Trial by Ice and Fire

by Clinton McKinzie

Then he continues where he left off. “Don't know yet if she was raped or not. . . . Not for sure. She was hysterical when I tried . . . to talk to her a few hours ago. Wouldn't stop crying. Claimed he didn't, but you never know what a vic will say. . . . All I could get was that she said . . . she ran into a wall trying to get away from him . . . smacked into a picture frame. That's where she picked up the glass.”

  Into my hands I say, “What happened?”

  My own flesh causes the words to sound muffled and distant. I'm picturing Cali leaping down the Teewinot couloir, hopping from ski to ski, laughing and spraying me with slush. I'm picturing her trying to comfort me in the bed upstairs. And I'm picturing her sad but proud and kind last night when she told me to hold on to Rebecca.

  I can feel McGee's eyes on me. For all the weight of his stare he might as well be sitting on my shoulders.

  “Good thing she had the silent alarm on. . . . Because we sure as hell weren't watching her last night. . . . Jackson PD showed up after the alarm company called. . . . They knew the score, and came up with their sirens on. . . . Saw a guy come running out and go around back. . . . Dressed in some sort of coveralls and wearing a hood. . . . They couldn't find him, though. Not even when they brought out the dogs.”

  I move my hands away from my face to look at him and wish I hadn't.

  “No one could reach you,” he goes on. I remember leaving my cell phone in the truck. And leaving the truck at the Log Cabin Saloon after Angela got out and I'd run/staggered the five miles to the cabin. “I even drove myself out here at three in the goddamn morning but you were out, your piece of shit truck wasn't here. And you weren't with my Rebecca either. . . . I know that, too. You are a major fuckup, QuickDraw.” He allows himself a bitter chuckle. “And now I'm fucked up, too. . . . I got a call from the Assistant AG. They want me back in Cheyenne, pronto. . . . To explain why we left Cali Morrow unprotected.”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes. I can see Mungo's face staring out at us from behind a screen of low branches. Even her look is reproachful. I call softly to her but she doesn't move from her hiding place.

  “How could we have known that more than one person was after her?” I hate myself for asking this question, for even thinking of excuses.

  “Doesn't matter. Someone was. . . . And she got hurt on our watch. That's all that matters.”

  “There was no way we could have known,” I say out loud to myself.

  Feeling sicker than I can ever remember feeling, I think about arresting Armalli last night. How it felt so good to do it so cleanly, especially when the temptation had been strong to make him pay me back a little for what I had suffered. There had never been any doubt that he was the stalker—the pictures and drawings on his walls, Bill Laughlin had seen him lurking outside Cali's house, he had a rifle and mud on his boots. An alternative had never been imagined. And I'd been so sure when I saw that flashbulb pop of evil light burst from Armalli's eyes when I said Cali's name. I'd been so goddamn sure.

  How could I have been so cocky? How could I—who's had ten lifetimes' worth of bad luck since that night two years ago in Cheyenne—have thought anything could be that easy?

  “Who was it?” But there's only one name in my head. Wokowski.

  He shrugs his massive shoulders. “Hell if I know. Wokowski was on duty . . . but no one was with him. He was doing a solo patrol. . . . He could've slipped into some coveralls, dropped by the house.” He flips the still-burning stub of the cigar out into the dirt lane. I don't get up to crush it out—I let it smolder. “The governor's going to hear about it anytime now. . . . Alana Reese is already making noise about that. . . . Then you can bet your ass the AG is going to get another call.”

  I can picture the Attorney General's indignation that the celebrity's daughter his office was supposed to protect had been assaulted, and the way it would be passed along the phone lines in greater and greater intensity. Like a snowball rolling downhill. And I'm standing at the bottom of the hill, with McGee's aging bulk just above me. I'm going to get smacked. We're both going to. And I, at least, believe I deserve it. It's my karma. My folly. My lack of imagination. But not Cali. She didn't ask for any of it. But the very worst of it—almost as bad as what's happened to Cali—is the satisfaction, the gloating I know will be going on in the plush administrative offices. They'd surely been hoping she'd get hurt on our watch.

