Out of the Shadows

by Timothy Boyd

Jonathan couldn’t help but smile, seeing his wife’s glowing features in the warm illumination from the desk lamp.

  “I don’t know how I will evah repay Christine.”

  “You don’t have to. In fact, she’d prefer if you don’t bring it up.”

  “Ok,” she said, although he could see the look of twisted confusion on her face as her mind attempted to reconcile the strange ways of the Mind of Brody. She looked up at him, concern in her sparkling eyes. “You aren’t goin’ out there again tonight, are you?”

  He pulled her close to his chest and wrapped his arms around her. “Not if you don’t want me to.”

  He held her for a minute, feeling her warmth against his body. It comforted him.

  “Jon, would you lay with me for a minute? Just a minute. That’s all.”

  “Of course, honey.”

  He helped her back onto the cot, squeezing his own large frame onto the edge, knowing that if he were to actually doze, he’d likely roll right off. He draped his arm over her, and she reveled in his warm embrace.

  After a minute, her breathing had slowed, and she had fallen asleep again. He remained another few minutes, taking in the smell of her hair, the feel of her skin, the faint sound of her beating heart. He was thankful that he was able to replace his “last time with Leslie” memories with fresh new ones.

  He slowly got up from the cot, careful not to jostle her. He was feeling torturously exhausted, but he was not sleepy. He knew there was a difference, and in his line of work, recognizing that difference was key.

  After exiting the office, he stretched his arms into the air to loosen his tense back. It was time to convince his partner that going to the Sheffield House should wait until morning. He headed to her desk but stopped halfway when she wasn’t sitting there. He turned around the room, looking at the many empty workstations, as most of the officers had gone home for the night.

  Jonathan saw the light still on in the chief’s office, so he knocked on the door, peeking his head inside. “Hey, Chief.”

  “Come on in, Colter. How’s Leslie?”

  “She’s good, thanks. Sleepin’. Have you seen Brody?”

  The chief leaned back in his desk chair, exhaling deeply. “Colter, I understand your situation, and I’m allowing for it. But there’s still work to do, and your partner was willing to do it.”

  As the chief continued to talk, realization had struck Jonathan, and he sprinted out of the office to the front of the room and skidded to a halt in front of the coat rack by the front door.

  Christine’s coat was missing.

  He took a deep breath and thought through his options. He knew that she could handle herself on a simple scouting mission, and there was plenty of work he could do at the station until she returned.

  But at the same time, he knew his partner, and it was unlikely that she would be able to refrain from action if it presented itself.

  He reached for his coat on the rack but then stopped, his eyes resting on the door to the office in which Leslie was sleeping. He fought with himself as he wondered what kind of man he should be.

  A husband or a partner?

  The Dead of Winter

  VII

  It is said that a man is defined by his actions, his words mostly meaningless. As Jonathan stood with his hand outstretched to grab his coat, ready to brave the storm to go after his partner, he thought carefully about his actions versus his words. “We’re partners, Brody,” he would say to her. “I watch your back; you watch mine. It’s how we do this!” And he was true to his word.

  Then he thought of Leslie and every vow he had ever uttered about always being there for her and not letting her down. “‘Til death do us part,” he had said to her. Earlier tonight, she had needed him more than ever, and yet he’d felt it necessary to stop and cry in the middle of the street, to stand by while his partner chipped away at the ice prison, to watch someone else perform CPR on her, to push help away when all seemed hopeless.

  A lump caught in his throat as he realized he was a better partner than a husband. He wished desperately that he could be good at both, but he wasn’t convinced that it was possible. As he lowered his arm, pulling his hand away from his coat resting on the rack by the front door, he decided that he needed a shift in his life focus. In the morning, after the day was behind them all, he would talk with the chief about reassignment – maybe stay behind a desk for a while. He knew that Christine wouldn’t understand, but it wasn’t really her concern anyway.

