The Night Is Cold

by Brandon Enns

  Eli was approaching a fork in the road, the dead-end construction zone approaching. To his right was the highway. To his left, more country road slick with ice. Eli ejected the Patsy Cline cassette and changed the frequency to a different radio station.

  "Another, we'll say, brisk evening here in Saskatoon. Minus thirty-seven with the wind chill. Get home safely, people. You'll be under blankets soon. With five days till Christmas, we will continue to put you in the holiday spirit."

  “Oh Holy Night” sung by a country singer Eli was unfamiliar with played through his old stock speakers, stirring something within him that he never wanted to feel. It was invasive. Every fiber in his body twitched, a friction so powerful. Those families. How hurt had Sarah been when

  Rodney was killed? Did the other mothers feel hopelessness? He suddenly felt glad that he hadn't cooked Steven Adams alive. Stop it. This was the only way. You should have burned him. Yes, you failed your mission. There's still time to correct it. As long as you are breathing, you can finish it. Find a way.

  The song on the radio encircled him. He unbuckled his seat belt.

  With his foot to the floor, Eli sped straight ahead for the construction sign, absent-minded of everything that had occurred. The LeSabre burst through the detour sign, and the road ended, his car flying through the air, smashing into the culverts within the gutted road. Eli flew through the glass, a crack in his neck blended with the sounds of crumpling metal and shattering glass.

  His limp body settled halfway out of the windshield, midsection resting on the sharp glass, his stomach sliced open, pouring out his insides. The pain was right and then gone.

  The RCMP pulled up to the scene. Minutes of contemplation followed before any officer stepped foot outside of their cars. That night would forever be etched in their minds.

  ***

  Jennifer stood in the middle of Eli's dungeon in the pitch black. There was not a sound in the cement layer aside from her heavy breaths. Recalling what had happened, she looked down at her stomach but found no bullet wound. She looked at her right hand and saw undamaged skin.

  Where are you, Baker? Come out from the dark you son of a bitch. I'm not scared of you.

  Flames appeared within the oven, outlining a silhouette lying lifeless on a metal table. Jennifer had no gun on her, no

  knife, only her two fists, ready to be thrown in precise combinations. She walked over to the metal table. As she neared, she could see that it was not Steven Adams. It was a female. Dark hair fell from the table, suspending halfway down to the cement floor.

  She arrived at the body. She looked down and found herself lying dead on the cold slab. Her skin was a faint shade of blue. She heard crying, but it wasn't coming from her, or...her. It was coming from somewhere outside the walls. Is there a secret passage somewhere? A hiding spot in the walls? The crying increased in volume and she could distinctly hear the words being said, "Oh, Jennifer." The oven turned off, leaving her in the pitch black. Fearing she'd be trapped there, someone whispered her name again.

  ***

  Jennifer woke up in the hospital, looking up at Jacey's worrisome face. "Jennifer." She was crying.

  Jennifer tried to move but was stifled by gut busting pain. Jacey's arms were around her in an instant. "Hey, hey. Sit back down. Everything is okay."

  "Eli?" Her voice was dry.

  Jacey looked exhausted, bags under her eyes. "Dead."

  "Shot?"

  "Car accident."

  Jennifer sighed.

  "You don't have to worry about that anymore, Jen. It's over."

  "Adams?"

  "He's alive. You saved him. You did."

  "Brian?"

  "Surgery. Alive."

  "Are you okay though?" Jacey looked so scared. "Jen. Look at me."

  She did. "Are you okay?" Jacey asked more assertively this time, absent of the cushioning baby talk.

  "I—I..." She looked at her bandaged hand. "My hand?"

  "Please tell me you’re okay."

  Jennifer couldn't explain or validate one thought in her head, only monolithic confusion. She was shell-shocked.

  How could they have fixed my hand? There was nothing left of it. A skin graph maybe. From my ass? Or my thigh? Did they take skin from my ass? It does hurt, I think. "They skin graphed?"

