Deep Winter (14 page)

A
s the sun peeked over the tip of the mountain, casting an orange glow off all the snow, Taggart excused himself and made his way to the cruiser while the two detectives from Towanda walked through the crime scene with the sheriff. He closed the door behind him, placed his hat on the passenger seat, and ran his hands through short blond hair—tight on the sides and top as stipulated by the Pennsylvania State Police handbook.

He watched as the paramedics laid Johnny Knolls in a black body bag and zipped up the plastic. He glimpsed the dead man's hand. His left hand. A wedding band gleamed in the morning sunlight.

Taggart peered down at his own wedding ring and thought about his wife and two girls. They were growing up fast. Emily was eleven. Jackie had just turned thirteen. Both girls were beautiful like their mother, but the lights of his life had become increasingly more and more of a drunken blur. He'd been stuck in second shift for
years now and never got to see the girls. He left the house for work when they were still at school, and by the time he woke up in the morning, they were back in class.

How in the hell did I get to this?

A beer or two at home after work soon became four or five beers with the boys at Moriarty's Pub. But after his drinking crew started to settle down with wives and kids, Taggart soon found himself drinking alone on a barstool with enough Jack and Cokes to make him so numb he couldn't feel his feet. After getting drunk and belligerent one too many times, he found himself banned from Moriarty's, then Fergie's, then a few more neighborhood bars, until he ended up drinking alone in his car with a bottle nestled between his legs, listening to a Phillies or Eagles game. Another place he liked drinking was at the movie theater, hunched down in the dark, sipping his vodka uninterrupted for a two-hour stretch. He didn't care what movie was being projected onto the screen—all the action and dialogue served as a diversion.

He could barely remember how and why exactly the hard drinking had started. Chalk it up to his genes—his father and mother, both raging alcoholics. Growing up, he swore it would never happen to him, the everyday drinking. But it did, just like it did with his two older brothers, two hard-drinking Philly cops. For him and his brothers, all three apples didn't fall far from the tree—they landed right down by the trunk, as a matter of fact.

Drinking wasn't fun anymore. It was just drinking. Most mornings he couldn't remember coming home the night before. Birthdays, holidays, and special occasions were even worse. Most were vague memories, because the better parts of them were spent sneaking off to the bedroom or the den to dig into his secret stashes—water bottles filled with vodka. When he looked at pictures that
were snapped on Christmas mornings or during Thanksgiving dinners, Taggart wouldn't remember a thing about that day. He hated looking at his glassy-eyed expression in photographs. He would have a half smile on his fat, bloated face, sneering at the camera like some kind of playground pervert. Those pictures made him sick to his stomach, so he tried his best to avoid family photo ops if he could help it.

The wife didn't know the extent of his drinking. She wasn't dumb but had never been able to see all the signs. Or if she did, she suppressed the awareness deep down inside her. Taggart was a stoic, stone-faced drunk. He was a hands-off dad. Always had been. That's the way he'd been raised. He felt like an outsider most of the time around the three girls. They did everything together. Always laughing and carrying on. Doing art projects or cooking together. They were a close-knit little group, and he hated that about them. He would just sit in his chair watching baseball and drinking beer. The wife would keep an eye on the number of beers he would consume, so his little trick was to fill the can half full of vodka from one of the bottles he kept hidden around the house—he could have two cans of a beer/vodka cocktail and get good and blasted. Taggart didn't go to the park with the girls or shop at the mall with them or do whatever else they were doing. When he wasn't working, he stayed to himself and stewed. The joke around the house was that he was moodier than a girl.
Ha fucking ha.

The shit hit the fan five years ago when he got drunk on the job and popped a supervisor in the mouth. Miserable prick deserved it, but it had cost Taggart his badge in Philly. Taggart got lucky—they didn't press any charges and dismissed him from the department instead. He came clean to his wife about the drinking and vowed to change his ways. He gave her all the empty promises she wanted
to hear and even threw in the token tears of regret and sincerity. Taggart entered into a treatment program and stayed sober for six months. He went to his AA meetings, held the hands of other addicts, and recited the same garbage along with them, week after week. Then he moved the family to Towanda to get a fresh start and joined the state troopers' office on a probationary status. Taggart had felt clarity for the first time in twenty years, but that didn't last long. The stress of a job he hated and a marriage that wasn't working—or at least one he wasn't working on—made it too easy to turn back to the bottle and crawl inside.

Taggart dug into his pocket and felt the chip he carried everywhere with him. He took it out and rolled the bronze-colored coin between his fingers. He read the inscription on the front:
TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE. UNITY. SERVICE. RECOVERY
. Taggart looked at the six-month chip probably a dozen times a day. It was a reminder, all right.

Living a goddamn lie.

