Then Jewett is beneath me. I am looking down on his black-helmeted head and snow-dusted shoulders. The barrel of the shotgun drops suddenly. The flashlight finds my deep footprints, the spot where I leapt into the sky. I can sense his thought process as he lifts his head.

I let go of the ladder and fall as hard as I can upon him.

22

The crown of Pill Hill had once been forested. Now it was an exposed, windswept place. Whoever had developed the hilltop had sawed and knocked down every tree for twenty acres around the cell tower that loomed above the mobile homes. Between the huddled trailers, not a single sapling had been planted. The sheet-metal houses must have shuddered every time a storm blew through. One good nor’easter would send them all packing to the Land of Oz.

As far as I could tell, the road consisted of a loop—one way in, one way out. At the entrance stood a mail kiosk with maybe twenty boxes. A foot of aged snow covered what must have been a lawn around it. Sunny days and subzero nights had caused the snow to melt and refreeze, and dirty boots had punched holes through the crust to the softer stuff beneath.

Adjacent to the parking lot were two dumpsters. One was closed; the other had been left open and was overflowing with waste. Crows were hopping around inside, tearing apart trash bags and scattering pizza boxes and Styrofoam food containers in their pirate’s quest for booty. These birds must have belonged to the massive roost Charley had mentioned.

The crows took to the air when I parked the Jeep. Three of them landed on the power lines to wait me out.

I powered down the window and scanned the mailboxes, but only a few had names on them. Arlo Burch’s was not among them.

Across the plowed and sanded road was a sad playground with monkey bars and a swing set. The plank seats hung from chains. They swung in the wind as if from ghost children at play.

I hadn’t even noticed the living kids. There were two of them, and they had been lying flat on the hard frozen ground. Their hats and coats were white when they rose to their feet. They’d been trying and failing to make snow angels in the packed crust.

I had always been bad at judging the ages of children. All I could say about these two was that they were closing in on puberty but hadn’t hit it yet.

“Hey, kids. Do any of you know where Mr. Burch lives?”

The boy had a moon face, dusky skin, auburn curls. The girl was so pale and blond she looked as if she’d once fallen into a vat of bleach.

“You a cop, right?” said the boy.

“Close,” I said. “I’m a game warden. My name is Mike Bowditch. What’s yours?”