Rage of Winter

by Sam Herrera

  “Fuck,” I croaked, bleeding profusely as I grabbed his boot and kicked myself free of my perch, trying to bring him down. “Where’s my son!” I yelled up into his face.

  “Get the fuck off me!” he shouted as my weight began to pull him down, his blazing eyes, the same color as his daughter’s but with none of the beauty, glaring down into mine. He strained to hold on, still kicking me with his free foot, but finally we both fell. I found myself sandwiched between the closed ramp and his back and driving elbow. I grabbed him in a headlock and, rolling over so I was on top, slammed his skull into the metal a few times, feeling actually pretty good about it, and then scrambled to the chair as fast as I could, up this mad assault course with him on my tail. I just made it when a high velocity bullet tore a chunk from my other ear. Shit. He’d found the gun. I didn’t think I had ever moved so fast in my life. I leapt up into the chair and twisted us to horizontal, grinning as I heard a metallic bong and a cry of pain. I flew us back to New York, keeping my head down, and opened the ramp. I tilted the throttle one way then whizzed back, at top speed, the other. I grinned as I watched him fly through the air like a spinning top, landing with a scream on the hard, concrete roof of the parking lot.

  I cruised near to the lot, my fingers on the triggers. Shit. Someone was bending over the crumpled, injured figure on the floor. I couldn’t shoot now. My eyes bugged as he rolled over onto his back and fired twice. The man standing over him dropped like a stone. I still couldn’t shoot; other people were there, ducking behind cover as the madman with the gun ran for his victim’s car. I waited just outside the main exit for him. There he went: a flash, gray Mercedes. I kept pace with it, holding fire until he was about a couple of feet ahead of any traffic then letting him have it! The twin missiles opened craters a good six feet deep in the road and put the car on its back after spinning it through the air. It landed with an almighty crash onto a couple of parked cars nearby. I took aim as the rat crawled from the sinking ship, but he vanished into the crowd before I could get a shot off. Shit! I let go of the joystick. There was no way I was firing into all those people. I smiled as I saw the cops milling around the crushed car. His plan to destroy the NYPD had failed. I had retaken the Winter, so soon he would be cornered with nowhere to go, saving many lives in the process. But I didn’t feel elated at all, only tired, beaten up and bitterly disappointed. I groaned and hung my throbbing, bruised head. How am I gonna find my son now? Please, Mike, be alive. Be alright.

  “Ahh, shit,” I groaned as I threw up, again, all over the panel and myself.

  *

  “What the hell?” Sarah stammered. I’d showered and changed but still one only had to look at my face and hands to know I’d had the living shit kicked out of me.

  “I’ll explain later, hon,” I groaned, “but not now.” I dragged myself upstairs and sank, barely conscious, onto the bed. I looked up to see Sarah walk in with a face like thunder and her arms folded. “Don’t, alright.”

  “Look at yourself. This is too much, Kyle, for anyone. You need to focus on your own problems, not everyone else’s. Our son is still missing.”

  “And I was trying to find him.”

  “You haven’t found him, though, have you?”

  “No,” I sighed deeply. “I’m sorry, honey. I tried,” I pleaded as she pulled away from me. “Look at me. Look at my face for fuck’s sake. I almost died trying to get him back. I’m…sorry.” We held each other tight as I saw tears begin to spill out of her eyes.

  “Marry me.”

  She froze and then came forward to look into my eyes. “Really?”

  “Really. You’re all I’ve got now. I can’t lose you too.”

  “Okay.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  MARA

  I brought my fear and my prayers for little Mike with me, in my head and in lyrics, as my band was setting up. It was a bright early morning when I took a rowboat from the dock, putting my guitar at the bottom. We’d arranged to meet on the opposite bank in the usual spot. The scenery was great as always. I looked at all the water around me, dazzled by the shimmering, dappled light on its surface. All around the lake were the rolling fells behind the forest, just in front of the shore. I finally reached the shore, my arms aching, and throwing my guitar over my shoulder, walked forward, following the sounds of arguing as usual. Fred and Dom were already setting up.

  “Hey, Mara.”

  “Hey.”

  “Okay, show us what ya got this time.”

  Nodding, I took my tacks from my pocket and nailed the lyrics to the tree. I dug out my pick and began to strum. It was as though a switch had been thrown; my fingers flew over the fretboard as though I were possessed, my fear pouring out.

  “I have never seen you except for that

  One time and from so far away.

  But I think of you each and every day.

  Your rosy face often fills my dreams.

  But you are gone, for good it seems.”

