Cruel Winter

by Anthony Izzo

  “You got a warrant?”

  “I’ll have one soon.”

  “You really don’t plan on arresting it, do you?”

  “I’m coming armed to the gills,” Kempf said.

  “I’m getting off the estate.” John cradled the receiver between his neck and shoulder.

  “Don’t you think it’s better if Cassie thinks everything’s normal?”

  The detective had a point.

  “All right. When do you want to do it?”

  “She’s not listening, is she?”

  “She’s not here.”

  They agreed Kempf would meet him tomorrow at the groundskeeper’s house, and they would head to the mansion from there. John said good-bye and set the receiver down. He looked at the suitcase as if it were a particularly fine woman he could not have.

  “Best unpack.”

  Kempf thought of the Mossberg twelve-gauge and Kevlar vest sitting in his trunk, and although his suspect didn’t carry a gun, he felt better having the supplies. After hanging up with John, he went to the kitchen.

  Jules sat hunched over a cup of coffee, an old Jimmy Stewart movie on the black-and-white. Kempf walked in massaging his temples. He could feel the blood pounding through the veins, hear its surges as the headache worsened. He wanted to take a couple of Excedrins and go to sleep.

  “You look pretty rough,” she said.

  “Glad to see you too.”

  “There’s some left over goulash in the fridge.”

  “Not hungry.”

  He pulled out a chair and sat down. Kempf reached up and tugged at his tie until it came loose and hung on his chest.

  “We’re going in there tomorrow,” he said.

  “I knew you’d find him.”

  “I don’t know what we’re getting into here.”

  “You’ll do fine, sweets. You always do.”

  “We’re going to have to kill it, if that’s possible.”

  Kempf gripped the tie and rubbed the material between his thumb and index finger. It made a little shooshing noise.

  “You could arrest him for boo-glary,” Jules said.

  “That was horrible.”

  “Johnny Carson I’m not.” She sipped her tea. “Does numb nuts know what you’re doing?”

  “He’s too busy planning his next PR move. Besides, if he tries to stop me, I’ll go to the papers and tell them he tried to hamper my investigation.”

  He leaned across the table and kissed her on the cheek. “Why did you believe me?”

  “I’ve never known you to lie, George. You’re stubborn at times, you snore, and I can’t get you to throw out clothes from ten years ago, but you’ve never lied to me. Why would you make something like that up, anyway?”

  “Right. Love you,” he said.

  She grasped his hand. “You’re retiring after this, right?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “We’ve got enough. My shop’s doing well.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  She released his hand and he headed for the bedroom, intent on changing into a T-shirt and jeans.

  Saturday morning came, the big day, and Kempf showered and ate a ham omelet for breakfast. He called Ramsey and told the chief to meet him at the station about nine.

  Kempf parked his car out back, jogged up the steps, and strolled down the hall to his office. He opened the frosted-glass door and found Ramsey sitting with his legs crossed, a copy of Golf Digest splayed across his lap.

  “So you’re arresting the gauze man?”

  “I have three eyewitnesses who’ve seen him.”

  Kempf slipped off his coat, twirled it around, and draped it over his chair.

  “You went behind my back,” Ramsey said.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “I didn’t authorize overtime for Stavros today.”

  “I need some experience going in there,” Kempf said.

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “At least if I’m wrong, we can eliminate someone. But I’m not wrong.”

  “Mrs. Winter’s not involved, George.”

  “May or may not be, but whoever killed those people is hiding there.”

  Kempf leaned on the chair with both hands. It felt good to have something solid underneath him, even though he wanted to pick it up and throw it at Ramsey.

  Ramsey rolled up his magazine and tucked it under his arm.

  “This is a mistake,” he said.

  “Give it up.”

  “This could be bad for you.”

  “That a threat?” Kempf said.

  “Take it how you want to.”

  What the hell went through this guy’s head?

  “I’ll be out of your way anyhow. When this is over, I’m retiring and you can bring that nephew of yours in here.”

