Cruel Winter

by Anthony Izzo

  “Are you serious?”

  “One hundred percent. That’s why she wanted you guys to leave.”

  He didn’t tell them the other reason. That would be like stepping on Emma’s heart. When she wanted the other two boys to know about Jacob, she would tell them. Jack telling them would be a betrayal, and that was the last thing he wanted to do to her.

  “And you said yes?”

  “Of course.”

  “Major neato news. Congratulations. You’re becoming a fine young man, Jack.” Paul stuck out his hand to shake and Jack nearly fell off the bed laughing.

  “I’m a fine young man? Where do you come up with this shit?”

  Paul laughed too, stifling it at first with his hand, then breaking into a full-out belly laugh.

  “Shh! You’ll wake up my mom and dad!” Jack said.

  “Sorry. That’s cool, man. So what do we do about the tunnel thing?”

  “Talk to Ronnie. Start hanging with him more. He’s really not that bad, you know? A little out there, but he could be a fun guy to hang with,” Jack said. In reality, he was afraid not to hang with Ronnie.

  “What if we solved the murder? Do you think we’d get a medal?”

  “Maybe,” Jack said.

  Paul rested his head down on the pillow and pulled up the red quilt. “You sure are lucky.”

  “How?”

  “I wish I had your mom and dad,” he said, in a tone that made Jack want to cry. “My dad’s such a major asshole it’s not even funny.”

  “You can come here any time you want.”

  His own father’s admonition to help Paul out and be there for him echoed in Jack’s head. He wanted to extend that feeling out to Paul without sounding like a total dork. As a rule, eleven-year-old boys did not share Hallmark moments.

  “You’re a good friend,” Paul said.

  “Did I really boot your dad in the ass?”

  “Yeah, that was great.”

  “Good thing he was half smashed or he might have hit us with that beer bottle,” Jack said.

  “He has lousy aim when he’s drunk. One time he tried chasing after me with Jiffy Pop, you know, the one you do on the stove?”

  “Was it already popped?”

  “Yeah. He’s running after me with it, waving it and screaming. I ran in my room and slammed the door. He threw it and it whizzed over my head before I could shut the door. Bam. Popcorn everywhere, the drunken asshole.”

  “Pretty corny story,” Jack said.

  “Don’t give up your day job to become a comedian.”

  “I don’t have a day job.”

  “Jack?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What if it comes back?”

  “It won’t.” He wished he could believe that.

  “You sure?” Paul said. His voice sounded small in the dark room.

  “No.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Kempf pulled up on the scene, sweating under his red parka. He unzipped it and loosened the scarf scratching at his throat. Felt like barbed wire to him. He stepped out of the car.

  Two prowl cars were parked on the side of the bridge, their lights reflected in the steel rails. A uniformed cop (it looked like Stavros from here) made his way up the embankment leading from the creek. Ramsey stood at the top of the embankment, hands on hips, lording over the whole scene. He had on brown duck boots, but Kempf couldn’t figure out why, because there was no way the chief would get his feet dirty. That was Kempf’s job.

  Kempf approached Ramsey and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, his normally tan skin turned pink from the cold. Tiny rose-welts covered his cheeks and nose from where the snow had pelted him.

  Ramsey said, “Hell of a night, huh?”

  “What have we got?”

  “White male. Thirty-two years old. Gutted like a carp.”

  “Who found him?”

  “Jogger. She’s over in one of the cars keeping warm. Snow covered up the footprints. Pretty convenient, huh?”

  Kempf’s bandaged friend had been busy again, no doubt using the adverse weather to cloak his travel.

  “We’ll need to question people at the minimart. Stavros and Baer are checking behind the doctor’s office to see what they can see.” He crossed his arms, looked thoughtful. “I need to call a press conference first thing in the morning.”

  A white van with a circled number 7 in red pulled up.

  “Better get down there and have a look,” Kempf said. “Get someone up here to keep the jackals back.”

  “I’ll have Stavros do it.”

