Cruel Winter

by Anthony Izzo

  “What was that?” Jack asked.

  “We’ll talk. Let’s go before it decides to come back.”

  Rudy Campana wished he could take a flamethrower to all this godforsaken snow and melt it for good. Dressed in a yellow fleece sweatshirt, gloves, and duck boots, he wished now for a heavier coat.

  Rudy Jr. was out of milk and Kathy had volunteered Rudy to trek to the minimart and get more of the white stuff. Not that he would have let her go out in the storm, and if it made the baby happy, then it made him happy.

  But did it have to be so damn miserable out? He didn’t mind getting milk for the kid; hell, he would have walked ten miles over broken glass for him. The little guy had the biggest set of brown eyes you ever wanted to see (much to the chagrin of Kathy’s mother, who disapproved of “Mediterranean” features—the bitch). And he was going to be strong, almost straining Rudy’s neck when he hugged.

  That took some of the sting out of the cold.

  He slogged through the parking lot, where a group of teenagers in a maroon Mustang ripped donuts in the snow, the car spinning like a globe.

  “Kids,” he said, shaking his head.

  He entered the minimart, shook off the cold, and headed for the milk cooler, where he nearly slipped on a wet patch. He paid for the milk, stuffed his change in his wallet, and walked back into the cold.

  The kids in the Mustang swung out onto Riley Avenue, driving like Satan’s own chauffeur. No regard for the conditions. That’s what caused accidents.

  He tucked the gallon of milk under his arm and fought the wind all the way down the sidewalk in front of the plaza. He turned right onto Riley, and luckily he only had about another block and a half to go before he was in his house drinking hot tea. Kathy would have it ready for him, and he couldn’t wait to heat up his insides with it.

  He reached the bridge that ran over Fox Creek, and ahead to the right was a cluster of trees on the lawn of Dr. Peach’s offices. There were fresh tracks leading from the office building to the cluster of trees, which was odd, because the office had been closed for hours.

  He was nearly past the trees when he was jerked off his feet, yanked by the arm so hard he thought for a moment it was torn off. He landed on his side in the snow, muttering, “What the hell?”

  He looked up and saw a man towering over him. The guy was dressed in blue coveralls and damn it all if he didn’t have bandages wrapped all over his face. It took Rudy only seconds to realize he was in deep trouble.

  As he rose to his knees, the guy grabbed him by the front of his jacket. His knees buckled underneath him, but the man jerked him back to his feet.

  “Holy shit.”

  It hit him in the gut, feeling like a cannonball slamming into his abdomen. The air left his lungs and he gasped, too stunned to see that the guy’s fist had exited his lower back, impaling him.

  CHAPTER 26

  John led them to the side door, coughing in fits every few seconds.˙

  “Are you okay?” Paul said.

  “Throat hurts,” John said, and held his throat. “But I’ll be okay.”

  “What was that?” Jack asked, and his voice came out higher than he would have liked.

  “I’ll explain everything to you boys. Wait at the corner of your street, both of you. About three-thirty tomorrow and I’ll pick you up. I don’t want to come to the house because I don’t think you want to explain to your mom why you got a limo ride. In the meantime, stay inside. I mean that.”

  He put one arm on Paul’s shoulder and one on Jack’s, stopping them and looking hard at each boy. They both nodded in agreement, and Jack thought he would probably never set foot in that garage again, no matter how much his dad complained.

  John left them at the door, ducking down the driveway. The boys went inside. Jack stomped his feet to break off the snow from his boots and Paul did the same. They took off their winter gear and hung the hats and coats on the rack in the hallway.

  “What took you so long?” Jack’s mom stood at the stove, stirring the contents of a pan with a wooden spoon.

  “Paul dropped the papers all over the place,” Jack said.

  “Oh, sure, blame me.”

  “That’s what happened, didn’t it?” Jack said, elbowing him.

  “Oh yeah. Made a big mess.”