  “Fair enough.”

  He stood up and stalked out of the room.

  Stavros appeared in the doorway and behind him MacKenzie running a hand through his flattop.

  “You guys ready?”

  They nodded in unison.

  Vinnie called Leary at eight and Harry at quarter after, the two of them sounding fuzzy when their moms called them to the phone. A half hour later, they slogged through two feet of snow in the barren lot known as the Weeds. They stopped at the old train station, a brick building with a platform in front that had served as the depot in Brampton from 1880 until 1946. The old farts on the town council voted against tearing it down because Teddy Roosevelt supposedly stopped there on his way to Buffalo one year.

  The three of them walked in unison, hands jammed in pockets and chins to their chests to avoid the cold wind that liked to sneak down the front of your shirt.

  “We stuck it to Harding and them, didn’t we?” Vinnie said.

  “Too bad Eckerd showed up,” Harry said. “She called my dad and I’m going to get suspended.”

  “Mine, too. You’re brother’s a fucking psycho, you know that?” Vinnie said.

  “He’s gonna get arrested before he’s fifteen,” Harry said.

  Leary said, “I’m cold. Let’s stop at the station.”

  “Mama’s boy,” Vinnie said.

  They stopped and scaled the snow mound in front of the station, crossing the tracks and hopping onto the railroad platform. A shingle blew off in the wind and fluttered away like a wounded sparrow. A sign reading NEW YORK CENTRAL hung from one remaining screw and squeaked as the wind rocked it back and forth.

  “Let’s go inside for a minute,” Leary said.

  “You are the world’s biggest puss,” Vinnie said.

  Vinnie shoved aside the piece of plywood standing in for a door, and it clunked onto the platform.

  He walked in and sat on one of the benches, where years earlier, anxious rail passengers had awaited steam and later diesel engines to carry them across the country.

  “Who brought smokes?” Vinnie said.

  Harry reached behind him and pulled out a pack of Chesterfields, the plastic wrapper still in place. He tapped the bottom of the pack with his thumb, unwrapped it, and plucked out three cigarettes. Vinnie took one first, then Leary.

  “Stole these from Kenny,” Harry said. “Little prick’s probably going to kick me in the shins when he sees me.”

  Harry slid his hand inside his coat and came out with a blue lighter. He flicked it and lit their smokes. Vinnie inhaled and blew out a stream of smoke. He watched it rise up into the rafters, where it curled around an abandoned bird’s nest.

  “What do we do next, Vin?” Leary asked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Harding and his friends.”

  “Nothing, dick wad. We’ll probably get suspended, so we gotta lay off for a little while.”

  They smoked down to the filters and Harry flicked his butt at Vinnie, catching him in the cheek.

  “Asshole. You almost hit my eye.”

  “I know,” Harry said, laughing.

  “Right now,” Vi
nnie said.

  Leary said, “Shut up. Listen.”

  “It’s the wind, Joe,” Vinnie said.

  “I hear footsteps. Crunchy ones.”

  Vinnie wanted to go at it with Harry, but first he had to listen for footsteps or Leary would whine about it until Vinnie did something.

  “It might be Harding and them trying to sneak up on us,” Leary said.

  “Did your brain fall out your ass the last time you crapped?” Vinnie said. “It ain’t them. Let’s check it out.”

  He waved for the two of them to follow him outside.

  Outside the station, a line of adult-sized footprints ran from the front of the building to around back. Vinnie stomped ahead until he was standing parallel with the tracks. The other two boys came up behind him.

  Leary said, “Too damn cold out here.”

  What a fucking little girl. Vinnie was three seconds away from popping Leary in the nose.

  “What if it’s the killer?” Harry said.

  Vinnie turned around to say something to Harry. A flash of blue appeared and an arm wrapped around Harry’s throat. The guy dragged Harry backward, and Harry kicked the heels of his boots into the snow, the boots leaving tracks. The man lifted Harry off his feet and jerked to the right. Harry’s neck snapped and his eyes rolled back in his head and Vinnie wanted to scream. Leary beat him to it. He opened his mouth and screamed like a small child spooked by a Halloween mask.

