Frost Line

by Linda Howard

  “His dick’s too little,” Amber had replied, laughing.

  There was more—more laughing, more insults. His ears started buzzing, and he felt a strange sense of disconnection. No one laughed at him like that. He was State Senator Robert Markham, head of the Senate Appropriations Committee, the most powerful man in the Georgia capital because if you controlled the money you controlled everything—and they were laughing at him as if he were nobody.

  Then Amber flew at him from the left, slapping the phone from his hands, slapping, slapping, hitting him in the face, on the side of the head. She hadn’t screamed, probably because of the kid asleep upstairs, but she’d been spitting words at him from between clenched teeth, her pretty face red and twisted with fury as if she was the injured party, as if she was the one who had been cheated on.

  Then she spat in his face, and without thinking he punched her, sending her slamming into the lamp table, knocking over a picture of her and the kid. That was his last clear memory. He just wanted to make her shut up; he wanted to make her pay for everything she’d said, for making him look like a fool. He couldn’t hear anything other than the buzzing in his ears, and what he remembered was more like a flurry of snapshots than memories: frozen images of her face, strangely purple, a sharp stinging on his wrists, her hand clawing at the floor.

  He sat beside her body for a numb few seconds that felt like an hour, then a sense of urgency stirred him.

  He had to do something.

  No one knew he was here, except for the kid. Elijah was just seven and he didn’t even know Robert’s full name, just called him “Uncle Bobby.” But a decent cop might figure Bobby was a nickname for Robert, and maybe a neighbor had noticed his car pulling into Amber’s driveway a time or two before, though he was always careful to park in the garage. With damn cell phones someone could have taken a picture with his car in the background—that would be bad luck, but it happened.

  But evidently there were other cars that parked in Amber’s driveway, and one other for certain had been here tonight, earlier, when it was more likely to be seen. That was pure luck on his part, and bad luck for the other guy.

  The kid was the problem, and problems had to be taken care of. He’d learned that on his way up the political ladder. If the next step—the governorship—was to be his, he had to handle this.

  He kind of regretted it, because the kid was a cute little guy. Still, it wasn’t as if Elijah was his kid. He doubted Amber had even known who the father was.

  He’d have to think this through, cover all the details, but first things first: he had to take care of the kid.

  Quietly he got to his feet and went up the stairs. He tried to think how he should do it, but the only thing that came to mind was to strangle him the same way he’d done Amber—though maybe he’d just put a pillow over the kid’s face and hold it down, smother him instead of actually choking him. Not only did it seem kinder, but there was less chance of leaving a fingerprint up here. He’d never been in the kid’s room before, so that was good. But he knew which one it was, because whenever he’d been in Amber’s room she’d always been careful to pull Elijah’s door securely shut.

  With that in mind, he pulled out his shirttail and used that to cover his hand as he pushed the door open.

  There was a night-light burning, so the room wasn’t completely dark. Robert moved silently toward the rumpled bed, then stopped in surprise, blinking his eyes. The bed was empty; the kid wasn’t there.

  Swiftly he looked around; the room was a kid’s usual messy jumble of toys and clothes, but that was it. Covering his hand with his shirttail again, he flipped on the light.

  Definitely no kid. He looked under the bed, and in the closet, in case Elijah had been in a sulk when he was sent back to bed and had hidden, then fallen asleep.

  Nothing. Shit!

  Robert turned out the light. Okay, maybe he’d gone to the bathroom. But the bathroom was directly across the hall—the door was open, the light was out. He looked, anyway, in case the kid was hiding in the tub. He wasn’t.

  Amber’s room, maybe?

  Empty.

  Robert went from room to room, anxiety building. He had to find that damn kid. Where the hell could he have gone?

  He went back downstairs, stepping as quietly as he could, his head swiveling as he tried to catch any movement. In the living room, Amber still lay as he’d left her, sightless eyes staring.

  He checked the downstairs bathroom, the laundry room, the dining room. Finally he went into the kitchen, and immediately felt the movement of cold air. He turned on the light, looked around, then fixated on the back door. It stood slightly ajar, the cold night air rushing through the opening.

