He didn't look up. "There's a plaque," he said. "At the station. By the front door, on the brick. Francis X. Haverty. Line of duty, February eleventh, nineteen fifty-eight." He tightened a clamp. "I walk past it every shift. I didn't — I'm sorry. I'm not from here. I came down from Erie four years ago. I didn't put it together until she said it."
"There's no reason you would have."
"Still."
She didn't say anything. The snow fell into the beam of the flashlight and vanished on the hot engine with tiny hisses.
"Okay," he called to Mrs. Pruitt, who sat behind her wheel on her violet cushion with her hands folded in her lap like a woman waiting for a sermon to begin. "Try it now."
The Oldsmobile coughed, considered its options, and roared. Mrs. Pruitt gave a small, satisfied nod, as though she had done it herself.
Cal unclamped the cables and dropped the hood with a heavy, final sound. Then he looked across the lot at Nora's Volkswagen, sitting under its cap of snow.
"That yours?"