  “Your father wants to talk to you before you have your cocoa. Paul, you can come and sit down; then you guys should get ready for bed.”

  Paul pulled out a chair and plopped down. Jack’s mom set the cocoa in front of Paul.

  “Paul, you’re shivering. You want a blanket to put over your shoulders?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll be okay, Mrs. Harding.”

  Paul sipped his hot chocolate. From the living room, Jack’s dad yelled, “In here, Jack!”

  “Be right back.”

  Jack entered the living room. His dad sat in a lemon-yellow recliner. Duct tape crisscrossed the arms of the chair, and it looked as if someone had beaten it with a crowbar. But his father refused to get rid of it, and if Mom ever threw it out, Jack’s dad might petition Congress to declare war.

  He leaned forward, hands folded between his knees. “Pull up a seat,” he said, pointing to the green ottoman.

  Jack pulled out the footstool and sat down.

  “Get the newspapers out?”

  Shit. In the chaos that had ensued outside, they had forgotten about the papers. Hopefully Dad wouldn’t check. “Yeah.”

  “How’s Paul?”

  “He’s Paul.”

  “You know what happened with his dad is pretty serious stuff, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your mother and I are going to call Child Protective Services.”

  “It won’t help,” Jack said. “He’s a psycho.”

  His dad sat back and crossed his legs. His pant leg rode up, showing his nearly hairless calf.

  “He can stay here as long as he wants. I’ll buy him clothes if I have to, but I’m not letting that gorilla lay another hand on him. He’s a good kid, and he’ll need a good friend. It’s a hard time for Paul, and he really looks up to you. You need to be a man.” Dad winked at him. “You can do it.”

  That was the ultimate compliment to Jack. “Really?”

  “Be his friend, Jack. I know you guys are already tight, but he’ll need someone to support him.”

  “Got it.”

  His dad reached out and shook his hand, the way he did when his buddies came over to watch a Bills game. He pumped Jack’s hand, then shook hard, making Jack’s arm flop like spaghetti. “Whoa, that’s some handshake you got there,” he said.

  Jack leaned over and kissed his dad on the cheek, the eight o’clock shadow rough on his lips. It would be the last time he kissed his father until Jack Harding Sr. lay dying from liver cancer in Buffalo General Hospital, thirty years later.

  Dad smiled, perhaps knowing it would be the last kiss he received from his growing son.

  “Go get some of that hot chocolate before it gets cold,” he said, and clapped Jack on the back.

  Jack bopped out of the living room, so pleased that he had forgotten about the incident in the garage. For the moment.

  Cassie Winter slammed the fireplace poker down on a log and the fire spat sparks at her, the embers landing on the hearth. She ground them into the tile so hard the bottom of her foot ached. Instead of setting the poker back on the rack, she flung it against the brick, and it clanged to the floor.

  “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  She had sent the Wraith to frighten Jack Harding, and not only had John gotten involved, but someone had been killed. She should have known better than to set it loose, and she had less control of it once it was off the grounds. The images had come to her in flashes, like a slide show at a hundred miles per hour. The Wraith picking up Jack Harding, John entering the garage, then the Wraith choking him just to put John in his place. From then it stalked an unsuspecting man coming home from the store. Another victim.

  I’ve
made it too vicious, she thought.

  “Damn it!” She pounded her fist against the mantel. The bone china rattled on its holders.

  “What’s the matter, Mom?”

  Oh no. Ronnie.

  The boy stood clad in Spider Man pajamas, the red and blue shirt strained by his stomach. Either she had to get him some new pajamas or put him on a diet. She would send John out tomorrow to buy him some new pajamas, then start rationing his intake of Ho-Hos and Ring Dings. Poor little fat boy. And all her fault, letting him stuff himself with cupcakes and pastries.

  “Are you okay, Mom?”

  “Sure I am, sweetheart.” She crossed the room and knelt in front of him—although in another year he would probably be as tall as she—if not taller—and took his hand.