  Quickly he turned out the light again. His blood felt like ice, horror seizing him. The kid had seen him kill Amber, and had run to a neighbor’s house for help. The cops would already be on the way. He had to leave, and leave now. But what if the neighbor was standing outside waiting for him, maybe with a gun? This was Georgia; anyone was as likely to have a gun as not.

  But he couldn’t just stand here like a fool; he had to do something.

  He used the toe of his shoe to nudge the back door open, and slipped out into the backyard. He stood in the cold and dark, listening for a sniffle, a disturbance—anything. Lawrenceville was a nice little suburb, the houses fairly close together, but occasionally there would be a wooded lot providing some separation. This late on a Friday night it wouldn’t be surprising if some of the neighbors were still awake, but maybe people were tired from all the holiday bustle because he couldn’t see any lights on anywhere around.

  His heart pounded heavily as he tried to think. If the kid had run to the next door neighbor, there would be lights on, voices, maybe even sirens already screaming as cops raced toward them. But the night was quiet, no voices, no sirens. There was a tree line behind the row of houses; if the kid had run into the trees, there was no way Robert could find him.

  But why would Elijah do that? He was a little kid, and he’d run to other people for help. Wouldn’t he?

  Staying in the shadows, feeling the bite of the cold, Robert crept to the front of the house and crouched beside a bush as he looked up and down the street. Now he could see a couple of lights on, here and there, but those houses were still quiet. A few had left their Christmas lights on. That was it. There were no signs of activity, no unusual sounds, no dogs barking or porch lights coming on, and still no sirens.

  The kid had gone to ground somewhere. For whatever reason, he hadn’t gone for help. Who knew what the hell kids thought?

  Now what did he do?

  His first thought: get rid of the body. There wasn’t any blood. He could clean up the broken glass, straighten the furniture, take Amber’s body, and dump it somewhere. The longer it took to find her, the less evidence there would be. There were plenty of lakes and rivers around, as well as wooded areas. He’d think of somewhere, maybe even drive into another county before he dumped her.

  His mind whirled with thoughts. He had to wipe everything he’d touched. He had to get Amber’s cell phone and her purse, make it look as if she’d gone somewhere. Take the battery out of the phone, yeah, so it couldn’t be traced by GPS. That other guy’s phone, too; he had to do the same thing with it—but he’d leave the phone with Amber’s body, or close by. If it was ever found, that would have the cops looking at the other guy. That meant he had to leave the battery in it, make it look as if the guy had dropped it, lost it.

  But first things first: he had to get Amber’s body out of the house, before the cops did show up.

  Chapter 2

  Elijah crawled to the kitchen table, his hands and face stinging, his feet so cold they hurt. Maybe he could hide under the table, stay right there until Zack and his parents got home. But how long were they going to stay at Zack’s granny’s house? Two days? Three?

  Did Uncle Bobby know Elijah and Zack were best friends? Did he know where Zack lived? Would he come here?

&nb
sp; The thought terrified him, but he didn’t know what to do, where else he could go. And he was cold; he couldn’t run anymore. He curled up beside the table and tried to get his feet warm, pushing the toes of first one foot then the other beneath the hem of his pajama pants, against each leg in turn. It was a while before his toes began to feel warm, before the pain started to go away.

  What should he do now? A policeman had visited their class a long time ago, back at the beginning of the school year. Elijah had been new then. He’d known Zack lived on his street, but they weren’t best friends yet. The policeman had talked about a lot of stuff, but what Elijah remembered was 9–1–1. Everybody knew to call 9–1–1 in an emergency, even little kids. Mom had taught him that a long time ago; he didn’t need a policeman to tell him to do it.

  Cautiously he stood, staring out the window to see if Uncle Bobby was out there, looking for him. He couldn’t see anyone, so he eased away from the table. Where did Zack’s mom keep her phone? He’d never seen her use anything but a cell phone, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have a big phone like Miss Sally did. Elijah looked around the kitchen, then moved into the dining room and on to the living room. Nothing. He didn’t like being in the dark; he couldn’t really tell if there was a phone hiding somewhere or not. A couple of times he thought about turning on a light, but every time he reached toward a light switch, he’d stop. If he turned on the light, Uncle Bobby might see it and come get him and kill him.