  He retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and sent a quick text: “Brody, please keep me posted, and I’ll do the same.” He replaced his phone and walked to his desk, preparing to search through the many pages of information on the Sheffields and the events of the day. He poured himself a mug of black coffee in lieu of eating dinner, placing it next to the massive file folder, and he sat down into his chair. He skimmed words and flipped through pages, his brain reeling with information.

  Rita Mayes, housekeeper of Peter Sheffield, hears him scream upstairs, so she runs out the back door to the sidewalk. She meets a passerby with a dog, and they call the police. We arrive and find Peter in his bedroom, frozen in place. Brody accidentally breaks off one of his icy fingers. Outside, Rita screams, so we run to her, find the old man frozen. Brody takes her to the station and gets the description of the man she saw running away. It’s Frank Sheffield, the vic’s brother, only he’s been dead for twenty years, found frozen in his daughter Jessica’s bedroom. Jessica went missing ten years after that – at age eighteen – and is presumed dead. Even though Frank has been dead for twenty years, he has property in his name here in Rockport.

  Jonathan’s modest desk lamp illuminated his space, and the light bled out into the mostly empty room, casting eerie shadows throughout the precinct. He leaned back in his desk chair, his hands interlocked behind his head, staring at the ceiling, his brow furrowed. His brain twitched with information, and he felt that buried deep within was the answer after which he sought, if he could find the missing piece.

  How could a man that’s been dead for twenty years be seen running away from the scene of a crime? he wondered.

  On a scratch of paper, he quickly scrawled, “Orphanage, Sheffield House, Rita.” He stared at his list, deciding which to take care of first. His foot bounced nervously on the floor, and he found it difficult to think about anything other than his partner. He retrieved his phone to send her another message, but then he tossed it on his desk, deciding to give her the space she requested.

  Before his fidgeting drove him as mad as would an incessant itch, he jumped from his chair and strode over to the chief’s office, knocking quietly on the door.

  “Yeah,” came the chief’s permission to enter.

  Jonathan entered the dim room, hovering at the threshold. “Sir.”

  “Colter,” the chief nodded without looking up from the paperwork on his desk. “I’m a little surprised to see you still here.”

  Jonathan’s palms began seeping sweat as he suddenly felt that he had no right to bother the chief with requests.

  After a minute, the old, husky man looked up, his eyes patiently awaiting a reason for the interruption. “Can I help you with something?”

  “I… feel that my time is better spent here right now, goin’ over the files on the case.”

  The chief waited for more but none came. He nodded, “Ok,” and he looked back down at his papers.

  Another few moments passed as Jonathan remained at the threshold, building the courage within to make his request of the chief. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “Sir?”

  “Colter, if you’re about to ask me if I’ll send a team to the Sheffield House as backup for Brody, then you can hold your breath—.”

  “Sir, please listen,” Jonathan pleaded, knowing that his partner shouldn’t be alone.

  The chief looked up from his papers with a shocked disapproval on his face. “Colter—.”

  “Sir, please send a team to—.”


  “Colter!” the chief boomed, standing from his chair and regaining authority.

  Silence took over the space as Jonathan remembered who was in charge and turned his eyes to the floor in submission.

  “Now, if I may finish?” the boss asked sarcastically.

  Jonathan wisely remained quiet.

  “If you were going to ask me to send a team as backup for Brody, don’t bother. Because I’ve already done it.”

  Jonathan’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “Sir?”

  “About five minutes ago, I called some of our guys, including the Camden PD, and they’re sending a small team to the Sheffield House now.”

  Jonathan exhaled a sigh of relief, feeling the cloudiness within his head dissipating. “Thank you, sir. Sorry for the interruption.” He turned, shutting the chief’s office door behind him.

  * * *

  The house listed under the name of the deceased Frank Sheffield wasn’t too far away from the Rockport Police Station, just west of Lilly Pond, but with the mounds of accumulated snow, Christine had had to drive a bit more slowly than she would have liked. Although there was no reason to rush to the house in the first place, she had taken one of the four-wheel-drive police SUVs, just in case. She had felt bad for leaving her partner behind at the station while he was with his wife, but she wanted to check out the house as soon as possible, and he would have just delayed her. She would apologize when next she saw him.

