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As Angel, Louis, and I drove from Gretton, Sabine with us, we passed the constable, Poulin. He was parked on the edge of town, just across from the sign welcoming visitors or bidding them farewell, depending on one’s good fortune. I’d glimpsed him in the aftermath of the violence. He’d looked lost and ineffectual, which about covered it. Whatever happened from now on, his days in law enforcement were numbered.

I pulled up alongside his car. He peered in our direction, first casually, then with alarm.

“If it isn’t Constable Poulin,” I said, “the ever-vigilant.”

Behind me, Sabine wound down the window. She glared at him for so long that he was forced to look away. Finally, she spoke, but as though he were not present.

“He didn’t know,” she said, “but only because he chose not to. He was frightened of the Michauds. Many people around here were wary of them, and always have been, but he was truly scared.”

“Is that the case, Constable?” I asked. “Were you too afraid of them to even examine the reasons for your fear?”

Poulin found his voice.

“You’re blocking the road,” he said. “If you don’t move your vehicle, I’ll issue you a citation.”

“I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble,” I replied, as I started to drive slowly away. “We ought to respect the law.”

Poulin resigned the following day. Subsequently, a rumor circulated that he’d shot himself down in Louisiana, but it turned out to be untrue. He just kept on living, if you could call it that. But I doubt he slept well, and I hope he woke every morning to the taste of dirt in his mouth.