sometimes he claims he paid a man to take her to keep her ‘safe.’ So, no, when I visit him we don’t hang out in the common room. Because, like you said, they’d put him in a straightjacket.
“He might be old and confused, but he does
deserve some dignity. You want to know why we hide in his crappy apartment? Because I’m selfish. I want to spend time with him even when he doesn’t know who I am.
“So you’re right. It is a cop-out. But I’d rather those nosy residents felt sorry for him because he didn’t get any visitors, than have them ridicule him because they think he’s crazy.”
This case had been fucked up nine ways ’til Sunday from the beginning, and my defense of myself wouldn’t change that.
Amery stood abruptly.
“I-I have to finish up some things before I leave on my trip. I’ll see you later tonight, Kevin.”
“Wait. I’ll walk you out.”
I sparked another cigarette and swiveled my chair to face my blank computer monitor, bracing myself for yet another butt chewing.
A few minutes later, Kevin wandered to the window and kept his back to me. Hands jammed in the front pockets of his dark green suit pants; shoulders hunched nearly to his ears. “You happy now?”
“Happy about what, Kev? Happy that I saw a
bloated dead body first thing this morning following 82
up on a case I didn’t want to take in the first place?
Happy that I spent ten minutes trying to talk to the client’s grandfather and then another ten trying like hell to get away from him? Happy that I’ve been the one dealing with ageism, racism, and sexism? And you haven’t done a fucking thing on this case you insisted we take? Happy that your client questioned my investigative skill and my ethics, in my office, and you fucking sat there and let her do it?
“Or are you asking if I’m happy that I saw you screwing our client, in the middle of the goddamn day, in the middle of the goddamn conference table, when you didn’t bother to check the goddamn locks on any of the office doors? Which one should I be the happiest about? ’Cause I’m dying of fucking curiosity to know which one you’d choose.”
I swore I heard his molars crack from him clamping his jaw so tightly.
“It was stupid of me not to lock the doors yesterday.”
Not exactly an apology. I waited for … something. A sheepish explanation. A lewd joke. Nothing. Looked like I’d be holding my breath for a long time for anything besides another confrontation.
Screw it. I’d had enough confrontations. I snuffed out my cigarette.
Kevin didn’t turn around until I was bundled up and ready to leave. He seemed surprised. “Where are you going?”
“Home. And if it’s like this tomorrow I won’t be in.”
83
If I thought my partner might stop me so we could have a serious dialogue about all the shit that’d gone down, I thought wrong.
I’d passed the Deadwood Avenue exit on I-90 West when my cell phone rang. I didn’t bother to look at the caller ID. Not only because I couldn’t take my eyes off the shitty road conditions, but I figured it was Martinez checking up on me, making sure my phone was attached to my hip.
“Hello?”
“Julie. Thank God I got a hold of you.”
Nothing good ever comes from that conversational start. “Hey, Trish. What’s up?”
“The kids and I are in Denver and I can’t get in touch with your father. I’ve tried the house phone and Doug’s cell. I even tried calling Melvin, the hired man. I’m starting to get really worried.”
Oh, hell no. Don’t even ask.
“I hate to ask you this, because I know how things are between you and Doug, but would you please go out to the ranch and check on him to make sure he’s okay?”
“When was the last time you talked to him?”
“The night before last. I didn’t talk to him at all yesterday, and I’ve been trying to call since six o’clock 84
this morning. I know he didn’t go anywhere—he wouldn’t leave the cattle even for three days to come with us. And now I see on TV there’s a blizzard warning for western South Dakota. Is the weather bad?”
“I-90 isn’t too terrible.” Liar, liar, Julie.
“If you’re already out and about, can you swing by the ranch and make sure he’s all right?”
Crap. I fell right into that snow trap. “I’m sure he’s fine, Trish. He’s probably just busy and forgot to charge his cell. You know how much he hates to talk on the phone anyway.”
The ugly, thick silence my comment caused burned my ear like a case of frostbite.
“Trish? You still there?”