He flipped the chip over and examined the engraving on the other side:
EXPECT MIRACLES
.

Still waiting for mine. Christ. A headful of AA and a bellyful of booze.

Taggart had managed to hide his drinking from his fellow officers and supervisors pretty well over the years. If they suspected anything, they didn't let on about it. He kept to his own business and did his job. But tonight he'd crossed the line. He shot a man dead while under the influence. He was pretty sure that his life, which was pretty much crap anyway, wasn't going to survive this particular fuckup. He had put his career, his family, and his home at stake. The fact was that this mess was probably going to take him down. Part of him always expected that something like this would happen—surprised it didn't happen sooner. When you cross the line
so many times, eventually you're going to find yourself looking back at some great regret. And lo and behold, here it was.

All these thoughts racing through his head had his heart thudding in his chest, making it difficult to breathe, and sweat rolled down his back by the buckets. He felt the panic setting in.

Hold yourself together, Bill. Maybe you can walk away from this. Just stay the course.

Taggart reached under his seat and found one of his old friends. Hutch this time. The flask felt half full. That was good. His coffee was gone, though. Nothing to mix it with.

The hell with it. Just need to stabilize.

He poured a straight shot into a Styrofoam cup and drank it down before he could talk himself out of it. The familiar slow burn in his stomach felt good. The sweet numbing in his head would soon follow.

Taggart was pouring a second round when the passenger door opened and the cold wrapped around him. The sheriff stood there staring down at him. A gust of wind brought a sprinkling of snowflakes into the cruiser that settled on the dashboard and seats.

Taggart capped the flask and held the cup to his lips.

“You don't want to do that, son,” Lester said softly.

Taggart stared out his windshield. “You're wrong about that.”

Lester removed Taggart's hat from the passenger seat and sat down. He closed the door, cleared his throat, and joined Taggart's gaze out the windshield. They sat in silence for a few moments. The steady strobe of the ambulance lights rolled across their faces every other second.

The drink stayed in Taggart's hand.

“The bottle is a tough son of a bitch. Known many a man that found themselves in the bottom of one. It can grab you by the throat,
squeeze like hell, and not let go. Quitting is hard, but it can be done, son,” Lester offered—no judgment in his voice.

Taggart lowered the cup to his lap. “Maybe. Tried that once and failed, though.”

“Not many get it right the first time. Can always try it again.”

“I wish it was that easy.”

“Not a single part of me believes that it's easy, son. I feel blessed that I don't have that kind of thing hanging over my head.”

Taggart nodded and sighed out loud. “I've been a public servant for almost twenty-five years. Right out of high school,” he said. “Growing up, I never wanted to get into law. I wanted to go to college. Do something with my brain. Always fancied myself being an architect. Loved buildings and design.” He glanced over at the sheriff to see if the man was smirking at his story—he wasn't.

“But I come from a family of cops. Father, older brothers, uncles, cousins. Everybody. A bunch of blue bloods. The old man didn't want to spring for college, and I didn't have it in me to follow my heart, so I did what everybody expected of me. Guess I always take the easy way out.”

“Being a cop ain't easy. I can vouch for that.”

Taggart watched as one of the ambulances pulled away from the trailer and headed for the city.

“Started as a beat cop in Philly. Let me tell you, that's one tough town. The scum you arrest assume you're a racist pig or a fascist, and the people you vowed to protect don't give a shit about you until something happens to them. Then they just blame you for not being there to stop it.” He stared down into his drink. “And the pay's not worth squat. You know that.”

Lester nodded.

“And I got stuck. Didn't have what it took to make detective. My
super hated me because he hated my old man. Guess I turned out to be a chip off the old block. Had an incident in Philly, so I joined the state troopers' office. Thought that would be a better way to go.”

He really wanted to drink his vodka.

“Same mess, different uniform?” Lester asked, half smiling.

Taggart looked at him for a second, then back to his drink.

“My wife wanted more out of life than to be married to a cop. Sometimes I think she prays that I get taken down in the line of duty. She gets a payout and off the hook with one bullet.”

Lester nodded. “The badge is a bit sexier before the vows.”

“Got that right. Everything seemed to go sideways on me after I got married.”

“I'd say that marriage is a tougher job than law enforcement. The good with the bad. Wouldn't trade a day of it, though.”

“I want out.” Taggart's words just hung there. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. “I did the right thing back there.” It was more of a question than a statement. He opened his eyes and glanced over at the sheriff.

Lester reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the pack of Salems. He offered one to Taggart, and they both lit up.

“Son, you saw a situation and reacted. A man you didn't know had a rifle aimed point-blank at me. I knew Johnny Knolls. If you hadn't shown up, I'd be one more body getting zipped up in a black bag out there.” Lester took off his hat and rubbed his head. “Let me ask you: If you had to do it over again, would you pull that trigger?”