  McGee is thinking along the same lines. “We're going to be the whipping boys, no doubt. . . . This is just the sort of thing they've been looking for for years. . . . We're in the doghouse now, lad. . . . No—we're buried under the doghouse.”

  He leaves unsaid his pension, his much-needed medical benefits. I know better than to say again it's not our fault.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  McGee speaks without looking at me. “I suggest you get your ass down to the hospital . . . and see if you can do something to alleviate the damage there.”

  I stand up slowly and call to Mungo one more time before I start to walk in the door.

  “And take a shower and put on some clothes,” McGee adds. “Christ, you stink.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE WALK FROM MY CABIN to my truck is long, but the walk down the hallway toward Cali's room is far longer. And that is partly due to the fact that I can see Angela Hernandez standing in the hallway, watching me come toward her. In one hand she holds a large bottle of Evian water. I start to take my sunglasses off but then decide to keep them on for a while.

  Angela does not smile when I get close. “I guess you heard what happened,” she says.

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought you had the guy. Hooked and booked, you said.”

  I don't say anything. She looks almost as bad as I feel, with dark rings under her eyes and her normally russet skin the color of ash. Putting the bottle under one arm, she takes a bottle of aspirin from a pocket, opens it, and shakes four pills out. She swallows two of them then chases the pills with thirsty gulps of water. I appreciate that she shares the pills and bottle with me, but I don't appreciate what she says next.

  “I thought you were supposed to be some kind of superstar, Antonio Burns.”

  “I'm not.”

  After a moment she decides to take pity on me. “Cali's okay. Her face was cut up a little and she's got some bruises. She wasn't raped, if you hadn't heard. She and the doctor agree about that. At least not physically. It appears like this time he didn't try to kidnap her. He just wanted to rough her up a little. Scare the hell out of her.”

  I let out a sigh. But my guilt and pain are undiminished. I reach for the doorknob but the FBI agent touches my arm.

  “You don't want to go in there, Burns. Ms. Reese's with her daughter.”

  “Ms.? Not Alana?”

  “She seems to feel I should have been doing something other than drinking with you last night. Gorgon told her about us leaving together—I think he followed us out and saw us talking in your car, the asshole. But I guess he forgot to report that you wouldn't even kiss me. So she's probably not going to be buying my screenplay anytime soon, and I'm being replaced by another agent tomorrow.” She finally smiles a little as she says this last part, as if we are fellow casualties.

  We're not, though. Not even close. She may go back to anonymously chasing bank robbers at the L.A. field office but I'm probably going to be fired. Disgraced. And McGee is going to get the same kick in the ass.

  I push my sunglasses up on my head and look at the door. No, I definitely don't want to go in there. But like all the hard things in life, it's best to jump right in without hesitation. I turn the knob and push the door open.

  The room is blindingly bright. Brighter still is the glare Alana Reese gives me. “Here comes Wyoming's finest. Our so very special agent, Antonio Burns.”

  Each word bites at my flesh.

  The movie star is standing just inside the door so I have to almost brush by her to come into the room. I can feel the animosity coming off her like radiation
.

  Cali is sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, dressed in her pajama pants and a T-shirt. Some bruises are evident on her arms. Pink turning to blue. Her pretty face is half covered in white tape but the hurt in her eyes is what pains me the most.

  “Mom,” she says, “give him a break. He did what he could. He thought I was safe. Everyone thought I was safe, me included.”

  Alana whirls to her daughter. “He was supposed to be protecting you, Cali. It wasn't your job to tell him when his work was done.” She turns back to me, smiling grimly. “I'm afraid even your governor agrees with me. I spoke to him an hour ago, Agent Burns. They're going to be meeting with your supervisor tomorrow morning. I'd pack my bags if I were you. Hang up that badge you're so proud of.”

  I stare back with a pretense of confidence. “There was no indication that anyone else was after Cali. I know without a doubt that Myron Armalli was following her around, writing her letters, and that he is obsessed with her. When I arrested him I believed—wrongly—that she was out of danger. I can't tell you how terrible I feel about it.”

