Dead of Winter

by P J Parrish

  CHAPTER 28

  Louis stepped out onto the porch, stretching his arms up over his head. He looked left, to where the setting sun had left a smudge of orange over the western trees. Dusk had always been his favorite time to run.

  He hadn’t run in years, except for that one time with Zoe, and was probably risking a muscle pull but he didn’t care. He had to get out. Running had always helped him clear his head, helped him think straight, and God knew he needed help with that right now.

  Stretching his calves, he thought about his appointment earlier that afternoon over in Grayling with the psychiatrist Vincent Serbo. He was a phlegmatic old fart, used to treating depressed housewives and wigged-out military types from the base. He told Louis that in his thirty years of practice he had never seen a police officer. He seemed fascinated by the smallest detail of cop life.

  Not that Louis had volunteered much. He knew that seeing a shrink was standard procedure after a shooting, especially when it involved another cop. But he didn’t share his feelings with friends let alone strangers.

  Besides, it was all crap anyway. Ollie’s death had been a hit to the gut but he would deal with it and get back to work.

  He stepped off the porch, swinging his arms to get the blood moving, and started down toward the shoreline.

  “Hey, Louis!”

  Louis turned to see Jesse walking down the road toward the cabin. He was in uniform but there was no sign of his cruiser.

  Jesse came up to him. “Where you headed?”

  “Going for a run,” Louis said. He hadn’t spoken to Jesse since the shooting. They hadn’t talked about anything since Gibralter had split them up. As glad as he was to see Jesse, Louis had trouble meeting his eyes.

  “Where’s your unit?” Louis asked.

  “I was over at Dot’s after shift and decided to take a walk, do some thinking. Been doing a lot of that lately, thinking.”

  Louis nodded. “How’d it go at work today?”

  Jesse gave a sigh. “Everybody’s pretty upset. Chief sent Florence home because she wouldn’t stop crying.”

  Louis nodded again and looked out to the lake. He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about Ollie’s death, even with Jesse.

  “Louis, can we go in side?” Jesse asked.

  “Sure.”

  They went back in the cabin. Jesse pulled off his parka and sat down on a chair, wringing his hands, trying to warm them. He seemed edgy, even more than he had after finding Lovejoy. There were only two cops left now from the raid –- he and Gibralter.

  “You want a drink?” Louis asked.

  Jesse shook his head.

  Louis picked up a half-finished can of Dr Pepper and took a drink, leaning against the counter to wait for Jesse to bring up whatever was obviously on his mind.

  “So,” Jesse said, “how’d the thing with the shrink go?”

  “It’s bullshit, a game,” Louis said with a shrug. “I’ll tell the guy what he wants to hear and get back to work.”

  Jesse just looked at him.

  “What?” Louis said.

  “I don’t know, Louis,” Jesse said. “I think you should take this a little more seriously.”

  “Jess, spare me your amateur analysis.”

  “You shouldn’t just shrug this off. I mean, Ollie died right —- ”

  “Jess,” Louis said, cutting him off. “Enough. I’m all right.”

  “You’re not all right. I heard the tape.”

  Louis turned. “What tape?”

  “The radio transmission. You sounded fucked up.”

  Louis stared at him. “Gibralter played the tape for you?”

  “He played it at briefing.” Jesse shifted on the chair. “He used it as a training thing, played it for all of us and said that with Lacey out there we had to keep cool heads and —- ”

  Louis threw the empty soda at the sink. “Son of a bitch!”

  “Louis...”

  “Son of a bitch!” He stalked across the room, turned and went back. He picked up the small lamp off the end table. “Motherfucker.”

  Jesse jumped up. “Louis!”

  Louis set the lamp down with a thud and went to the fireplace. He braced himself against the mantel, head down.

  “Nobody thought anything about it,” Jesse said.

  “Shut up, Jess,” Louis muttered. “Just shut up for a minute.” After a moment, he turned. “Why is he doing this to me?”

  Jesse watched him intently. “Sit down,” he said.

