by Timothy Boyd
She became entranced as the snow fell gracefully to the ground, a slight smile crossing her lips. Softly to herself, she began humming a music box lullaby. She turned and shuffled quickly in her footed pajamas, headed to her white wooden dresser and bookshelf at the other end of her quaint room, yearning to marvel once more at her magnificent collection.
Lining every shelf and covering the tabletop were dozens of treasured snow globes. Her eyes lit up with glee, taking in the precious tiny worlds locked within the snowy dreamscapes. She reached for one with her tiny hands, wrapping both around its ceramic base to keep it safe. As she hummed, she tilted the globe back and forth, replacing it on the dresser once more.
The tiny snowflakes swirled feverishly inside the glass dome, and then they slowed and fluttered peacefully over the tiny gingerbread house. Smiling, a tear escaped the corner of Jessica’s eye. She longed for a peaceful, beautiful, winter wonderland of her own where she felt safe, not afraid to close her eyes, to leave her room, to realize her potential.
When she heard the heavy footsteps tromp up the stairs outside the door, her body shivered with fear and anticipation of what was to come. Taking only a brief moment of weakness for herself, she immediately regained her composure and continued staring at the many encased wonderlands before her. Even as her bedroom door flung open and her father stormed in, she didn’t take her eyes off of the artificial worlds of which she wished so deeply she could be a part.
“What are you doing?” came the angry boom of his voice.
Jessica didn’t turn around, but she could see the grizzled mess of a man lumbering behind her within the reflections of all of her globes.
“Look at me when I talk to you, girl!”
She felt his strong, calloused hand grab her tiny arm much too tightly, spinning her to face him. This would not be the first time she would have to hide a bruise, but she had decided a long time ago not to give him the satisfaction of seeing the fear in her eyes. She would save her emotion for after he was gone.
She smelled the stench of beer as he regarded her with suspicious eyes. Her father was by no means a drunk; he was, however, an angry man. It had not taken her long to figure out that mixing alcohol with anger always led to violence.
His wild eyes strained to focus on his daughter, his hand still clutched tightly around her arm. “You’re just like your bitch of a mother, you know that?” And he released her, pushing her away from him disgustedly.
He stood, staring at the fragile trinkets that covered much of her shelves. Suddenly, as if the sight of the snow globes rekindled a painful memory within him, he lunged forward angrily and swiped his beefy arms across the desktop of her dresser, sending her dreams crashing to the hardwood floor, shattering into tiny shards of glass and puddles of water.
Eyes filling with tortured tears, a chilling agony exploded within her. “Noooo!” she cried out, running in vain to save her broken worlds. She sobbed as she stared at the irreparable damage on her floor, the feet of her pajamas becoming damp from the growing puddle. “Why did you do that?!” she demanded through blurred vision.
He had no answer. He merely stared at her with contempt before turning to leave the room.
Her pain became intense anger for only a second before it morphed into full-fledged hatred. Jessica’s feverish rage chilled her, fueling her icy lust for vengeance. She charged after him, screaming.
He spun around, easily fending off her childish punches.
She pounded and slapped, feeling that at any second, her body would explode with arctic fury, decimating the world. She reached up and grabbed his arm with every ounce of strength she could muster, pulling him down to his knees. She placed her hands on the sides of his head, needing him to see the pain he had caused. Feeling the frigidness rise within her, the water puddles at her feet crackled and solidified into a sheet of ice. She watched as every ounce of warmth seeped from her father’s body. His eyes grew wide, and she barely caught a flicker of fear pass through them before she realized what had happened.
He remained on his knees, frozen in position, a statue of flesh and ice. She stood back and regarded the awkward position in which he’d ended, arms outstretched, jaw agape, eyes wide, leaning forward on his knees.
Jessica smiled and skipped over to one of the shelves that he hadn’t destroyed, picked up a snow globe, and twirled the water within, mesmerized by the beautiful snowfall. As she grinned, she continued humming her lullaby, feeling comforted as she had a few moments earlier. She wondered briefly if there were anyone else in the world that shared her unique gift, so she decided it was time to start the search. Regarding her father once more, crystalized in ice and forever pleading for mercy, she knew without a doubt what she had done.
He was dead.
* * *
Years later…
Through the gray clouds of dawn, the morning sunlight struggled to reach its gaze down onto the small town of Rockport, Maine. The single-digit January temperatures forced a thin layer of sea smoke to hover above the freezing waters of Penobscot Bay, giving the impression of floating sky islands where trees stretched into the air, the deciduous having lost their vibrant leaves a few months before.
Small houses buried within a swath of green conifers lined the rocky coast, and despite the unpleasant winter weather that forced the fishing boats to evacuate the water, the empty harbor looked quite stunning. A few gulls perched on buoys that were frozen in place by the thin layer of ice on the water while other seabirds circled the air, echoing their call down the coast. A light flurry of snowflakes fell from the ashen sky, which was peppered with beams of sunlight where it had been able to break through the cloud coverage.
Christine Brody stood on her back deck pondering the foggy bay. A long set of wooden steps danced down the rocky slope leading to a tiny dock. She brushed her short, auburn hair from her face before taking a final drag of her cigarette, flicking it effortlessly over the edge and down the jagged coastline.