  “Come back to me. Come back to me.

  Come back to the love indebted to thee.

  My kin. My family. Any wound to you is a wound to me.

  Come back to me. Come back to me.”

  “I think of you, lying in the arms of the father I should have had.

  He is yours just as you are his. For this I’m glad.

  I think of his broken heart, his love for you.

  It’s the last purity in this broken world,

  The only thing that’s true.”

  “Come back to me. Come back to me.

  Come back to the love indebted to thee.

  My kin. My family. Any wound to you is a wound to me.

  Come back to me. Come back to me.”

  “I wonder where you are, what world you now live on.

  Are you happy? Are you sad? Where have you gone?

  I think of your mother’s red, running eyes.

  I can only pray you’re not in the dark, but under the blue skies.”

  “Come back to me. Come back to me.

  Come back to the love indebted to thee.

  My kin. My family. Any wound to you is a wound to me.

  Come back to me. Come back to me.”

  “I live in hope that I will, once again, see you.

  But only the maker can tell what’s true,

  The crossings of your path and mine

  I can’t tell. You’re gone. The search is in vain.

  But I still hold the candle, the hope that I’ll see you again.”

  “Come back to me. Come back to me.

  Come back to the love indebted to thee.

  My kin. My family. Any wound to you is a wound to me.

  Come back to me. Come back to me.”

  I played on and on. When I finally stopped, breathing like I had asthma, I looked up at them. Slowly they began to applaud. The applause just went on and on. I grinned and took a few bows. What was I doing, I wondered, strumming and singing when my baby cousin had vanished and could be dead for all I knew? When my throat was horse, too horse to sing anymore, we packed it in and began walking back.

  “Hey.” We looked up as a tall, lanky figure walked out of the shadows of the trees.

  “Caleb!” I walked over and hugged him, ignoring the wolf-whistles all around us.

  “How long were you standing there?”

  “Long enough. Are you guys done?” he asked.

  “Heaven forbid that we should intrude,” Fred grinned while Dom rolled his eyes as he zipped up his guitar case. “Be gentle with her, eh? I don’t want her tongue too tired for singing tomorrow.” I flipped them off as they walked away, sniggering. We rowed slowly back across the lake. We smiled at each other now and then, but without words. I, as usual, couldn’t think of anything to say. I sensed he had something else in mind besides t
aking me home. We reached the far bank and got into his new car.

  “Where are we going?” I asked as he drove me away from the main road. He’d got his license only a few weeks ago and I was a little worried by his driving skills.

  “My home,” he answered. “I want to show you my…drawings.” His emphasis on the last word made me curious.

  *

  We walked up to Redstone’s front door. I followed him upstairs and watched, puzzled, as he pulled down the stepladder to the attic. I followed him up, taking one of two flashlights from him, and found myself looking into the face of his father.

  “Mr. Grey?” I frowned. He didn’t even twitch, just sat there in an armchair. As I swung my beam around the room, I saw this place was more like an art studio than an attic. There was a mirror framed by light bulbs, a bust and a desk covered by paints. What was Grey doing here though?

  “What’s going on, Caleb? Is he ignoring me or something?” I asked, frowning at my grinning boyfriend.

  “It’s a waxwork.”

  “What?” I blinked. “Bullshit.” I reached out to shake him, tired of this joke. I almost screamed as I jumped back from touching his hand. It was wax. “How? What?”

  “I make them up here,” he chuckled. He turned on the mirror’s bulbs and picked up two plastic bags from the floor. “The hair,” he explained, emptying the first bag on the desk, “is real. I get it from the barber’s in town. The eyes are marbles. I buy them at car boots and paint them. The wax I get from the church where I go every Sunday.” I watched, fascinated, as he put a mound of wax into a small frying pan, set it on top of one of the bulbs and then, when it was melted into a puddle, poured it into two halves of a plastic mold. We waited awhile for it to dry and harden. Then it was as though a switch had been thrown in him. His movements were quick and spidery as he emptied the molds, squirting glue on specific areas. He set the two halves together, sealing them with the glue. He then smeared glue all over the crown, took the rest of the hair and covered the lump, carefully combing it so it all flowed the same way and cutting it shorter. After that he took out a craft knife and really got to work. Under his skilled hands a small, cute, button nose, eye sockets, lips, freckles, wrinkles, crow’s feet, dimples and cheekbones began to emerge. There was no detail he overlooked, no small flaw or feature that escaped his notice. He began to paint the whole thing in skin tone: peach for the general face with little dots of orange for the freckles, darker tone for the eye rings and pink for the cheeks and lips. As a finishing touch, he took two blue marbles from his pocket, covered them in glue as well and fitted them into the eye sockets. When he stepped away, breathing hard and covered in stains, I felt an urgent need to sit down. I was looking at the face of his mother, right down to the last detail. It was as though someone had cut Jamie Grey’s head off and mounted it. I was stunned. Speechless.

