Page 9 of The Frozen River

Once he’s taken the white Rook with the black Bishop, he looks up from the board. The iris of his good eye has grown milky in recent years, turning the once soft blue into a muddled kind of gray. It is less disturbing, however, than the sunken void where his other eye used to be. The man refuses to wear a patch.

“It’s early yet. What brings ye to the Hook?” he asks.

“A birth and a death, among other things.”

He smiles, and—what with his multiple deformities—the effect should be grotesque. But it is charming instead. “Souls passing in the night, I take it? Who’s come and gone?”

“Charles and Betsy Clark have another daughter,” I tell him, smiling at his raised eyebrow, then add, “And someone has killed Joshua Burgess.”

“Ah. That’s who they found in the river, then.”

“How did you hear?”

“Half the town has heard by now.”

“Only half?”

“The rest are late sleepers.”

This is why I’ve taken the time to visit Samuel Coleman before heading home. Nothing happens in the Hook without his knowledge. He is known in town as Dr. Coleman, though no one has ever seen him practice medicine. Nor would any trust him to do so given that he possesses only the one eye and a total of six fingers: two on his left and four on his right. Theories abound as to how he lost them, ranging from reasonable (war injuries) to ridiculous (torture by pirates). For his part, Coleman lets those in the Hook think whatever they wish and never bothers to confirm or deny any of their speculations. In fact, when he chooses to speak at all it is usually to grouse about the French claim that their literature is superior to that of their En glish counterparts. Whatever he holds against the French is a grudge he means to keep to himself. It is his ability to listen, however, that makes him valuable to me.

“But are they saying anything about who might have done it?”

“I’d imagine there are several men who have cause. Isaac Foster comes to mind immediately. Not to mention Joseph North. And dozens more who were known to dislike him. I’ve not heard a specific name if that’s what you’re asking.” He winks. “But the shop ain’t been open an hour yet, so give me time.”

“You’ll tell me though?”

He nods.

Several years ago, Coleman and I formed a trade agreement of sorts. Mostly we barter books and information, but occasionally household goods as well. He holds back any reading material that comes through, and I keep him stocked in candles. The gossip is free.

“I’ll check back in a few days,” I tell him.

“Is there anything else you need while you’re here?”

“Just one thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“What do you know about this new doctor who’s come to town?”

BALLARD’S MILL

It is late morning by the time I return home, and the winter sun is hidden behind a veil of drab clouds. The light feels weak and sickly, as though sifted through old cheesecloth. I ride Brutus through the woods and into the clearing, where I pause at a fork in the drive. Right will take me down to the mill, where I can hear the heavy whack-whack of my husband’s axe. But left will take me up the rise to the house where my girls are caring for Sam Dawin.

I am debating which path to take when I see the silver fox.

There, on the slope that leads to the south pasture, clear against the snow, is a lithe creature, almost entirely black, with piercing amber eyes. She is stunning. Vicious and proud. And I’d sooner shoot one of those trappers myself than let them turn her into a fur stole. Brutus twitches beneath me, curious and on edge, however. He is no fan of tooth or claw. But the little beast neither moves nor makes a sound.

After a long, lazy yawn in which her pink tongue unfurls into an S, she turns her pointed head to look up the hill toward the house. Then back to me. And back to the drive. Three times she does this, slow and certain. Back and forth. Then—out of nowhere—she yaps at me, sending Brutus into a wild jerk. It is a howling, barking noise. But not like a dog. Nor a wolf. Not the mean yip and snarl of a coyote. It is a sharp-toothed and feral sound. Caterwauling, my husband would say.

Finally, the fox sniffs the air, sits back on her haunches, and licks one tufted paw, as though satisfied.

She wants me to go to the house, I think, and am so startled by the realization that I gasp. The fox lifts her head at the sound, meets my gaze again, then springs to her feet and trots toward the woods.

“Stay safe, little one,” I tell her, and urge Brutus up the hill.

Our youngest son, Ephraim—a boy just turned eleven and named for his father—meets me at the garden gate. He reaches for the reins as I dismount Brutus.