For a brief moment, her mind conjured a steel jungle in the distance, the skyscrapers of her old life stretching into the hazy sky above, but she quickly shook the image from her head. It had been years since she’d been immersed in that life, but she’d managed to escape with no reason to return. She never imagined that a small coastal town such as Rockport might one day serve as a permanent home, but now she relished in the simplicity. She never adopted the vernacular of the region, but the Mainers had accepted her anyway.
Clothed in her tan patrol officer uniform, she took one more moment to let the frigid weather seep into her bones, not because she enjoyed freezing her ass off, but because it helped to wake her up. From the second her alarm had broken her slumber, she had remembered what day it was and had been contemplating her own mortality. Having no spouse or nearby family to whom she was close, she frequently had time to contemplate such things. But today was different…
When she began to feel the numbness in her fingers start to spread up into her arms, she snapped herself out of her thoughts. She knew that this was not the time for self-pity. She had a job to do, and she planned to do it well, just like every other day. With a population of a little over three thousand people covering thirty-five square miles of land, her workdays on the force were not quite as exciting as most cops’, although she did occasionally answer calls of thefts.
She re-entered her quaint house, walked briskly over the creaky wood flooring of the parlor, grabbed her gun and silver badge from the hallway table, and walked out her front door.
* * *
Wiping maple syrup from his mouth on the soft, cloth napkin, Jonathan Colter stood from the kitchen table, taking his now-empty breakfast plate to the counter next to the sink where his wife currently stood, scrubbing her own dish.
“Your cookin’ nevah disappoints,” he smiled, his thick New England accent adding to the charm that his wife felt as he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, kissing the side of her face.
“Wish I could say the same for
yours,” Leslie grinned. Her joyous laugh rang out through the house as he began a retaliatory attack tickling her sides. After barely managing to squeeze out of his grasp, her loving eyes watched him as he took his dirty dish to the sink. She never expected his wonderful compliments, but he always gave them, and they never failed to make her smile.
Running the dish under the warm water stream from the faucet, he scrubbed away the sticky syrup and leftover egg bites. “What does your day look like?”
Drying her hands on a small towel, she pushed her long, sandy brown hair behind her ear and replied, “I’m headin’ up to the market as soon as you leave. I wanna get a few things before the big storm starts up.”
“Storm?”
“Yeah, the weatherman said we got a Nor’easter comin’ this afternoon that’ll last through the night. They’re talkin’ about a curfew to keep people inside ‘cause of the roads.”
Jonathan frowned at the news.
Leslie smoothed the wrinkles from the back of his tan work uniform. “What? Somethin’ big at work today?”
“Not that I know of,” he answered, turning off the water and spinning to face her. She looked radiant, as always. Her skin was smooth, her smile infectious, and her crystalline eyes sparkled from the faint morning light through the window. He smiled at her, thinking of how lucky he was to have connected with such a wonderful woman with whom he could spend the rest of his life.
But then he remembered what day it was, and his grin faltered.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, placing a consoling hand on his chest, looking up into his troubled brown eyes.
“Brody.”
“What about her?”
“Today’s the day when…” but Jonathan knew he didn’t need to finish the thought, nor did he want to.
Leslie placed a hand to her own lips, an expression of sadness wrinkling her smooth face. “Oh, that poor woman. I can’t even imagine what it must a’ been like.”
“Yeah.”
A car horn bleeped twice from outside.
She grinned softly to lighten the mood. She knew that her husband cared deeply for his partner, and that if Christine were hurting, then Jonathan would be hurting too. She had accepted long ago that when two people were asked to put their lives on the line for each other, there was bound to be a meaningful connection formed between them. She wasn’t a jealous woman, nor would she ever be. Work was work, and friendship was friendship. At the end of the day, he always came home.
“Your ride is here. You betta’ book it,” she smiled, running her fingers through the sides of his wavy dark hair.
He wrapped his toned arms tightly around her torso, feeling his heart beating against her own. He held the embrace, and neither of them said a word, because nothing needed to be said.
Another honk sounded from outside, forcing the Colters to pull away from one another. Jonathan leaned in and kissed his wife softly, whispering, “I love you.”
She smirked devilishly and retorted, “Yeah, you’re a pretty lucky guy.”
“That’s what people keep tellin’ me,” he admitted. “They say, ‘Man, Colter. Your old lady’s the best. How’d ya get so lucky?’”
Grinning, she waved him away like a pest. “Get outta here!”
He retrieved his gun and badge from a nearby table and headed for the door.
“Oh, wait!” she called out, dashing into another room and returning with a single white daisy, its stem dripping water droplets onto the floor. “Give this to Christine for me.”
Jonathan smiled, taking the flower and kissing his wife once more. “She’ll love it. See ya tonight.” And he walked out the front door.
* * *
“Brody!” Jonathan greeted as he sat down in the passenger’s seat of the police cruiser, fastening his seatbelt. “How the hell ah’ ya?”
“Hey, Colt,” she mocked enthusiasm, trying to pretend that her mind wasn’t preoccupied.
