A soft tap. Someone knocking. He drew back the curtain and looked out at the face in the shadows outside.
A sharp, snapping sound.
His heart slammed up against his sternum then froze.
It was a sound he had heard before. Too many times before.
The pump of a shotgun.
Dear God Almighty...
Glass exploded over, around and into him. He was hurled back against the staircase. His fingers groped for the spindles but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t feel his legs. He couldn’t feel anything. Except, except...except a horrible pumping. His blood pumping out a hole in his chest.
Oh Jesus, help me. Stephanie...
Then he felt nothing.
The colored lights danced over the white tile, turning the shards of glass into gaudy jewels. Snowflakes swirled in through the gaping hole in the door, dying as they hit the warm blood. A Christmas wreath lay across his legs, its sound-activated battery pack sending out a tinny rendition of “Silent Night.”
A scream came from upstairs.
The man holding the shotgun looked up the staircase and then reached into his jacket and withdrew a blue-backed playing card. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it through the hole in the glass. It spun to the floor, settling on the white tile near the body.
“Merry fucking Christmas, Officer Pryce,” he said.
CHAPTER TWO
It was a lousy day for drive. Smog-stained sleet left dirty streaks on the windshield. Slick patches of ice sent the tires spinning for grip. It seemed to take forever for the gray Detroit skyline to disappear in the rearview mirror.
The bad weather followed him as he drove up I-75, past the sooty factories in Flint and the sodden cornfields outside Saginaw. Somewhere north of a town called Standish, the temperature dropped and the sleet turned to snow. Now it was coming down hard, flakes so big he could make out their lacy patterns on the windshield before the wipers slapped them away.
Louis Kincaid followed a snowplow into Rose City and pulled into a gas station. As he waited for the old man to fill the tank, he unfolded the wrinkled map. It couldn’t be far now, maybe twenty-five miles.
“That’s eleven-fifty,” the old man said, holding out a mittened hand. “Check your oil?”
Louis nodded. “Yeah, guess you better. Got a small leak.”
The old man eyed the scarred white ’65 Mustang. “That ain’t your only problem,” he said. “that back right tire’s bald.”
Louis nodded grimly and man trudged to the front of the car and popped the hood. As he watched the man pull the dipstick, he thought of Phillip Lawrence’s warning that morning. Take my truck, Louis, that Mustang will never make it. It looked like his foster father was right again, which bothered him. And it bothered him that it bothered him.
“It took a quart but you’re gonna need another soon.”
“Thanks.” He handed the old man some bills. “How far to Loon Lake?”
“About thirty miles.” His snow-encrusted browed knitted. “You going up there for some ice fishing?”
“Nope. A job.”
The man nodded and handed back the change. “Well, good luck to you. Pretty place, Loon Lake.”
“So I’ve heard.”
As he pulled back onto the highway, Louis shook his head and smiled. It was obvious that the old man had been trying his damndest to figure out what business a young black man in a beat-up convertible had in Loon Lake. Phillip had warned him it would be like that. I just don’t think you’ll like it there, Louis. It’s a resort town where rich white men from Chicago build hunting lodges so they have a place to get away.
Louis reached down and turned up the heater to its highest setting. It answered with a cough and a blast of cold air. He banged a fist on the dash then switched the dead heater off.
A place to get away. That didn’t sound so bad. It wasn’t like he had such a great life back in Detroit. A roach-filled efficiency. And no job.
He shook his head, thinking back over the events of the last couple months. Stupid. Had he really expected to walk into the station and get his old job back after being gone for year? It had been official, his leave of absence, but by the time he got back to Ann Arbor there were cutbacks on the force. Last one in, first one out. Jesus, tough luck, Louis, you’re a good cop but you know how these budget things are, but if you need a recommendation...
The next day the letter had come. He could still see the envelope sticking out of his mail slot with the royal-blue seal that made his heart stop.
Dear Mr. Kincaid: Thank you again for your interest in the Detroit Police Department. We have given your application careful consideration and are impressed with your credentials. However, due to cutbacks in the City of Detroit budget, we will not be adding additional officers to our force this year. Your application...
He saw the classified ad in the Free Press the same day. It was slipped in between the computer programmers and fast-food managers.
Police Officer. Loon Lake, Mich. Must be MLEOTC. $22,000. Physical/drug test required. Application deadline Dec. 18, 5 p.m.
Come back home, Louis, Phillip had said. Just until you get your feet back on the ground. We’re worried about you. Loon Lake isn’t the answer.
