Where the Ice Falls

by J. E. Barnard

  Rape.

  She shuddered with a sudden chill. That word. It was what victims said, what she wrote in reports. It wasn’t her. Her stomach churned. Her fingers clenched the afghan’s strands. She had been raped and had nearly died — nearly been murdered — while she was drunk and vulnerable. By her husband. She was a statistic.

  Afterward …

  She pulled in another calming breath and untangled her fingers. “I got up the next day and my whole body hurt. There were bruises on my neck, on my shoulders. Rug burns on my back. I asked what the hell he’d thought he was doing. He looked at me like I was crazy. He said I’d asked for it, I’d wanted a rough time. My memory was too patchy to be a hundred percent sure I hadn’t said anything remotely like that, but I knew I’d tried to fight him off. So I told him to never do it again, then I showered and went to work.” Went to work, kept her mouth shut, froze all the emotional fallout inside herself, and got on with the business of learning to be a corporal. Her fingers knotted in the afghan again.

  “And you never told a soul.”

  “Of course not. A drunk woman agrees to a sex act and yells in the morning that she was violently raped? I’d be laughed out of the detachment. I was about to take charge of my first shift as a corporal. If I couldn’t stand up to my own husband, how could I control all those other men who’d soon be under my command? Face them, knowing they knew I’d been raped? I squashed it all down and got on with training for my new job.” Lacey watched the tree’s tips glow through their colour cycle a couple of times. “I guess I understand now why I instantly believed he wanted to kill me that day at the river. He’d already come close once before.”

  “Not counting the day he attacked you in the kitchen.”

  “Yeah. That, too.” Lacey looked down at her hands. The washcloth had fallen off her neck, and she’d unconsciously twisted it into a knotted blob. She untied it. “I’m sorry I dumped all this shit on you. I really tried not to. You’ve got enough on your plate.”

  Loreena reached out to hold her hand again. “You and Dee are my plate. As long as I live, right to my final breath, I’ll be wishing and hoping for your happiness in whatever kind of lives you choose.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Zoe gave the gravy boat a final wipe with the dishtowel. From the dining room came Lizi’s voice, bossing her brothers about setting a proper table. She heard Ari say, “Dad isn’t here, anyway.”

  Lizi snapped at him. “‘In this house, we keep standards, regardless of which parent is home.’ That’s a direct quote from Dad. He made supper lots of nights when Mom was at work. Now straighten out that silverware.”

  Zoe smiled as she decanted the gravy and surveyed the counter: Turkey on its platter. Mashed potatoes in their bowl. Veggies, both cooked and raw, pickles and pickled onions, stuffing. “It’s ready,” she called. “Everybody grab a serving dish.” She watched her children weave around each other as if they’d eaten meals together all these years instead of being separated by half the world. Everything felt more normal today. No more intrusions from the ghost. Bethanne had been so reassuring. You don’t have to drop everything on his timetable, she’d said. Tell him you’ll listen to him when the holiday’s over.

  “I have time,” Zoe repeated to herself. And yet, when they were all sitting around the table, plates loaded, talking and laughing, she wasn’t surprised — not as surprised as Lizi, anyway — when a quote from that Australian sci-fi show fell out of her mouth. She even knew what that D’Argo character looked like: kind of orange, with squid-like tentacles on his face. It was like having fragments of someone else’s memories mixed with hers.

  As soon as she had that thought, a sense of Eric’s desolation came over her, and she felt a shiver down her spine. This was a Christmas dinner Eric should have eaten with his siblings. The dead grieve, too. That’s what Bethanne had said. Eric needed time to mourn his family and ease away from his life. When that was done, he’d drift away. Meanwhile, because this was his last Christmas, second-hand though it might be, she could let him share the jokes and laughter and food. The pickled onion she’d unthinkingly bitten into squirted its toxic juice all over her tastebuds. She blinked back tears. Maybe not the food.

  Later, as she cuddled up to Nik, who slept hot and still, like a hibernating bear, she expected a deep and dreamless sleep. But what she got was a terrifying sensation of sliding toward unconsciousness, shivering to her bones, hugging herself to preserve warmth, and hitting the door with split firewood until the splinters drove through her glove. She woke to Nik holding her, murmuring, “It’s okay, babe, I’ve got you.” Instead of wood, she realized she was clutching his wrist.