  “So you decide to stop protecting her? The moment when she needed it most?”

  There's no point in arguing. Just as there will be no point when McGee and I are called before the suits.

  “Can I talk to your daughter for a minute, Ms. Reese? Alone?”

  “No, you may not. I'm afraid that once again, just like at the party that you disrupted the other night, I must ask you to leave. You have proven yourself quite incompetent at your job and I can think of no reason for you to remain—”

  Cali interrupts her. “Go, Mom. Give us a minute.”

  Alana looks like she might argue, or break into a rage, but she gauges the tone in Cali's voice. Years of practice in never, ever, making an unglamorous scene take hold. She gives me a few more moments of her icy stare—shooting sharpened icicles into my head—then walks out, slamming the door.

  I sit down on the bed next to Cali. She is looking at her hands where they're folded across her lap. She won't meet my eyes.

  “I'm sorry, Cali.”

  She nods her head a couple of times, still looking down.

  “Tell me what happened. I need to know just how bad I fucked up. Hurt me.”

  Her lips are swollen on the side of her face but I see them lift just a little in a faint, sad smile.

  “I went home after the Granary. I was too tired to do anything else. I fed Lester then changed into some pajamas and got into bed. I don't know when, but sometime late the doorbell rang. I went downstairs.” She glances at me then quickly back down at her hands. In an even quieter voice she says, “For some reason I thought it might be you.”

  My heart sinks even deeper into my gut.

  With another small, sad grin she continues, “Lester was hissing and spitting in the entry hall, so I thought he must smell Mungo. I checked myself out in the mirror, then opened the door without even thinking. I didn't look out the little window. I didn't even think there was anything to worry— Sorry, I don't need to hurt you that much, do I?”

  She inhales and exhales, her fingers quivering.

  “I opened the door but was so . . . tired or something . . . that I forgot to turn off the alarm and undo the chain. A man with a brown suit covering all of him and a black hood over his head was outside, pushing against the door. The chain broke. I hit the mirror with my head.”

  I can see goose bumps now on her skin. And I can hear the blood pumping in my own ears, like I was there. She's stopped talking.

  “Who was he?”

  “I couldn't tell. It was like a blackout or something. More like the world just turned inside out. The only details I remember are about me, running, screaming, fighting. He seemed very tall, very big and strong, but maybe that's just because I was so scared.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  After a moment she shakes her head, the short blonde hair drifting forward to cover her bandaged cheeks, and answers in a voice quiet but pitched high. “I was screaming too loud to hear if he did. I ran for the upstairs bathroom, the only door with a lock on it. But he pulled me down on the stairs. I somehow managed to kick him off me—good thing I've got skier's legs, right?—and made it up there. But the door is pretty flimsy and he could have broken it down if he wanted. Maybe he heard the sirens, but I couldn't hear them. All I know is that the next thing two city cops were coming in.”

  We sit in silence for a long, long time. Tears run down her cheeks and drip from her chin. She's still staring down at her hands.

  When I finally manage to speak, my voice sounds far off. Deep, as if it were coming from the bottom of a well. “Was it Wook?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I don't think so. He showed up after the town guys. He's the one who brought me here.” Then, after another minute, she asks, “What are you going to do with Myron?”

  “I'm going to make sure they hold him for some hunting violations and suspicion of harassment, at the very least. Even though he was in jail last night, that doesn't mean he didn't do some of the other stuff. He'll be in for a couple of weeks, I bet, until they can do a competency exam and all that.”

  I still have a hard time getting my mind around the fact that I may have arrested the wrong guy, a harmless, screwed-up kid. I have a hard time facing the fact that there actually is someone else out there who wants to do her harm. Who wants to at the very least keep scaring the hell out of her, beating her up and psychologically traumatizing her. It's the kind of coincidence that's hard to imagine. In books and movies they always mean something sinister—the detective will boldly state that he doesn't believe in them. But I know that's bullshit. They happen in real life all the time.

  “When you get out of here, stay with your mom and Angela. Okay?”

  “How about Uncle Bill's? He came by this morning and invited me. I know he has some guns—a rifle and some handguns—so he should be able to protect me, right?”