  Just when she thought Jacey's face couldn't cringe further, it did, and with it, her hands covered up, a sob bursting out.

  Jennifer wiggled her toes and shuffled her legs to make sure everything was operational. She bobbed her shoulder, and it yelled at her. Then, sitting more upright, her stomach had something to say again. She moaned. Jacey was quick to close in, helping her to lie back against her soft pillow.

  Jacey's crying face settled. "You're in the hospital. You're just in a bit of shock. But I'm here with you. You don't have to worry anymore. All that crap is done. It's done."

  Feeling like a ghost, she stared through Jacey's tear-stained face and recalled her previous day of work. The oven, the coyote, the gunfire, the red snow, Brian.

  "Can you just tell me something? Anything."

  Jennifer's vacant eyes reigned in, joining the moment.

  "I'm okay," she said casually.

  Jacey wrapped her arms around her neck again. She was warm. She squeezed Jennifer tight.

  "I'm okay, I'm okay," Jennifer said, reassuring herself calmly, easing Jacey's state of mind. But she couldn't stop there, walls crumbling down as she babbled in a frenzy. "I'M OKAY, I"M OKAY." Her shouts frightened her into wretched sobs. Jennifer shook and cried while Jacey held her.

  She wasn't in his basement anymore. She was alive.

  30

  January 2018. Ottawa.

  Jennifer's gaze fell back on the senior officer, sitting in the unnecessarily large boardroom in Canada's capital. They were waiting for her response regarding the intentions of Brian Peters.

  "Brian had marital problems. I guess it was his job or his wife."

  The senior officer at the far end of the long table was still unimpressed with Jennifer, his mouth in a permanent frown. "Yes, we've gathered that much, Ms. Allen."

  "Brian's good at what he does. You were all ready to promote him, were you not? You know of his abilities. There wouldn't be many better at managing a department than him. He runs an efficient branch," she said. "And he made a mistake. I think everything about Baker had him doubting his own abilities. His own judgment. Baker getting out after ten years, well that did a number on him. As good as he was, he had already been shamed once. He didn't wanna touch it with a ten-foot pole, and I'm guessing some of you didn't either."

  "Well...there are other circumstances at play here. Did Peters have any involvement in his release?"

  "Not that I know. The way I see it is he thought he got it wrong. A person lives with guilt for that long, there's a good chance it does something to you. To come to fruition like that and then...well."

  Jennifer was surprised to find herself believing in her

  words, feeling sympathy for Brian even though he didn't deserve it. "I think he just wanted it all behind him."

  "Did Sergeant Peters appear stable when you unofficially pursued Baker?"

  "Yes. In hindsight, I'm not so sure. I think he was more damaged than I realized. Of course, this is just conjecture. Gentlemen, I don't think I'm the right person to be getting answers from. Not the ones you're looking for. I've been working under Brian for only four years. This runs farther back and higher up, if I'm being frank."

  "You are," he said. "So under the belief of a completely reliable authority, you chose to disobey a direct order without informing any other senior officers?"

  "Brian and Ben were brought into the fold after the kidnapping and assumed murder of Mia Morrow. Around the time that Bart Reider was probably being murdered. But yes, your statement is correct."

  Another senior member of authority cleared his throat, gaining the attention of everyone. "Perhaps the extreme circumstances called for an unorthodox approach,"
he said.

  "Her job is answering to her superior ranking."

  "I felt it was my duty to save lives that I knew were in jeopardy. With all due respect, I didn't have a choice. And I'm prepared for whatever you all decide because, at the end of the day, I was right. Whatever your decision, I'll be able to sleep at night. Everyone makes mistakes in the field. They will happen. Brian Peters’ mistake was Baker, and he's paying for it."

  "I thought it was a choice to reunite his family?" The officer said with no attempt to hide his arrogance.

  "It was. He will always be paying. Because he's a good cop,

  and good cops don't let things like this go. I hope he does, but he won't."