  He didn’t want Uncle Bobby to call him “son” ever again. He wasn’t Uncle Bobby’s son; he didn’t want to be friends anymore. He wanted his mom, but Uncle Bobby had killed her.

  Tears leaked out of his eyes and his nose was running again. He swiped his pajama sleeve under his nose and held his breath to stop crying. When his chest hurt and he couldn’t hold back any longer, he let his breath go in a rush. He didn’t have time for crying; he had to find a phone. Maybe there was one upstairs—a big phone or maybe a cell phone they’d left behind. He and Zack had laughed at Miss Sally’s big old phone but he sure would like to find one now. Going to the stairs he grabbed the rail, being careful the way Mom had told him, though he forgot most of the time, but now he wanted to do as she said because it kept her there, someway. He climbed the stairs, his still-cold feet taking one step at a time.

  Zack’s mom had night-lights everywhere! He didn’t have any trouble seeing where he was going, not with all those night-lights.

  If he had his own cell phone, he would’ve already called 9–1–1! But Mom said he was too young, that maybe he could get one when he was twelve. Twelve! That was five years away. He’d be too old to want one by then.

  When he got to the second floor, Elijah went first to Zack’s room. He knew there was no phone in there, but he’d been in this room a lot, and he knew his way around. It was familiar, comforting. Bunk beds, neatly made—they weren’t always—were pushed against one wall. Zack had a toy box, a dresser with a lamp on it, a dirty clothes hamper. But he couldn’t stay here. There was no phone; he’d known that when he came here. He just wanted to feel a little bit happy again, and he’d always had fun in Zack’s room.

  From there, he went next door to Gracie’s room. Gracie was old, practically grown; she was thirteen, and she did have a cell phone. It was always with her, though, so he didn’t expect to find one just laying around. He wrinkled his nose; her room was a mess. He hadn’t known girls could be this messy, but this was worse than Zack’s room usually was. Her clothes were tossed everywhere—on the floor, on her bed, across her furniture. If there was a phone, he’d never find it.

  Heaving a sigh, he trudged on down the hall. The bedroom where Zack’s parents slept was huge. There was enough space for a big bed, a couple of dressers, and a treadmill that had clothes hanging on it. They had a lot of weird, old stuff that was stacked everywhere. He checked the nightstands and the tops of both dressers, patting the surface when he couldn’t see well enough from the night-lights. There was a lot of old junk, but no cell phone or the other kind. There were boxes, small lamps, smelly books, carved animals—an elephant and a tiger—even a globe of the world, one that would spin when you gave it a push. He did. It didn’t light up, like the one he had at home.

  But no phone.

  What should he do, if he couldn’t call 9–1–1? Should he just stay here until Zack and his parents got home? There would be food in the kitchen. Maybe Uncle Bobby wouldn’t even think about looking here. Zack’s mom would know what to do. She could dial 9–1–1 on her cell phone. But that could be days.

  For a moment he thought about going to another house. Miss Sally had a phone. Most houses did. But he didn’t know where Uncle Bobby was, if he was on the street or just outside this very house or still at Elijah’s house … He felt cold all over at the thought of Uncle Bobby catching him, and giving him dead eyes like Mom and Bosco. No, he wasn’t leaving. He was safe here.

  Elijah went back to Zack’s room. He’d spent the night before; they wouldn’t mind if he stayed here until they got home. He crawled into the bottom bunk bed—Zack always took the top—and put his feet beneath the covers. They were almost not-cold. He pulled the thick cover to his chin, shivering for a moment, then wallowing in the warmth.

  He should sleep. If it was a school night it would be a long time past his bedtime. He remembered how mad he’d been at Mom for not letting him stay up later, but then he’d gone downstairs and seen …

  He didn’t want to think about that.

