Cold (9 page)

The pizza had smelled so good in the Land Cruiser that Del had eaten a slice as he drove back to the station.
 
It went down fine, but when he belched now the pepperoni came back hot and a bit rancid.
 
“You call the state police?”

Monty didn't look away from the set.
 
“They faxed over a sheet on the walkaway.”

Del went to Monty’s desk.
 
"That’s it—Noel Pronovost," he said, looking at the fax.
 
“That was that girl's name.”

Monty was working on his second slice and he didn’t look away from the television.
 
The map of the United States was on the screen.
 
There were snowstorms in the Pacific Northwest, in the Rockies, over the northern Great Lakes, all along the New England coast.
 
It was raining from Texas to Florida.
 
Even central California was wet.

“I remember the other thing about this kid’s trial,” Del said.
 
“It was in the papers—something about a missing witness.
 
The guy he shot disappeared and they wanted to pin that on him too.
 
But they couldn’t, though they put him away pretty good.”
 
He watched the Weather Channel a moment.
 
“Look, it’s sunny and eighty degrees in San Diego.”
 
He dropped the fax on the desk.
 
“San Diego has the most perfect harbor you'd ever want to see.
 
It's huge.
 
Most of the Pacific fleet's there.
 
The whole harbor's protected from the open ocean by this long spit of land called Point Loma.
 
Eighty degrees and it’s January.
 
You could keep your sailboat in the water year-round.”

Monty turned from the television, chewing pizza.
 
He seemed about to say something, but after taking a look at Del he just turned and faced the set again.

•

Norman kept checking the rearview mirror.
 
No one was behind him and no other vehicle came out of the snow from the other direction.
 
The van was a Dodge, about six or seven years old.
 
There was an overcoat next to him on the passenger seat, and fishing through the pockets he found the guy’s wallet.
 
It contained forty-three dollars, a couple of gas credit cards, and a license for Rodney Franklin Aaberg.
 

In good weather North Eicher was less than an hour’s drive from where Eldon Waters’ truck had jackknifed; but in near whiteout conditions Norman couldn’t do much better than thirty miles per hour.
 
Snowplows hadn’t been down this way in hours and there was close to a foot of new snow covering the hard packed ice.
 
The two-lane county road was bordered by dense woods, which occasionally gave way to a pasture or a clearing with a small house, set back off the road.

Norman frequently took one hand off the steering wheel.
 
Each time his fingers shook and he couldn’t keep them still.
 
For long periods of time he just concentrated on driving, on keeping the van centered between the high snowbanks, but at times he suddenly felt a euphoria, even a silliness, seep into his thoughts.
 
He’d been inside so long and now he was going home.
 
In such a blizzard this could be almost anywhere in the Upper Peninsula, which stretches from the northern Wisconsin border over to the Canadian border at Sault Ste. Marie.
 
Lake Michigan, the Mackinac Straits and Lake Huron lie to the south; Lake Superior to the north.
 
Forest, lakes, rivers, streams bearing Ojibway names, French names, or simply named after a tree or wild animal.
 
Several centuries ago, through some political deal with Ohio concerning Toledo, the U. P. became part of Michigan, and it’s still the most sparsely settled region in the continental United States.
 
Yoopers like it that way.
 
A fair number of them believe that they ought to secede from Michigan and claim statehood:
 
Superior.
 
Just being out here on the land again caused Norman’s adrenalin to surge.
 
He was going home.

•

This time Liesl opened her eyes when the voices drifted near her bed, as hands touched her wrist, forearms and face.
 
Two men stared down at her.
 
One wore a white smock, the other a bulky winter coat.

“Liesl, this is Constable Del Maki.”

“How you feeling, Liesl?”
 
He had blue-gray eyes that looked right into hers.
 
“You took a fall from that ledge in the snow, and now you're in Marquette General.
 
You remember anything about that, the fall?
 
Why you were out there on snowshoes?”

She looked away from his stare, at the doctor, who was writing on a chart.
 
“We’re going to get you out of here soon,” he said.
 
“Your limbs respond, which is good.
 
No serious spinal damage apparently.
 
You’ll probably experience some discomfort and be stiff and sore for a day or two.
 
But the sooner you get up and about the better.”

She closed her eyes.
 
“You never found it, the green truck.”

After a moment, Constable Maki said, “No, I never found it.”

“For a long time that really bothered me,” she said.
 
“But right now it doesn’t seem so important.”
 
The song came to her, but she couldn’t remember all the words.
 
Instead she tried to hum the melody.
 
Then she remembered part of it and she sang, “’A run-run-run-runaway.’”

“You got it,” Del said.

The doctor, who wasn’t thirty-five, didn’t get it.
 
He was too young.
 
More and more of them were all the time.

•

When Lorraine woke from her nap, Noel bathed and dressed her; then she drove the two miles out of North Eicher to her father’s house.
 
The girl was nearly three and she sat in her car seat, singing along with the tape.
 
She could carry a tune already and she knew all the words.
 
She liked Faith Hill; she liked Garth Brooks—especially “Thunder Road,” because it began and ended with the sound of lightning and rain.
 
Lately she only wanted to sing “Crazy” with Patsy Cline, so they played the song four times in a row.
 
Noel sang along too and several times she had to touch her daughter—brushing blond hair off her cheeks, pulling her red wool cap down over her pink ears.
 
The sense of movement helped.
 