He handed her the daisy and said, “For you.”
“Aw, that’s so nice of you!” she jabbed sarcastically.
“Come off it! It’s from Leslie,” he informed, dropping it in her lap.
Pulling out of the driveway, she asked, “Your wife got me a flower?”
“Ayuh. She wanted to do somethin’ nice for you today.”
“Ugh,” she grimaced. “How did you end up with someone so perfect? It’s disgusting.”
He grinned broadly. “You’re just jealous.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“You hear about the blizzard comin’?”
“I call dibs on driver’s seat for doing donuts in the parking lot.”
“Is there evah a time you let me drive anyway?”
“Not if the calls are time-sensitive, no.” She grinned slyly, glancing sideways at him as she sped down the road toward the station.
He smiled and turned to look out the window, watching the mixture of bare twigs and pine needles streak by. He felt that he should say something to her… something about the day. But at the same time, he knew this woman well, and if he—.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she blurted out of nowhere, knowing that the pregnant silence that had been growing between them was Jonathan’s way of building the courage to broach the sensitive topic.
He looked over at her and stammered. “I was just gonna say that—.”
“I know what you were going to say.”
“—that you’re speedin’ like a bastid,” he added, allowing his thick accent to carry the full weight of his playful insult, “and I should pull you over.”
She sighed, slowing down a bit but purposefully not enough to appease him.
The radio crackled to life with a woman’s stern, quick voice. “All units: be advised. We’ve got a possible one-eight-seven at Elm and Spruce. We need any available persons to report immediately.”
“Jesus, Brody!” Jonathan exclaimed, his breath caught tightly in his throat.
She snatched the radio from its holster on the dash, depressing its side button. “This is Alpha-Tango-three-three-five responding. We’re only a few blocks from there.”
“Ten-Two. Approach with caution, three-three-five,” came the callback.
Christine replaced the radio on the dash and turned on the overhead beacons and siren, stepping harder on the accelerator.
Jonathan sat in the passenger’s seat, heart racing, eyes wide, trying to catch his breath.
Christine noticed her partner’s discomfort. “Colt?”
“Wha?”
“I need you with me now!”
“I’m fine. I just…” He sat up in his seat and took a breath. “A homicide…”
“Possible homicide. Let’s not count our chickens before they’ve hatched.”
“Right.”
Jonathan clutched the door handle as the car skidded around a corner, Christine slamming the brakes, stopping in front of a two-story house. The officers jumped from the vehicle in a swift, dexterous motion, their guns in their hands defensively.
Christine spotted a young, blonde woman standing on the sidewalk with an older man and a Chihuahua. “Are you the ones that called this in?”
The young woman stepped forward. “Yes, I called. He was walking his dog, and I came from the other direction when we heard an awful scream from inside the house.”
“A man’s scream or a woman’s?” Jonathan inquired.
“A man.”
“For your safety, please stay here. Someone will need to take your statements.”
As the two officers ran toward the house, the blonde woman yelled out, “I thought I saw something in the backyard.”
Christine stopped and spun on her heels. “You think you did, or you did?”
The woman looked stunned, as if she were suddenly being questioned. She stammered, “I… I don’t know!”
“You did, or you didn’t?!”
“I think I did!”
Jonathan swept forward, his gun pointed at the ground. “I’l
l take the back.”
“No, I got it,” Christine argued.
“Brody!”
“Colt, I got it. Take the front!”
The Dead of Winter
II
Jonathan stopped arguing, knowing there would be no way to convince his partner to go through the front instead. He proceeded toward the entrance door, watching his best friend already circling around to the potentially dangerous backyard.
As he reached for the simple golden doorknob, he was shocked to discover that it turned effortlessly. Because the door had been left unlocked, the man that had screamed was either foolish, or he voluntarily allowed his attacker to enter. He pushed the door open far enough to step inside the home.
Holding his police-issued gun with both hands, pointed low toward the ground, he stepped quietly through the dark foyer, his senses alert for any indication of an intruder. The house was fairly open, with few places one could hide. Mostly hardwood floors. No lights on. It seemed old and creaky. The man that occupied the home clearly had lived there a while and was the type to resist change.
In the parlor, the tattered couch with its thick wooden frame housed hideous cushions and an afghan, colored in decades old plaid patterns. The small television on the simple stand sprouted rabbit-ear antennae. Next to the couch, a non-descript brass ashtray rested on a round end table covered with wood stain that had faded over the years. The remaining embers of a still-lit cigarette sent a thin string of gray smoke into the air, which hung throughout the room like a fog of tension. Many white rings covered the top of the nearby wooden coffee table from wet glasses left to sit too long, likely full of whiskey, of which there was a bottle on the floor next to the couch. It appeared as though not a single improvement had been made to the house since the 1970s.
As Jonathan eased through the rest of the dark home (decorated mostly in drab earth tones, the stale stench of years of cigarette smoke permeating the air), he noticed very few photos on the walls or tables. The tenant of the home was definitely not a family man. He poked his head into the messy kitchen and found a few stains covering the laminated flooring. A plate of last night’s food remained on the cheap, aluminum table.