  The shivers came back. Outside, the wind picked up, howling like Cookie did when the little dog next door aggravated him through the chain-link fence. The tree outside Zack’s window moved, and the limbs scraped against the side of the house. That window faced the street. If he looked out that window, would he see Uncle Bobby? Looking for him, calling his name …

  Elijah leapt from the bed and ran down the hall to Zack’s parents’ bedroom. It faced the backyard. There was no tree to rub against the window.

  But there were windows. Windows he could see out. Windows Uncle Bobby could see in.

  Still cold, Elijah grabbed a big blanket from the foot of the bed, and pulled it to the closet. No one could see him if he was in the closet. He opened the door and stepped inside, pulling the soft blanket with him. It was a big closet, with racks of clothes on both sides, and boxes and shoes lined against the walls.

  When he closed the door, darkness wrapped around him like the blanket. There was no night-light in here, no moonlight or streetlights shining through the window, because there was no window. He couldn’t see out. No one could see in.

  For the first time in what felt like hours, Elijah felt safe. He lay down on the floor and pulled the blanket to his chin. He should’ve grabbed a pillow, too, but he hadn’t thought about it and as much as he would’ve liked one, he didn’t want to leave the warmth of the spot he had made for himself.

  Uncle Bobby wouldn’t find him here, in the dark, behind a closed closet door. No one would find him here.

  Elijah slept. He dreamed.

  His headlights picked up the sideways white drops and Robert’s hands tightened on his steering wheel. Sleet was marginally better than snow or freezing rain; in the cold and dark, the clock ticking relentlessly, foul weather was the last thing he wanted to see. Or maybe it wasn’t; maybe bad weather would make it harder for anyone to find Amber’s body, and destroy more evidence as a bonus. He didn’t know. All he knew was that this was a shitty end to a shitty day.

  He’d driven more than half an hour north of Lawrenceville, taking dark and narrow back roads until he reached the old roadside park. He parked in the gravel lot that was littered with beer cans and discarded burger wrappers. The dented trash can was overflowing, as if it had been a while since any maintenance was done. In his half-panicked state, he wasn’t any more certain if that was a good thing than he was about the bad weather. Did that mean someone would show up tomorrow? Find her body right away? That would be bad.

  On the other hand, he’d li
ke to leave her on top of the trash can. Trash in the trash; it was fitting. He’d like to, but he wouldn’t.

  He turned off the car’s ignition, so no lights would give away his presence if anyone happened to drive by on the road, though this late—or early—and in increasingly bad weather, traffic had been very light, almost nonexistent. The clouds blocked out all starlight and the blowing sleet cut visibility down even more.

  The wind sliced through his suit coat as he got out of the car, ducking his head against the stinging ice pellets. Shit, it was cold! Using his remote he popped the trunk lid, remembering too late that a light in the trunk automatically came on whenever it was opened.

  Swearing under his breath, he hurried around and leaned in to wrestle Amber’s body out of the trunk. He’d rolled her in a blanket, which made her easier to handle, but dead weight was still dead weight. He swore under his breath as he pulled and tugged, bracing his feet and using his own weight to lug the bundle upward and over the lip of the trunk.

  Finally, breathing hard, he had her out. He bent down and let the bundle fold over his shoulder, then fought to straighten his knees. Damn it, he was a politician, not a gym rat; he’d never counted on having to haul a body around on his shoulder.

  He looked around; there still wasn’t any sign of traffic, and without the headlights on he couldn’t see shit. Should he risk turning them on? He couldn’t just leave her here—though he wanted to. He had to conceal the body well enough that she wouldn’t be found right away. He needed time, time for evidence to erode, time to find that little shit Elijah, time to make plans and take precautions.

  The pattering of the sleet slowed, and a strange hush fell over the night. Snowflakes began drifting down, soft and fat. His sense of urgency surged even higher. Snow in the south was a disaster, with roads turning to skating rinks in no time. He had to get Amber’s body dumped and get home before he was stranded. He still had to think of some tale that would satisfy his wife, but a screaming fight with her was the least of his worries right now.