“Honey, you’ve got charm written all over you. You think I married you for your short hair and master’s degree in English?”

My hair had been little more than a bristle when I’d left St. Stephen’s and only half an inch longer than that when I met Jack at the Sixty-fifth Precinct. “I never thought of myself as charming,” I said.

“Hey, that’s why you’ve got me. To let you know how terrific you are.”

Marriage is a never-ending wonder.

—

Jack called his friend in the morning and got both meticulous directions to Sergeant Albert DiMartino’s little house and a strong caution on DiMartino’s personality. “I’ll translate it into polite language because you don’t want to hear the original,” Jack said when he got off the phone. “He says the guy acts like a rotten bastard.”

“And that’s the clean version.”

“Very clean. My friend was really ticked. He made the trip with Al’s best interests at heart—he thought Al got a raw deal on the job—and Al wouldn’t open his door. I’m having second thoughts about you going there, but my recollection is, he was always very nice to women, probably too nice.”

“If he doesn’t open his door, there isn’t much chance of trouble.”

“I guess that means you’re going.”

“I’m also packing a bag. There must be a motel around the area. I’ll check with Sandy before I go. But I may not get home tonight.”

“Here we go again, huh?”

“You know I’ll miss you.”

“Just keep calling, OK?”

“You couldn’t stop me.”

—

Sandy was all for it. He asked if my expense fund needed an infusion and I said I’d let him know. I hadn’t been billed for the newspaper ads yet, so I hadn’t drawn all that much out of the bank. Before I left, I put the rest of the expense money in our checking account so I could pay a motel bill if I had to. I called Mel and told her where I was going.

“A forensic sculptor?” she said in surprise. “Where is all this leading?”

“I hope to someone who knows or knew Natalie. Our ad in an Indiana paper got a response.” I described it and she gasped. “So I’ll be going to Broome County in a little while.”

“Poor Jack.”

“I know. But he put me up to this. I think he gets as much of a kick as I do when I turn up something.”

“Happy landings.”

—

Route 17 took me right into Broome County, and then the directions Jack had written down took over. On a road that was generously considered secondary, I finally spotted Cowles’s Fruit Orchard, alerting me that I had a turn coming up. It seemed impossible, but the next road was in worse shape than the last one, pitted and rutted, so narrow I would have to move off it onto a nonexistent shoulder if anyone approached, which was not very likely. The next landmark was a sign that said PROCEED AT OWN RISK, but that sign had not survived. It lay defeated in the scrub at the side of the road, a victim, perhaps, of Al DiMartino himself in a fit of anger, or of a windstorm or a large animal on a dark night. I slowed to a crawl, searching the left side of the road for Mr. DiMartino’s “driveway.” Even so, I missed it, realizing only after my front wheels had overshot it that the track into the woods and brush was the “drive.”

I backed up and turned sharply, my first real fears materializing as I pulled into the narrow opening. I would have missed it completely if not for the tire treads imprinted in the snow. I drove slowly, encountering no obstructions, and suddenly, ahead of me, there was a clearing with a small wooden structure on the right and a car parked in a kind of lean- to tacked onto the right-hand side.

I left my car in the clearing and got out. The front door must have been the only entrance, because there were footprints and trampled snow between it and the carport. It was so quiet that I was sure he must have heard my car pull up, but there was no sound from inside either. I walked up to the door, looked for a bell, and then, laughing at my naïveté, knocked loudly. There was no answer.

I knocked again and called, “Mr. DiMartino?”

“Go away,” an angry man’s voice came back at me. “I don’t give directions.”

“I want to talk to you.”

“I don’t speak the language.”

I smiled. “Well, I’ll speak yours.”

Suddenly the curtain in the window of the door was pulled aside. “What the hell do you want?”

“I want to talk to you. I’m told you’re a forensic sculptor.”

“Get outa here.” The curtain closed and I heard him walk away.

“I need your services, Sergeant,” I said.

“Leave me alone. You’re bothering me.”

“It’s cold out here. Could I just come in and warm up?”

“No!”

I hadn’t been exaggerating. I was freezing. If he didn’t let me inside pretty soon, I was going to have to get in the car and warm myself up or drive somewhere warm. “I have something very interesting for you, Sergeant DiMartino. Would you just give me ten minutes to tell you about it?”

In answer I saw the twin barrels of a shotgun on the other side of the window.

—

I backed away off to the side. Maybe he really was crazy and I had made a terrible mistake coming here. I thought he was an embittered man living alone; I hadn’t imagined he was crazy enough to shoot an unarmed stranger. It occurred to me that my car might well be within range of his gun, and if he shot out a couple of my tires, I would have one terrible hike in the cold back to the orchard.

I leaned against the front of the house so he could not see me without opening the door. Somehow I thought he just wanted to scare me away, not come out in the cold and do me harm. I also didn’t think he really wanted to shoot through his window on a day as cold as this. Since I had come in a car, he would know I was still here as long as the car was parked in front of his windows. I thought about my next move and came up with nothing. If I drove to the road and walked back to the house, I would surprise him, but what good would that do? It was unlikely he had a phone, so going somewhere and calling was out of the question. He could wear me down much easier than the reverse. I knew he had heat inside because I had seen smoke from somewhere as I approached, and as I stood there I smelled some woodsmoke as the wind shifted. Ergo he could hold out forever while I froze to death.

I was really cold now and I was torn between waiting for him to change his mind because of my persistence and attending to my needs. Frostbite wasn’t going to improve my life, and my fingers and toes were already complaining. I inched back to the door. The curtain was in place and there was no sign of the shotgun. He had put it aside and was ignoring me.

“Sergeant DiMartino,” I called.

“Get offa my property.”

“I’m looking for a woman who’s disappeared. I need someone to make a sculpture for me and I’ve been told you’re the best.”

“I’m retired. Leave me alone.”

“I’m prepared to pay you well for your services.”

There was silence. I had been prepared all along to pay him, but I had hoped he would agree to talk to me before the question of money came up. Having worked so many years for a stipend that never exceeded a hundred dollars a month, I sometimes have difficulty judging value. But this man might genuinely need money. I didn’t know the particulars of his problems with the police department, and I had no idea whether he was living on an adequate pension. Judging from his digs, he might not be.

I waited in the silent cold, hoping he would change his mind. I gave him ten frigid minutes, but nothing happened. “Sergeant?” I called. “Can we talk about it?”

“Come back tomorrow. I’m busy today.”

“Will you do it then? Will you talk to me?”

“I don’t know.”

Was it the money or was it the challenge? It was already too late for me to drive back to Oakwood. I hadn’t seen the sun for hours because of the overcast sky, but now it was getting darker and I didn’t want to drive unfamiliar snowy roads at night. It looked as though I was going to have to find a motel and make a decision tomorrow about what else to do.