  “You can close your mouth now,” he grinned.

  “Okay,” I laughed. “My. God,” I breathed.

  “Well, now you know my secret.”

  “You should not keep this a secret,” I told him, unable to take my eyes off the masterpiece in front of me. It was then that I noticed footprints on the dusty floor, many of them. “Yeah, I just sold a bunch of them to this dealer in London, when my parents were out of course.”

  “You should work for a gallery or something.”

  “I do work for a gallery; that’s where the guy came from. I’ve been doing this for a while.”

  “Hold up. How long?”

  “A while.” I thought back to when I’d first come to England, on the plane, leafing through a magazine.

  “You’re just like that artist guy, Joe Cussler.” He smiled demurely. “Joe Cussler? No. Way. That’s you?”

  “Uh, huh, Clive Cussler is my favourite author. Joe Zavala is one of his main characters.”

  “Whoa,” I grinned, looking again at his mother’s mirror image. Very cool. I was so busy admiring, I missed what he said next. “Sorry, what?”

  “I said I made one of you and your brother once, but they were in the batch I sold. I even did one of your friend, Kyle Thayer.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, but we had a break-in sometime ago and they stole it.” I froze, recalling our discussion in the café, over the photo:

  “So, what are you thinking?”

  “That this isn’t him. It’s a mask or something.”

  “I don’t know what they would want that for. I mean, it seems a pretty useless thing to steal, don’t you think?” Our eyes met and he knew what I was thinking.

  *

  The brand new, ultra-confident, athletic, rocker-chick me was slowly but steadily becoming the real me. Growing up was full of changes: having a handsome, brilliant boyfriend, avoiding his snobbish sister and strumming with the Freemans. I smiled, remembering that my metal hand worked better than any plectrum, strumming the stings expertly. It did many things better than a real hand did; there was no chance of dropping anything, or getting burned, or even tired. It didn’t need to build up calluses or anything either.

  Contact between Kyle and I had gone down steadily. The search was going nowhere and, selfish as it was, I was tired of it, tired of Kyle and Sarah’s misery, tired of offering useless condolences and tired of feeling helpless. I hadn’t known little Mike. This wasn’t my fault and there was nothing I could do. Caleb and I loved spending time with each other. As we grew, so did the bond between us; I could no longer imagine life without him. He’d been my rock as I had cried out my fear and worry, those first few days, and he’d always been there to listen to me and hold me when I had needed it. Was this love? I didn’t know but I thought so. We were taking a walk, the both of us, as we often did when we wanted to admire Windermere in the high summer, when he suddenly led me away from the path.

  “Caleb, where are we going?”

  “You’ll see,” he grinned, leading me by the hand.“Why do you only wear one glove all the time?” he asked, looking down at it.

  “I had an accident,” I replied truthfully. “It’s pretty ugly.”

  “Like a burn?”

  “Something like that.” I followed him, deep into the woods, to the clearing where my band usually practiced.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey!” they both yelled.

  “Dom? Fred?” The two of them were in the clearing, setting up shop. They already had mikes on stands out and were in the process of unpacking their guitars.

  “Caleb, I…I dunno.” I had had no problem singing in front of Dom and Fred. But Caleb, someone who was so deeply attached to me and so dazzlingly good at his own art…?

  “C’mon, babe, I’ve heard you already,” he reminded me.

  “But I didn’t know you were there.”

  “I had to come,” he grinned, raising his voice so they could hear.“They have been on about you all week; it was hell listening to them.” He put on a whining falsetto: “Oh, she’s so good. Maybe she’ll take us to Hollywood. Maybe we’ll get a big contract label. Maybe we’ll get Jules Holland’—”

  “Shut up, Caleb,” Fred grinned. “C’mon, whacha got for us?” He handed me a spare guitar and I was a little lost here; I felt so unprepared. I took the guitar and a spare pick and hesitated. Then I had it.

  “Okay,” I grinned, turning to them.“This is a new one so try to keep up if you can.” I paused for a second to take a breath, and my surroundings, in. The sunlight filtered through the trees, creating bright yellow patches on the soft, thick grass. I wanted, for the millionth time, to take off my shoes and feel the blades under my feet.