Cold Snow: A Legal Thriller

by John Nicholas

  "This one here's the handwriting comparer. Do you have the samples you want to put in?"

  Machry produced the copy of the treehouse writing, the sheet of paper from Alex, some writing of Jake's and a paper of Sarah's the orphanage had given him.

  "All right," Gary said. "You put the main sample in this slot." Machry slid the copy into a small opening, and it was pulled in, appearing seconds later on a screen. "Now, put the one you want to compare into this other one." Machry complied.

  The sample of Alex's handwriting appeared on the screen beside the original scribble. Machry and Gary watched the screen for a short time before red words flashed across it: NO MATCH.

  Gary tapped a button and Alex's paper flew out of the slot; Machry took it back and inserted Jake's writing into the opening instead. Once again, red words appeared: NO MATCH.

  Losing confidence now, Machry pushed Sarah's writing into the slot. The machine seemed to ponder for a longer time this time, before finally deciding in green letters: MATCH.

  Machry tapped the button and received the paper. "Thank you, Sergeant. I might be coming back soon, though."

  "I look forward to it," Gary said gruffly.

  Machry left the station, feeling his search was not a complete waste.

  Now that he knew Sarah Jones had written the words, the next thing he needed was to find out what Sarah knew that would make her write them. On the trail of this information, driving aimlessly around Woodsbrook in his failing old car, he decided that the orphanage would be his best bet.

  Mrs. Hanscomb, the director of the part of the orphanage that had once been Sarah's home, was much less cooperative than Sergeant Gary Henderson had been.

  "Please, I just need you to tell me a little bit about Sarah." Machry said, at the end of a tiring conversation during which the only information he had been able to extract was that Sarah was a good writer.

  Mrs. Hanscomb frowned again. "We don't like to talk about her. Fleeing like she did…she's shamed us, I suppose you can say."

  Machry was beginning to lose his patience. "Okay, then!" he said, rather louder than he had intended, making Mrs. Hanscomb jump in her seat, "Will you just tell me about Sarah's last day!? Walk me through what happened!"

  Mrs. Hanscomb sighed, and then spoke, very reluctantly, "Fine. Sarah woke up around seven, in her dormitory in the East Wing. It was a Saturday. Nothing eventful happened until 10:00 in the morning when I took her in my car to the adoption agency, as I did once every month."

  Machry looked up intently. "What happened when she got there? Who did she talk to?"

  Mrs. Hanscomb looked deep in thought, trying to recall the memory, then seemed to come up with it. "Irving Edbrough," she said. Machry groaned--he and Edbrough had a long history of animosity.

  "Do you know if she was in any of your offices before you left?" he inquired.

  Mrs. Hanscomb shook her head vigorously. "All our offices are kept tightly locked, and fitted with burglar alarms. There is no way a child could have entered."

  "The same, I assume, applies to the offices at the adoption office?"

  Mrs. Hanscomb nodded.

  Machry continued, his next point of investigation becoming clearer with every word. "So, the only office Sarah could have entered that day is one she was allowed into?"

  Mrs. Hanscomb nodded again.

  "And the only office she would have been allowed into was the one of Mr. Irving Edbrough?"

  Mrs. Hanscomb nodded one final time, burying her face in her hands.

  All his knowledge now pointed to one fact. Whatever Sarah had learned that day, she had learned it from Edbrough's office, and likely without his consent. There was something in that office that was important enough for her to write on a treehouse wall, probably to make absolutely sure that nobody would forget it.

  As Machry slowed to a stop in a parking space in the sparsely populated lot outside the Woodsbrook Adoption Office, pondering his career change from social worker to private detective, he suddenly saw a large figure in a grey tailored suit burst out of the doors and run at full speed toward a small car, across the parking lot. Instantly, Machry's curious nature was piqued and he threw his door open. Slamming it behind him he raced after the man, catching him just as he slammed his door shut. His curiosity had been rewarded: it was Irving Edbrough. Machry knocked on the window.

  Edbrough opened the door. "Who are you!? What do you want!?" This seemed to Machry like a curious way for the normally collected Edbrough to behave.

  "Edbrough! Calm down! It's only Henry Machry."

  Edbrough slammed the door and turned the keys in the ignition. The engine sputtered to life, and Edbrough began to back out of the space. Machry pounded his fist more urgently on the window.

  Edbrough stopped, the engine still running, and rolled down the window. "What do you want now, Machry!? Come to tell me how badly I'm doing my job again? Because the last time I looked you weren't doing yours much better!" he shouted.

  Machry sighed and called over the engine noise. "I don't want to talk to you either, Edbrough! But I'm following a lead that may be important."

  Edbrough guffawed loudly. "Following a lead!? Who are you, Bob Woodward?"

  Machry closed his eyes. He hated this man.

  "Or maybe you've just come to threaten me!? Go ahead! It's been done already!"

  Machry opened his eyes quickly. "Threatened?"

  "Yes, threatened! Apparently you're not even allowed to say anything against the king of Woodsbrook!"