  Louis didn’t move. But something in Jesse’s eyes finally compelled him to sit down on the edge of the sofa.

  “He knows,” Jesse said.

  “Who?” Louis asked.

  “The chief.”

  “He knows what?” Louis said sharply.

  “About you and Jeannie.”

  “Jeannie? Who the fuck is Jennie?”

  Jesse looked at him oddly. “His wife.”

  Louis shook his head. “Wife?”

  “He knows...” Jesse hesitated, his face pained. “He knows you two are having an affair.”

  Louis stared at Jesse in shock. “He thinks I’m fucking his wife?”

  Now Jesse looked stunned. “Aren’t you?”

  “No!” Louis said quickly. “I’ve never even met his wife!”

  “Wait, wait,” Jesse said, shaking his head. “Who are you fucking?”

  “That’s none of your business,” Louis snapped. He paused, trying to calm down. “Zoe, her name is Zoe Devereaux.”

  Jesse was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know any Zoe and I know everyone here.”

  “She’s not from here, she’s from Chicago. She rents a cabin up on the north shore. She’s an artist.”

  Jesse’s expression clouded. “Artist? What does she look like?”

  “She’s...she’s small, half-Asian and...”

  Jesse waited for him to finish and when he did not, he continued for him. “Dark hair, light-colored skin, like you?” he said.

  Louis stared at him.

  “She likes French stuff,” Jesse added. “She paints, pictures of snow and trees.”

  Louis stared at him, then walked off toward the kitchen. Jesse shook his head slowly, watching Louis’s back. He stood up. “I guess I’d better let you —- ”

  Louis turned quickly. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me sooner?” he demanded.

  “I just found out,” Jesse said slowly.

  “How?”

  “He told me. The other night, before Ollie was killed. I went over to his house to talk to him about splitting us up and he told me.”

  Louis started to say something then just shook his head. He turned away again, unable to face Jesse. The only sound in the cabin was the dripping of the kitchen faucet and Louis’s breathing.

  “I couldn’t believe it,” Jesse said softly. “I mean, I always thought she was strange but when he told me about her cabin and all the weird shit —- ”

  “How long?” Louis demanded.

  “What?”

  “How long has he known?”

  Jesse looked uncomfortable. “About a week. He told me he suspected something and went to her cabin one morning to talk to her. That morning he was late for briefing?”

  Louis was staring at him vacantly, as though he wasn’t really hearing Jesse’s voice.

  “He said he saw a drawing of you, something she did,” Jesse said quietly. “That’s when he knew.”

  Louis hung his head.

  Jesse glanced at the fireplace then back at Louis. “It’s not like it’s all your fault,” he said. “I mean, she lied to you, man.”

  Louis couldn’t move. The anger was building fast and it was taking every ounce of strength he had to keep from hitting something.

  “Louis, the woman is strange,” Jesse went on. “From what the chief told me it’s like she’s leading two lives, like she got some multiple personality dis --”

  “Shut up!”

  “Sorry.”

  Again, silence. Finally L
ouis turned to face him. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Jesse didn’t answer.

  “I thought he was your friend, your great fucking mentor or something. Why are you telling me?”

  “I wasn’t going to,” Jesse said. “I mean, he is my friend and he is the chief. But he’s riding you because of this, not because of Lacey, and he wants you out.”

  “So why doesn’t he fire me?”

  “I asked him. He said he doesn’t want her to feel sorry for you. He said if he fires you, it’ll make you a martyr in her eyes.”

  Louis shook his head.

  It was quiet again. “Louis...”

  “Go home, Jess,” Louis said, not looking at him.

  “Look, I know –- ”

  “Go home, please.”

  Jesse pulled on his parka and started toward the door. As he passed the counter, he touched Louis’s shoulder. Louis pulled away.

  Jesse left, closing the door softly behind him. Louis stood, head bowed, hands braced against the kitchen counter. Finally, he looked up, scanning the room for his coat. He scooped it off the chair and was out the door. It was dark but a waning moon bathed the lake in a spare gray light. He squinted, picking out a light on the far side of the lake. He got into the Mustang and started it.