Taggart thought about this for a moment. He tried digging deep inside himself. He wasn't ever very comfortable sharing with the AA crowd, but the sheriff had him dead to rights.

“If you can't trust your gut, you got nothing,” Lester said, and handed Taggart back his hat. “So?”

Taggart took the hat and put it on. “I'd do it again.”

Lester nodded. “Then I owe you my life.”

“Thank you, Sheriff.”

“Got one last question for you, then. What do you plan on doing with that drink in your hand?” Lester motioned to the cup gripped in Taggart's fist.

Taggart glanced down at the cup. “‘One day at a time' is what they say.”

“Sounds about right. Rome wasn't built in a day,” Lester offered.

Taggart smiled at the comment. He cracked open the door and tossed out his drink.

“I ain't done needing your help, Officer Taggart. I got a deputy with a hair trigger, and the two Knolls brothers are more than likely gonna want to take matters into their own hands. We need to find the Bedford boy before there's more blood spilled.”

Taggart shook his head. “I don't know if I can.”

“Officer Taggart, if you didn't make a mistake out there earlier, don't make one now.”

Lester stepped out of the patrol car, still sucking on his cigarette. Through the frosted windshield, Taggart watched him talk to the detectives, then looked down at his lifeline. He shoved the flask back under the seat and stepped out of his car.

V
irgin snow blanketed the forest floor in a thick layer of brilliant white frozen crystals. The wind blew softly, causing the ancient trees to sway and creak rhythmically in the bitter-cold air. The snow had stopped, replaced by a skyful of blue, and made the forest deceptively peaceful.

Various breeds of birds—crows, bluebirds, and sparrows—were up with the sun, their chatter lively as they sprang from tree to tree, looking for bark beetles, gypsy moth larvae, hemlock woolly adelgids, or any other insects that made their home in the wood.

Danny felt the cold all around him, every bit of him shivering. He thought for a moment he had left his bedroom window open. Lots of times he slept with the window cracked open, even in the dead of winter. He liked the feel of fresh air on his face to wake to in the morning.

A stroke of sunlight tickled at his face, and he basked in its
warmth for a few seconds. His eyes were still closed as he listened to the quick chirping song of birds. He took a deep breath and could feel a heaviness weighing on top of him. It felt comforting. Safe. He started to smile but was stopped short by a searing jolt of pain twisting in his jaw. He gasped, sending an even more painful shock wave through the rest of his body.

His eyes shot open, and his body lurched upright. A few inches of powdery snow tumbled off his chest and collected in his lap. His eyes squinted from the blinding glare of white all around him. So intense that it poked at his brain, and it took him a few moments to fully open his eyes and get his bearings. He licked at his lips, cracked open and bleeding, and tried to swallow, but his tongue still felt like a mass of marshmallows in his mouth.

Danny wasn't sure where he was. Then shapes slowly formed, outlines of the forest coming into view. For a moment the sheer brightness made him wonder if he was in heaven, but the dull thud of pain in his head made him know different—he was still in the place he'd always been. Still Wyalusing. Still dumb and fat Danny Bedford.

He tried to remember everything that had happened—Mindy bloody and dead; Sokowski promising to help, then kicking and hurting him; Carl talking of his kids and not wanting to go to jail—but all the thinking made his head feel fuzzy and funny, and he wanted it to go away. His fingers ran along his jaw. It was soft and swollen. Tender to the touch.

Danny sat there in the pile of snow and let things come into slow focus around him. He peered over the edge of the platform and saw that he was high off the ground—higher than any building he'd ever been in. He leaned back against the old pine and rubbed at a funny feeling on his scalp. A layer of snow and ice had frozen on his
head—it felt like he was wearing a bathing cap. He wondered if part of his brain was frozen, too, but he didn't know if that was even possible.

As all his senses came back to him, he could smell the fresh sap from the pine—sweet and bitter at the same time. He wiggled his toes in his boots, slow at first, then got some feeling back. He didn't want to lose his toes to frostbite. Uncle Brett had told him a story about a man he called a “dumb-ass.” Uncle Brett said the dumb-ass was from New Jersey and that he had no place hunting in these mountains. Danny remembered that the dumb-ass got lost and spent the night out in the woods, all alone, until hunters found him the next day. The dumb-ass hadn't been wearing good boots and had gotten frostbite on his toes. Two of them turned black, and a doctor had to cut them off. Danny didn't think Doc Pete was the doctor who did that, but he couldn't remember. What he did know for sure was that he didn't want to have any of his toes turn black and get cut off. He wasn't sure how he would be able to walk without all his toes.

