Ice Cap (32 page)

I yanked him out of his chair and brought him by the hand to the living room, where I made him watch a replay of the white box van driving into Hamburger Hill.

“Wow,” he said.

“This is bigger than wow. We have to go look.”

“How bad an idea is that.”

Goddammit, I thought, not even twenty-four hours later and we're back at the old dilemma. I swallowed my next thought: Sam Acquillo, older and smaller than you, wouldn't hesitate a second even if conditions were twice as bad—something I'd never, ever said to Harry, to my eternal relief. Not least of all because Harry had also saved my life when the circumstances called for it, deploying his massive size to good effect. More so because the comparison was irrelevant. I would never tie my romantic heart to a person like Sam, no matter how much I trusted and admired him. I wanted my heart tied to people like Harry.

“It's not a bad idea,” I said. “It's my idea, and I'm going no matter what. I just thought you'd want to come along because being around me makes you happy.”

Even with him sitting down we were nearly at the same eye level, so I could see him soften and the amused warmth I liked so much spread across his face.

“I'm sorry. Let's start that over again. Wow, we have to go look. Who's driving?”

“Dayna Red.”

“The Wood Chick.”

“The snowplow operator.”

I ran back to my computer, looked up the number for Specialty Hardwoods, and called.

“There's another blizzard coming through,” I said when she answered. “Shouldn't we be driving in it?”

“Of course we should,” she said. “Driving where?”

“Back to the scene of the crime,” I said.

“You don't hear that every day,” said Dayna.

“How many shovels do you have?”

“One.”

“Bring it,” I said, and gave her directions to Harry's.

While we waited for her to pick us up, I climbed into long underwear, synthetic wicking socks, flannel jeans, and a fleece top. I checked on Harry, who was doing the same.

“Doesn't it make you pine for palm trees?” he asked, pulling ski pants over his own very long underwear.

“You keep promising global warming. How many snow shovels do you have?”

“Two.”

“Perfect. And bring your pickax. We might be chiseling through ice.”

To avoid overheating, we waited for Dayna in the driveway. The snow had graduated to the next level—the flakes were still small and light, but there were more of them and the wind had clicked up a notch from calm to breezy. The two Volvos wore a thin skin of white.

“Consider yourselves lucky,” I said to them. “It could be worse.”

“You're talking to the cars,” Harry said.

“You don't?”

Dayna and her truck showed up soon afterward. It was a serious truck with a capacious cab, though I'm sure the sight of Harry gave her pause. I jumped in first, and in a few moments we were in a cozy situation. I introduced the two of them, Dayna threw the wheel-mounted transmission into drive, and we were off.

“You're a good sport to do this,” I said to her.

“Who doesn't like to go out and play in the snow?”

The storm's timing was perverse. Anyone who hadn't kept track of recent weather reports had made it to work in the early morning, when only the light stuff was coming down, and now they'd seen the error of their ways. The radio was filled with near-hysterical admonitions for everyone to get home and stay home, for God's sake. All they had to say was this storm was looking to be even more ferocious than the last big one, and people would get the point. Since “home” for ninety percent of commuters was to the west, Montauk Highway was already jammed. Our route was east, then straight north, one blessing.

After zigzagging our way around the prevailing traffic and maneuvering around cars already slid off the road and locked in place, Dayna asked me if I still wanted to do what I wanted to do.

“I'm trying to save that dumb son of a bitch's life,” I said, “no matter how hard he makes it for me.”

“That's Jackie's job,” said Harry. “Saving dumb sons of bitches' lives.”

“They don't all deserve it,” I said. “I'm not sure Franco does, but that's not the point. Jeez, it's really snowing.”

Suddenly it really was, the flakes so densely packed there was almost no air left to look through. The radio had warned of whiteout conditions. Now I knew what they meant. We were forced to drive at impossibly slow speeds just to avoid rear-ending another truck in front of us. Worse, the ground temperature was now out of sync with the wet, fat flakes that froze into sheets on contact, creating a nearly frictionless surface. Even Dayna's four-wheel drive was barely up to keeping us on the road.