  "The king of Woodsbrook?"

  Edbrough rolled his eyes emphatically. "Roland Orson! Do you live under a rock? He came in to belittle me again about investigating his kid! Told me I shouldn't meddle in his business! I told him, maybe if he treated his kid better, this wouldn't have to happen! I told him, maybe if he treated his employees better the town wouldn't be so poor and he wouldn't be in so much debt!"

  Machry grimaced. Edbrough had never been good at knowing what not to say to people.

  "And here's the clincher!" Edbrough continued, still straining to make himself heard over his noisy engine. "Most people would've just threatened to sue! But this guy, this guy told me he could have me killed! Told me he knows people who could do it!"

  This was odd. If it had been outed that Roland Orson had said this, that he even had ties to that kind of people, he would instantly be kicked out of his post and slapped with substantial jail time. He would be risking something great to protect a secret. Perhaps even the same secret Machry was chasing.

  Edbrough started his car and began to move. Machry raced alongside his window. "I need to ask you something about Alex--"

  Edbrough rolled up the window and accelerated. Rather than continuing to run, Machry sprinted to his own car, hurriedly entered, turned the keys in the ignition, and looked up just in time to see Edbrough fleeing the lot. He sighed again. He had let himself get pulled too far into the situation, and now he was about to enter a car chase.

  He put on a burst of speed, jammed his foot into the gas pedal, and accelerated after Edbrough's green sedan. Edbrough turned left onto a little-used side street, and in his haste to pursue him, Machry ran a red light.

  It was a straight shot down the next road, which gave Machry plenty of time to gain speed. He continued gaining ground…twenty yards between him and Edbrough…ten…five…

  A turn shot into view up ahead and Edbrough swerved to the right. Machry spun his wheel around, trying to make the tightest turn possible, and steadied himself neck and neck with his opponent. Another turn appeared and Edbrough went left, heading out of the city. Machry forced down the pedal, taxing every bit of effort from his clunker…

  Fighting forwards, Machry threw his wheel to the right. Edbrough swerved too and his car ran at a high speed into a snowbank, where it remained, desperately but futily attempting to move its wheels. Machry, who had managed to steady his car just in time, slammed on the brakes and came to a halt by the side of the road.

  Edbrough h
ad just managed to get his door open when Machry exited his car and walked up to him. "I''ll help you with this," he said, "but you have to tell me what I want to know."

  Edbrough wore the look of a cornered animal as he said, "Fine. You bastard. If my car is damaged you're paying."

  "Gladly," Machry said.

  "All right," Edbrough said, closing his eyes and taking several deep breaths. "What do you want to know? Ask away."

  "The day before Alex Orson vanished, Sarah Jones was in your office, correct?"

  "Correct."

  "Did she happen to see anything? Perhaps something you would have preferred she not see?"

  Edbrough grimaced vividly. "I left the room for a while, actually. For about fifteen minutes. That was back when Roland Orson was running us all ragged, right after his kid vanished. I had to go talk to one of my employees, so I left Jones alone in my office and gave her strict instructions not to touch anything."

  "Did she touch anything?" Machry was growing impatient.

  "I'm about to mention that!" Edbrough said, exasperatedly. "When I got back I found her with her hand in the shredder, rooting out some papers I had destroyed. I did not want anybody to see those papers. If somebody found them, my life would be in danger. So I got rid of them, and hoped that nobody would have to look at them again.

  "When I saw Jones with those papers, I flew off the handle. I threatened to press charges, to send her to jail. That's when she ran. And the rest is history," he finished with a dismissive gesture.

  Machry shivered--it was very cold, and he felt he was getting to the crux of the matter. The whole case rested on what was written on that piece of paper. He decided to press his luck.

  "Edbrough," he said emphatically, "I need you to tell me one more thing. What was on that paper?"

  Edbrough scowled, his eyes filled with hatred. "The investigative life doesn't suit you, Machry. Get back to your desk."

  Machry took a deep breath. "If you will not tell me, I'll just have to guess. Perhaps the name Charles Johnson was written there?"

  Edbrough turned a nasty shade of pale. "How...did you...know that?" he breathed through his teeth.

  Machry pushed on. "Perhaps a certain William makes an appearance as well?"

  Edbrough seemed to be shaking on the spot, biting his lip while growing steadily paler.

  "Edbrough. It's okay. I'm not with them."

  "I...can't hide anything from you," Edbrough groaned. "The William...his last name...is Orson."

  It was Machry's turn to go pale.

  After pulling Edbrough's car out of the snowbank, Machry found himself back in his own, racing across town toward the street which the Orsons lived on. Roland Orson seemed like the only logical person left to talk to about this, and he was willing to risk life and limb to find out the truth. It was an exhilarating sensation.

  When he arrived at the house, he parked in the cul-de-sac, and walked up the icy front path. As he reached the door he saw a shadow appear in the translucent window, then quickly vanish again. After Machry had been waiting for waiting about five minutes, the shape returned, and slowly opened the door.