  She had a feeling the room had become split in regard to their feelings about her. She had won a couple of them over. The man leading the meeting was never going to budge an inch. She could have harnessed all of the sunshine in the world and funneled it directly into his ass, pumping it in with enthusiasm, while scratching his back; it still wouldn't have benefited her in the slightest.

  "That's all fine and good, but we need to start breaking things down to dates and times. When certain decisions and actions took place. There is clearly a reason for these murders. Something had happened before 2006 when Pearson was murdered. And I find it convenient that there is nothing in the files on Baker previous to 2006."

  The sealed file was destroyed, no doubt. It was only ever there in case Eli turned against the RCMP. A written report of his visit, the coerced statement explaining what happened at the lake, the convenience store clerk's statement, everything. It would have all been used to protect those boys and place blame on Baker.

  "I do too. I—"

  The man that defended her once, stepped in a second time. "Donald. We aren't here to discuss that. She was a child in BC when that all took place. Serial killers are complex individuals. It is likely that he fixated on these kids for a very specific, if not small reason. They were all in school together at one point in time. It's likely that Baker saw them together and became fixated. Based on what we have, it suffices to say that all of the victims had happy childhoods, good families. That could be enough of a reason, Donald. We should be

  looking at the family dynamics."

  "Who said we are dealing with a serial killer?"

  "The funerals those parents had to attend. The symbols on the ground are a close second."

  Donald shook his head in disagreement. "This was direct. A clear mission. All done for one specific reason that is being concealed by someone. And we need to find out by whom. Brian Peters is where we start." Donald would not be swayed. He wanted someone's head on a stake.

  "Yes, he was targeting siblings. But this is pattern. He selected his vics for reasons we might not be able to understand. Because we don't think like that, Donald. And he was never going to be finished. Never."

  "I highly doubt that."

  "That's enough," said a bald-headed man to Jennifer's left. "We're here to question Corporal Allen, not have a whiteboard brainstorm."

  "Right. And what we need from you, Ms. Allen, is to share with us anything Brian has told you about this case, past or present. Do you need a break before we proceed?" he asked without really asking.

  "Go ahead," she replied.

  ***

  After all the digging, all the questioning, Jennifer couldn't leave. She stood in the same boardroom looking up at all the provincial flags. She glanced down at her skin-graphed hand, thin and shiny layer of what looked like plastic covering the bite from Baker.

  The man who had defended her in the boardroom entered. She couldn't remember his name from the introductions.

  "Didn't spend enough time here today?"

  "Just not ready for bed."

  "Well, you should rest easy. You've earned it."

  "Oh?"

  "What are your plans, Jennifer?"

  "I don't know. Maybe I should attend some career fairs."

  He shook his head, face solemn. "That would be a tragedy. You fit well here."

  "Sir?"

  "We need you in Saskatoon."

  "I don't know if I can go back to the way it was after all this."

  He nodded understandingly, but a question still persisted within the arc of his brow. "What happened, Allen?"

  He was sincere, and she trusted that truthful words would not be repeated to the others.

  He continued, "We know something went on with Peters. And I understand that you had nothing to do with that. And in the worst position possible, you did your job. You got heart."

  Jennifer couldn't help but scrunch her nose up at the cheesy compliment.

  "And guts. Heart and guts," he said.

  "I appreciate it."

  "You aren't going back to the way things were. We'd have you calling the shots, Sergeant."

  Jennifer's eyes lit up in surprise. "How will that happen?"

  He waved his hands, dismissing the concern. "He'll come around. Majority is gonna rule on this one, anyway."

  He flashed a friendly smile and turned to leave before stopping at the door. "Hope you've got a thick coat. It's pretty cold out there."

  "It's not that cold. Sorry, sir, your name?"

  "I'm utterly offended," he said jokingly. "Earl Caron."

  "Of course. I knew that."

  "Right. I'll be in touch."