  “I was down in the kitchen and I heard banging.”

  “You shouldn’t be out of bed looking for snacks.”

  “But I was hungry.”

  “No more snacks today.”

  “But—”

  “No buts,” Cassie said. “I burned my hand on the hot poker, that’s all.”

  “I really like my new friends.”

  He smiled, and it nearly broke her heart to see him happy. “Really?”

  “Jack and Paul are neat guys. I feel bad about what happened in the tunnel, but I’ll make it up to them somehow. Maybe a sleepover?”

  “I don’t like that he shoved you.”

  “It was just a little shove. I suppose I deserved it after what I did.”

  “Don’t feel like you have to take that from him, even if you did play a prank on them. And I suppose a sleepover would be okay.”

  “Really?”

  “Just remember mothers see and hear everything, even if you don’t realize it. Especially this mom.”

  “Thanks.”

  He wrapped his arms around her waist. She kissed him on top of the head. His hair smelled of jojoba shampoo, sweet and clean. “You’re welcome, hon. Now get to bed.”

  “Super!” he said, pumping his fist in the air and then barreling down the hallway yelling, “Party!”

  It did her heart good to see him happy. So often it wasn’t the case in recent years. Maybe he was finally breaking through with other kids, making real friends instead of having kids who hung around him because of all the toys and free food.

  She sighed, picked up the poker, and set in the holder.

  Kempf pulled up in the driveway, took the garage door opener off the visor, and pushed the button. The door opened and he pulled the car in, feeling like a caterpillar in a cocoon.

  He tucked the late edition of the Buffalo Evening News under his arm, got out of the car, and went into the house.

  He peeled off his London Fog coat and hung it on the coatrack. Tomorrow he would wear the big parka, a hat, and gloves. Damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead and who cared if he looked like a stuffed olive? Better to be warm than fashionable.

  Jules sat at the table reading Sidney Sheldon’s latest and sipping a cup of coffee. The mug was the one he got her for Valentine’s Day in 1978 and it read TO MY WIFE—I LOVE YOU. The red letters were fading and it had a chip on the brim, but she refused to throw it out. Somewhere she had the dozens of letters Kempf had written on college-lined paper. Jules the pack rat, the sentimental romantic.

  “Hi, hon,” he said.

  “Hey,” she said, setting the book down.

  He went over, bent down, and kissed her on the lips. She tasted like coffee.

  “Dinner’s warming in the oven. Hope you don’t mind I went ahead and ate,” she said.

  “Naw.” He grabbed a pair of oven mitts and took the roaster out of the oven. Pot roast, potatoes, and carrots. He spooned himself up a plate, grabbed a Schmidt’s from the fridge, and joined her at the table. He loosened his tie and set it on the back of the chair.

  “What happened, George?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “I can tell by the new wrinkles in that knotty old head.”

  He sipped the beer, relished the bitterness of it.

  The woman had a knack for knowing when something was eating at him just by the look on his face. Twenty-seven years gave you almost-ESP.

  “It was bad, Jules.”

  “How bad?”

  “Never seen anything like it. I know who killed that kid over by the Steadman place.”

  She gripped his forearm and gave it a little shake. “That’s great.”

  “He got away.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m not sure I want to tangle with this one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She put her bookmark, a pink job with gray kittens on it, inside the book and set it aside. She leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, giving him her full attention. On days like this when his ulcer was boiling over and there were extra creases in his noggin, she let him talk. Didn’t butt in and tell him all about how some biddy at the craft shop thought she was overcharged for candlestick holders. Never cut him off or tuned him out. Just listened. It was a skill that most people would never have.

  “The guy had no eyes, Jules. And bandages all over his face.”

  “No eyes? I don’t follow.”

  “I mean no eyes. Like someone plucked them out and left sockets.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “He was three feet from me.”

  “My God. What happened?”

  He told her how he went back up to the estate to search for the piece of gauze. Then about spotting the freak in the woods.

