The Dark Root THREE MONTHS LATER, with the snow nestled only into those nooks and crannies where the sun couldn’t reach it, I got a call at home—our home, I was becoming used to saying—which Gail Zigman and I had recently bought on Orchard Street in the quasi-rural no-man’s-land between Brattleboro and smaller “West B,” as the locals call it. The caller was Sergeant George Capullo, an experienced patrol veteran of many years. “Sorry to bother you, Joe.” It was after midnight. I blinked at the jet black skylight above the bed, trying to clear my brain. “What’s up, George?” Gail rolled over beside me, her eyes still shut, and slid a naked thigh across my legs. “We got a call for a disturbance on Wantastiquet Drive about forty minutes ago. A neighbor reported a big commotion and people screaming next door. By the time we got there, everything was quiet and the homeowners wouldn’t let us in.”
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