  As she pulled to the side of the snow-covered road, the car lights already off so her arrival would not be immediately announced, she noticed that the storm had significantly tapered off into light flurries, falling peacefully from the black night sky. It seemed like the worst was over, which meant that soon the plow trucks would be able to better clear the roads, hopefully making them safe by sunrise.

  She had always thought that Rockport looked stunningly peaceful after a snowfall, but something about the current whiteness disgusted her, and she was afraid she would never be able to enjoy another winter day again. Her phone vibrated in her pocket, and as she reached for it, she had a feeling that it was her partner calling in an attempt to stop her from going into the house. When she saw that it was only a text message from him, she sighed with relief.

  He stayed with Leslie, she thought.

  As she opened the car door, a fleeting thought passed through her mind, and she realized that she had secretly hoped he would come running after her, like he always did. But she quickly rallied from her disappointment, checking to make sure her gun was in its holster, and then she tromped down into the thick snow.

  The two-story house was old and wooden, and its appearance sent a chill down her spine. There was something creepy about its rustic exterior and black windows. It was like the aged house was waiting in shadow for the proper moment to jump out and devour its prey. It loomed over her, its façade in disrepair after years of apparent disuse.

  As she made her way toward the front porch, her breathing became ragged, and her heart pounded ruthlessly. Something felt peculiar about the property, as if a supernatural entity spied with prying eyes as she approached, which she knew was totally ridiculous.

  And so was the idea that a person had the power to turn humans into frozen statues…

  She looked at the precariously icy steps that led up onto a rickety wooden porch. If she had made it this far without attracting attention, then she wasn’t ready to give away her position just yet. But she had no choice. As slowly as she could, she placed one foot onto the first wood plank, which cried in protest. Then the next step, and then the next.

  Up on the porch’s landing now, she slowly made her way to the battered front door, blood rushing through her ears in an almost deafening dissonance of sound. She waited, eyes closed, listening for the sounds of movement inside. Although the brunt of the storm had passed, wind still howled through the trees, disorienting her slightly. But after a bit, she had grown confident that no one lurked beyond the shadows, waiting for her. She reached for the doorknob.

  The second the porch creaked loudly behind her, she spun around, flipping the latch on her holster and removing the gun in one fluid motion. Before she could get her bearings, she felt the painful crack on the side of her head from the blunt object, and her vision went black as she fell unconscious.

  * * *

  Leslie rubbed her husband’s shoulders while he talked on the phone, trying to gain more information about the Sheffields. She had only been able to rest for a short while before a bad dream had awoken her, so she had joined him in the main station with a mug of hot chocolate. She wasn’t sure how she could possibly be of any help to him right now, so she figured she would at least keep him calm and relaxed.

  Jonathan slammed down the phone and angrily scrawled a line through the word “Orphanage” on his list, matching the other item already crossed off: “Sheffield House.”

  “Everything ok?” Leslie asked him, feeling foolish for asking such a silly question.

  “More frikkin’ questions, and no answers,” he spat, crumbling his scratch paper and tossing it into the trashcan next to his desk. “The Sheffield House was apparently the family summer house. They came here for a month every year, until twenty years ago when he died. But someone’s been paying the bills in his name.”

  “That’s odd. What about the orphanage?”

  “The orphanage wasn’t able to tell me much, because Jessica Sheffield’s records are locked away in a storage room that the night crew doesn’t have access to. I spoke with an old woman that remembers her though, but all she said was that the girl was introverted and reserved, talked to herself a lot, and had a fascination with snow globes.”

  “Snow globes?” Leslie asked, thinking it an odd thing with which to be enthralled.

  “Yeah,” he said, looking up at her with sadness in his eyes. He didn’t bring it up, but in his mind he thought about how Leslie’s ice prison had resembled a giant snow globe, and his gut told him now more than ever that they needed to find out what happened to Jessica Sheffield.