  “God, I’m so cold. I thought I was dying.”

  “If you’ve caught a chill, you shouldn’t go skiing tomorrow. You need to rest.”

  She couldn’t tell him that it wasn’t she who was freezing, and that it wasn’t her nightmare. It was Eric’s. Suppressing a sob, she wiggled out of Nik’s arms and got up. She tucked the duvet around him. “Go back to sleep. I’m getting some tea.”

  In the morning, finding Zoe had apparently slept off her chill, Nik decided he’d better go to work instead of taking over the ski trek out at West Bragg Creek. “Are you sure you’re not coming down with something?” he said as he buttoned his sheepskin coat. “If you’re sick in the hotel room while the rest of us are skiing, I’ll feel too guilty to enjoy it.”

  She forced a smile. “If I feel like I’m getting worse later, I’ll stay home and let you all go. I can join you in a few days, once I’m over it.” She waved him out the door. Shutting it behind him, she leaned against it and closed her eyes. The guilt was all hers. She was setting him up to take the kids on the ski week without her.

  They left the city on Highway 22, Zoe’s SUV leading Aidan Anders’s little blue car. Snow-covered paddocks and frosted fields gave way to evergreen forest. As they reached the Bragg Creek turnoff, Zoe passed her phone to Lizi.

  “Text Lacey to let her know we’ll be passing soon. Last name, McCrae.”

  “She doesn’t want us to pick her up?”

  “I offered, but she said she’s bringing dogs and prefers her vehicle.”

  Clemmie squealed. “Dogs!”

  “Is that bad?”

  “I love dogs.” She bounced upright. “I’m a dog walker at the Humane Society. I hope they aren’t purse puppies. Imagine skiing with a teacup poodle under one arm.”

  Zoe’s mouth burned with Eric’s longing to talk to his sister. Ignoring the glitter of sunlight on the Elbow River, she crossed the bridge and followed the winding pavement into the hills. The vast West Bragg lot was nearly full, but she found a couple of empty slots far from the trailhead facilities. Aidan’s car pulled in beside hers, and everyone piled out. While the kids unloaded the equipment, Zoe looked around for Lacey, wishing she’d thought to ask about the dogs’ breed. Several varieties romped in the snow: everything from an English spaniel to a standard poodle and, yes, two tiny furballs in tartan parkas, their yips piercing the afternoon air. Neither of the dogs was attached to a woman tall enough to be Lacey. Meanwhile, Aidan was inspecting everyone’s backpacks for survival equipment, adding extras he’d brought in a kit bag. Kai protested. “Avalanche shovels? I thought this was easy hills, not ruddy mountains.”

  “Their turf, bro, their rules,” said Ari.

  “First rule of the backcountry,” said Zoe. “Always prepare to self-rescue. Second rule: plan to survive a whole night even when you’re planning a short walk.”

  In a flat area near the snack shack, a woman with brown curls was coaching several novice skiers in short sprints: “Kick, glide, pole,” she yelled. “Hips forward.”

  Kai’s head turned. “Hey, that’s Marcia, our cross-country instructor.” He waved. Marcia’s arm lifted, but her bellow didn’t falter. “Herringbone. Sidestep. Herringbone.” Kai shrugged and collected his skis. “Let’s hit the trails.”

  When she turned off Dee’s hill, Lacey reflexively ch
ecked on Beau and Boney in the rear-view. They were sitting upright in their compartment in the back, swaying with the turn, watching out the window with the happy concentration of dogs to whom any outing is an adventure. “I envy you,” she told their unheeding russet heads. “If I hadn’t promised to deliver this grief support stuff, I’d be happy looking out a window at home.”

  Happy. Not the right word, really. After last night’s meltdown, she felt she might never be happy again.