  It took only fifteen minutes to reach her cabin. It was dark. He hurried up the steps, flung open the screen and pounded on the door. There was no sound from within. He pounded again. He saw a curtain move and looked to the small window. The black cat stared at him with calm wide eyes.

  “Zoe!” he yelled. “Zoe!”

  His voice caromed through the pines, her name echoing back to him, fading into the black silent night.

  “Zoe!” he shouted.

  Echo. Silence. The whisper of wind in the trees. He looked to the window. The black cat was gone.

  He stumbled back off the porch, his gaze moving up over the cabin. He stood staring at it for several seconds then turned and went back to the car.

  CHAPTER 29

  Ribbons of muted color against the brilliant cobalt sky.

  They had all come. The state troopers in their navy blues. The Oscoda County sheriff deputies in their chocolate browns. A neighboring town force in their cadet blues. Another in their ink blacks. A fourth in their seal browns. They stood, in a mute unmoving mass, around Ollie Wickshaw’s casket.

  The eight men of the Loon Lake Police Department were positioned in the front, dressed in dark blue, double-breasted overcoats and pristine white gloves. From his position as a pallbearer Louis watched them, struck by the contrast created by the extravagant coats and the pain-etched faces of the men. He thought back to earlier that morning. He had almost been late because he couldn’t bring himself to put on the uniform.

  His gaze traveled to the family sitting stiffly in the chairs in the front. Ollie’s wife stared at the flag-draped coffin in a dry-eyed trance. A daughter of about twenty sat on her left, weeping softly. An older son sat on his mother’s right, holding her hand, staring off into the distant trees.

  Louis’s eyes drifted over to Gibralter, standing stiffly nearby. Then he scanned the crowd, wondering if she had come. He didn’t see her and closed his eyes.

  The minister’s voice droned on. Louis tried to listen to what the man was saying, tried to use the placating words to block all thought. He concentrated on the voice until it was a soft drone in his head, a mantra of numbness.

  A gunshot pierced the quiet. He jumped.

  He braced himself for the second and third rounds of the traditional salute. Quiet again. He let out a ragged breath.

  He felt a nudge. Jesse was urging him to the casket. He took his place with the others and helped fold the flag into a tight triangle. He watched as Gibralter went to Ollie’s wife and handed her the flag. Gibralter hesitated then bent to kiss her cheek. He shook the son’s hand and stepped back in line.

  The warble of a bugle drifted on the cold breeze. Louis caught Jesse’s eye. Jesse looked terrible, eyes red rimmed from sleeplessness, skin ashen with tension. Louis looked at the ground as he fought back the tightness in his throat.

  When the last note died he looked up. Ollie’s son rose and went to a small wooden box positioned just outside the canopy. He opened a latch of the cote and there was a flurry of movement. Ollie’s prized homing pigeons circled upward. They dipped west and disappeared.

  Slowly, people began to move away. Ollie’s wife and children lingered, talking to friends. Louis stood rigidly, gazing blankly at the crowd.

  “She never comes,” Jesse said softly.

  Louis looked at him.

  “Jean. She never comes to funerals. Her father –- ”

  “I know.”

  “Come on,” Jesse said, tugging his sleeve. “Let’s go.”

  The Loon Lake officers were walking off to a nearby tree where Gibralter was waiting. He and Jesse joined them. For a moment the men just stood in silence. Finally Gibralter cleared his throat.

  “This is the third time we have gathered to bury one of our own, the third time we have said good-bye to a friend,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “Let us now ask that we do not have to gather here again.” Gibralter bowed his head and the others took their cue.

  Louis closed his eyes, feeling the wind on his neck.

  Gibralter’s voice broke the silence. “’the glories of our blood and state are shadows, not substantial things. There is no armor against fate. Death lays his ice hand on kings.’”

  The men began drifting away, parting to allow Louis a view of the cemetery. He glanced at Jesse at his side. “You ready?”

  “Yeah, let’s get out of here,” Jesse said softly.

