ALL THAT GLITTERS, chapter 1

chapter 16

Chapter 16

Lucky listened to her friends. At least, she heard the words they were saying – but she couldn’t put things together. The last straw had landed on her, and it was all too much. She just kept saying no to Michelle, no to Jon. But finally Sandy told her again quietly, holding both of her hands: “We need him, Lucky. It’s not just you in this. We’re in it with you and we’re not walking out on any of it. But you know Roger’s got the tracking skills to figure out where the snowmobile went, or where it came from, one or the other. And,” she dropped her voice, “he’s got a legitimate firearm. I mean, so we don’t want it, we maybe don’t need it, but if we do, you know?”

That was taking it too far. Lucky dug inside for the words. “I’m sorry, Sandy. I’m scared, and we’re all scared, but we can’t turn this into some kind of home defense with guns thing. If it’s that scary, let’s call the police.”

Michelle and Jon exchanged looks. Michelle pointed out, “The police are still after your mother, aren’t they? Do we have enough to get them to change their minds?”

That was the question. They had pieces of a couple of things, but Lucky admitted it wasn’t enough. Not enough evidence, and not enough grasp of how it all fit together. At the same time, though, she admitted they were right about Roger. “Okay. I’ll call him. But just for the tracking, right?”

“Right!”

“Of course!”

Yeah, right. Lucky pulled out her phone. Roger wasn’t on her speed dial anymore. But her fingers knew the number, would know it always, dark or light, early or late. You don’t forget the phone number of the guy you hung out with for four years of high school, even when you’ve spent two and a half months in Boston, looking for what the rest of the world could offer. All that work to leave Vermont, and here she was, sucked back into it.

“Roger? It’s me. Yeah, it’s been a rough day. Listen, Sandy and Michelle and Jon are here with me at my dad’s bookstore, you know? And, like, we could use your help, if you’ve got maybe an hour available. Yeah, right now. It’s, umm, it’s kind of an emergency. The tracking kind. In the snow. So, umm, you don’t want to mess up the tracks in front of the shop. Come to the back door.”

A moment later she put the phone in her pocket and nodded. “He’s coming. Let’s get this stuff cleaned up so we’re ready to take off when he gets here. Here’s what I think we ought to do.”

Eight minutes later, the front desk was clear, the Newcomb books back in their labeled box, the last of the papers returned to the recycling bin, all the lights out except the front door light and the rear one, and one small safety light in the front room – and the lamp over the sleeping tortoise in the back. On impulse, Lucky kept the stack of papers with the architectural drawings and downtown building maps. She slipped them into her backpack, and while the others lugged the recycling bins back to their usual places, she tried her mother’s cell phone again. It went straight to voice mail. She left another message: “Mom, you’ve got us all worried. Could you call in, please, and just let us know where you are? Please?”

She also checked her messages and found a text from Jake: “Dad sleeping better. No visitors. Have pulled chair across his doorway, catching ZZZ. Mssge me when you find Mom.”

A gust of cold air told her the back door was open. Lucky pulled on her jacket and tugged the backpack straps over her shoulders, and crossed the suddenly huge distance from the front room to the rear, where Jon was fisting Roger’s shoulder and Sandy was texting someone.

Roger’s eyes met hers, and for a moment the room stood still, as Lucky felt her Vermont self rise up inside on tiptoes, ready to be embraced. Her Boston pre-law self, though, stood tall in a different way, and she held out a hand to grasp Roger’s. The warmth and strength of his grip almost undid her. She drew in a sharp breath and said, more crisply than she’d meant to, “Thanks for coming, Roger. None of us really know how to follow the snowmobile, or find out where it came from. And the person or persons riding it – that’s the one who probably shot my father.”