Art by Darryl Elliott

(c)2006 by Brendan DuBois

They were on a wooded hill overlooking a ravine that the locals called Merl’s Cut as the October afternoon settled into dusk. Patrolman Jay Newman sat on a moss-covered log, feet crossed, breaking small pine sticks into thumb-sized pieces of wood, which he tossed into a pile at his feet. A few feet from him Chief Frank Dow sat with his back against a white birch tree trunk, smoking a pipe. The chief wore the standard green uniform and like Jay, he also wore a green jacket with a shield and shoulder patch that said CRAWFORD POLICE. His face was red and if one looked closely, there was a tiny network of burst blood vessels that looked like a red spiderweb on one cheek. Jay looked over at the ravine, listening to the faint sound of water trickling along a stream making its way to the bottom. He was twenty-eight years old and hoped his face wouldn’t look as bad as that when he got older.

“Sorry I’m tying up your Saturday night, Jay,” the chief said, gently sucking at the black pipe stem.

“It’s all right, Chief,” Jay said, lying, because it sure as hell wasn’t all right. Earlier, he had planned a date with a young woman who worked at the Crawford Savings & Loan. Not much of a date-a dinner in town and a movie over at Drake’s Mill, which had the only movie theater in this part of the county-but he had to cancel it all. Instead of some lovely female company, he was here, miles away from the center of Crawford village and almost everything else civilized, all because of a crazy old woman. But when you and the chief make up two-thirds of the department, and when the other third of the department is on vacation up in Maine, well, there isn’t much else you can do.

The chief puffed on his pipe, letting a thin stream of smoke escape from his lips. “It’ll be dark soon,” he said. “Mrs. Tate said the lights appear about an hour after that.”