  Kempf hurried away, wanting to avoid the news crew (they would most likely be all over Ramsey, anyway). He sidestepped down the embankment, arms out like a tightrope walker.

  The creek wound right and back to the left before going under the bridge. The victim lay on his back at the edge of the creek. Head cocked to the left, eyes open. Snowflakes matted his eyebrows and the front of his hair. A blue knit cap rested on the ground next to his head, along with a paper bag, now soaked dark brown.

  Poor son of a bitch was probably out picking up bread or milk and this happened. Probably had no idea what hit him.

  In the dark, the bloodstains on the jacket looked violet. A section of intestine looped over the victim’s side, and Kempf had a thought so awful it made him want to puke right there. The guts probably steamed when he was unzipped.

  The Crime Scene boys came down the embankment, one of them with a big leather bag in his hand, and the other with a duffel. Kempf nodded to them.

  “What do you think, Detective?”

  “I think we’ve got a major fucking problem on our hands.”

  They went to work, photographing the victim, taking scrapings from under the nails, and collecting up evidence in bags and envelopes. The knit cap went into a plastic bag, something Kempf was sure its wearer never expected to happen.

  Kempf made a sketch of the crime scene on his pad, some notes and impressions of the site. No doubt, though, that the bandaged man killed the guy.

  He slogged up the embankment while the Crime Scene Unit did their thing.

  Ramsey stood at the top of the embankment in a wash of television camera lights. Baer, a big man with slumped shoulders, stood behind Ramsey with his arms out as if this would ward off curious photographers. He looked like an overgrown scarecrow.

  Kempf scurried over to the squad car. He opened the door and crouched down. She was sallow-skinned, with a pinched nose and a smattering of freckles on her cheeks. Her forehead was covered by a blue Adidas headband, and over that, earmuffs.

  “I’m Detective Kempf.”

  She offered him a mitten-covered hand. “Danielle Belmont.”

  He shook her hand and said, “Little cold to be out jogging.”

  “Not really. I do it in all kinds of weather. Keeps me in shape.”

  From the way the skin clung to her cheekbones, he would say she overdid it on the jogging and ate like a sparrow.

  “I’d like you to come down to the station and make a statement. I have to go to the minimart first and talk to them. Are you okay to wait here for a few minutes?”

  “The killer isn’t still around, is he? I’ll be safe?”

  “As a baby in a cradle. There’s plenty of officers around. Besides, whoever did this is long gone.”

  “Okay. I’ll wait.”

  “Thank you. Watch your fingers.”

  He shut the door and scurried past the news hounds. Fighting the wind, he turned the corner at the plaza and ducked into the minimart.

  It was brightly lit, and a band Kempf thought was called Culture Club was playing from the speakers. The rug in front of the doorway squished under his feet, and a yellow sign reading CAUTION—WET FLOOR stood propped at the end of the rug. Kempf stamped his feet, drawing more water from the rug.

  He approached the counter where a longhaired kid sat slouched. He was reading a Spider Man comic and picking at a pimple on his cheek.

  “Can I help you?” he said, l
ooking up. The reddish hair covered his eyes.

  “Detective Kempf,” he said, flashing his badge.

  “What happened?”

  “A guy came in here a little while ago to buy milk. About five eight. Mustache. Sandy blond hair. You remember seeing him?”

  The kid scratched his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. Came in about an hour ago. Why?”

  “We found his body around the corner,” Kempf said. “He’s been murdered.”

  “No way.” He brushed the hair out of his face and Kempf saw a silver cross dangling from his left ear.

  “Did you see anyone follow him out of here? Or was there anyone waiting outside when he left?”

  “I don’t think there was.”

  “Did he seem nervous or scared? Like someone might be following him?”

  “No. Just came in and paid for his milk. Bitched about the cold but that was it, dude.”

  “Are you sure there was nothing funny? Out of the ordinary?”

  “Sorry, man. Hey, is it the same guy who offed the other dude by the estate?”

