Page 102 of The Frozen River

“Dead men don’t get many visitors, I suppose. But a pair of trappers mentioned it at breakfast. My Da’ thinks that’s where Judge North hid after the hearing. But only for a few days, just long enough to ride out the storm.”

I sit a little straighter. “Why not longer?”

“It’s been burned for several weeks.”

“So how does he know it was North?”

“The barn didn’t burn. And it was littered with dog prints. That’s where Da’ thinks he kept Cicero.”

“He didn’t take the dog with him?”

Moses shakes his head. “I saw it on the porch at North Manor this afternoon. Must have taken it home before he left town for good. But honestly, it was clever of North to hide there. Burgess is dead. No one would look there.”

It’s a good point and I tell him so.

“But why burn it?” I ask. “It makes no sense to destroy an empty house.”

“Unless there was something in the house that he wanted gone.” He shrugs, then stands to go back to work.

He may as well have slapped me with his bare hand. “Moses?” I ask, “What happened to Burgess’s belongings?”

“He dinna have much to start with. One horse. Two cows. Some chickens. And the cabin was only just the one room, from what I’ve heard. There wasna much in it. The animals were given to the neighbors when he died.”

I tear off a piece of bread, then pop it in my mouth. I chew slowly as a dozen little fires ignite in my mind.

“What of his saddle? His weapons? Were there any personal items?”

“Da’ put them in the shed. With him.” Moses shrugs. “Henry Sewell sent a letter to Boston looking for his relatives. Hasna heard back, far as I know.”

“You’ll let me know if you hear anything else?”

“Aye. I’ll send word.”

“Or you can bring it yourself. I’m sure Hannah would be pleased to see you again.”

There are few things that I enjoy more than making a young man blush, and Moses obliges me in spectacular fashion. “Aye. I’ll do that,” he says. “Can I get ye anything else in the meantime?”

It’s a risk. I know this. But I should have thought of it months ago.

“Yes,” I tell Moses. “I’m going to need a lantern.”

The Pollards call it a shed, but the structure behind the tavern is more like a small barn. Though only one story, it has double doors and could easily house several head of cattle comfortably. They use it to store extra supplies and feed, for barrels and crates. Also the body of Joshua Burgess. The path isn’t as well-worn as others near the tavern—the stables in particular—but it’s clear that someone makes the trip regularly, so my visit shouldn’t be noticeable in the morning if Amos comes out to collect a side of beef or a slab of bacon.

The door latch creaks as I lift, then it flops over with a thump. I look back over my shoulder to see if anyone has heard. No lights go on in the upper windows of the tavern. No voices call out. So I pull the door open and slip inside.

The shed is well-ordered. Foodstuffs and supplies stacked in neat rows that are accessible on either side. Six large sides of beef and ten ham hocks hang from the ceiling. There are bags of wheat and wheels of cheese. I hold my breath for several seconds before realizing that the expected scents of death and decay are not noticeable. The shed smells only of hay and salt and sawdust. Of dried apples and smoked fish. But it is cold as river rocks inside, and everything is frozen. At first, I cannot find the body, am worried that it has been moved or stolen. But then, in the back corner, I see the pile of hay. It makes sense. Even if you know it’s there, you don’t want to stumble upon a corpse every time you come out for a tub of butter. They have hidden Burgess out of sight.

Satisfied, I close the door behind me. I can see footprints on the dusty floor and scattered hay where the judges from Vassalboro stood around and inspected the body a few weeks ago. It has since been heaped back over the body in a sloppy pile.

I set the lantern down and push through the hay with the toe of my boot until the oiled leather tarp that covers Burgess comes into view. I have no interest in examining him again—once was more than enough—so I move in the other direction, kneeling now, and scooting piles of the dry chaff aside with my hands.

There, the swell of a saddle. I push the straw back and find all the tack in place: blanket and bridle, bit and reins. I cover it again and keep searching. Beside it is a woolen blanket wrapped around a rifle and hatchet. Not what I’m looking for. I move on, sliding my arms in now, up to the shoulders as I feel my way farther into the pile.

“Finally.”

My fingers slide over the leather strap of a saddlebag, and I pull it from the hay. It is dusty and cold and heavy. The night presses in around the circle of the lantern light, and my heart ticks faster. This is wrong. I know that, but I unbuckle the bag anyway. Inside are Burgess’s pistols, along with a coin purse that sits heavy in my hand when I pull it out. An empty bottle that smells of whiskey. Three envelopes. And there, at the bottom of the bag, a strip of lace.

I stare at it aghast, remembering what Rebecca told the court, how Burgess ripped a piece of lace from the hem of her shift and tied his hair back before he went to work on her. He kept it, a souvenir, and my stomach turns at the sight.