“Yes. You know I never ask you for anything, but I’m begging you this time, Julie. Please, I have a bad feeling. Doug is not as young as he used to be. It’s calving season and if he’s there alone… so many things can go wrong. You know how exhausting it is.”
I did, which was precisely why I didn’t want to go to the Collins ranch. “I’ll try to call him from here. Maybe you’re in a ‘no service’ area or something.”
“Wrong. I’m not on my cell phone.”
So much for that theory.
A tug-of-war over the receiver ensued, followed by fierce whispers. “Hi, sis.”
“Hey, Britt.”
“My mom is totally freaking out, and it’s freaking me out. So would you please, please, please with sugar 85
on top go and check on Dad?”
No.
“For me?”
Hell, no. I hated the pseudosweet baby talk tone she used.
“What if he is hurt? Won’t you feel really bad that you didn’t at least try and check on him?”
No, no, no, no, no.
She sniffled. “Can you think about me for a change, instead of yourself? I don’t want my daddy to die. Even when you pretend you’re all tough and say you don’t care, I don’t think you really want him dead.”
She paused to let that tidbit sink in.
Fuck. Send in the ringer, why don’t you, Trish?
“Fine, I’ll check on him. But if I drive all the way out there and he’s napping on the couch? You’re on latrine duty. I’ll expect you at my house every Saturday morning for a month to scrub toilets. With a toothbrush.”
“As if I’d ever do that. So you’ll call us and let us know what’s going on?”
“Right away.”
“See you later,” Brittney said.
“Not if I see you first.”
She giggled in a falsetto tone, which struck a wrong note with me, and my subconscious said, sucker. 86
The conditions off the interstate in Bear
Butte County were beyond horrible. The snow was a sea of white so blindingly bright I slipped my shades on. I inched along County Road 12, plowing over snowdrifts and sending up a little thanks to the car gods for my fourwheel drive Ford truck.
I didn’t encounter a single vehicle in that fivemile stretch of road, which was good because I drove straight down the middle. Most people were smart enough not to venture out during a storm. Usually I was one of those smart people.
The wind whistled through the ventilation system and shook my three-quarter-ton truck like a Yugo. I kept an eye on the odometer since none of the natural landmarks were visible. I’d always bragged I could drive this gravel road with my eyes closed. Well, my 87
eyes were wide open and I couldn’t see shit. I eased the truck to the left side and tried to make out the big elm trees lining the driveway, marking the turnoff to the ranch. I swiped fog from the windshield with my gloved hand. A momentary break in the wind and swirling snow showed the familiar skeletal trees. I braked, turned, and busted through two-foot-high drifts. The shelterbelt surrounding the ranch buildings did what it was designed for, providing a modicum of protection. The amount of snow accumulation was the same as on the road and in the fields, but the trees blocked some of the wind gusts. I pulled up to the front of the house rather than my usual spot by the m
achine shed.
A grim feeling spread in me when I noticed my dad’s pickup wasn’t around. I left my truck running and ran up the snow-covered porch steps and into the foyer.
“Dad?”
I hadn’t expected him to answer; the house had that empty feel. I checked every room upstairs, downstairs—even the cellar. Nothing. And I couldn’t tell if he’d been here earlier in the morning. No coffee cup sat on the dining room table or dishes were left drying on the dish rack.
Next stop was the barn. The snowdrifts were knee-high in front of the big doors. I snagged the shovel out of the back of my truck and managed to get the side door open far enough to sneak inside. The barn was hot, dark, and smelly in the summer, 88
and cold, dark, and smelly in the winter.
“Dad? You in here? It’s Julie.” I wandered past the darkened stalls and tack room to the largest section with the hayloft. Little hay, no sign of Dad, his hired man, cattle, or newborn calves. The horse stalls were empty, too.
I didn’t know what to do next. A blizzard raged. Windchills were probably in the zero range. Skin could freeze in seconds. It’d be stupid to venture out and risk my safety. Not only didn’t I have the basic winter wear; I had no idea what direction he’d gone. Highly doubtful I’d see his tire tracks. What could I do even if by some miracle I found him? Especially if he was injured? Or worse?
