Frozen Stiff

by Annelise Ryan

  “Well, for one thing it will mean a change in the way we do things. We will be collecting, processing, and storing more of our own evidence, which turns out to be a good thing for us. I managed to convince the number crunchers that it will be timelier and less expensive in the long run to add a few key analyzers to our lab and train our personnel on how to use them than it will be to continue packaging and sending so much of our evidence to the Madison crime lab.”

  I shrug. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  I sense there’s something more, something he’s keeping back, something I’m not going to like. “I can tell you’re holding out on me, Izzy. So, give me the rest of it. What’s the catch?”

  “Well, with the new setup you will be working directly with the homicide detectives, not only in the collection of evidence, but with the subsequent investigation. All evidence must be collected, stored, and signed off on by both the detective on the case and someone from our office. Same thing with any investigative reports.”

  Hmm, more time with Hurley. This doesn’t seem like a bad thing at all. But before I can breathe a sigh of relief, Izzy drops the other shoe.

  “But because of the corruption problems, it also means there can be no hint whatsoever of any conflict-of-interest issues. That means absolutely no fraternizing.” He pauses and stares at me with a regretful look, waiting for me to make the connection. I do so, with a groan.

  “Are you telling me that if I want to keep my job, I can’t have a relationship with Hurley outside of our working one?”

  “Yes. Sorry. It was dicey enough before this, but once the new system is in place, it will be imperative that everyone remain above suspicion.”

  “Damn!” I punctuate this comment by pounding my fist on the table and it startles Hoover, who sits up and looks around with a wary expression, a low growl emanating from his throat. “Sorry,” I mutter. Then I give Hoover a reassuring pat on the head. “It’s okay, boy. Settle down.”

  Hoover goes back into sentry mode as Dom enters the room wearing a full apron and carrying a baking dish full of eggplant Parmesan. The heat of cooking has curled the ends of his auburn hair and put a rosy flush in his cheeks. He looks very feminine and utterly adorable.

  “Hey, Mattie,” he says with a smile. He sets the baking dish atop a trivet in the center of the table and then pulls his hands away with great flourish. “Dig in. I’ll be right back with the salad and bread.”

  “Let’s eat and we can talk more about this at the office tomorrow,” Izzy says.

  I manage to get through both dinner and dessert without looking or acting as upset as I feel. And my emotional state isn’t just because the government has put an unwitting damper on my future love life. I’m also more concerned than ever about my current situation with Hurley. The partnership, no fraternizing thing is bad enough. But if it’s hoped that this new arrangement will somehow halt police misconduct, my clandestine activities with Hurley aren’t going to look very good if anyone finds out. My job is more at risk now than ever.

  I shove my concerns to the back of my mind and focus on the meal. Fortunately our dinner discussion centers on Dom and Izzy’s Thanksgiving plans, which include an invitation to Dom’s family’s house, which is in Iowa and a four-hour drive away, and another dinner invite to the assisted-living facility where Izzy’s mother, Sylvie, lives. Unfortunately Sylvie isn’t too crazy about the fact that her son is gay and as a result, only Izzy is invited to this latter function. Dom wants to spend the day at home, ignoring both invitations, but Izzy feels obligated to spend some time with his mother. I spend most of the meal playing mediator as the two of them argue.

  By the time dinner is finished, they have decided to drive down to Dom’s family the night before, spend the night and have brunch there on Thanksgiving Day, then drive back to Sorenson so Izzy can have dinner with his mother. They will rejoin at home for dessert. Hints of a similar dilemma during the upcoming Christmas holiday are raised during dessert, but I manage to escape before it turns into a major skirmish.

  Hoover and I head home, both of us well-sated. I caught Dom slipping treats to Hoover several times over the course of the evening, everything from garlic bread crusts to a chunk of eggplant Parmesan. I curl up on the couch and watch TV for an hour or so—Hoover seems quite intrigued by the tiny human creatures in the big black box—before deciding it’s time for bed. Though I feel exhausted, it takes me well over an hour to fall asleep because my mind is so busy digesting the ramifications of my current situation and the upcoming job changes.

