER: sister died. Luvd her a lot SNOWGIRL: so sorry

  THUMPER: U?

  SNOWGIRL: sucky mom, pissy x-bf THUMPER: He brok up with u? Y? SNOWGIRL: same ol, same ol THUMPER: Guys dont get it SNOWGIRL: u do? THUMPER: U want a hug, he wants sex. Rite? SNOWGIRL: ya THUMPER: I get it. SNOWGIRL: ur cool

  Chapter 7

  Steve's Garage, unsurprisingly, wasn't far from where Leo had his butcher shop in East Thetford. Suitably for a small village, the garage, unlike Mitch's car-corralled, straightforward cinder-block house of wrecks, was of evolutionary design, having begun life as a small barn. That said, it still wasn't quaint or neat. Rather, like so many of its brethren across this pragmatically minded state, it was a place where labor overruled aesthetics and where, if you needed to place an engine block temporarily in the dooryard, on top of two truck tires, you did just that.