  So, she accidentally froze her father when she was eight years old, he thought, trying to piece the story together. Kept her ability a secret, made very few friends growing up, took off the first chance she got. Now she’s here in Rockport, living in her family’s old summerhouse, and she killed her uncle this morning. But why him? And why now?

  Jonathan grew aggravated with himself, pounding a fist on the desk. “This isn’t addin’ up.”

  Leslie pulled up a chair next to him, seeing that her massaging wasn’t helping. “So, what’s next?” she asked him.

  “I wanna talk to the housekeeper, Rita, to see if she knows anything else about the family.”

  “You want me to leave ya alone while you call her?”

  “Brody said she’s not at home. She tried callin’ before she left.”

  “Well,” Leslie thought. “Does she have a cell you could call?”

  Jonathan shook his head. “No, she doesn’t have a…” and he trailed off, staring ahead, his brow furrowed in thought.

  “Honey?”

  “Oh, my god,” he mumbled quietly to himself, remembering crucial details about the day he had previously forgotten.

  “Jon, what’s wrong?”

  His mind went into overdrive as he typed madly at his computer keyboard, searching for the information he needed. Once the database appeared on the screen, he picked up his desk phone and punched the numbers into it, impatiently waiting as the phone began to ring in the earpiece. It rang a second time, and a third time. He felt anger rising inside him – anger fueled by the stupidity that he felt.

  Leslie heard a woman answer on the other end of the line.

  Jonathan perked up, sitting forward in his chair. “Is this Rita Mayes?”

  A pause.

  “Rita, hi. This is Officer Colter from the Rockport PD. I had a few follow-up questions for you regardin’ Peter Sheffield.”

  Leslie heard the muffled female voice, but she couldn’t ma
ke out the words.

  “Really?” he said curiously.

  Leslie was having difficulty reading the expression on her husband’s face as Rita spoke into the phone.

  “Ayuh, concernin’ the incident at the house this mornin’.”

  Leslie noticed her husband’s breathing become shallow and fast, and she knew his heart rate was beginning to race. Her own palms clammed up, knowing deep in her gut that the news he was receiving was not good.

  “I see. Can you tell me anything about his family? Specifically his niece, Jessica?”

  His face turned white as all the blood rushed away to other extremities, and his jaw opened with slack, his eyes growing wide. He looked ill. Leslie didn’t have to ask; she already knew: Christine was in danger.

  “Ok,” he stammered, trying to keep his cool on the phone. “Thanks so much for your help, and I’m sorry to have bothered ya, Ms. Mayes.” He slowly hung up the phone, his hands shaking. After a moment of disorientation, he jumped into action with a sudden furiousness. He retrieved his cell phone from his pocket, jumping up from his chair, pacing back and forth by his desk. He dialed a number and waited.

  Finally, he spoke with urgency. “Brody, it’s Colt! Stay away from that house! Call me the second you get this message!” And he hung up, emotions overtaking his body, sending him into shivers of panic.

  Leslie wisely stood back, allowing him to process the news he’d just received. He would divulge his information when he was ready, but she knew without a doubt that his partner was in terrible trouble, and he was nowhere nearby to help.

  He flew into the chief’s office, not even bothering to knock on the door. Leslie watched them talk animatedly through the window, her heart sinking farther toward her gut. She saw the chief’s eyes grow wide, and she saw him pick up a walkie-talkie, speaking quickly into it. She could tell from his reaction that no one responded. She saw him try once more to no avail. Something was very wrong, and she knew what had to be done.

  Jonathan ran from the chief’s office, blinded by fear for his partner after realizing how stupid they had been. Blood pounded within his ears, and he grew dizzy, inhaling and exhaling too deeply. He ran his hands through his wavy hair, looking around the room at nothing particular, trying to catch hold of sanity before his fear’s grip became absolute. He angrily kicked the side of a desk, the collision echoing through the station. He spun around, not knowing what to do with himself. And then his eyes came to rest on Leslie.