  My stomach is pretty busy too, digesting the remnants of Dom’s meal. The rumbles and gurgles emanating from my GI tract make Hoover go on growl alert several times, though he calms with my shushing. But just as I finally fall asleep, he starts barking and no amount of reassurance, chastising or shushing will stop him. In fact, the harder I try to make him be quiet, the louder and more incessant his barks become. When he starts running back and forth between the bedroom and the front door, I start to wonder if all the crap he ate over at Dom and Izzy’s place has upset his bowels.

  “Aw, come on, Hoover,” I moan. “Can’t you hold it until morning?”

  Resigned to getting up, I throw back the covers and shuffle my way to the door. When I open it, he dashes out, still barking, and stops a few feet away, facing into the woods that lie between my old house and Izzy’s. It’s then I notice the fur along his back has raised itself into a ridge, making me wonder if there is some critter in the woods that has him riled up.

  I walk out onto the porch and peer into the trees, expecting to see a dark void. Instead the woods are aglow and I realize there is a strong smell of smoke in the air. Barefoot, wearing only my flannel pajamas, I step off the porch and make my way closer to the woods. Hoover charges ahead of me, still barking like crazy. It only takes me a few steps to realize what the source of both the glow and the smell are.

  My old house, the one David still lives in, is on fire.

  Chapter 22

  I run back into the cottage with Hoover barking excitedly at my heels, grab my cell phone, and dial 911. While waiting for the 911 operator to answer, I dash over to Izzy and Dom’s house and pound on their back door.

  “Dom! Izzy! There’s a fire!”

  When I see a light come on in their bedroom window, I set off running through the woods, still barefoot and dressed in my jammies. After four rings the 911 operator answers.

  “911 operator, do you have an emergency?”

  “My house is on fire!” I yell into the phone. I rattle off the address and then add, “I don’t know if there’s anyone inside or not. Please hurry!”

  My foot catches on a tree root and I go sprawling headlong onto the ground. The phone flies from my hand and I’m momentarily stunned as all the wind is knocked out of me. By the time I pick myself up I can’t see the phone anywhere, so I leave it behind and continue my run.

  By the time Hoover and I reach the house, there are flames licking out broken front windows and running up the side of the house to the roof on the side closest to me. I skirt them and dash over to the garage, peering inside the window.

  David’s car is there, which means he most likely is, too. I holler out his name several times but the only thing I hear back is the snap-crackle of the fire. There is steamy smoke coming off the wooden front door so I avoid it and dash around to the back of the house, Hoover at my heels barking out the alarm. Scrambling up the deck stairs, I glance in the kitchen window and see that this part of the house is untouched, though I can see the orange glow of the fire down the hallway. I try the back door, but it’s locked and I curse the fact that I didn’t think to bring my key. I still have one even though I haven’t used it since I moved out, and I debate running back to the cottage to get it. But even as I consider this, the orange glow grows brighter, taunting me, and making me realize that time is of the utmost importance. The front stairs are probably inaccessible already, but there are
back stairs off the kitchen and so far the fire hasn’t reached this part of the house. By the time I can run back and get my key, it may be too late.

  Given the hour and the fact that the house is darkened, I assume David is sleeping. After years of pulling on-call duty he tends to be a very light sleeper, and the fact that he isn’t already awake and out of the house makes me wonder if he’s taken one of the sleeping pills he uses on his off days to help him sleep better. Unfortunately, they also make it harder for him to wake up. If he isn’t already unconscious from smoke inhalation, he soon will be.

  Several thoughts race through my mind. Though the fire station isn’t that far away, I can’t hear any sirens approaching yet; our fire department is all volunteers, and the firefighters answer the night calls from their homes, slightly lengthening their response time. I pray the 911 operator got all the info I gave her before I lost the phone, but what if she didn’t?

