Ice Run (17 page)

This body … This woman …

“McKnight!” The voice again, close behind me now.

I turned and saw him. He stood in the doorway, looking past me at the horror on the ground.

“No,” he said. “God, no. Marty, what did you do? My God, Marty …”

He turned and started to run away, falling into the snow. He left me there alone with her.

I didn’t want to go any closer. But I had to.

I took one step.

Then another.

The hair, spread out around her head. The blade, the long wooden stick, the obscenity of it. I wanted to grab the handle and pull it from her back.

Please, no. Anything but this. Anything.

But wait. I reached down and touched the hair. In the dim light, it looked … red. This wasn’t Natalie. God, it wasn’t her.

I moved around to get a better look at her face. I knew her. I had seen her picture.

It was Natalie’s mother. The Irish looks, the red hair. This was her.

This was Grace, the woman I had never gotten the chance to meet, the woman with all of the lies, each one more fabulous than the last. Until now. She would never tell another lie.

I stood there for a long time, looking at her.

Then there was a sound. I looked up to see Michael Grant standing in the doorway again. This time he had the shotgun in his hands, the double-barreled shotgun from the basement.

He hated guns. I had heard him say that more than once today. He hated guns, but not enough to stop him from doing this right now, leveling it right at my head. Twenty feet away. He moved closer to me.

“No,” I said. “No.”

“I can’t let you leave now.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, McKnight. I’m sorry.”

It came to this, all these years later, since the last time I had looked down the barrel of a gun. Another day, another season, a hot day in Detroit. The feeling was the same.

But this one will be loud. An old shotgun. God in heaven, this will be loud.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

He pulled the trigger, and it was all the noise in the world ringing at once, all around me and below me until I reached out to hold it as tight as I could.

Then I let go.

Natalie. I am saying her name. A song with three notes.

Natalie.

She is above me, looking down at me with that smile, that expression both sad and happy at the same time, like it’s all a puzzle she hasn’t figured out yet.

Natalie.

I can smell her hair. I can feel her fingers touching my face, as light as snowflakes.

I open my eyes.

A wooden roof, high above me in the dim light, a fine powdery snow hanging in the air, melting on my cheeks.

I’m alive.

I sat up quickly, looking around me. My neck hurt. My ears were ringing. God, my ears. I could feel warm blood on my shirt. Was I shot? What the hell happened? He hadn’t been more than twenty feet away. There’s no way he could have missed.

I touched my neck, where it joined my shoulder. I was bleeding, but.. . What was that? Something hard and jagged, a sudden riot of pain as I felt it. I grabbed on to it, a cry coming out of my mouth before I knew what was happening. It was hot, and slippery with blood, but I held it tight between my fingers and pulled.

God, that hurt. I looked down at the thing as the blood ran warm down my neck. It was a fragment of metal, about a half inch long. What the hell?

Then the rest of it came back to me, all at once. The body on the floor. The long farm tool of wood and metal, like a spear. I looked behind me. I didn’t want to move any closer to her. I knew she was dead.

So what had happened? I tried to put it all together in my mind, Grant and me coming up here, the guns in the basement, coming out to the barn, Grant behind me with the gun.

I looked toward the door. There was something on the ground. I tried to get up on my knees, feeling the pain shoot through my neck every time I moved it. I crawled over through the ancient hay and dusty snow. I saw the gun, or what was left of it. It was like something out of a cartoon now, both barrels curled back like banana peels.

It blew up on him. The barrels must have been plugged with the Cosmoline, like the other gun I had seen down there. Thank God for fools who don’t know any better than to fire a gun that’s been wrapped up in a basement for who knows how many years.

Some of the shrapnel had hit me. It was better than getting my head blown off, but it still hurt like hell and it kept bleeding. I tried to get to my feet. I got about halfway, felt like I would pass out, then finally I was standing.

As I looked at the wreckage of the gun again, a sudden thought hit me. Grant was standing right here when it blew up. What happened to him?

The door to the barn was still open, the snow still drifting in. I went to it, moving slowly. I saw blood on the floor, a thin trail of it leading right outside. I followed the trail out into the snow and the wind. It was the last thing I felt like facing, but I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t stay in the barn, adding my own blood to the floor, or for God’s sake looking at what had been done to this woman.

I started back toward the house, the long fight through the snow. I could see that my truck was gone, and with it my cell phone. I had been in such a rush to get inside, I had left the keys dangling in the ignition. Now Grant was gone. I saw more blood in the snow, leading all the way to where the truck had been. He was hurt, but apparently he could still drive a truck.