Which meant the other drivers were really in trouble. Every few yards another car or truck was rammed into a snow embankment, their drivers and passengers either sitting in mute misery or pointlessly trying to push their way out of trouble. These were the biggest hazards we faced, as a fleeting moment of traction would cause the stuck vehicle to lurch out into the street, often sideways to traffic. More than once Dayna swerved an instant before colliding with an oblivious and briefly ecstatic driver, who'd immediately find himself buried in the opposite bank. I'd close my eyes and brace for impact, then open them again in wonder that we were still intact.

“Wow,” I said, “how did you miss that guy?”

“I used the Force. Not the dark side, in case you're wondering.”

It was far better when we finally crossed Montauk Highway and worked our way up the back roads, already deep in snow but far less traveled. Better snow for Dayna to deal with. She settled into third gear and literally plowed ahead.

To help me resist the urge to chatter away and mess up her concentration, I switched around different radio stations. This gave us a range of perspectives, from “this is really bad” to “this is insanely bad.” Then the governor came on everywhere and confirmed the second opinion. He announced that he was ordering all roads in Suffolk County closed and warned that drivers of snowbound vehicles could be waiting a long time for rescue, given that municipal plows and emergency crews could barely move around themselves.

Dayna pressed on, unfazed by all the apocalyptic talk, her eyes forward and face set in a slight grin. She was enjoying this, which Harry pointed out.

“Me and Jeffrey sailed around the world when we first got together. There's nothing out there that can match weeks of running downwind through the Roaring Forties. Talk about tricky driving.”

“What haven't you done?” I asked.

“Saved a son of a bitch's life.”

We started to relax a little before turning a corner and almost smashing into a pair of trucks that had already smashed into each other. The road was blocked. We jumped out to see what was what. No one was hurt, but neither truck (one a van, the other a small pickup) was going anywhere. And consequently, neither were we.

The driver of the pickup rolled down his window when Dayna knocked. He didn't answer when she asked if he was all right. Harry tried in Spanish and he nodded. I don't know where the conversation went from there, but with the help of the other driver—an Asian guy who had his own shovel—and Harry's considerable contribution, we moved the little pickup to the side of the road, clearing a path for Dayna to squeeze through. I gave the Spanish guy my card after telling him through Harry if he caught any trouble for moving his vehicle, I'd fix it. He looked completely reassured, which was touching. His confidence was well placed, but he didn't know that.

We moved more cautiously after that, if that was possible. We passed a few more vehicles that had succumbed to the slightest of inclines, but all were safely pulled over in full surrender.

“Man, it's slippery,” said Dayna. “Four-wheel drive is a bare minimum.”

“I once drove across a frozen arctic sea in a box on treads, like a cross between a minivan and a tank,” said Harry. “That would work. And I've also sailed the Roaring Forties, so I totally dig what you mean about that.”

Dayna looked across me at Harry. “Oh yeah? Ever danced naked on peyote in the jungles of Belize to the songs of enraged howler monkeys?”

“No.”

“Okay, then talk to me when you do.”

It was silent in the truck for a little while, then Harry said, “Ever capture a pair of live
Theraphosa blondi
tarantulas in Venezuela and hand-deliver them to a hemophiliac billionaire living in a nuclear-bomb-proof cave in the Swiss Alps?”

“Don't take the bait,” I told Dayna. “He can do this all day.”

This was the third time Dayna had been to the Buczek place, so she knew the way. When we reached the top of the drive, we saw it was already well filled with snow. She dropped the plow.

“So what's the plan?” asked Harry.

“We call on Zina and ask her permission to search Hamburger Hill. If she refuses, we leave and spend the trip back apologizing. If she agrees, we go find that door.”

“And if it doesn't open?” asked Dayna.

“We improvise.”