  “Kincaid,” Gibralter said.

  Louis turned.

  “When can I expect you back at work?” Gibralter asked.

  “I don’t know,” Louis said. “The shrink hasn’t said.”

  “Let’s see if we can step it up some. We need you on the street.”

  Louis looked hard at him. You didn’t need me New Year’s Eve, you son of a bitch. He looked away. The hell with it.

  Jesse touched his sleeve and gave a nod toward the cruiser. They started toward the cluster of cars.

  “Chief Gibralter!”

  The voice sliced through the air. Louis turned.

  “I’ll be damned,” Jesse whispered. “It’s Mark Steele.”

  A tall man was walking boldly across the snow, his black overcoat flapping in the wind, two similarly dressed men following behind. The man’s hair was as black as his coat, his face whipped pink from wind. A gray cashmere scarf hung around his neck, and a speck of red, a tie, was visible between the lapels of his coat.

  “It’s about fucking time,” Louis muttered. He went to a nearby tree, positioning himself within earshot.

  Jesse sidled up to him. “Louis, let’s go,” he said.

  “No, I want to hear this.”

  Gibralter had turned toward Steele and was lighting a cigarette, his hands cupped over the match. Mark Steele stopped a foot before Gibralter, the flunkies lurking in the background.

  “Steele,” Gibralter acknowledged curtly. He flung the match to the snow and blew a stream of smoke into the cold air. “Nice of you to show up for my officer’s funeral.”

  “I’m sure he was a good man,” Steele said.

  “But that’s not why you came, is it?”

  “No.”

  Gibralter took a drag on the Camel. “I don’t need you.”

  “It’s not a matter of what you need anymore,” Steele said. “I’m taking this over.”

  “I’m not going to let you do that,” Gibralter said.

  “You have no choice.” Steele paused, leaning closer. “How many more are you going to bury?”

  “This is our problem.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Gibralter stared at Steele. Then he tossed his cigarette to the snow, turned sharply on his heel and walked away. He brushed past Louis without looking at him.
<
br />   “Jesse, come on,” Gibralter said brusquely.

  Jesse shot Louis a look and followed Gibralter up over a slope toward the cruisers. Louis looked back to see Steele heading to an unmarked black sedan. The two flunkies hurried to open the door.

  The cemetery was emptying fast, the cruisers and cars pulling away in a slow line. Louis spotted Jesse and Gibralter standing near the hood of Jesse’s cruiser. They were talking heatedly, Jesse shaking his head. Finally, Jesse hung his head and Gibralter slipped an arm around his shoulders.

  It was clear that Jesse was falling apart, and what was that son of a bitch going to do to help him? Probably laying another of his fucking loyalty guilt trips on him.

  Louis looked back to the gravesite. Ollie’s black coffin glistening in the sunlight. Two cemetery workers hovered nearby, impatiently waiting to finish their task.

  Shivering, Louis stuck his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. His right hand closed over something hard and cold, and he pulled it out. It was the snowflake obsidian Ollie had given him on Christmas Eve. On impulse, Louis had slipped the thing in his pocket as he went out the door that morning.

  Louis looked at the small black stone for a moment, turning it over between his fingers. With a last look back at the coffin, he started up the snowy slope to his car.

  CHAPTER 30

  The Mustang rounded the curve in the road, and Louis saw the sign: LOON LAKE—12 MILES. It had been a pain in the ass, but it was over. That quack Serbo had given him a full release to go back to work. The rational part of him knew it was too soon. He’d seen cops who came back only a few days after a traumatic incident and almost always they cracked. But he had to get back to work, if for nothing else than to get back some of his dignity.

  Fragments of the sessions with Serbo floated back as he drove.

  It has been the first time he had told a stranger about his real mother Lila. It had been the first time in years he had said the name of the father who had deserted him, Jordan Kincaid, and peeled back the thin layer of anger that covered his heart.

  It was also the first time he had told anyone he was afraid. He admitted to Serbo that his confidence was broken, his nerves shredded. And, at the end, he had talked of Gibralter.