Before leaving the apartment, Noel had taken another pill from the vial of whites and she felt like she could sing and drive through the snow forever.

After her mother died her father built an addition on to the farmhouse for his taxidermy business.
 
He did it himself; Rejean Pronovost did most everything himself.
 
He had a Ford 150 pickup, a backhoe, two snowplows, and every conceivable hand and power tool ever invented.
 
He owned houses and buildings in North Eicher; he owned property, much of it undeveloped timberland and lakefront acreage, throughout northern Michigan and Ontario.
 
Her mother used to say he was the most self-sufficient man in the Upper Peninsula, which was one of the last havens for self-sufficient men.
 
His self-sufficiency was what had first drawn her to him, and Noel was convinced that it was what killed her of a heart attack at forty-three.

He was in the workshop, sitting at the wood bench, scraping down the skin of a pheasant.
 
He wasn’t a tall man, but still muscular and barrel-chested.
 
His hands were slick with animal fat.
 
He didn’t look up when she came in but put down his knife and began to brush on the Lutan F solution.
 
Overhead, dozens of complete and incomplete bird and fish trophies hung from the ceiling beams, and the walls were covered with mounted deer, elk, moose and bear.
 
There were chandeliers made of antlers, fox pelts and raccoon hats.
 
Oak boards listed prices for birds, turkeys, fish, game heads.
 
Lake trout was $7 an inch; King salmon $9.
 
Mounted antelope was $250; bobcat $200; bear $300; half-bear $425; ¾ bear $475.
 
Russian Boar $300, and Russian Boar (with armor) $350.
 
Open mouth on all mounts was an additional $50.
 

Once she was out of her coat and boots, Lorraine ran to her grandfather and he wiped off his hands as she climbed onto his lap.
 
He talked like Donald Duck, which always made the child laugh.
 
It was one of the few joyful things Noel remembered from her childhood, Daddy talking like Donald Duck.

“I should get right back into town,” Noel said, her voice echoing up into that dreadful ceiling hung with dead animals.
 
“The roads are really bad.”

His nose was crooked from a hockey game he’d played in high school.
 
One side of his trimmed white moustache lifted as he said, “I guess so.
 
Carol called and said she’d be late.”

“Carol.
 
Do I know Carol?
 
No, not Carol, Doug Harbaugh’s ex-wife?”

“She’s bookkeeping part-time for me.”

“She have any ex
per
ience?”

“She does the books.”
 
He put a long pheasant’s feather in Lorraine’s hair.

“With what, those boobs?”
 
When he looked up, Noel said, “Daddy, you never let anybody count your money.
 
Who could?
 
It would be easier to count the trees in the woods.”

 
“Attend to your own business, Noel.”

“Funny, how you’ve never wanted to teach me the business.”

“I helped you mount that owl when you were, what, fourteen.
 
You didn’t like it.”

“Carol get to mount an owl?”

“You’ve never seemed interested.”
 
He raised his eyes to the ceiling.
 
“In this.”

“Right, and now I just get to clerk nights at the motel.”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“Is it?
 
Daddy, you’re so close to being totally
self-sufficient.
 
There’s just this one little
need
that requires
Carol Harbaugh’s assistance.”

“You’re
talking to me about needs?”

“Daddy, I don’t care who you mount, but it confuses Lorraine.”

For a moment he looked like he was going to throw the child aside, get up off the stool and rush the length of the bench at her.
 
But he didn’t, and something quickly changed in his face as he spoke Donald Duck to Lorraine, whose hands were playing with his moustache.

“Fine,”
Noel whispered, pulling her gloves on.
 
Getting past her father was the toughest part of most days.
 
The little feints and dodges for Lorraine’s benefit.
 
Usually Noel was buzzed on something, and her father was drinking bourbon by late afternoon.
 
But he was good with the child and since Noel had split up with Warren there was no one else to take care of Lorraine during the nights she worked at the motel.
 
“I hope Carol can cook at least.
 
Better than that Jamie, anyway.”

Her father continued to talk Donald Duck, ignoring her.
 
“Carol cooks just fine,” he quacked.

“I’ll bet that’s probably why Doug Harbaugh married her in the first place.”

“Next time I see Doug, I’ll ask him.”

She could tell that he hadn’t heard about Norman.
 
There was that, at least.
 
If he had, he’d be telling her that it was all her fault.
 
Norman.
 
Warren.
 
Even Lorraine was her fault, a mistake.
 
“Okay, Sweetheart,” she said.
 
Lorraine turned her head.
 
“I’ll be back in the morning for you.
 
Come kiss Mommy good night.”

•

Warren had been talking about the Red Wings with a salesman from downstate who had bought a round, but now the guy was gone and The Blue Antler was empty except for the two waitresses, who were at the end of the bar going on about their kids.
 
Something happened to women after they had babies.
 
Since she’d had Lorraine, Noel had become a first rate bitch.
 
When Warren returned from the Navy, his brother was going out with this nice piece, Rejean Pronovost’s daughter Noel, and Warren saw it right away.
 
Even after she and Norman were engaged it was still there.
 
Sometimes Warren would look at her and her eyes would hold his a moment too long.
 
And he noticed that she looked at other guys that way as well.
 
Norman never seemed to notice, which was no surprise because Norman had always missed a lot of things Warren instinctively picked up on—Norman was just somewhere else.
 
Their mother always referred to him as the methodical one, but Warren thought that just meant his brother got lost in the details and missed the obvious.