The snow was starting to let up. Louis glanced at his watch. It was four-thirty.
He straightened in the cold vinyl seat, his teeth chattering. A green reflector sign caught the headlights: WELCOME TO LOON LAKE, GATEWAY TO THE WINTER WONDERLAND.
The pines parted, opening onto a two-lane residential street cast in the soft glow of old-style street lamps. Neat frame houses lined the street, with swings on the porches, smoke curling from the chimneys, and snowmen standing guard in the yards. In the dusk, ruddy-faced men shoveled their driveways. Louis drove past a redbrick school. Kids were sledding down a hill on cafeteria trays, chased by a barking golden retriever.
Louis continued down Main Street. There were garlands of lights festooned across the street and the store fronts were filled with signs announcing Christmas sales. Women stood in knots on the sidewalks, holding babies and packages.
“Jesus,” Louis muttered. “It’s Bedford-fucking-Falls.”
The thought made his mind trip back suddenly to childhood. It was a long-buried memory, and the suddenness of it was so acute, so unexpected, that it brought a sting to his chest.
It was 1967. He had been just weeks past his eighth birthday and had come to the fifth in a string of foster homes, arriving in the middle of a blizzard a few days before Christmas. There had been four other kids, all foster children and all white.
He had spent the day off by himself, eyeing the Christmas tree and the presents, knowing there would be nothing under there for him. Later, he picked at his dinner and moped while the other kids played stupid games only they seemed to know and talked of things Louis knew nothing about.
A man had come in, a very tall man. Louis knew he was the man who owned the big house, another strange face, another foster father. The man told them all to sit in circle. He handed each of them two Christmas cookies and a glass of milk then turned on the television. Stale cookies and some stupid old black-and-white movie about some stupid white guy who worked in a bank.
Louis had stood up. The tall man asked him, gently but firmly, to sit down. He refused and the man repeated his request. No one was watching the movie. They were all watching him and the man. When the man told him a third time to sit down, Louis kicked the paper plate, sending the cookies skidding across the floor.
“Testing me, Louis?” the man asked quietly.
“I don’t wanna be here.”
“Where do you want to be?”
“Home.”
“This is your home now.”
“I don’t like it. I hate it. I hate it.”
The man came over to Louis, slipped an arm around his shoulders and guided him over to the sofa. Louis sat stiffly on the edge, staring at the TV screen. Finally, the man pulled Louis’s rigid body into the crook of his arm and
neither said another word for an hour. When the movie was over, Louis stood up, walked to the broken cookies and cleaned up the crumbs.
He didn’t understand the movie and he sure didn’t believe in angels. But after that, very slowly, he did come to believe in the tall man. He came to love Phillip Lawrence.
What was the name of that damn movie? Shit, it was all over TV every Christmas. It’s a Wonderful Life. That was it.
A sign for the police station lay ahead. The station was nearly obscured by pines and evergreens. Louis swung into the lot and cut the engine. The building was made of logs, like a ranger station. A smoking chimney reached into the gray sky and two bare maples formed a spindly tunnel over the sidewalk.
Louis got out of the car, stretching his stiff body. He was struck by the smell of the air -- pine and smoke. He bent and checked his tie in the sideview mirror. He had spent almost eight hours on the road. His trousers were wrinkled and he felt dirty. What a way to appear for a job interview.
He stepped into the station, the heat from a ceiling vent raining down on him. The interior was paneled in a coffee-colored wood, and a brick fireplace in the back crackled with a healthy fire. A polished pine counter and a long railing separated the work area from where he stood in the lobby. Behind the counter, on a closed door was a gold plate that read: CHIEF OF POLICE.
Louis went to the counter, glancing at the large tray of Christmas cookies. An officer sat at the rear desk, his blond head bent over a report.
“Excuse me...”
The young man looked up and smiled. He stacked his papers neatly, positioning them exactly parallel to the edge of the desk. He rose and came to the counter.
“What can I help you with?” The smile was genuine. He had perfect straight teeth and close-cropped hair. His skin was smooth and pink, and combined with the powder-blue police shirt, he looked like a baby shower gift. His silver nameplate said DALE MCGUIRE.
“I saw the ad in the paper,” Louis said.
The officer’s eyes moved over Louis’s blue blazer and he reached under the counter and produced an application form and several other papers. Louis moved the tray of cookies and turned the papers so he could read them.
