Free Seven Days Dead by John Farrow

good at it.”
    He has to think what that means, then gives up. The senior officer remarks, “If you see him before I do, Ora, ask him to give me a buzz, okay? Thanks.”
    The policeman is silver-haired and large, imposing and authoritative even out of his uniform, doubly so when dressed. He’s always known that he looks especially good when suited up. He envies his partner at the moment, who has successfully made a break for it, heading off the property to a cruiser, while he’s been snared by Ora, her fingers gripping the sleeve of his jacket. He’s prying her fingers off one at a time, although she doesn’t seem to notice, when suddenly she gets his attention.
    “Hey hey hey,” Ora whispers. “The rats are climbing over the wall. Can you believe what my eyes are seeing here?”
    Checking the direction of her interest the officer spots a man striding up the hill from town. A rain jacket is strapped around his waist, the sleeves knotted together at his hips. The rain pants he wears indicate that he began the walk in earlier weather, or that he’s expecting more of the same. What makes him distinctive is not so much his clothing as his posture and bearing. A march-like swing to his arms seems to impart balance to his uphill stride, virtually military in its precision, while seemingly unnatural. Nobody walks like that, elbows rising up and out. The stride might seem laughable on a different body type or on anyone lacking self-confidence, but the man’s demeanor defrays any such slight. He not only commands and sustains attention—Ora Matheson’s, and everyone else’s—but respect as well. Or so the policeman surmises in the moment before he gathers that the new arrival has chosen a destination, and he is it. Ora notices that, too.
    “Oh my brown shit, he’s coming straight here!” She seems in a sudden and inexplicable panic.
    “Who is he?”
    “That’s Roadcap, you dumb twist!”
    “Mind your manners, Miss Matheson.”
    “Don’t be so sensitive. I call everybody names.”
    “What name do you call him?”
    She doesn’t hesitate a second. “Scary wacko dreamboat dude.”
    The cop eyes him more closely, and draws a conclusion from a previous encounter, a long while back. He fears that she might have a comparable phrase for him, apart from “dumb twist,” but decides that he’s better off not asking. “Tell me his real name again.”
    “Roadcap.”
    He’s heard that name mentioned. He knows of him.
    “News travels fast,” the cop calls.
    “Why’s that?” The man stops fifteen feet away, which seems an odd distance for a conversation he’s evidently intent on having.
    “All the way to Dark Harbour.”
    “Okay. I’m from there. But I heard no news lately. What’s up?”
    The policeman looks away, a fake pause for dramatic effect perhaps, and in that moment notices that Maddy Orrock is paying attention. She’s crossed her arms and stepped to the rim of the mansion’s porch to observe the man facing the policeman. “Orrock’s dead,” the cop tells him. “If that’s news to you, then you’re probably last on the island to hear.” When the man does not seem to react immediately, he adds, “Is that why you’re up here for some reason?”
    “I didn’t know. Sorry to hear that. But no, I don’t walk across the island because somebody dies. Doesn’t matter who it is. How’d he die anyhow?”
    “Old age,” Ora pipes up. She tucks herself in slightly behind the policeman, as if for her protection. “People die that way. Maybe not in your family, but…”
    The man looks at her then, and while his choice of words is challenging, his tone remains flat and cordial, his gaze level. “You know nothing about my family.”
    “Not if you don’t say so,” she replies.
    The officer notices a look of puzzlement cross the man’s brow, and sees him choose not to bother decoding her remark. “She’s got a mouth on her,” the cop points out.
    “My way to keep your eyes up that high,