  I envision myself standing by watching as the house burns, knowing David is inside, knowing I might mean the difference between life and death for him. Could I live with myself if he died because I didn’t try to save him? I shake my head, answering my own mental question.

  Desperate, I look around for something to use to break a window. I remember seeing a snow shovel on the front porch and head back that way to grab it, but as I’m running down the far side of the house, something catches my eye and I stop. One of the basement windows has been broken out. I bend down and peer inside and Hoover does the same. The basement is dark, dry, and free of both smoke and flame.

  I drop down onto my stomach on the ground and stick my feet through the small window opening, wiggling backward until my butt hits the frame. I push back a little harder and feel a stinging sensation on my left hip as my butt goes through the opening, but I hit another stopgap when I get to my chest. After reaching down and shifting my boobs around a bit, I contort myself first one way, then another, but to no avail. For a few horrifying seconds I think I’m stuck in the opening but after several more desperate grunts and squirms, I manage to push through and drop down onto the basement floor.

  I pick myself up and spare a glance at Hoover, who is outside the window looking in at me. After telling him to stay, I head for the basement stairs, pausing at the top to put my hand to the wood to feel for heat. The door to the basement is in the hallway near the kitchen and away from the main fire, and though it feels faintly warm, it’s not dangerously so. I slowly ease it open.

  Though the basement air wasn’t bad, as soon as I get to the main floor, I’m assaulted by roiling clouds of thick black smoke that make it hard to breathe and nearly impossible to see. I’m having second thoughts, thinking David will just have to wait for the fire trucks to arrive when Hoover darts past me, barking like a fool and headed for the back stairs.

  “Hoover, no!” I yell, but his barking rapidly grows more distant and I can tell he’s on a mission. I hunker down to minimize my smoke exposure and feel my way along the wall to the stairs. The flames are frighteningly close but the fire hasn’t reached the stairwell yet so I grab ahold of the railing and start pulling myself up. I hold my breath for as long as I can and by the time I reach the top, I’m feeling light-headed. When I’m finally forced to suck in a breath, it makes me cough so hard I see stars and nearly pass out.

  Off in the distance I hear sirens, and once again I have second thoughts. But over the roar of the flames I hear Hoover barking a short way ahead of me and know I have to go on. With my eyes burning and watering, I guide myself along the rail in the upstairs foyer and into the bedroom. I can’t see the bed, but I fling myself across the room to where I know it to be and fall on it. I can feel David’s legs beneath me and I pull myself up along his body toward his head.

  “David? David! Come on! We need to get out of here!”

  Hoover is beside the bed barking his agreement.

  David doesn’t move or respond and I feel my heart seize up in agony, wondering if I’m too late and he’s already dead. Summoning every bit of strength I have, I leap off the bed, grab David’s feet, and pull.

  He isn’t a small man by any means and because he works out regularly, his body is a dense mass of heavy muscle. Grunting, groaning, and trying not to pass out, I manage to drag him off the bed. His head hits the floor with a frightening thunk but I have no time to worry about that now. I move up to his head, wrap my arms under his with my hands laced together over his chest, and pull with everything I have.

  Inch by inch I drag him across the room, into the hallway, and to the top of the stairs. Hoover gets into the act by grabbing the sleeve of David’s pajama top with his teeth and pulling along with me. When I look toward the bottom of the stairs I don’t see any flames so I turn around and start backing down, dragging David with me. My breathing is so strained I sound like an accordion. Twice I nearly fall over backward and then, halfway down, blackness begins to close in on me. Frantic, I double my efforts and try to pull harder. It proves to be a fatal mistake because this time I do lose my balance. As I feel myself fall I tighten my grip on David and hang on for both our lives.

  My last sentient thought is how ironic it would be for David and me to be joined in death even though we are no longer joined in life.

  Chapter 23

  “Mattie? Can you hear me? Mattie?”

  Though the voice is soothing to my ears, I panic, struggling to get my breath. I feel as if I’m swimming up to the surface from some great depth and I’m not going to make it before my air runs out. Then I gasp as memories of the fire flood my mind.

  Oh, no, David!