  A horn blared. She braked hard and steered back into her lane as a minivan shot past, its far wheels riding the plowed-up snow on the shoulder. Jesus. She’d driven half a million miles on patrol, yet here she was drifting into oncoming traffic over things that had happened a year ago. The dogs scrambled upright with no apparent ill effects from the sudden stop. She drove on. Would these issues she was dealing with have been resolved if Dee hadn’t been injured mere days after her arrival? Would long summer evenings of wine and friendship have healed her? Maybe. But Dee had been attacked, and spent months in hospital and rehab, then undergoing long hours of physio. She’d had enough to worry about, and Lacey hadn’t added to her burdens. She’d been happy to shelve the problem of Dan for later, hoping he’d sell the house, send her her share, and sign the divorce papers without further interaction. She’d been so naive.

  She edged toward the snowbank as a caravan of ski-laden cars approached. No more taking chances.

  She thought about Dee. While fetching Loreena’s pills the night before, Lacey had found Dee at the kitchen island, her head on her arms, her sobs muffled. She had no room for Lacey’s pain. “So,” said Lacey, “you’re not doing so well either? What with the cookies yesterday and all the laughing this afternoon, I thought you’d come to some resolution with your mom.”

  “More like overload. Or rebound. Take your pick. Between looking competent in front of Sandy and keeping it together for Mom, I’m way past faking sane when they’re not around. It’s been nearly a year since I first broke my ankle. No running off the stress, barely even a walk in the woods, and I don’t know any other ways of coping.” Dee’s hand shook as she reached for her mug. “My go-to was always a workout, or sex, or wrapping a big commission. But I’m stuck for those, too. And I’m so freakin’ broke.”

  Sex was the very last item on Lacey’s priority list. She’d swallowed, reassuring herself that her throat still worked. “You might not be broke for long. I’m meeting Eric Anders’s friend and his siblings tomorrow. If any one of them lacks an alibi for his death, the crime could be solved. Once an arrest is made and the first press reports die down, you could sell that place easily. Meanwhile, can’t your mom give you an advance on your inheritance, enough to carry you until you’re up to speed with work?”

  Dee sighed. “I’m not taking her money. She might live longer than she thinks. What if she gives me the money now, and then needs it next year but I don’t have it?”

  Lacey fetched the half-empty can of evaporated milk from the fridge. She put a dollop in each cup. “That’s a risk. But honestly, look at how frail she is, and how many meds she needs for pain and sleep. She’s only here out of sheer stubbornness. She wanted to explain herself to you in person, so you won’t feel abandoned when she chooses to die.”

  “I do feel abandoned,” Dee said so sharply that Beau raised his head. She bent to smooth his neck. “You haven’t lost a parent, Lacey, and you aren’t close to yours, anyway. My dad died before I knew you, and that same dark void’s been reaching for my mother since her first cancer. I’m not even thirty-five yet. People my age have parents and grandparents standing between them and oblivion. When my mother dies, whether by her choice or not, I’ll be alone.”

  The last thing Lacey’d felt ready for was offering comfort while her whole body and spirit felt pummelled. But she’d reached for a box of tissues and shoved a handful into Dee’s hand. Always looking out for the civilians.

  The envelope of grief supports slid across the passenger seat as Lacey turned into the entrance to the West Bragg Recreation Area. Beyond this parking lot were forest, hills, and mountains. The first snow-capped peak rose above a strip of bare aspen trunks. Between the orderly rows of vehicles were disorderly clusters of people carrying skis or snowshoes. How could she find Zoe and her small group in this riot of colourful outfits? She’d been so distracted that she hadn’t even made a plan for how to verify Calvin’s alibi. She’d have to wing it.

  A girl in a pink hat scrambled in front of the Lexus. Lizi? No, this girl had dark, curly hair. But Lizi’s pink hat and blond, jagged hair gave Lacey something distinctive to look for. She cruised along the rows. There was the girl unloading skis from a minivan. Bingo! After pulling into a nearby spot, Lacey decanted the dogs and headed over. Boney and Beau sat at her command as she held out her hand to Zoe. “Thanks for inviting me along. The dogs love a run in the snow.”

  She shook hands and repeated names, making quick summaries for her mental notebook. The two stepsons had black, curly hair, their faces still tanned from the New Zealand summer. They both had large teeth and long limbs. Aidan stood eye to eye with them, but his skin was winter white, his cheeks concave. Behind him was Calvin, whose dark-rimmed glasses emphasized his sharp chin and jowls. His feet scuffed the packed snow. Clemmie, Eric’s sister, seemed smaller than she had at the Blue Christmas service. Her wary brown eyes glanced over at Lacey before zeroing in on the dogs. She crouched down and held out a hand.

