“Wait, wait,” Jesse said, shaking his head. “Who
“That’s none of your business,” Louis snapped. He paused, trying to calm down. “Zoe, her name is Zoe Devereaux.”
Jesse was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know any Zoe and I know everyone here.”
“She’s not from here, she’s from Chicago. She rents a cabin up on the north shore. She’s an artist.”
Jesse’s expression clouded. “Artist? What does she look like?”
“She’s…she’s small, half-Asian and…”
Jesse waited for him to finish and when he did not, he continued for him. “Dark hair, light-colored skin, like you?” he said.
Louis stared at him.
“She likes French stuff,” Jesse added. “She paints, pictures of snow and trees.”
Louis stared at him, then walked off toward the kitchen. Jesse shook his head slowly, watching Louis’s back. He stood up. “I guess I’d better let you – ”
Louis turned quickly. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me sooner?” he demanded.
“I just found out,” Jesse said slowly.
“How?”
“He told me. The other night, before Ollie was killed. I went over to his house to talk to him about splitting us up and he told me.”
Louis started to say something then just shook his head. He turned away again, unable to face Jesse. The only sound in the cabin was the dripping of the kitchen faucet and Louis’s breathing.
“I couldn’t believe it,” Jesse said softly. “I mean, I always thought she was strange but when he told me about her cabin and all the weird shit – ”
“How long?” Louis demanded.
“What?”
“How long has he known?”
Jesse looked uncomfortable. “About a week. He told me he suspected something and went to her cabin one morning to talk to her. That morning he was late for briefing?”
Louis was staring at him vacantly, as though he wasn’t really hearing Jesse’s voice.
“He said he saw a drawing of you, something she did,” Jesse said quietly. “That’s when he knew.”
Louis hung his head.
Jesse glanced at the fireplace then back at Louis. “It’s not like it’s all your fault,” he said. “I mean, she lied to you, man.”
Louis couldn’t move. The anger was building fast and it was taking every ounce of strength he had to keep from hitting something.
“Louis, the woman is strange,” Jesse went on. “From what the chief told me it’s like she’s leading two lives, like she got some multiple personality dis -”
“Shut up!”
“Sorry.”
Again, silence. Finally Louis turned to face him. “Why are you telling me this?”
Jesse didn’t answer.
“I thought he was your friend, your great fucking mentor or something. Why are you telling me?”
“I wasn’t going to,” Jesse said. “I mean, he is my friend and he is the chief. But he’s riding you because of this, not because of Lacey, and he wants you out.”
“So why doesn’t he fire me?”
“I asked him. He said he doesn’t want her to feel sorry for you. He said if he fires you, it’ll make you a martyr in her eyes.”
Louis shook his head.
It was quiet again. “Louis…”
“Go home, Jess,” Louis said, not looking at him.
“Look, I know – ”
“Go home, please.”
Jesse pulled on his parka and started toward the door. As he passed the counter, he touched Louis’s shoulder. Louis pulled away.
Jesse left, closing the door softly behind him. Louis stood, head bowed, hands braced against the kitchen counter. Finally, he looked up, scanning the room for his coat. He scooped it off the chair and was out the door. It was dark but a waning moon bathed the lake in a spare gray light. He squinted, picking out a light on the far side of the lake. He got into the Mustang and started it.
It took only fifteen minutes to reach her cabin. It was dark. He hurried up the steps, flung open the screen and pounded on the door. There was no sound from within. He pounded again. He saw a curtain move and looked to the small window. The black cat stared at him with calm wide eyes.
“Zoe!” he yelled. “Zoe!”
His voice caromed through the pines, her name echoing back to him, fading into the black silent night.
“Zoe!” he shouted.
Echo. Silence. The whisper of wind in the trees. He looked to the window. The black cat was gone.
He stumbled back off the porch, his gaze moving up over the cabin. He stood staring at it for several seconds then turned and went back to the car.
Ribbons of muted color against the brilliant cobalt sky.
They had all come. The state troopers in their navy blues. The Oscoda County sheriff deputies in their chocolate browns. A neighboring town force in their cadet blues. Another in their ink blacks. A fourth in their seal browns. They stood, in a mute unmoving mass, around Ollie Wickshaw’s casket.
The eight men of the Loon Lake Police Department were positioned in the front, dressed in dark blue, double-breasted overcoats and pristine white gloves. From his position as a pallbearer Louis watched them, struck by the contrast created by the extravagant coats and the pain-etched faces of the men. He thought back to earlier that morning. He had almost been late because he couldn’t bring himself to put on the uniform.