  It was Catherine Orson, and evidently she had spent the five-minute gap forcing herself to cry. She gave a loud, fake sniff, then said, in excessively tearful tones, "Have you...found my son?

  Machry was disgusted. "Mrs. Orson, stop crying. If you were really so bereaved as you would have me believe, you would know that your son Alexander has been declared legally dead. Tell me, how are Emma and Clarissa today?"

  Catherine wiped her eyes. "They're at school."

  "It's Saturday, Mrs. Orson. Is your husband in?"

  "Roland's in his office," Catherine said, all trace of sadness and weeping now gone from her voice.

  "Can you show me how to get there?"

  "Upstairs, second door on the left. But what makes you think that I'm going to let you in?"

  Machry glared ferociously at her. "What if I told you lives could be in danger?"

  Catherine chuckled mirthlessly. "I would not believe you for a second. Not for a millisecond."

  "Then we'll just have to agree to disagree," Machry said calmly, turning for the stairs.

  "Hey! Stop!" Catherine hurried after him, but Machry was too fast. He raced to the stairway, threw himself up it three steps at a time, and tore down the hallway, Catherine pursuing him all the way. He reached for the doorknob on the second door to the left, found it unlocked, and pushed into the room.

  Roland sat a desk with his back turned, poring over several sheets resembling banking forms. He was muttering to himself, apparently completely unaware of the conflict between his wife and the persistent social worker. Machry stopped, and listened intently--this sounded like something he needed to hear.

  "New York...50,000."

  This seemed to make no sense, so Machry kept listening.

  "That's good. Japan...35,000."

  Machry was becoming more curious with everything he heard. He strained harder to listen.

  "Better...France...70,000...not good. Italy...90,000... Russia...100,000..."

  Suddenly, Roland collapsed on the desk, his head in his hands. "Canada...800,000. Eight hundred. I'm dead..."

  "Roland!" Catherine shouted, making Machry jump. "Roland, honey, I couldn't stop him!"

  Roland turned, and his face contorted with rage. "You!" he screamed. "How long have you been standing there?"

  "Nothing, I just heard..."

  "Out! Out! Get out!" Roland growled, and pushed Machry out of the doorway, so that he smashed into the door behind him. "Alex's room," Roland grinned. "Unless you want to end up where he is, I suggest you never again come within a thousand feet of my house and my wife!"

  "Mr. Orson!" Machry spluttered. "I have something very important to ask you!"

  "And I have something to ask you!" Roland Orson roared. "Do you value your life?" He kicked Machry, who was trying to rise to his feet, making him double up again.

  Machry turned over, face screwed up in pain, and faced Roland as best he could.

  "Do you have a brother?" he gasped.

  Roland grabbed Machry, hoisted him up, and threw him down the stairway. He slid down them at jarring angles, coming to rest at the bottom in a crumpled heap. Roland appeared atop the stairs as Machry rose.

  "Go ahead!" Machry shouted. "Beat me some more! I'm used to it! Your hit man Ordoñez has a penchant for that kind of thing too. I can see why you get along so well."

  "Ordoñez!" Roland roared. "Ordoñez failed! He let Alex die! He has ruined everything!"

  "You never cared about Alex when he was alive. Why should you care now?"

  And he left, leaving the king of Woodsbrook to resume his mysterious counting work, red-faced and fuming.

  CHAPTER 17

  Thirty Miles Out

  Alex was standing in a dark tunnel, drawing hard, sharp breaths. He looked toward the end and saw a glimmer of light, and set off running towards it. It slowly drew closer and closer, and he felt his spirit lift as he neared it. He reached his hand out toward it, desperate to touch it, until a hand reached out and seized him by the throat--

  The tunnel disappeared, and he was standing in a deserted village as a heavy snow was falling. As quickly as he arrived he was wrenched away again, and sat up rapidly, drenched in sweat and staring around the darkened room.

  He took several deep breaths and slowly took stock of his surroundings. He was in the motel in Porcupine, Manitoba. He looked around warily and forced himself to remember that he had just had a bad dream. It was hard to believe, though; the feeling when the hand had grabbed him was too real.

  Anthony was snoring in the other bed and Sarah was slumbering serenely on the couch. He glanced at the clock on the table beside his bed. 3:41 AM--and he knew he would have no chance of getting to sleep again soon. He lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, listening to Anthony murmur in his sleep, and considering the journey that lay ahead of them the next day. Finally deciding that he
could stand it no longer, Alex pushed the blanket back and rolled into a sitting position on the side of the bed. He had been sleeping in a t-shirt and jeans, and he reached out for the heavy wool-lined coat he had left on the floor. Groping in the darkness he found his shoes on the floor and kicked them on. A walk through the streets of Porcupine, he reasoned, would be perfect to tire him out again.

  He took the old-fashioned key to the room from the table, tiptoed across the carpet, and closed the door silently. An ancient memory was suddenly awakened in his mind, and the face of his infant sister Lauren flashed through his mind's eye. He sighed, and remembered what a docile and kind baby she had been. He hoped he didn't grow up like her parents.