caller was Larrabee.
“Doc? What’s wrong?”
“My neighbor Ben Sprague just called. He and his wife, Doris, just had someone show up at their door, frozen solid. They want me to come over and have a look at the guy. It sounds like he’s in rough shape. Would you mind heading back this way? I’m in no condition to drive.”
“Where’s Kendrick?”
“He’s going to head over to the Spragues’ on his dogsled.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“It sounds like that poor fellow is in rough shape,” Doc said again for emphasis.
Without a second thought, I did a slow U-turn and began creeping through the blizzard to Doc’s farmhouse.
I found him at the foot of his drive, bundled up from head to toe, with only the tip of his nose and his fogged-over eyeglasses exposed. He wore an Elmer Fudd–style hunting hat with the flaps buttoned under his chin, and he’d wrapped a scarf tightly around his mouth and beard. He was toting his black doctor’s bag again. I wondered what medicine or instruments a veterinarian might possess to treat a human being for frostbite and hypothermia.
He climbed in beside me, set his leather bag on his knees, and pulled the safety belt tight across his chest. “The Bog Pond Road is up here on your right,” he said. “Look for the tall mailbox.”
The tall mailbox? Soon enough, I saw a candy-striped pole sticking up from a snowbank. Nine feet up in the air, a mailbox was balanced on top of it. The words AIR MAIL were painted on the side—someone’s idea of a real knee-slapper.
The Bog Pond Road was in considerably worse shape than the main drag. You would have believed it had been months since a plow truck last visited. The snow was piled above the headlights of my Jeep, yet somehow we managed to push through the drifts without getting stuck.
We passed a darkened trailer that seemed to have been abandoned for the winter, then another ranch house with boarded-up windows.
“What’s that noise?” asked Doc.
“Where?”
The raging wind was so loud, I almost didn’t hear the snowmobile. A single yellow light, like a bouncing lantern, showed in the dark ahead of us. While we watched, it grew larger and larger, brighter and brighter. Some fool was riding his sled straight down the middle of the road.
“Can’t he see us?” asked Doc.
I let up on the gas and engaged the clutch. The Jeep crunched to a halt.
The snowmobile seemed to be accelerating as it drew nearer.
Larrabee pushed himself back against the seat and straightened his arms against the dash. “That idiot is playing chicken!”
I clenched my molars, but at the last possible moment, the snowmobile veered off to our right, narrowly missing a row of spruces that ran down the hill. I caught a glimpse of a goblin-green sled with a person dressed in the same color snowmobile suit. Then the rider disappeared into the darkness behind us.
“Who the hell was that?” said Doc.
Unbidden, the face of Barney Beal popped into my head. “I don’t know,” I said, “but he’s going to wrap himself around a tree if he keeps that shit up.”
I put the Jeep into gear. The wheels spun and the vehicle began to shake like a dog just emerging from a cold lake. We were going nowhere fast.
“The Spragues live at the bottom of this hill, not far from the Bog Stream bridge,” Doc said. “We can walk there.”
While Larrabee waited, I grabbed a few supplies. I pulled a halogen headlamp over my Gore-Tex cap. I dumped ice-fishing tip-ups out of an ash pack basket. I found a wool blanket and a wilderness first-aid kit.
When I looked up with the dancing beam of the headlamp, I saw Doc hurrying down the road in the dark. The liquor in his system had already done a number on his judgment.
“Hold up, Doc!”
I pulled the straps of the wooden pack basket over my arms and retrieved my snowshoes from the Jeep. I slid my boots into the bindings and tightened the rawhide cords. Then I started off down the hill.
Larrabee
“Doc? What’s wrong?”
“My neighbor Ben Sprague just called. He and his wife, Doris, just had someone show up at their door, frozen solid. They want me to come over and have a look at the guy. It sounds like he’s in rough shape. Would you mind heading back this way? I’m in no condition to drive.”
“Where’s Kendrick?”
“He’s going to head over to the Spragues’ on his dogsled.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“It sounds like that poor fellow is in rough shape,” Doc said again for emphasis.
Without a second thought, I did a slow U-turn and began creeping through the blizzard to Doc’s farmhouse.
I found him at the foot of his drive, bundled up from head to toe, with only the tip of his nose and his fogged-over eyeglasses exposed. He wore an Elmer Fudd–style hunting hat with the flaps buttoned under his chin, and he’d wrapped a scarf tightly around his mouth and beard. He was toting his black doctor’s bag again. I wondered what medicine or instruments a veterinarian might possess to treat a human being for frostbite and hypothermia.
He climbed in beside me, set his leather bag on his knees, and pulled the safety belt tight across his chest. “The Bog Pond Road is up here on your right,” he said. “Look for the tall mailbox.”
The tall mailbox? Soon enough, I saw a candy-striped pole sticking up from a snowbank. Nine feet up in the air, a mailbox was balanced on top of it. The words AIR MAIL were painted on the side—someone’s idea of a real knee-slapper.
The Bog Pond Road was in considerably worse shape than the main drag. You would have believed it had been months since a plow truck last visited. The snow was piled above the headlights of my Jeep, yet somehow we managed to push through the drifts without getting stuck.
We passed a darkened trailer that seemed to have been abandoned for the winter, then another ranch house with boarded-up windows.
“What’s that noise?” asked Doc.
“Where?”
The raging wind was so loud, I almost didn’t hear the snowmobile. A single yellow light, like a bouncing lantern, showed in the dark ahead of us. While we watched, it grew larger and larger, brighter and brighter. Some fool was riding his sled straight down the middle of the road.
“Can’t he see us?” asked Doc.
I let up on the gas and engaged the clutch. The Jeep crunched to a halt.
The snowmobile seemed to be accelerating as it drew nearer.
Larrabee pushed himself back against the seat and straightened his arms against the dash. “That idiot is playing chicken!”
I clenched my molars, but at the last possible moment, the snowmobile veered off to our right, narrowly missing a row of spruces that ran down the hill. I caught a glimpse of a goblin-green sled with a person dressed in the same color snowmobile suit. Then the rider disappeared into the darkness behind us.
“Who the hell was that?” said Doc.
Unbidden, the face of Barney Beal popped into my head. “I don’t know,” I said, “but he’s going to wrap himself around a tree if he keeps that shit up.”
I put the Jeep into gear. The wheels spun and the vehicle began to shake like a dog just emerging from a cold lake. We were going nowhere fast.
“The Spragues live at the bottom of this hill, not far from the Bog Stream bridge,” Doc said. “We can walk there.”
While Larrabee waited, I grabbed a few supplies. I pulled a halogen headlamp over my Gore-Tex cap. I dumped ice-fishing tip-ups out of an ash pack basket. I found a wool blanket and a wilderness first-aid kit.
When I looked up with the dancing beam of the headlamp, I saw Doc hurrying down the road in the dark. The liquor in his system had already done a number on his judgment.
“Hold up, Doc!”
I pulled the straps of the wooden pack basket over my arms and retrieved my snowshoes from the Jeep. I slid my boots into the bindings and tightened the rawhide cords. Then I started off down the hill.
Larrabee
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