I don’t think you really want him dead.
Did I? Could I walk away?
No. My subconscious called me a pussy when I entered the tack room looking for extra clothing. Dad never threw anything away, so I found an extra pair of old Carhartt overalls hanging on a peg in the back. In addition to being stained, faded, and ripped in spots, they were ginormous on me. I cinched them as tight as I could, put my outerwear back on, and grabbed two pairs of leather work gloves. I added three nylon ropes, and four heavy saddle blankets to my pile, hoping like hell the wind wouldn’t rip them from my arms before I made it back to the truck.
Once I was safely inside the cab and my face unfroze so I could move my lips, I redialed Trish’s 89
number. No answer. I tried again. Nothing. Looked like the phone outages were on this end.
Since it was calving season it surprised me the cattle weren’t close to the barn. Meant chances were good Dad was at the cattle shelter and not out on the frozen prairie. If I followed the fence line I’d practically run into it. If I didn’t get stuck in a snowdrift first.
I opened the gate and drove through.
The uneven terrain made for a bumpy ride even when I inched along. The driver’s side window continually iced over, forcing me to roll it down to keep the fence line in view. Flakes swirled inside the cab. My nose was frozen. The sunglasses offered some protection from the wind, but I still had to squint to see through the snow squalls.
At the next hump, I lost sight of the fence line and I rolled to a stop when I realized way out here the mounds of snow covered the fence completely. Being surrounded by the intense whiteness was like being trapped in a glass of milk. I cupped my hands around the digital clock on the dash to check the time. A half hour had passed. I still had a third of a mile to go, according to the odometer.
Or … I’d driven over the fence and was going the wrong direction. Only one way to find out. I uncoiled the rope and hopped out of the truck cab. The flakes stung, cutting exposed skin like tiny daggers. My body weight had as much impact as a feather against 90
the thick crust of snow. I tied one end of the rope to the door handle in a quick release knot and the other through a belt loop on my coat.
Wind lashed and blew through the multiple layers of clothes.
Fuck, it was cold as a witch’s tit, a well-digger’s ass, a banker’s smile, and all those creative colloquialisms we out here in the frozen lands tossed around regularly. I started to walk in what I thought was a straight line. I kept my face pointed down, trying to look to the left for anything resembling a fence post. The scarf covering my mouth became soggy from my warm breath getting trapped in the icy wool. I couldn’t feel my skin where my cheeks were exposed. I’d only counted fifty steps and I was already frozen to the bone.
And the wind kept howling.
Never-ending wind could drive a person crazy; I knew that from spending most my life in South Dakota. Wind wasn’t a new phenomenon. Historical documents detailed the isolation of Dakota Territory pioneer settlers. Stuck for months on end in raging blizzards, alone on the vast prairie, where the biggest dangers weren’t starvation and Indian attacks, but the persistent wind. Murder of entire families was commonplace, stories with the “wind told me to kill them all” theme. Some folks chose to follow the wind’s shifting voices and were found frozen mere feet from their homestead during the spring thaw.
I stopped to catch my breath. Smoker’s lungs, plus 91
a 50-mph headwind, and dragging ten extra pounds of snow-caked boots? Not good. Not a comfort that the most devoted gym rat would be sucking air just as hard as I was right about now.
By placing my hands on my knees and bending
over, I hoped to force air into my lungs and block some of the goddamn Gulf Stream, if only for thirty seconds. Somehow I lost my balance. The wind provided an extra push and I rolled down the incline like a runaway log. The damn rope didn’t yank me back. No, I skidded to a stop on my face. A razor-sharp ridge of ice sliced my cheek and peeled the scarf from my mouth. My teeth dug into my lips, even as my lips dug into the crusted snow.
I laid there breathing hard. Freezing. I thought about burrowing into the drift like an Iditarod sled dog and napping until the storm blew over. I thought about my Viking ancestors hunkering down in warm furs inside snowbanks. Piece of cake. If I went to sleep, I’d probably just wake up refreshed. Alert. Ready to climb Everest. I closed my eyes. The wind crooned a special lullaby just for me.