  At a click of Lacey’s fingers, Boney and Beau romped over to meet her. Clemmie mashed their ears and murmured nonsense while they leaned on her as if they had known her since puppyhood. Lacey left them there and went to unload her skis. She kicked the snow off her right boot and fitted the toe into its binding, then accepted her poles from Calvin, who had followed.

  As Zoe led them toward the nearest trailhead, she waved to a woman leading a cross-country ski class. The woman lifted an arm.

  Kai, who was skiing beside Lacey, said, “That’s Marcia. She taught me and Ari to cross-country. Ten minutes on the basics, then she led us round the whole Bowl. There’s a groomed trail that runs behind all those chalets and has its own traverse under the upper chairlift.”

  Zoe looked back. “We’ll do the beginner trail first. At the halfway point we can choose between a longer, more challenging route or the easy way back. Who wants to lead?”

  Aidan put on a burst, followed by his sister and Kai. Lacey let everyone but Calvin pass her. “How are you getting on back here?”

  His eyes darted sideways. “Fine.”

  She tried a few more questions, got more one-word answers, and fell into line behind him. He wasn’t the only one close to Eric who may have had a motive. Aidan or Clemmie could have hated their brother. Aidan, though … if he had left Eric to die in an apparent misadventure, why raise the accounting error and offer a potential motive for murder? So far Clemmie, skiing along competently and talking to the dogs with no loss of breath, was an unknown. Maybe Eric had chopped off her doll’s head a decade ago and she had waited until now for vengeance. But whoever had gone with Eric that day would have had to ditch his car and get home unquestioned, then sit tight through the weeks of the search. Could she hold up under that strain? The dogs adored her, which was a point in her favour, but utterly subjective. They kept returning to her after ranging down the line to check on Lacey.

  Speaking of dogs, Lacey suddenly realized only one red plume was waving up ahead. “Boney!” she called out. The setter kept going. “Beau!” The dog stopped, looking over his shoulder. “Good boy.” Shit. Where was Boney? “Clemmie,” she yelled, “is Boney ahead of you?”

  “I thought he was back with you.” Atop the next ridge, Clemmie leaned far out over the rocky slope. “I can see his tail down in the creek. Looks like he’s digging in the cliff.”

  Lacey leaned to look, too, but from her angle she couldn’t see past the snow-heaped bushes. She kicked free of her bindings and squeezed through a gap, sending a mini avalanche down the bank. It w
asn’t as high here, and she easily scrambled down to the creek. Its waters had frozen and thawed and refrozen, forming fantastical structures of gleaming blue-white ice. A promising rusty patch was, on closer inspection, only a cluster of bare willow wands trembling amid the low-growing junipers. No Boney. The near bank was a jumble of snowy boulders at the foot of a rising rock wall. Someone whistled, and she looked up. Clemmie, clinging to a tree trunk and leaning out farther than was likely safe, pointed along the rocky cleft. Lacey trudged on, her cross-country boots slipping and sliding. If she didn’t break an ankle down here, it would be a miracle. Blast that dog.

  “Boney?”

  She thought she heard a whine and pushed her hat back to listen. Water trickled nearby. Surely the creek was too shallow for him to have been swept under the ice. She edged around a bend and found his familiar traces: snow roiled up like only those long setter legs could do. The disruption ended at the cliff face.

  “Boney!” she yelled. “Here, boy. Heel.”

  A bird sang. Snow sloughed off a spruce, landing with a whump. Across the creek a bare branch scraped on rock. Or was it a dog’s claws? At last, she heard a whine, and followed the sound through the disturbed snow.

  “Where are you, boy?”

  A half whine, half bark answered her. At first all she saw was a glittering icefall rising four times her height up the cliff. Maybe it was all snowmelt, or perhaps in summer a smaller stream tumbled over there. Either way, it had built up into a majestic frozen waterfall. Its upper half glistened in the sun, meltwater trailing down to refreeze in the shadows, thickening the icicles that extended from an overhang like stalactites from a cave roof. They’d grown right around the trunks of nearby saplings.