  He waved good-bye overhead as he left the room.

  ***

  Jennifer was able to check on Steven Adams after clearing up everything in Ottawa. He was doing okay, forever grateful that she hadn't given up on him. He'd never walk again, but he had mobility waist up. He was able to enjoy Christmas with his family and girlfriend and wouldn't let the injury keep him from practicing law.

  A day later, Jennifer received word from Saskatchewan Federal Penitentiary in Prince Albert that a security guard had died by poison. A birthday cake had been sent anonymously for Kyle Morrow, but the guard had decided the inmate was not deserving of such a delicious treat and it cost him his life. It turned out that Eli was not able to undo a plan that was already in motion to be completed. Morrow was held in a protective, isolated area within the prison and released a week later.

  ***

  The boys were flying. Energy, pace, crisp passing, focus. The flow drills flowed on and on with precision to Brian's delight. He put the whistle in his pocket and joined in on the drill. His crossovers crunched through the ice as he carved up some speed, catching a pass, and skating down on the goalie, he released a snapshot six inches off the ice, far blocker side, post and in.

  He ran it one more time, but after that, his wind was completely gone. He lifted himself off of the ice and sat on

  the boards to watch his team.

  He blew his whistle twice, and the kids skated in hard, all hammering on the breaks spraying him with snow. "It's like you guys want me to skate you!" Brian said with a smile.

  "Listen men, I'm really proud of the effort you've all been putting in the last couple of weeks. Every last one of you has made major contributions to this team, and the fact is, I'm too old and fat to keep up with you guys, so you all start a game of shinny while I rest. Fair enough?"

  The kids cheered and pushed each other around as they tossed their sticks in the middle to pick teams. Brian swatted a couple kids in the side of the head as he skated off the ice and into the dressing room.

  He should have stayed out on the ice. It was so quiet that he could hear only the dressing room lights humming followed by the odd yell and board slam from the kids.

  Being alone with his thoughts was not a safe place.

  ***

  Brian joked around with the kids as they undressed. He untied a few of their skates, as he had lost some bets. Some of them were ready to hit the showers, so he stepped out and walked into the empty dressing room next to them. Again, the droning hum of the lights was taunting him, reminding him of his awful transgressions. The vision of Jennifer in the hospital continued to play out in his mind. There was
still a decision pending. Did he have to tell her what he knew? Would it do any good at this point? Maybe she already knew. It was very possible that she did, or at least assumed. Wagner. Goddamn Wagner...

  Sitting in the quiet dressing room, Brian cried.

  31

  The man in black waited in the dark living room.

  The next payment would allow him to go off-grid for at least six months if he wanted. Six months would be living a life of luxury. A year would still be living right, just fewer delicacies.

  His newest employer provided a cloud of protection around him, making his job relatively easy. Cleanup crew, alternative getaway, eyes and ears, open communication, powers of authority to create a narrative; it was almost too easy. It was in fact. He had missed the good old days of being tasked with all of that, being in charge of his own mess, working for peanuts. Maybe not peanuts, but not enough to make himself disappear on a whim.

  Noise. The front door. Hands remained steady. Lights in the other room turned on. A sigh. Coat thrown over the couch as he rounded the corner to reach for the lights. Deputy Commissioner Rollins turned, releasing a startled grunt. The man in black remained sitting in the recliner, pistol with silencer resting in his lap. He could see that old Rollins wanted to reach for his gun but knew his odds. He was no fool, it turned out.

  "What do you want?"

  "A Mai Thai. I have not had one of those in ages."

  Rollins laugh was crooked, much like his integrity.

  "Killer drink order."

  The man in black didn't laugh. "Speaking of orders..."

  "Let's skip right to the part where we work out a better

  deal."

  Fear still devoured Rollins.

  "Yes, of course. We can cut straight to it."

  "Greg Wagner," said Rollins.

  "You know?"

  "You think I wouldn't do my due diligence when accepting a bribe?"