S s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s - s l e e p , ssssssssssssssssssssssssss-sleep.
I was tired. My leg cramped up and I jumped at the sharp pain. My mouth smacked into the snow; I licked my lips and tasted blood. Yuck. Where else was I bleeding? Did blood turn purplish-black when 92
it solidified in such extreme cold? Or did it stay bright red? Maybe it crystallized. Mmm. Like the red sugar sprinkles my mom used to decorate Christmas cookies. That’d be pretty. Blood on snow. Vivid red on such pristine white. I remembered candy canes and velvet ribbons draped on a flocked evergreen tree. Red ink swirls on crisp white paper cards. Mounds of canned whipped cream sprayed on Cherries Jubilee.
The white knuckle of my father’s fist becoming bloodied after he’d hit me.
My body spasmed and I jerked awake.
Jesus, Julie, focus.
As I lay there, tired, cold, half-pissed-off/half-delirious and splayed in a grotesque distortion of a snow angel, my melancholy morphed into fear. I could die out here. Hell. Maybe I was halfway there. My thoughts floated to a sad story about a kid a few years older than me in school. His parents had been trapped in a stalled car, after an accident out in the middle of nowhere, during an ice storm. Knowing they were going to freeze to death, the mother wrote a good-bye letter to her son. The morbid rumor circulating afterward claimed the letter was gibberish and that the final word trailed off at the end into one long line of nothing. Like she’d slowly dragged the pen across the center of the paper as she’d frozen to death and died.
Cheery thought. Maybe you should think about that Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde made-for-TV movie you watched 93
as a kid, where in the end the woman froze to death on the ship and her beautiful blue eyes were wide open and completely iced over.
The image still haunted me.
Wasn’t delirium a fugue state right before death?
Last time I’d been in a dreamy pre-death state, my dead brother had shoved me back toward the land of the living before he disappeared into the great unknown. Come on, Ben, I could use some wise Lakota words about now.
I heard nothing
but the roar of the wind and a faint … Mooooooooo.
What the fuck?
I listened.
Mooooooooo.
I had to be hallucinating.
Mooooooooo.
I lifted my head and heard it again.
Not one moo, but a collection of moos. A chorus of moos. High and low notes ringing out dissonance across the prairie amphitheater.
Great. I was dying in a fucking cow pasture, being serenaded by a phantom bovine choir.
PETA would have a field day with this.
Field day? Jesus. I was in a field. That was goddamn funny. I started to laugh. I laughed until the frigid air lined the inside of my lungs and my stomach hurt. I thought I might laugh until I cried. Or until I died. 94
But I wanted neither to die with tears on my cheeks, nor to live with the telltale tracks etched into my skin like a brand of shame.
In order to survive I had to move my ass.
Somehow I managed to lift my stiff body to my hands and knees. I sat up and rested on my heels. Flying daggers of ice slashed my face when I stood. I clenched my teeth and shook off the stinging pain. With my shoulders hunched against the wind, I shuffled through the powder, using the rope as a guide back to my truck and inside the blessed warmth of the cab. Once I’d thawed some, I realized I’d lost my sunglasses. I also realized I was seeing better without them. Maybe since I wasn’t so damn snow blind I could see the fence line. Too late to give up. I was already out here. It’d be stupid to go back. I rubbed a foggy spot at the bottom of the windshield and saw a flash of red. I blinked, afraid it’d been another illusion.
Nope. A red streamer fluttered in the wind. I rammed the truck in gear and gunned it about twenty feet. Sure enough. My dad had fastened a long strip of red plasticlike lumberyards used to a twelvefoot two-by-four I knew it marked the turnoff to the cattle shelter.
I cranked the wheel a hard right, hit the gas, and plowed through a snowdrift. By the time the windshield wipers slapped away the snow, I saw the ass end of my dad’s Dodge and narrowly avoided smacking 95
into the open tailgate.
My adrenaline kicked in when I noticed the driver’s door was open and a dark shape was half-buried in the snow by the front tire.
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