I slipped in the snow. The pain ran like a white hot iron spike through my neck. I had to stop for a full minute just to catch my breath.

“Son of a bitch,” I said into the wind. “Goddamned son of a bitch.”

I started moving again. The snow was collecting on my shoulders. I worked my way to the back door of the house. It was cold inside, but at least I was out of the wind. I went upstairs to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. Very carefully I slid out of my coat, gritting my teeth the whole time. When I was done, I saw that the front of my shirt was soaked with blood. I needed bandages, or at least something to tape myself up with.

I rummaged through more cabinets, found the first aid supplies. Thank God she had a lot of them. I put some gauze squares on my neck, then did my best to tape them in place.

I went downstairs and tried the phone. It was still out. I could wait for the service to come back, keeping warm and trying to limit the bleeding. Or I could try to get out of here. Trouble with that was it was a long way back to the town. Two miles in this weather, in the shape I’m in … Not a great idea. Even if I just tried to get down to the road, how long would I have to wait for someone to come by?

I could go the other way, I thought, to Mrs. DeMarco’s house. But what good would that do? I’m sure her phone is out, too. For that matter, I hope she’s all right over there. She probably has oil heat, but with the power out… No, wait, I saw a good wood-burning stove in her kitchen. I’m sure she’s staying warm.

Wait a minute. I remembered seeing the medical alert tag, hanging around Mrs. DeMarco’s neck. You just press the button and help is on the way.

I went into the guest room. Natalie’s mother’s open suitcase was on the floor—all these clothes she would never wear again. I couldn’t touch them.

I went into Natalie’s old room, saw her clothes piled up on the bed. The room was a mess. I grabbed one of her shirts and wrapped it around my neck. All of a sudden I could smell her scent, just as if she were right there in the room with me. I had to stop and close my eyes. I took a deep breath. Then I went back downstairs and headed out the door.

The wind had died down a bit. It wasn’t snowing as hard. I had that much going for me. I made my way down the driveway—hell, if I got lucky, I might even see somebody driving a snowplow on the road.

When I got down to the road, I looked in both directions. It was a lonely road to begin with. Now it was like some ancient site where a road once ran, a thousand years ago. I put my head down and kept walking, thankful for the level ground at least, and for the fact that the wind was at my back. I could hear its low moaning along with my own breathing, and nothing else. My feet started to feel cold.

Mrs. DeMarco’s house was a half mile down the road, or so I thought. It seemed a lot longer than that as I worked my way through the snow. I was starting to feel like I had made a terrible mistake. But at last I saw a break in the tree line and I knew her driveway was just up ahead.

I trudged on and finally saw her house. The snow seemed to cling to every inch of it. There were no footprints, no signs of shoveling or any human activity. Worst of all, there was no smoke coming out of the chimney.

You’re a total idiot, I told myself. She’s not here. They came and took her away.

I went up the driveway, just to confirm my fears. I went to the front door and knocked, then without waiting I tried turning the knob. The door was unlocked. I pushed it open and stuck my head in.

“Hello?”

Silence.

I stepped inside. At least I’d get out of the cold for a few minutes before heading back. I’d make apologies later, if it ever came to that.

But damn, it was almost as cold inside as it was out. The heat had obviously been off for hours. I’ll make a fire, I thought. Get that stove going, warm myself up.

I went into the kitchen and opened up the stove. I found a pile of old newspapers and started to crumple them up. I looked around for some wood.

Then I heard the creaking. It was coming from somewhere above me. I stopped and listened.

Nothing.

I opened the pantry door, looking for the wood. Then I heard the creaking again.

It’s just the wind, I thought. The house is shifting in the wind.

But then I heard it again. There was someone upstairs.

“I hope that’s you, Mrs. DeMarco.”

I headed for the stairs and went up slowly, step by step. I made a few stupid jokes to myself about whistling in the dark. After what I had seen in the barn, I’d be whistling for a long time.

When I got to the top of the stairs, I saw four different doors. It was darker here, away from the windows. As my eyes adjusted, I saw an old kerosene lantern on a small table—either an antique for decoration or something the old woman had actually used long ago. There was no time to try to light it now.

I moved slowly to the first door and peeked around the frame. It was a sewing room, with a big black Singer machine, the kind with the treadle underneath. I heard a sound and spun around, ready to hit somebody. But the hallway was empty. I went to the next door and looked inside.

I saw Mrs. DeMarco, standing in her bedroom between a wooden armoire and her big four-poster bed. She was dressed in white undergarments from head to toe. On the bed she had half a dozen outfits laid out, all black.