  I try to say his name but my throat is dry and raw and I can’t seem to get any sound out. There is a bright light behind my closed eyelids, and for a second I think that maybe I’m dead and I’ve somehow managed to luck out and end up in heaven despite the fact that I never go to church and have committed a host of sins over the years. I mentally thank God for her magnanimity and kindness in letting me spend eternity with Hurley, for I recognize that it’s his voice calling my name.

  Logic kicks in when I remember Hurley isn’t dead—at least as far as I know. I try to speak again, but my chest is on fire and I cough so hard it feels like I’m hacking up a lung. That’s when I realize I’m not dead either, though given the pain I’m feeling, I’m not sure if that’s cause for celebration.

  I sense that I’m lying in a bed, and when I finally open my eyes I find myself staring into a too-bright ceiling light that momentarily blinds me. That first cough has multiplied into dozens, a prolonged spasm that makes me start to gag, and I push up from the bed into a sitting position.

  “Whoa!” Hurley says, placing the palm of his hand against the front of my shoulder. “Easy there.”

  As my vision slowly returns I can just make out Hurley standing beside me. The wall behind him shifts and I’m not sure if it’s the movement of my head created by the coughing jag that’s creating the illusion, or if I’m hallucinating. When another face joins Hurley’s, I recognize Phyllis “Syph” Malone and realize the wall is actually a curtain, and that I’m in the ER.

  I continue to cough and my head feels like it’s about to explode. Along the periphery of my vision I can see tiny, sparkling lights floating in the air. Syph shoves a paper cup of water under my nose and says, “Here. Drink. It will help.”

  I go for the cup like a drowning man gasping for air, but when I try to swallow I’m seized by another hacking spasm and spew water all over the bedsheet. After sputtering like a dying engine for a few seconds, I try again and finally manage to get some of the water down.

  It hurts like hell at first, like I’m trying to swallow a handful of razor blades. But eventually it gets easier and by the time I empty the cup, the cool water has become a soothing balm. Even better, the coughing has ceased, at least for now, though I suspect it will return since I can feel my lungs desperately trying to squeeze out all the crap in them.

  “Better?” Syph asks.

  I say yes and the word come
s out as a hoarse croak.

  “Don’t try to talk too much yet,” Syph says. “You inhaled a ton of smoke and your throat probably looks like a very used chimney right about now.”

  Mention of the fire brings my memories back. “David?” I manage to rasp, watching Syph’s expression closely.

  Concern flits across her face, but it’s there and gone in a blink, quickly replaced by her placid professional persona. It’s an expression I know and understand all too well as I’ve worn it a few times myself. Delivering mixed or bad news is an unpleasant but necessary part of working in an ER.

  “He’s stable for now,” Syph says, and I squeeze my eyes closed with relief. “But he’s unconscious. He inhaled a lot of smoke and has a minor head injury. They’re debating on whether or not to intubate him.”

  “Damn,” I whisper. Despite the antagonistic nature of our relationship of late, I don’t want David dead, even if I did secretly wish it a time or two a few months ago after catching my coworker playing his skin flute.

  Syph grabs ahold of my hand and squeezes it. “He’s alive and that’s because of you. They said that if you hadn’t dragged him down those stairs, he’d be dead for sure.”

  “You’re a hero,” Hurley says, and Syph nods. She gives my hand one last squeeze and then lets it go.

  “Try to get some rest,” Syph says. “They want to keep you here for a while to make sure your respiratory status is okay, but I suspect they’ll spring you in a couple of hours. I’ll be back in a bit. Holler if you need anything.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  As soon as Syph disappears behind the curtain wall, Hurley leans down and rests his arms on the side rail of my stretcher. “That was a brave but stupid thing you did tonight, Winston. You should have waited for the fire department to get there. You could have been killed.”

  “I couldn’t just stand there and let David burn to death,” I protest, wincing with the pain in my throat. I sip more of the water and feel a little relief. “I thought you were making yourself scarce,” I say. “What are you doing here?”