He reached Anthony first. Standing over the corpse, he saw that a bullet had made a remarkable clean passage through his face; it seemed as if, having not been dead, he would not have felt pain. He wondered if this was truly the way Anthony deserved to go. He had betrayed Alex and cast him out to die, but for almost the entire journey before that, he had been useful, loyal, verging on a friend. Though he then remembered what Anthony was—the proudest delinquent in the state of New York, who had spent years building up a wall of hard and hating personality that was almost as fake as Hart's had been genuine. That was how you could tell the difference—Hart wanted to escape from his, while Anthony reveled in it. And along the road, they had both changed. Had the real Anthony been the traitor? Or had he just realized that the false Anthony would never stand for this?
This corpse, Alex thought, is what he has to show for it.
It was then that he saw the other bodies.
He limped quickly toward them, and recognized that the taller one must be the owner of Hart's stolen car.
He knew exactly who the other body belonged to; exactly which soul had inhabited the cold-preserved remains before plummeting from the cliff. He accidentally weighted down his right leg and a burning sword fired through it again, dropping Alex Orson onto his knees, then onto his side, rolling to the ground. He lay there, his head in the grass, gazing into the closed eyes that had once held such fire, such unerring belief that everything would be solved if people could stand tall enough, those knowing emotions that seemed to be guided by her hand and were yet completely out of control. He shut his eyes and held her to himself, oblivious to the fact that they were both freezing; and seemed to go through all five stages of grief in an instant. He died then, returned to life, and found that he had no feeling left to spend; he sufficed by holding onto her, clinging to the memory of her touch as if resisting an infinite hurricane.
He didn't know how long he lay there, nor what made him decide to leave. At the end of his makeshift period of mourning, Alex did what he had silently sworn to never again do: lift a friend onto his back, and begin to walk.
EPILOGUE
Nine Years Later
The sky seemed to be having trouble deciding whether it wanted to remain calm or unleash a torrential downpour, and had settled somewhere in the middle, spitting intermittent showers onto Sawtooth and environs for several hours. In the midst of one of these, Alex stood under an awning and struggled to hear the voice coming from the cell phone clamped precariously between his ear and right shoulder.
"Mm-hm," he muttered, "yeah." He waited for Chief Rodin to finish laughing at his own improvised joke while fumbling with the complex lock on the door, which, even after seven years and a half of owning the building, still seemed to elude him. "So, exactly when do you need me in Ottawa?"
"I would have preferred yesterday," Rodin replied, "but since that is unattainable I believe I shall accept tomorrow." That set him off laughing again.
"Great," Alex exhaled, at last sliding the lock into place. "Listen, Michel," he said, changing his tone and glancing at the ominous sky, "I've got to go, I'm in the middle of one hell of a rainstorm right now. I'll hop a plane tomorrow morning, be at the courthouse by lunch. See you there."
"Wait a minute, Orson," Rodin said, cutting across Alex's efforts to hang up. His tone had become serious. "Do you believe—do you think that maybe this is the last one?"
Alex stifled a laugh. "Almost a decade of chasing these guys through the woods and testifying against them, and there always seems to be one more. The only way we can keep going is by pretending it's the last one."
"Sound wisdom," Rodin replied, and hung up.
Alex flipped his cell phone shut and stuffed it into his side pocket, where it dropped comfortably into the bottom. Checking the lock one more time, he stepped out into the street, and, unzipping his coat, allowed the rain to wash over him, pockmarking his shirt with dark spots. He was much taller now, a thin beard that had formed around his mouth and the lower edges of his face was threatening to turn into a thick beard, his mat of hair was even more unruly, and his voice was deeper; but when he stood in the midst of falling rain, he felt the same flaring of his spirit that he had felt when he was thirteen years old.
Anybody who had known him long enough would say that his eyes were now darker, and less readable, as if he had allowed windows to become dirty over the years. He had never truly recovered from the partial dismantling of bone in his leg, and continued to walk with a slight limp. In this barely noticeable manner, he crossed the two-lane main street and turned left, heading toward a small professional building which lacked a sign, as everybody knew what it was.
He entered just in time to see a grizzled, gray-haired man, who often reminded Alex of a dog in its later years, pulling on a raincoat behind the counter.
"Bob!" he called out. "Not leaving already, are you?"
Bob looked up and smiled, his eyes crinkling. "Alex! How's Sawtooth's favorite son?"
