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labor.
    Red-eyed, coldly furious, he listened with folded arms as I offered my sympathies on the death of his daughter, then outlined Avery’s offer of compensation. His eyes widened at the figure. Cocking his head, he eyed me curiously.
    “Two hundred grand?” he echoed. “For real? Jesus. Do you know how many cords I’d have to drop to make that much?”
    I nodded. “My dad was a logger.”
    “I know. I worked with your old man years ago, on Moose’s crew, cuttin’ pulpwood in the Comstock. He’s dead now, right? Car crash?”
    “Killed by a drunk driver,” I said.
    “Tough break. Anybody offer you two hundred thousand for him?”
    I didn’t answer.
    “Nah, of course not,” he said. “I liked Dolph, he was steady, a good worker. But your old man wasn’t worth no two hundred grand, dead or alive. But that’s what them people figure my Julie’s worth, eh?”
    “Mr. Novak—”
    “Save it, LaCrosse,” he said, waving me off. “This ain’t on you, I know that. And it sure ain’t on Julie. It’s on me, and I ain’t even got enough put aside to bury her decent. Been working two jobs just to keep her in school, and I got three more kids to think of. I—” He looked away, swallowing hard. “I’ll take the money. Got no choice.”
    “You realize if you do, it’s over. You can’t sue later.”
    “Never figured to. But off the record? Just two wood-smoke boys sittin’ in a room? Who done this, Dylan? Who killed my girl?”
    “It’s an open case, Mr. Novak. I truly can’t comment. But I can tell you this much. Nobody meant Julie harm. It was an accident, or close to it. Hard as it might be, it’s best to accept that, and move on.”
    “Is that what you’d do?”
    “I don’t know what I’d do, Mr. Novak.”
    “My Uncle Matt was killed in Vietnam,” he said absently. “My ma’s only brother. Know what his wife got? Ten thousand. And a flag to lay on his coffin. Ten grand for his life. I’m getting a lot more for Julie. Maybe I should be grateful.”
    He waited for a comment. I didn’t have one.
    “Hell, maybe you’re right,” he sighed. “There’s no help for a thing like this. No way to set it right. Tell your people I’ll take the deal.”
    “They aren’t my people,” I said.
    He met my eyes dead-on. Cold as the big lakes in January.
    “Sure they are,” he said.
     
    I didn’t attend the snow angel’s funeral. I wasn’t sure how the Novaks would react and I didn’t want to intrude.
    A week passed, and then another. Christmas was in the air, and as an early present, Vale Junior College won state approval to become a fully accredited, four-year institution.
    Good for us.
    I began to think Jason Avery had been right. We’d salvaged a positive outcome from a god-awful situation. Won the greatest good for the greatest number.
    I thought that right up until the night Derek Patel disappeared.
     
    Ten days after Julie Novak’s funeral, Derek Patel vanished from the campus of Vale Junior College. His folks weren’t overly concerned when he didn’t show for dinner; the boy often stayed after class on lab nights. But when he wasn’t home at ten, his mother called the school.
    A security guard answered. The school was locked down, but Derek’s VW Bug was still parked in the lot. The guard found it unlocked, with the driver’s door slightly ajar. Odd, but not necessarily ominous.
    Until he noticed Derek’s keys in the snow beside the car.
    And the bloodstains on the headrest.
     
    The crime occurred on school grounds so jurisdiction initially fell to the state police. But when my chief informed their post commander the missing kid was part of an open case, they kicked it to us.
    Not that it made any difference.
    We had nothing. CODIS, the combined DNA index system run by U.S. and Canadian crime labs, identified the blood spattered in the car as belonging to Derek Patel. Violence had obviously been done, but in the swirling snow and the bustle of the busy parking lot, nobody