Free The Clearing by Dan Newman Page A

hadn’t occurred to him that this might have been a robbery, and he suddenly wondered if his wallet and watch were gone. “No, I don’t think so,” he said, seeing everything where he had left it the evening before.
    â€œI think you must have hurt him. Cut him,” the manager said, pointing at the blood-stained towel.
    â€œNo,” said Nate. “That’s not his blood either. He had something else with him, part of an animal, I think. That’s where all the blood came from.”
    The manager’s brow furrowed deeply. “An animal?”
    â€œYes, a cow’s foot, I think. A hoof. He held it over my head and...”
    There was a solid rap on the door and two men came through without being asked in. The police constables were wearing smart tan uniforms with shiny buttons and clasps, and each was armed with a pistol strapped to a broad and polished leather belt. They waved the manager aside, cleared the room of everyone but Nate, and one curtly asked, “Are you hurt?”
    Nate shook his head, and wondered why he felt no compassion from the two officers. They seemed terse, emotionless, all business.
    The larger of the two men dragged the chair over to the bed and sat down. He leaned in close enough that Nate could see the small veins that ran through the whites of his eyes. The officer stared at Nate for a long moment, and then asked in a tone that was just short of accusatory, “Why was dis man in your room?”
    Before Nate could answer, the other officer barked his own question. “You buying something from this man tonight?”
    Nate was incredulous. First he got attacked in his room and now the police were going to blame him for it? “What? No! I was sleeping!”
    The larger officer narrowed his eyes. “And yet here you are fully dressed at 3 o’clock in the morning.”
    Nate raised his hands, palms up, in a conciliatory gesture. “Come on... Look, I was tired and fell asleep in my clothes...”
    â€œSo you’ve been consuming alcohol as well.”
    â€œI was with a friend and...”
    The other officer was looking at the door and cut him off. “De door here is in fine condition. No one forced it and de window is not accessible from de street. You let dis man in?” It was more accusation than question.
    Nate felt his chest tightening. “What the hell’s going on here? I didn’t let anyone in. I was asleep...”
    The seated officer reached over and picked up Nate’s wallet from the desk and fished out a fistful of American dollars, about sixty dollars in all. “And what about all dis currency?” He waved it at Nate accusingly.
    â€œCurrency?” Nate scowled incredulously. “Christ, that’s just my money. I’m a tourist, for fuck’s sake!”
    The officer flipped through the wallet again, eyeing Nate suspiciously. It fell open and a photograph of Cody appeared in the inner plastic photo sleeve, upside-down and facing Nate in silent appeal. The picture was of Cody holding up a small book – small even in his five year-old hands – with the title obscured by his fingers. He was holding it proudly, right after having given it to Nate as a present – not for a birthday, Father’s Day, or Christmas. It was what Cody and his mother called a just because present.
    The book was called Thanks, Dad and each page had a simple stick-figure drawing of a father and son doing different things together, each captioned with a tribute, like Thank you for always carrying me when I get tired, Dad, and Thank you for taking me on big adventures . It was mushy, sappy stuff, but Nate remembered it hitting him like a freight train. Tears had welled up in his eyes, and he had to pull out his phone and turn away to hide the effect it had on him.
    Later, when he had gathered himself together, he curled up with Cody in the big chair in the den and read it to him three times in a row,