"Fine, Bob, doing fine," he replied. "Got anything for me?"
"You're in luck!" Bob hurried into the back room, and, after several clanging sounds, returned holding an envelope. "Looks like somebody still sends letters," he said, handing it to Alex over the counter.
Alex laughed; Bob had a tendency to joke about how he would be out of business any day now. The truth was that no matter how many sophisticated communication systems or mail delivery systems were invented, Sawtooth would continue to receive its mail through a post office.
Bob had by now donned his rain jacket, and, glancing at the clock, waited for it to tick past 6:00 before stepping out into the street with Alex. Ordinarily, you could catch people walking around in the streets of Sawtooth, or driving through on the way in or out; but all day there had been a fear of uncertain weather which had kept most people confined to home or work.
"So, are you going to be dashing off anywhere soon?" Bob asked.
"I'm heading to Ottawa tomorrow," Alex answered. "Lunch with the cops, dinner with the lawyers, back here by Thursday."
Bob, still smiling, shook his head and sighed. "You and your police work. You always pretend to hate it, but you're always telling stories about how this Moose Killer almost shot you in the Yukon, or how you beat up that one in Nova Scotia. It's a mystery to me why you'd volunteer for that kind of thing."
"Just looking for stories to tell the grandkids," Alex told him. "Well, see you later, Bob. I have to go make sure the newsroom hasn't been struck by lightning."
"So long," Bob said, turning to walk away. "Enjoy the city!" he called over his shoulder. "See the sites! Take some photographs!"
Alex, placing the letter in his coat pocket, started off down main street again, enjoying the drizzling for a while and marveling at how almost every spot in the village set off memories. Sawtooth was, undoubtedly, a beautiful town—the architecture was ostensibly northern, the streets were kept clean, and almost every space that wasn't occupied by humans was filled with boreal forest. The region around was mostly flat, but punctuated with slopes and hills; there was one, to the north of town, that Alex was particularly partial to. He headed there now, sensing, as it were, that there was something important about this letter, and wishing to read it in peace.
Upon his arrival in Sawtooth, the town had contributed to pay his hospital bill, and to give him enough money to live there; a customs official came soon to tell him that he had been granted Canadian citizenship. His fourteenth birthday came soon, and it soon became apparent that the fund was extremely unnecessary. The moment he learned that he had come into possession of William Orson's fortune, he purchased an empty lot and materials to build a house, offering to do the same for Hart. Hart had agreed to allow Alex to buy some more space for him to build, but refused any more favors. Instead, he returned several times to Porcupine—under the cover of night, lest he encounter one of his many enemies—and dismantled his old shack, carrying the pieces back to Sawtooth in a truck and using them to construct a house
for himself. Alex, after burning all of the documents that came with the money, created a bank account in his name and placed the rest of the money in it, deciding that he wanted to have no part of living off an inheritance.
He had instead gone looking for a job and found one in a local bookstore, whose proprietor made no secret of the fact that he was grooming Alex as his successor for the position of sole owner and operator. Eighteen months later, the owner sold him the store, and he had been running it ever since.
The money from this had allowed him to start a second venture, the Sawtooth Informer, out of an empty building. The newspaper came out only weekly, charged per issue, and was heavily informed by several other newspapers, but for the town, it was good enough. His job, as he often put it, was to keep Sawtooth connected with the rest of the world, and he did it diligently. Alex hired Hart to assist him in both endeavors, and for a while, they both lived well.
It was then that Alex realized that Jake, Sarah and Anthony had not died only so he and Hart could live. It was a clear day, seven years ago almost exactly, that Alex called Michel Rodin, who had been promoted to Chief of Police for Ottawa, and offered his services as an expert on the tactics of the Moose Killers. There were many of them still on the run, and though the police in many places were searching for them, they were having no luck. Thus, Alex had spent much of the past seven years flying across the country, tracking down suspected Moose Killers, and testifying against them at their trials. His relationship with Rodin was unofficial, but every time a suspect appeared, Alex was the first one to be alerted.
On that day, however, he sat atop a grassy, windswept hill, facing the great north mountains, clutching a piece of paper, and weeping.
He'd torn it open upon arriving at the top of the hill, which overlooked the town to the south and the wilds to the north, sat down in the grass, his legs hanging over a rocky drop in front of him, and began to read. The text was handwritten, in loopy, theatrical script, which still managed to conform to the lines.