  “Can’t say. Can I get your name and phone number?”

  “Brian Parker.” He told Kempf his phone number as well. Kempf jotted it down on his pad and tucked it back into the coat pocket. “Thanks, Brian.”

  Kempf left Brian to his Spider Man comic, but as he was walking out the door he said, “How are you getting home, Brian?”

  “My dad’s picking me up.”

  “Good. Wait in here for him. I think you’ll be safe, but you still shouldn’t walk home alone.”

  “Thanks, dude.”

  Dude. When the hell did kids start talking like that?

  Back at the station, the jogger was waiting for him in the office, legs tucked up on the chair, her arms wrapped around them, knees to the chest.

  “Some coffee, Miss Belmont?”

  “No, thanks. I’d just like to get home.”

  “We won’t keep you long.”

  Kempf sat down, pulled open the desk drawer, and took out his Tums. He flipped the lid and popped two in his mouth. The entire content of his stomach felt as if it had been drained and replaced with high-powered battery acid. He had to get back to the doctor soon.

  “Feeling sick?” she asked.

  “Ulcer.” He felt like he should be asking her the same question. She was probably a health nut who subsided on tofu and yogurt, then ran as if the devil were chasing her. Those types of people were usually always sick, straining their bodies with too little food and too much exercise.

  “So you were jogging. And you looked over and saw the body?” Kempf took out a legal pad and a blue pen.

  “Yeah. Just as I reached the bridge. It was pretty windy and the snow was blowing around, but I could make out a shape. I saw his jacket. That’s when I climbed down the embankment.”

  “And you saw the damage, obviously.”

  “Who would do something like that to another person?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. So what happened next?”

  “I ran up the embankment and to the minimart. That’s when I called the police.”

  Kempf nodded while writing. “Did you see anybody near the scene?”

  “No. But I had the feeling someone was watching me. From a distance. It was creepy. That’s not weird, is it?”

  “Not at all,” Kempf said. “You’re sure you didn’t see anyone?”

  “I thought maybe I saw something move around the corner of the doctor’s office before I climbed the embankment, but I couldn’t be sure.”

  “I think this is all we need. If I need any other info can I have your phone number?”

  She recited it and he scratched it on the pad. “Officer Baer will give you a ride home.”

  “Thank you, Detective.” She stood up and hurried out of the office. If she was like most civilians, she was nervous around cops even though she’d done nothing wrong.

  The bandaged man had most likely watched Danielle Belmont from the woods, and perhaps she was lucky she had climbed the embankment when she did.

  The whole thing was getting worse by the day. Kempf lowered his head and rubbed his eyes.

  Ramsey walked in, surprising Kempf. He thought the chief would have been at home in bed by now.

  “What do you think, Tank?” He sat in the chair and leaned back.

  “It’s obviously the same guy.”

  “I’ve got a press conference scheduled for tomorrow. People are going to be scared. We have to calm them down, reassure them of police presence.”

  “That’s not going to be easy. And who knows who will be next?” Kempf said. “He used the storm to catch them off guard, you know.”

  “The county sheriff’s giving us two prowl cars with two men each. I’m going to ask the town board to authorize overtime until we catch this guy. I want patrols going twenty-four-seven.”

  “I should get that fabric sample back from the lab soon.”

  “Make sure and do that. You might need it. Never know, do we?”

  Kempf didn’t care for the tone of his voice. “No, we don’t.”

  “See you tomorrow. Try and get some sleep.” Ramsey clapped him on the knee, got up, and left the office.

  After a moment, Kempf followed him, shutting off the light on the way out.

  After leaving the station, Kempf stopped at Dunkin Donuts for two crullers and two decaf coffees. The clerk tried making small talk with him, asking him if he heard about the guy that just got killed. Kempf told him yeah, and the clerk noticed the badge clipped to his belt. The kid said, “Yeah, I guess you would know.” And then asked him if he was in any danger working this late. Kempf replied, “Not unless the guy has a bad donut fetish.” He left the clerk puzzled.