She turned to look at me. If she was remotely surprised to see me standing in her doorway, she didn’t show it.

“I can’t decide what to wear,” she said.

“Mrs. DeMarco,” I said. “Are you all right?”

“I shouldn’t have to think about this,” she said, staring at the clothes on her bed. “Not today. Someone should just tell me what to wear.”

“Mrs. DeMarco, it’s so cold in here. Why don’t you have a fire going?”

As I moved closer to her, I could see that her skin was blue.

“Should I wear this one?” she said, picking up one of the dresses. It was all black lace, and looked like it should be hanging in a museum.

“You need to get warmed up,” I said. As I got even closer, I saw that she was shivering. Her medical alert tag hung from her neck.

“Funerals should be on cold days, don’t you think? Somehow it seems fitting.”

“I think you’re right,” I said. “Do you think we could maybe press the button on your tag? For both of us?”

She looked down at it, like she had no idea what it was. “This won’t do,” she said. She took it off, struggling with it as it got caught in her hair. “I think I need the pearls. What do you think?”

“I agree.” I took the tag from her and pressed the red button. I wasn’t sure where the signal would go—if there was a station here in Blind River or if they’d have to come from Sault Ste. Marie.

“I’ve always hated funerals,” she said. “Not that anyone likes them, I suppose.”

“Come on, we need to get you downstairs. I’ll make a fire and get you some hot tea or something.”

I was going to pull the blanket off the bed, but then I would have had to move all of the dresses. That probably wouldn’t have made her very happy. I saw an old handmade quilt folded up on top of the armoire, so I took that down and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“I don’t have time for tea,” she said. “The funeral is in one hour.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t let you miss it. Let’s go downstairs.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

I led her out of the room and down the stairs, staying in front in case I had to catch her. She took each step with care until we were at the bottom. When I had her sitting at the table, I wrapped the quilt tight around her and started looking for the wood.

“I suppose you’re wondering how I’m holding up so well,” she said.

“Is there some more firewood around here, ma’am?” The wood holder next to the stove was empty.

“I think I’m probably a little numb,” she said. “It’s always a shock, no matter how many times you lose someone.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m just looking for the firewood here.”

“It’s out back,” she said. “There’s a whole pile out there.”

I looked out the back window. If there was a pile of firewood out there, it was covered by an even bigger pile of snow.

“Do you have any dry wood, ma’am? Something that might be stored here in the house?”

“I’m wondering if perhaps I’m not entirely surprised,” she said. “That is to say, perhaps this is something that was bound to happen, sooner or later.”

I tried to open the back door. The snow had drifted all the way up to the window. Turning, I saw yet another door on the far side of the kitchen. When I opened that, I saw steps leading down into the darkness. This time, someone had the sense to hang a flashlight from a nail in the wall.

“It’s such a terrible business,” she said. “I think I’ve always known it would come to a bad end.”

I stopped and looked at her for a moment, thinking about what she was saying. I couldn’t imagine which funeral she was getting dressed for. Maybe her own son’s death had somehow forced its way into her consciousness. She closed her eyes and started to rock back and forth in her chair.

“Okay, I need to get this fire going right now,” I said. I grabbed the flashlight and turned it on, saw the firewood stacked neatly, right at the bottom of the stairs. Beyond that was the dead oil burner. I went down to get as much as I could carry, getting another blast of that same old basement smell. When I had a few small logs on top of the paper, I took the book of matches that was sitting on top of the stove and got the fire going. Then I filled the teapot with water and put it on the stove.

“This will take a little while,” I said. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were still closed. I pulled a chair close to her and sat down.

“Mrs. DeMarco, can you hear me?”

She kept rocking back and forth. “What a time,” she finally said. “What a time.”

“What time are you talking about?”

“What a way to celebrate New Year’s.”

“The man next door,” I said. “Jean Reynaud. Is that who you’re talking about?”

She opened her eyes.

“What’s happening?” she said. “How did you get here?”

“It’s okay, Mrs. DeMarco.”

“You were here before.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve called for help.”

I showed her the tag. Then I noticed the receiver unit sitting on the kitchen counter. You press the button, the signal goes to the receiver … which was dead. Even if it had a battery, it probably connected right to a phone line. Which was also dead.

Alex, I thought, you are officially the biggest idiot who ever lived.

“Mrs. DeMarco,” I said, “someone will come to check on you, right? Your day nurse, maybe?”

“Yes,” she said. “Flo will come, eventually. Or the men from the town.”

“The fire will be hot soon. We’ll get you warmed up.”