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NORMAN DRIVER STOOD leaning against the steel fencing surrounding a building site. He could remember a time when the sight of a law enforcement officer’s car pulling up anywhere near him would make the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Yet now he felt barely a rise in interest as a deputy sheriff’s squad car pulled over to the curb, the officer eyeing him for a moment before popping the door.

Driver had spent most of his twenties feeling the cold hand of Lady Disaster on his shoulder whenever an officer stepped into a diner he was sitting in, or when a police squad car stopped beside him at a traffic light. Pushing sixty now, he simply smiled and nodded.

The jangling of equipment on the officer’s belt was lost in the sounds coming from behind Driver. The ripping and tearing of sheets of cladding, the slam of hammers and buzz of saws. Driver lit a cigarette and tried to get a measure of the man. There wasn’t much to go by. Tall, streak of Hispanic, all muscle, in a tight-fitting uniform. Driver knew some of the Gloucester cops. This guy wasn’t on his radar.

“What’s the trouble, officer?” Driver asked.

“You tell me,” the guy said. “Got a noise complaint. Resident nearby tells me you and your crew have been starting work early the past two days, making all that racket. Fifteen minutes to eight, or worse.”

“No kiddin’?” Driver said. He gave another smile and exhaled smoke politely over his shoulder. “I’m surprised the response isn’t bigger. But maybe there’s a chopper overhead that I don’t know about.” He glanced skyward. The joke paid off. The sheriff cracked a grin.

“You can’t start making serious noise around here until at least 8 a.m.” The deputy shrugged. “Sleepy seaside town. You know how it is.”

“I know how it is.”

“You guys new in town?” The officer eyed the nearest truck, the red lettering on the side. DRIVER CONSTRUCTION SERVICES.

“Relatively,” Driver said. “Whose shut-eye were we disturbing? I’ll make sure to send over a fruit basket or something.”

“You know I can’t tell you a thing like that.”

“Just trying to be neighborly.”

Driver watched the deputy sheriff step off the curb, saw him glance up at the house across the street. Driver followed his gaze over there and saw a lace curtain fall back into place. A mean quiver wanted to start in his lip, so he shoved his cigarette back in his mouth.

“Try to keep to the allowed times,” the deputy said. He returned to the squad car and raised his hand in a wave. As the officer grabbed the door handle, Driver thought he was home free. Then the officer paused and came back, his face pinched with an afterthought.

“The resident also said she’d seen workmen on the site at night,” the officer said and cocked his head, curious. Driver hid his taut upper lip behind his knuckles.

“That’s a strange accusation,” Driver said. “Pretty tough to do this gig by flashlight. And silently.”

“That’s just what I was thinking,” the deputy said. “So what would your guys be doing here at night?”

“Beats me. Maybe that neighbor needs to get her eyes checked.”

“What’s all this about, anyway?” The officer leaned around Driver to look at the site.

“We’re removing the cladding from this old house. Replacing it with pine weatherboard. Suits the scenery better,” Driver said.

The two men took in the view of the little house, its exposed sides, with its dark hardwood framing and pink insulation foam, dusty with age. On the ground by the porch, guys in white suits and masks were folding shattered pieces of fiberboard into large sheets of black plastic. They watched as one of the men ripped a strip of duct tape from a roll and began sealing the package of fiberboard shards tightly at the seams.

“What’s with all the protective equipment?” The deputy smirked. “They look like they’re handling radioactive waste.”

“It’s not radioactive, but it’s nasty,” Driver said. “Asbestos. You know much about it?”

“Nah, man. My dad was a cop. I played with guns as a kid, not hammers.”

“Well, you don’t want to know much about this stuff,” Driver said and drew on his cigarette. “It’s an old building material from the fifties. Pretty popular because it was cheap. Lot of houses around here were wrapped in it, top to bottom, inside and out. It’s not a problem if it stays intact. But maybe you scratch it. Bump it. Drill into it without knowing it’s there. Maybe some gets torn down and scattered everywhere in a storm. Before you know it, the fibers get into your lungs and start eating their way through you like worms in an apple.”

“Jeez.” The officer took a step back from the fence. “I think I’ve seen those late-night ads about it. Meso… Meso—”

“Mesothelioma,” Driver said.

“Right.”

“Yeah. A single breath of it could be all it takes,” Driver said. “Anyway. You can go in and talk to some of the boys if you want. Have a look around. See for yourself that there’s no funny business going on here, day or night.”

“No thanks.” The deputy held his hands up, gave Driver a friendly tip of his hat. “Really. I appreciate the offer.”

“I bet.” Driver shared a sarcastic smile. The two men parted. Driver even waved as the guy pulled away from the curb.

The smile twisted as that evil feeling snagged his upper lip like a fishhook. The house across the street was still now, silent. Driver stubbed out his cigarette and headed across the road.