“You have to do the app here. Chief wants to make sure you can read and write,” the officer said.
Louis nodded, reaching for his pen. “Have you had many applicants?”
“A few, but you’re the last. Chief says the deadline is five, he means five.”
Louis glanced at the empty chairs, debating whether to take a seat. His eye was drawn to a framed photograph on the wall. It had a small black ribbon across the top corner. The handsome black officer in the photograph was named Thomas Pryce. The plate beneath the photo said: IN MEMORIUM JUNE 12, 1952-DECEMBER 1, 1984.
Two weeks ago.
Louis turned to see McGuire staring at him.
“Is there something wrong?” Louis asked.
McGuire smiled. “No, nothing. Would you like a cookie?”
Louis nodded and picked up a cookie, munching on it as he completed the forms.
“L-17 to Central, we’re back in service.”
The sound of the officer’s voice on the radio drew Louis’s attention to the dispatch desk in the corner. The dispatcher was a walrus of a woman with a jet-black bouffant and Fifties-style cat-eye glasses. With a sigh, she lowered her paperback and keyed the microphone.
“Ten-four, seventeen. I have a message for you. Your wife requests that you stop and pick up egg-nog on the way home.”
“Ten-four, Central.”
McGuire nodded toward the dispatcher. “That’s Edna.”
Edna gave a wave from behind her Danielle Steel novel without looking up at Louis.
More calls trickled in and Louis listened as he filled out the forms. A lost dog. An officer stating he was checking in on an elderly woman who lived alone. Another requesting jumper cables for a stranded motorist.
All his life, Louis had set his sights on working for a big city department with plenty of action. But here he was. What did this town even need cops for?
He glanced at Dale McGuire, who was re-taping the tinsel around his computer screen. Still, there was something about this place. Something in the air, something...sweet and clean that was more than just pine and gingerbread. He had felt it the moment he drove into town. He remembered something his foster mother Frances once said, something about people having places on earth where their souls felt comfortable. Places where, as soon as you set foot in them you felt at home. He had never felt that special pull to any one place.
“You know,” McGuire said, interrupting his thoughts, “the Chief hasn’t found anyone he liked yet. When you get done with that he’ll want to see you.”
See him? Now?
“He’s anxious to fill the job. Doesn’t like working short-handed,” McGuire said.
Louis glanced at the Chief’s door. He saw his cold ugly apartment back in Detroit and felt the sting of lonely nights there.
God, he wanted this job. He wanted it bad.
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MEET P.J. PARRISH
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P.J. Parrish is the New York Times bestselling author of ten Louis Kincaid and Joe Frye thrillers. The author is actually two sisters, Kristy Montee and Kelly Nichols. Their books have appeared on both the New York Times and USA Today best seller lists. The series has garnered 11 major crime-fiction awards, and an Edgar® nomination. Parrish has won two Shamus awards, one Anthony and one International Thriller competition. Her books have been published throughout Europe and Asia.
Parrish's short stories have also appeared in many anthologies, including two published by Mystery Writers of America, edited by Harlan Coben and the late Stuart Kaminsky. Their stories have also appeared in Akashic Books acclaimed DETROIT NOIR, and in Ellery Queen Magazine. Most recently, they contributed an essay to a special edition of Edgar Allan Poe's works edited by Michael Connelly.
Before turning to writing full time, Kristy Montee was a newspaper editor and dance critic for the Sun-Sentinel in Fort Lauderdale. Nichols previously was a blackjack dealer and then a human resources specialist in the casino industry. Montee lives in Fort Lauderdale and Nichols resides in Elk Rapids, Michigan.
The sisters were writers as kids, albeit with different styles: Kelly's first attempt at fiction at age 11 was titled “The Kill.” Kristy's at 13 was “The Cat Who Understood.” Not much has changed: Kelly now tends to handle the gory stuff and Kristy the character development. But the collaboration is a smooth one, thanks to lots of ego suppression, good wine, and marathon phone calls via Skype.
BOOKS BY P.J. PARRISH
DARK OF THE MOON
DEAD OF WINTER
PAINT IT BLACK
THICKER THAN WATER
ISLAND OF BONES
A KILLING RAIN
THE UNQUIET GRAVE
A THOUSAND BONES
SOUTH OF HELL
THE LITTLE DEATH
THE KILLING SONG
CLAW BACK
(A Louis Kincaid Novella)
HEART OF ICE
Claw Back (Louis Kincaid) Page 14