The Season of Killing by Leigh Mayberry (reading books for 4 year olds .txt) 📗

saying, ‘It takes a village to raise a child?’ Norman is a victim of the times. I think he’s trying to turn around his life.”

“Where does he live?” Meghan had enough to think on. Norman was suddenly a person of interest and went right to the top of her list for interviews. She didn’t want to jump to calling him a suspect, no matter how much it suddenly felt like it.

Chapter Twelve

 Having Lester and Eric with her made it so much easier for Meghan to get information. She was a renowned celebrity over the entire North Slope, and everyone managed to avoid Meghan.

Lester had a badge, same as Meghan, but people of Noorvik saw Lester as one of their own, a son of Alaska. They talked to him when he asked questions. It took two hours before they eventually tracked down Norman Fisher’s current location in town.

The dark of December, compounded with the accumulation of snow, made Sunday afternoon look like midnight on the tundra. It had a physical effect on Meghan because winters in the dark sucked even in the shortened hours of daylight saving. It was impossible to save daylight above the Arctic Circle.

The house didn’t have a street address. If they used landmarks to locate the residence, then it was down the path near the doghouses, right at the snow mound and light pole, left at the broken-down bulldozer, next door to the collection of tire stacks that made a small wall with drifting snow.

Like every other house in Noorvik, it had a stilt foundation. It was a run-down house with no personality outside. A trickling stream ran out from under the house, pooling and freezing a few yards away, close to the overturned metal drums. As far as Meghan knew, it was gray runoff water from the washer and sinks. She hoped the steaming water wasn’t part of the house sewage system.

The music inside rattled the windows with its thumping bass. It took several times rapping on the steel door with the end of the flashlight before someone finally answered.

The moment the door opened, a wall of humidity collided with the chilly outside air, causing the eruption of steam as air rushed out of the house. The scent of nachos, popcorn, cigarettes, and marijuana smoke washed over Meghan. The young man at the door in a black t-shirt and flannel pajama pants with moose and trees print wore a ball cap advertising the Seattle football team.

“Norman Fisher!” Lester shouted.

The cacophony of noise spilled out of the house as freely as the smoke and steam.

Without answering, the young man with the red-rimmed eyes thumbed over his skinny shoulder. Meghan was first inside the house, following the opening at the door when the young man backed out of the way.

She counted fifteen faces staring at her in the doorway. Another rectangular house, the door opened on the side inside of the end like Hilma’s house.

It presented an overflowing living room of people. The rap music drowned the blaring television. An extra-large flat-screen TV broadcasted a national football game.

Outside it was pitch black with snowing sheets of confetti. Inside, it was a Sunday afternoon social event revolving around sports, music, friends, and family. Meghan didn’t see one beer can or bottle. Meghan started shouting, trying to reach over the blended volume of speaker noise.

“What?” another young man shouted. He stood by the side table with the stereo, his finger hovering near the power button.

“Turn it down!” Meghan shouted. He anticipated her volume and switched off the stereo the moment she spoke. It was a typical childish move garnished with laughter from the others.

The entire house lacked adult supervision.

“We’re looking for Norman Fisher,” Lester said. He stood behind Meghan, his back to the door, watching the crowd.

“Why?” someone asked.

It was going to be one of those kinds of interviews. None of them looked over the age of thirty. Meghan counted five women and ten men. If more people lingered in the bedrooms or bathroom, she didn’t know.

As if to tout the recreational use of marijuana, one of the young men seated on the threadbare couch lit a joint. He stared at Meghan as if silently challenging her.

“So, here’s what’s going to happen,” she said. “We can leave here fast or slow. It’s your choice.” She strolled in front of the TV. The remote sat near the ashtray on the cluttered coffee table. She snatched it before one of the crew from the couch grabbed it. Meghan switched off the TV. She dropped the remote on the floor and kicked it under the sofa.

“The Alaska State Troopers are on their way. As soon as the storm breaks, they will be conducting a search of every residence in Noorvik.”

“What for?” one asked. He stood in the hallway, barely outside Meghan’s eye line. He had a hooded brow and unkempt hair. Norman wore baggy blue jeans with plaid boxer shorts showing because the pants were too big to fit his skinny hips. He wore a t-shirt with a pot leaf on it as if to advertise indiscretions and unfortunate lack of judgment.

Pointing at the speaker, she said, “Hello, Norman. We have a few questions for you. Want to talk here with all our friends listening, or do you want to come outside with us?”

“How did you know it was me?” He moved toward the coat rack near the door. It overflowed with winter gear. He selected a coat and winter boots from the pile on the floor. Lester opened the door as Norman slipped on the boots without socks on his feet.

Meghan followed Norman outside. She slammed the door. She heard the group inside shouting obscenities until the music cranked up again.

Norman faced Meghan and Lester in the deep snow of the stairs. Meghan saw various faces peeking through the blackout curtains