His tongue clicked in his throat, stuck to the roof of his mouth like peanut butter, so Danny scooped up some snow and dropped it over his throbbing lips. He couldn't chew it, so he let it melt instead. A few drops trickled down his throat, and his stomach grumbled angrily, wanting more than just water. Eggs and bacon sure sounded good right about now.

Danny crawled to the edge of the deer stand and peered down again. His footprints were covered up by all the snow that had fallen during the night, and he couldn't tell which direction he had come from.

Uncle Brett had tried to teach him north, south, east, and west by looking up at the sun, but it was too hard for Danny to remember. Something about where moss grows or using the shadow of the
sun on a stick or tree, but that didn't make any sense to him if there were no numbers to tell the time. Uncle Brett had gotten mad at Danny and slapped him hard on the back of the head.

How many times I got to tell you? Sun sets in the west, shithead.

Danny had nodded like he would remember next time, but he never did.

Now Danny gripped the edge of the platform and lowered his boots to the top rung of the ladder. He held on to each plank of wood real tight and worked his way down the side of the tree, slow and easy. Ice was frozen on the planks, and Danny didn't want to slip and knock his face against the tree. It took a few minutes to climb down—he was a lot slower than a squirrel running down a tree. When he reached the bottom, he leaned against the old pine and his breath rattled in his chest.

He looked around him at the woods. It all looked the same. Nothing but trees as far as the eye could see. Part of him wanted to climb back up into the deer stand and wait. Wait for someone to come and help him. Tell him what to do. Tell him that everything was gonna be okay.

But Danny knew that wasn't going to happen. Folks like the sheriff and Doc Pete thought he was the one who'd hurt Mindy, and they would want to put him in jail and lock him up forever. Even if he told the truth, that Mindy was already dead when he got there, everybody thought that he was dumb, and who would believe someone who was so dumb? Plus, deputies were supposed to protect people, not hurt them, so no one would believe that Deputy Sokowski had done anything bad.

Jail scared Danny. It was a place full of bad people who hurt other people. He sure didn't want to go there. Danny forgot all about the notion of jail when he saw something flicker in the woods up ahead
of him. Maybe it was the voice in his head. Maybe it was back to help him.

A shape moved behind the trees. It was moving real peculiar. Jerking up and down like the Easter Bunny. But whatever it might be, it was much bigger than a rabbit. Besides, Uncle Brett said that there was no such thing as the Easter Bunny.

The shape kept moving right toward him. Danny pressed up against the tree and stayed right where he was. Maybe it was the sheriff or the deputy. He figured that they would be out looking for him by now. The shape stopped every now and again before continuing on. It jerked up and down and came closer. It moved behind a clump of large pines and disappeared for a second. When it stepped out, Danny could finally see what it was.

It was a white-tailed doe. Danny didn't see any antlers, so he knew it wasn't a buck. The deer had its snout up in the air and was searching for either food or signs of danger. It would stop, twitch its ears a few times, and then move on.

When it got closer, Danny could see why it was hopping like a bunny—the doe had only three legs. Danny kept real still and watched the deer as it hobbled along. After it got to where Danny could see its eyes, he saw the reason why it only had three legs. A hunter's arrow was stuck in the flesh around its shoulder, over the left front leg. Or where its left front leg used to be. The shaft of the arrow was splintered off and stuck out a few inches. The doe had lost most of its fur around the arrow, and the skin was dark green and oozing pus and blood.

Danny had never seen anything like it before. He figured that the poor deer's leg must have fallen off somehow, and now it was forced to hop around on just three.

The doe stuck its snout in the snow and searched for some leaves
or berries to eat. She was pretty skinny, ribs sticking out like a washboard under her brown fur. She limped up not ten feet from Danny and the tree. Then the wind turned, and the doe finally caught Danny's scent. She froze and looked right at him. Uncle Brett said that deer were color-blind and couldn't see people if they stood real still. But the doe could smell him.

Danny stood motionless and observed every move the doe made—ears twitching, tail snapping. The deer's black eyes watched him closely right back. She snorted at him, trying to spook him.

Danny steadied his breath and licked at his lips. “I ain't gonna hurt you,” he whispered softly. His swollen tongue made it sound thick and slurred.
Ah ain' gon' hurr ya
.

The doe's ears pressed back against her skull, then twitched a few more times. She fidgeted uneasily as Danny reached out toward her. He held his palms out and spoke softly again. “I ain't gonna hurt you.”

The doe's ears went back up, and she limped toward him a foot or so.

Danny still had his hands out in front of him. “I don't know where to go.”

The doe gave him a final sniff and began to limp past him and move deeper into the woods. She looked back at him one last time before hobbling on—almost like she was waiting for him. Danny watched her for a second and then began to follow after the doe.