  “How did he look?”

  “Not good. Like he had a rough night. Should I stay with him?”

  I wonder, with a new sad pang, if the old legend is starting to free-fall. “No. Go to your mom's. Stay with her and her bodyguards. With Angela Hernandez and the other FBI agent who's flying in. It doesn't sound like Bill's well enough to look after you.”

  She nods her head. “Okay.”

  It's like this guy's trying to scare the hell out of her and hurt her, but not kill her. Not yet. I don't know what he's thinking. It's escalating, but I don't know why he hasn't taken it all the way when he so obviously could have. And he doesn't seem particularly afraid of getting caught. He's playing a game, but this time I don't know the rules. Usually there's something motivating criminals, greed or a thrill or rage. But this guy—I don't know.

  The silence in the room is more painful than her mother's words. I stand up then crouch in front of her, trying to get her to meet my eyes.

  “I'm going to find who's been doing this, Cali,” I tell her. “I'm going to take care of it. Even though I'm about to be taken off the case. I fucked up, but you didn't. I'm proud of you. You're a total badass, you know, fighting him off three times. He won't get a chance at a fourth. I promise.”

  She still doesn't look up at me. Her only response to my attempt at encouragement is to say in a little-girl's voice, “I thought you said I was safe, Anton.” The tears start sliding off her chin again.

  TWENTY-NINE

  I FIND WOKOWSKI in the basement gym of the Sheriff's Office. He's gloved up and pounding away on a heavy bag, dressed in a T-shirt and workout shorts that are drenched with sweat. Big beads of it run down from his close-cropped blond hair. The three or four other men lifting rusted weights stop what they're doing the second I walk through the door. Wokowski appears oblivious—his face is clenched like a fist and his eyes are scowling at the leather he's pummeling.

  I walk up to within a few feet of him but he still doesn't seem to notice me. The bag receives jarring jabs and huge, hooking body shots. H
is chin is tucked into his chest and beneath his eyes are the same dark smudges Angela Hernandez had on her face. A day's growth of beard further darkens his countenance. His forearms are glistening with sweat but I can't spot any obvious defensive wounds on them. That doesn't mean that it wasn't him—the heavy coveralls Cali described could easily have shielded his flesh.

  But it has to be him. There's no one else. It also doesn't make any sense—why would he attack her when he was on the verge of winning her back? Of having a decent shot at it, anyway. It doesn't make any sense, I tell myself again. I'm totally adrift, without facts or evidence or motive.

  There's one fact that I can't get past. I have no other suspects.

  Wokowski throws a savage hook that nearly folds the eighty-pound bag in half. Then he whirls to face me as the bag is still shuddering on its chain. His eyes are shot with red and his breath is coming in shallow pants.

  “Fuck!” he says loud enough that the obscenity reverberates around the concrete walls.

  I'd been sure he'd been so focused on destroying the bag that he hadn't noticed me. But I was wrong.

  “I don't like the way you're looking at me, Burns,” he breathes, glaring.

  I give it right back. “You shouldn't. Where were you when it happened, Wook?”

  The pumped-up muscles beneath his tight T-shirt swell even further. So do the massive corners of his jaw. His eyes narrow into crimson slits. The ceiling, which in this windowless room is not more than eighteen inches above my head, seems to press even lower.

  “Fuck you,” he says.

  He pops me in the chest with one of the wet gloves. Not hard enough to hurt, but with enough force to cause me to stagger backward a single step. I almost bounce back swinging. Somehow, though, I manage to hold my feet still and keep my arms at my sides. Along with the throb of blood in my veins, I can feel the wide eyes of the weight lifters.

  “C'mon. You want to go?” he asks, touching the gloves together.

  I don't say anything.

  He reaches out to push me again. This time I knock the glove away with a swipe of my palm. The temptation is almost overwhelming. But I haven't boxed in almost twenty years, not since my brother and I saw Rocky on a Manila air force base and made our father set up a ring in the hot Philippines sun. And Wokowski probably has inches of reach and more than fifty pounds on me.