The Devil's Dust by C.B. Forrest Page A

means he can’t attend calls. Administrative duty on a force this small, with so few calls and reports, may as well mean a week of staring at the coffee pot. He tries to read the various magazines to which he subscribes in his attempt to remain connected to the greater world — The Economist, Newsweek, Maclean’s, Atlantic Monthly — but the lines jump and his head begins to pound from behind his eyes.
    His first concern upon his return to the station is obtaining a status update on Travis Lacey. He pulls the report and scans it, squinting, taking long breaks to close his eyes in a vain attempt to clear his vision. The report, filed by both the Chief and Pete Younger, pieces together the moments which are lost to Ed Nolan’s memory.
    At 9:48 a.m. dispatch received a call from Bob Lacey reporting Officer Nolan had been assaulted by Travis Lacey. Constable Younger is dispatched. An ambulance is also dispatched from the small medical clinic in town — there is one ambulance which runs between Saint B and Big Water First Nation. At 10:06, Constable Younger arrives at the scene and reports “Officer Down” to dispatch. The report lays out the facts: “Constable Nolan is lying sideways on the snow, unresponsive but with vital signs, blood pooling at his head.” Younger asks the Laceys to gather blankets to keep Nolan warm until the ambulance arrives. The scene secured, Constable Younger’s attention immediately turns to the search for Travis Lacey.
    Younger does not need to look far. Younger reports that as he makes his way down the laneway, Travis appears “around the right side of the garage, holding a snow shovel in a threatening manner.” Constable Younger pulls his weapon. Here Nolan stops, conjuring the image in his mind’s eye, knowing it is the first time the young cop has removed his weapon from its holster — not insignificant in a policing career. But the chaotic arrival into the scene of the boy’s mother, her shouts and pleas, must reach through the trance. Travis Lacey sets the shovel aside and starts to laugh as though it all must be some sort of joke.
    Nolan scans through the report, his headache pulsating with each heartbeat. Travis was arrested at the scene, booked into the single Saint B holding cell. The Chief was called down to the station and it was decided to lay a charge of attempted murder. The boy was transferred to Monteith Correctional Centre outside Timmins to await a first appearance on the serious charge.
    â€œJesus,” Nolan says as he sits there in the quiet of the station. He tries to imagine how terrified Travis Lacey must be right now, sitting on a jail range with a bunch of reprobates and hardened cons. Or the worry his mother must be experiencing. He needs to help here, to do what he can. Whatever has been started here, this youthful experimentation with drugs, must be made right again.
    He sets the folder of paperwork aside. He sits there for a long time, trying to form clear thoughts against the white noise of his headache. He picks up the phone and calls the Chief, who works from home for the most part these days, at least when he’s not out informally campaigning for mayor.
    â€œGallagher.”
    â€œIt’s me, Chief.”
    â€œNolan, how’s the noggin’?”
    â€œNot too bad,” he says, eyes clenched. “Listen, I was just catching up on the report on Travis Lacey. I’m trying to get my head wrapped around an attempt murder charge for this kid. Maybe we should suggest a downgrade to assault. He obviously needs help.”
    â€œI hear you, Eddie, I do. But listen, we can’t have people swinging shovels at our heads without any consequences. You see what I mean? He hit you in the goddamned head with a shovel, Ed. Could’ve killed you sure as shit. You’re lucky he didn’t. I was scared to hell when I got the call about you. We work up here in the north all alone, takes