  He drove home, cursing the weather, the homicide, and Ramsey. The chief would get up on the podium tomorrow, hair sprayed to perfection, pearly whites all in a row, and do his best at making it look like they had everything under control. Kempf didn’t think it would work and he knew they didn’t have things under control.

  His guts told him it was hiding out on the Steadman Estate, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember much of his conversation with Cassie Winter. It was like having someone’s name lodged in your brain and not being able to get your tongue to say it.

  When he arrived at the house, Jules was waiting for him, coffee mug in hand and a glass of milk sitting on the counter.

  “You’ll probably be needing this with that ulcer,” she said. She handed him the milk.

  “You bet.” He took a swig and wiped his mouth. “Brought some donuts.” Kempf set them on the counter along with the coffees.

  “Bad this time?”

  “As bad as the first one. It was the guy I saw outside the estate that day. I know it. I told Ramsey about it and he agreed to step up patrols, but he doesn’t want to go prowling on the estate.” Kempf took another swallow of milk. “We need to do another sweep of the place. Every building, the woods, the whole shooting match.”

  “He never listens. You know that. He’s a glory hound. Always has been,” she said, fire coming to her eyes.

  “The old glory hound will get his chance at the press conference tomorrow,” Kempf said. “I think the son of a bitch is probably planning on running for sheriff next year.”

  “So what now?”

  “Now I go to bed and don’t really sleep. I have to think of something before someone else gets it. I’m hoping a sample I sent to the lab gets me something.”

  “If you want to call it quits, George, you can. With my income and what we’ve got saved, we’d be okay. Retirement isn’t such a bad thing.” She kissed him on the cheek and left the room, her bathrobe flowing behind her.

  “Maybe not. But I can’t let this go,” he said.

  CHAPTER 28

  “Why did your mom drive us to school?” Paul asked.

  “Nervous about the nut job running around town. You should be too. We saw him, after all,” Jack said.

  Th
ey strolled down the main hallway, past a bulletin board decorated with red and green construction paper. It proclaimed: DON’T FORGET THE CHRISTMAS DANCE. In ten years, it would become the holiday dance, and after that the December dance, in a nod to political correctness.

  “How did you sleep?” Jack asked.

  “Lousy. I had bad dreams all night.”

  “He killed someone else. After he left the garage,” Jack said.

  “Jeepers, not another one. How do you know?”

  “I got up before you this morning. My dad had Wake Up, Western New York on. It’s all over the news.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Hope it doesn’t come back again,” Jack said.

  “Bad dreams,” Paul said.

  “I didn’t sleep good either,” Jack said.

  Paul had had the same dream three or four times. In the dream, he slept in his own bed, and when he woke up, the room was pitched with dirty gray light. Water dripped from a spot on the ceiling and pooled on the rug. The paint and plaster flaked from the walls, revealing the lath underneath. He climbed out of bed and the wind chilled him. The curtains flapped in front of a broken window.

  He stepped onto the carpet, the water squishing under his bare feet. The hallway revealed more dilapidated conditions. A rat scurried in front of him and cockroaches scampered left and right. The hallway light hung with no fixture, the wires jutting out in all directions. It was as if he had stepped into a slum version of his house.

  He turned right, into the bathroom. Mold flourished on the walls, black and spotty. The toilet had a jagged crack in it, and another rat sat on top of it, its red eyes watching Paul. He wanted out of here. The air in his lungs felt as if it had been replaced with liquid nitrogen.

  He faced the shower curtain. It was shredded as if by claws. He pulled it aside and found a piece of gauze on the floor of the tub. It belonged to the tunnel thing, no doubt. When he turned to run, he found the creature standing in the doorway, a gnarled hand reaching for Paul and nearly grabbing him before he woke up.

  “Paul, you still here?”

  “Yeah. Just thinking about my dream.”

  Jack said, “I kept dreaming he was at the window. I would pull the curtains open and there he was, looking in at me.”