LITMIR.BIZ

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the increase in car accidents caused by lovesick deer or, depending on one’s point of view, the increase in the number of deer killed by careless drivers.

      “As a matter of fact, deer do travel farther during mating season, and when they pair off they’ll cross the road to get to …” I couldn’t think how to describe it. “Their love nest, I guess.”

      “Love doesn’t enter into it.”

      Oh God, was he a hater of hyperbole? A stickler for accuracy? Like, I have to say, my ex-husband. I wasn’t going to concede, so I shut up. The beeper went off again.

      “Isn’t that for you?” I asked.

      “I’ve got a security company, and when I’m on duty my brother’s supposed to pick up. Don’t know where he is.” He looked exasperated by this problem. Did it occur often? He extricated his beeper from his front pants pocket, lifting his rear off the seat to do so. He was chunky around the midsection. “You should write about DUIs instead of Mary Burns.” This was a reference to another column I’d written, about a woman who had reported her underpants stolen from a dryer in the laundromat. I hadn’t realized until now how carefully my work was read. By everyone? Or just by him?

      “DUIs. I’ll suggest that to the editor.”

      “Under-age drinking, too. That’s another problem.”

      I jumped on him. “Are you talking about my son?”

      “sam?”

      “Do you know him?”

      “Everyone knows him, he’s got no hair. Hangs out with Deidre. I wasn’t referring to him.”

      “Oh.” Everyone knows Sam? No, everyone knows of Sam. Points out the weirdo. Speculates about him. And who was Deidre? Did McKee know more about my child than I did?

      He tapped some more numbers into his beeper and studied the response. “How’s your ankle doing?” He turned and smiled. This had the effect of a car’s brights coming at me on a dark night.

      “My ankle’s fine.” If I didn’t move, it didn’t hurt. “I’m fine.”

      “You say that a lot. ‘I’m fine.’” He imitated me, catching the cadence of the brave little soldier.

      “I’m sorry I was rude to you before. In the market. I truly am sorry.” I changed the subject and spoke in what I hoped was an especially bland manner. “Is someone’s alarm going off?”

      “Yes. I need to take a detour. Five minutes is all.”

      So he wanted a favor. That gorgeous smile was manipulation, his ace in the hole.

      “Are you in pain?” he asked.

      “No. Absolutely not.” I urged him to go ahead, take his detour, not to think twice about it. I practically slobbered goodwill. It was a way to regain equal footing.

      “You can’t write about this,” he said.

      “Of course not.” We both knew why. It wasn’t police business.

      McKee turned left, heading south of Main. He informed Dispatch that he was taking a short break, and we sped through the posh part of town. In less than two minutes we reached Ocean Drive, where residences could house battalions.

      Although most of these mansions, spaced football fields apart, were uninhabited in the off-season, the air was alive with electronic buzz. Upkeep. Gardeners, carpenters, contractors—their vans and trucks lined the road. The noisy equipment provided an affectionate reminder of jackhammers in New York City streets. My ears were at home here.

      We entered a narrow driveway between two fat round bushes. On an identifying marker, NICHOLAS was spelled out in brass letters on white wood. McKee slowed the car to a crawl.

      “I don’t hear an alarm.”

      “It’s silent, but in any event, it’s not registering on the pager. Probably someone leaving the house tripped it and screwed up a few times before setting it right.” His voice was relaxed, but his posture alert, attention shifting left to right. Perhaps someone was lurking behind the stately trees along the gravel drive.

      “Why do these people have alarms, anyway?” As a devotee of the police log, I knew that Mary Burns’s purloined underpants was about as serious as crime got.

      “Who knows.” He laughed. “They like to spend money. They like to imagine someone’s after their stuff. They like to keep my business going.” He snapped open the ashtray; it was jammed with old Mynten wrappers. As we wedged ours in, the shade trees ended, releasing us into a bright sun that illuminated a blanket of pea green. Couture grass. It stretched for what looked like a quarter-mile, interrupted by a few freestanding curved and clipped hedges. On a small upward slope stood a two-story gabled house with weathered gray shingles and white shutters. The white rail on the wooden porch broke for wide shallow steps to the door.

      McKee pulled up in front. “Stay here.”

      “In the car?”

      “Yes. And don’t take any notes.”

      “I won’t. I told you, I’m not working. I can’t even walk.”

      Craning this way and that, I spotted no life whatsoever—nothing left out that needed to be put back, like lawn furniture or bicycles or a stranded mower. No cars were parked in the driveway or near the garage. This was obviously a false alarm.

      After ringing the doorbell repeatedly, McKee began peeking in windows, then disappeared around the porch to the back. I occupied myself by inspecting his vehicle.

      Was it a department violation to leave me alone inside? That would make two department violations, doing private work on police time and leaving an unguarded citizen in his cop car. His walkie-talkie hung off the dash; I could transmit false messages. I could completely screw up his life. Why this notion crossed my mind, I have no idea. I consider myself a moral person, the sort who accepts the first invitation and never cancels if a better offer comes along. When a waitress miscalculates a bill in my favor, I point it out. What was in McKee’s briefcase? To take my mind off subjects that were none of my affair, I examined my ankle.

      Baby had left little doggie teeth marks. The skin around them was rosy pink and puffy. I tapped the wound lightly. This produced a drumbeat of pain, not terrible, even by my standards. There was no serious blood loss. If I washed the cuts, I probably wouldn’t have to go to the hospital. All I needed was water. And Bactine. I should definitely apply some antiseptic, and soon.

      I opened the car door. The Nicholases must have some form of germ killer. I didn’t want to get a massive infection from a dog bite and lose a leg. I could imagine my city friends discussing how ironic it was. Lily moved there to protect her son, and look what happened to her. People in the city loved irony, while it didn’t seem to be valued at all in Sakonnet Bay. I suspected this was something Sakonnet citizens were right about. I’d find McKee and ask him to let me borrow some Bactine from the medicine cabinet.

      I stood outside the car. The quiet was daunting. “Sergeant McKee?” I called softly.

      The air was cool, a damp cool, and the breeze chilly. I zipped my jacket and tried to walk. If I pressed only the ball of my right foot on the ground, I could move along briskly. Holding the railing for support, I hopped up the front steps, and then, following McKee’s trail, jerked my way across the front porch and around to the back, where I stopped. Everyone knew this was beachfront property, but the contrast between the manicured, civilized front and this wildness behind was startling. Had a kind of truth-telling to it. This is what’s really here. This is what’s hidden. I half expected to hear Twilight Zone music, but the moment passed quickly and then it was only beach. Beach on a gray day. Waves choppy, sand strewn with detritus left by low tide and angry water. Beyond the porch and a tangle of beach plums, I could see tire marks in the wet sand.

      A French door in the back stood partly open. “Sergeant McKee? Tom?” I wasn’t sure how I was expected

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