With that, Dayna pulled into the driveway and we were headed down the hill, the truck's engine revving under the load and snow flowing out from the right-hand side of the plow like a white wave breaking on the shore.

Having run this route a few times, Dayna took us to the house with confidence. I felt myself start to feel some regret at the idea of barging in on Zina, which I easily shook off, pushing Harry with my shoulder and saying, “Let's go.”

The three of us went up to the front door and I rang the bell. Saline answered, looking alarmed.

“There's nothing to be concerned about,” I said. “We're here to see Zina.”

“Nothing of concern?” she said. “We're in the middle of a blizzard.”

“Not quite the middle, ma'am,” said Harry. “It's going to get a lot worse.”

“Please tell her we're here. It's extremely important,” I said.

The door closed and we were left to silently wait on the porch. I hated this part, where you stood outside and looked at a closed door, wondering what was happening on the other side. This time, the door opened again.

“Come in,” said Saline. “You can wipe your feet on the mat in the foyer. The rest I'll just have to clean up later.”

She said that last bit mostly to herself. I felt a little bad, but no way would I take off my boots.

Zina received us in the living room, sprawled as she often was on a love seat, wearing an outfit not all that different from the one in my dream. It seemed like Zina had perfected active loungewear—comfortable clothing made to look like you wore it to do something uncomfortable, like lifting weights or filling out tax forms.

“You always blow in with the storms,” she said to me. “Does that mean something?”

“Probably. You might remember my friend Dayna Red, and this is Harry Goodlander.”

He reached down and they shook hands.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said.

“You might be; Jackie certainly isn't. She's always push, push, push. Come on, isn't that true?”

I told her Harry and Dayna would go sit in the kitchen with Saline so we could speak in private. After they left, I unbuttoned my parka and dropped into the opposing sofa.

“It is true, I push,” I said, without apology, “and you've been patient with me. I want to be patient with you, too, but the questions are piling higher than the snow out there.”

“I've told you everything I know.”

“You've told me nothing that you know,” I said.

She frowned and smiled at the same time. I'd seen the look before. It was supposed to express strained credulity but did the opposite.

“What a thing to say.”

“Is your father still alive?” I asked. She held my eyes but didn't speak. “After you left Poland, did he survive?” A crimson blush began to form around her neck, spreading upward toward her face.

“Who have you spoken to?”

“Did he?”

Darkness fell across her pale face. “No. They killed him. My mother watched. She's now in the crazy hospital, so they might as well kill her, too. Who are you talking to? What are they going to do to me?”

There was a question I hadn't even thought to ask myself. Not that it mattered. I didn't have an answer.

“I don't know who they are,” I said. “I only know your life was threatened and Tad went over to Poland and rescued you. For a price.”

She looked behind herself toward the kitchen.

“Saline knows none of this,” she said, her voice pitched to a near whisper.

“I wouldn't bet on it,” I said, but just as quietly. “You and Tad were only officially man and wife,” I said, taking a chance, “not in the real sense, with all that goes with that.”

Her nearly regal feline poise began to sag.

“That's very personal,” she said.

“Sorry. So's Franco's life, which you don't seem to appreciate.”

“That's not true,” she said, looking away.

“Then quit lying and tell me what really happened that night.”

She looked back at me, her eyes becoming more slanted as they closed nearly to a squint. “You ask a lot to come into my home tracking water everywhere and calling me a liar.”

“You let us in because you don't know what I know, and you want to find out. You might not know our legal system, but you figure it's better talking to your late husband's family member than the cops. And you're certainly right about that.”

She swung her feet down onto the floor, as if to become better anchored against incoming threats. She held her head in her hands and talked into the Persian rug.

“Tad was supposed to be gone for two days, but the storm was so bad they shut down the highways and he couldn't get to where he was going. There's a little cabin up near the road. It was built for some old Buczek long time ago. Franco fixed it up enough for us to meet there.” She looked up again. “But you know this already, don't you?”