  “We swept the property as best we could, but it’s something like eight hundred acres. We’re stepping up patrols in the area and Ramsey’s holding a press conference to warn the good people of Brampton that they should stay locked up tight. Real good of him to spook the civilians even more.”

  “You always said he was a PR hog.”

  “Yep.”

  “You’ll come out of this okay, George. You always do.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

  “Something else happened, too. I went out to the Steadman place to talk with the new owner.”

  “That doesn’t seem strange.”

  “I got dizzy, nauseated. And if you would have asked me my name right then I don’t think I could have told you. Scared the hell out of me. I thought I was having a stroke.”

  “I want you to make a doctor’s appointment.” The tone said it was nonnegotiable. “Pronto. I don’t like your health lately, George.”

  He sliced off a piece of pot roast and put it in his mouth. The phone rang. Kempf turned around and took the receiver off the wall.

  “Hello,” he said, still chewing.

  “Tank. How are you?”

  “Good, Chief. What’s up?” He was trying his damnedest to sound upbeat, but he knew the news from Ramsey would not be good. Ramsey had called him at home twice, and both times involved someone dying in Brampton. The first was when Cynthia Parsons ran down her estranged husband with the family Buick and the second involved Tiny shooting the Schwann man.

  “I need you to come down to the minimart by Riley Street. It happened again.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “See you there,” Ramsey said.

  Kempf hung up the phone, the pot roast in his stomach feeling like razor blades.

  “What is it?” Julie said.

  “I gotta go out.”

  “Why can’t they just leave you alone?”

  “It’s my job, dear.”

  “Dress warm.”

  She kissed him on the cheek and he headed for the hallway to put his parka on.

  Jack lay in bed, hands folded on top of the comforter. He closed his eyes, opened them, and closed them again as he had done for the past half hour. He rolled onto his left side. Pillow was too lumpy. Rolled onto his right side and his neck ached. Beside him, the cot springs squeaked, suggesting that Paul wasn’t asleep, either.

  Outside, the wind continued its barrage and every so often the whole
house shook. The window rattled. Jack pulled the covers up to his chin.

  “Jack?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Still awake?”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “No, I’m sleep-talking.”

  “You think it’s still out there,” Paul asked, “in the yard?”

  “For some reason I don’t. I think it’s scared of John.”

  “It almost choked him to death,” Paul said.

  “It could have killed him if it wanted. You felt how strong it was and so did I. I think it’s back under the estate in the tunnels.”

  “It killed that guy, didn’t it?”

  Jack rolled onto his side so he was facing Paul. Paul sat there with the pillow on his lap. He picked at the pink pillowcase.

  Mom had dragged out the old cot, the one with purple flowers on the mattress, so Paul wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor. It squealed a lot, and the springs had a tendency to poke you in the back, but it was better than sleeping on the hardwood.

  “I think so.”

  “I’m not going back into the tunnel. I don’t care what Chris thinks of us. If we’re liars, then we’re liars. At least we’re alive, bucko.”

  “You’re right. We’re not going. We’d be nuts.”

  Paul let out a long rush of air, exaggerating a sigh.

  “But we have to find out more about what that thing might be. Get closer to Ronnie and spend time on the estate,” Jack said.

  “Why would we do that?”

  “I’m afraid not to.” Jack looked to the window again, half expecting a pale fist with cracked nails to smash through and grab one of them. “Can I tell you something?”

  “Yeah, no secrets, right?”

  Paul was right. There were no secrets between them. They knew each other’s worst. Like Paul running out of toilet paper in the second-floor bathroom and using his report on the Battle of Bull Run to wipe his ass. Or Jack sneezing in the library without a tissue and runners of snot shooting from his nose. And right in front of Laura Stein and Amy Grubny.

  No keeping secrets, but wasn’t that what Jack and Emma had done by asking Chris and Paul to leave the basement room? Jack felt a stab of guilt. “Emma asked me to the Christmas dance.”