Dear Alex,
I can't believe I'm actually writing this letter to you. It's so weird that I have a big brother off in Canada who I've never even met. What are you like? Are you tall or short? Nice or mean? They told me a little bit about you here, but I want to know more.
I wonder if you remember anything about me—probably not, I was just a baby, after all. I live at the Woodsbrook Orphanage, since Mom and Dad both died when our house burned down when I was one year old. Is that why you live in Canada now? What's it like there? Have you ever seen a moose, or a bear?
The orphanage is all right. I hate school (especially French!) and some of the kids are mean, but I have lots of friends, and also the director, Mr. Machry. Mr. Machry is really nice—I guess he's sort of like my dad. He even helped me write this, when I told him I wanted to.
Woodsbrook is really boring, though. One day I'm going to grow up, and get really rich, and then I'll come visit you in Canada. I can't wait to meet you.
Love, Lauren Orson
P.S. A priest came to visit a little while ago. He said if I was writing to you, he wanted me to tell you he was sorry, which is weird, because I thought priests never did anything bad.
It was no longer drizzling, but by the time Alex finished reading, the paper was covered in wet spots. He read it again, and then a third time, trying to extract some hidden message, but there was none. His former life had just come flooding back to him, and it bowled him over—had it been solid, he would have fallen from the hill. He folded Lauren's letter into his pocket again, and sat for a long time, gazing north, wondering what was there beyond the wind that blew at his back, hurtling toward the Northwest Territories. He thought of everything that seemed to have changed in Woodsbrook—Roland and Catherine were dead, his sister was an orphan, and now almost eleven years old. He had absolutely no idea who the priest might have been, except for a vague memory, lingering behind a cloud of years, of a young face and fingers tracing a cross onto his forehead. At least, he thought, at least Machry's found some good.
And, once again, he drifted the three bodies he had left behind: one beside the road outside Ridge City, one now resting in Sawtooth's modest cemetery, and one, which, with the strength of the wind, was probably hovering over the Arctic Circle by now. Sarah—he was, as usual, jolted by her name—had once told him that she wanted her ashes to be scattered because she couldn't bear the thought of spending eternity underground.
Lost in his thought, he didn't realize that another man was now standing on the hill, searching out a dry spot, sitting down and watching the winds beside Alex.
"How did you know I was here?" he asked, when he finally noticed.
"It's easy with you," Hart said. "Every time I can't find you anywhere, I know you're here. Never fails. What's the matter?" he asked, noticing the rivulets streaking Alex's face.
Alex took out the letter and held it up. "Did I ever tell you I have a sister?"
"No. Wow," Hart answered. He had grown over years, well past Alex, until he cut an imposing figure of a little over six feet, 200 pounds. "I guess we know who the money's going to, then."
Alex shook his head and dried his eyes. "No," he said, "not until she turns fourteen."
Hart began to ask, but decided to say nothing. Finally he said, almost in a whisper, "Do you ever think about them?"
"Would I sound like an idiot if I said all the time?"
"Yeah," Hart said, "but I don't really care. I know you do anyway."
"How?" Alex looked at him for the first time.
"You and Sarah," Hart said, almost wisely, still staring to higher latitudes. "You were in love. I could tell. Just by the way you spoke to each other. The way you both were when the other one was near."
Alex drew his knees up to his chest and buried his head in them, allowing tears to leak through again. "I should never have let them die," he said. "I should have died. Not them. Jake and Anthony and Sarah should be living my life."
"Alex…" Hart said, softly, unsure of exactly what to say. "There's nothing left for us in the past. We need to keep moving. Just like we used to. On the tracks, remember? 'Keep walking,' you said, 'that's what will keep us sane.'"
Alex looked at him, nodded, and, keeping the letter in his hand, pushed himself to his feet. Hart heaved himself up as well, and turned to depart. Alex, however, stayed standing for a while longer, traveling with his mind to the forgotten frozen northlands which no man nor animal had ever seen, where only the winds could travel, soaring the skies and watching the world as it went on and on beneath them. He stayed like that for several minutes, the cold growing ever colder, the rain starting up again, beating against his air and the feeble protection of his unzipped jacket. He remained there, standing, the paper in his hand, until Hart called him from behind. Only then did he turn reluctantly around, put the letter into his pocket, and begin to limp back along the path.
* * *
THE END
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
EPILOGUE
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Cold Snow: A Legal Thriller Page 35