  The guy dropped Harry, and his body landed face-first in the snow.

  Vinnie turned and looked across the field next to the station. Maybe a hundred yards to the woods, and he could lose the bandaged freak in there and get to Johnson’s creek. From there it was up the bank, over a fence, and on to Main Street. It wouldn’t chase him onto Main, would it?

  “Run,” Vinnie said.

  They turned and Vinnie bolted. Each footfall flattened the snow. It was like running through fucking oatmeal. A noise that sounded like “gaaaa!” came from behind, and he knew the bandaged man had Leary. He told himself there were no soft crunching sounds, that the killer wasn’t doing horrible things to Leary.

  His lungs burned and hot stitches ran through his legs. After twenty yards, he stopped, breath heaving from his chest. Something dug into his shoulder, a jolt that traveled up his neck and down his arm, hot and cold. He looked up into the bandaged face of a freak. It had dug its claws into him and now Vinnie Palermo realized he was going to die.

  Ronnie speared a piece of French toast, slopped it in the syrup, and stuck it in his mouth. It was the last thing he needed, French toast with calorie-laden syrup, but her boy deserved it after the incident at the dance.

  He showed no sign of concussion, no glassy eyes, no vomiting or complaints of headaches or blurred vision. If she had taken him to the hospital, they would have stuck him in a tube and taken pictures, kept him in a hospital bed all night. Her brand of medicine worked better, and any emergency room doc who saw it would be left slack-jawed and drooling.

  “How are you feeling, hon?”

  He sliced off another hunk of French toast. “Good.”

  “Still want to have your sleepover?”

  He nodded.

  “But I don’t think they’ll come,” Ronnie said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s my fault they got beat up.”

  “Those bullies won’t ever bother you again,” Cassie said. “No more worries, okay? After you finish breakfast, we’ll go pick up your friends.”

  His eyes widened and the glimmer in them nearly melted her heart.

  “Hurry up and finish,” she said.

  “They won’t let Paul and Jack come. Jack’s mom and dad.”

  “I’ll talk with them.”

  “Chris is going to miss it, too. He’s still in the hospital.”

  “I can fix that,” she said.

  Head down, Ronnie dug into the French toast.

  CHAPTER 38

  Chris lay in the hospital bed with two pillows wedged behind him. He thumbed through a copy of Sports Illustrated and skimmed over an article on Refrigerator Perry. He set the magazine on the nightstand, stared at the ceiling for a while. Then he reached for the clicker and ran through the TV stations again, looking for a ball game to watch. All he found were the Smurfs and an Andy Griffith rerun. There weren’t even any pretty nurses to look at. He flipped off the TV and rested his head on the pillows. Might as well sleep.

  Footsteps came from across the room and he opened his eyes to find Cassie Winter at his bedside.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “I’m sorry I woke you, Chris.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “The other kids felt bad they couldn’t come see you, but maybe you’d like to come to Ronnie’s sleepover.”

  “My ribs are pretty sore. Sorry.”

  “What if I fixed it so you could go?”

  “Are you a doctor?”

  She smiled. “I have a very old method that works. Do you trust me?”

  He nodded.

  “There’s a limo waiting outside after I help you.”

  “The white coats will never let you walk out of here with me. But it’d be cool if you did. I’m bored as hell.”

  She walked over to the door, ducked her head out, and pulled it back in the room. Then she swung the door shut, the striker clicking in place. She came back to the bed and reached behind his neck. “Did you think about my offer, staying at the house?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Untying your gown. You’ll have to pull it down a little.”

  “No way.”

  “The sheets are covering you.”

  He let her untie the gown and she pulled it down to just above his belly button. She placed her hands on his rib cage and closed her eyes. He looked out the window at thirty-eight stories of the Marine Midland Building looming over Buffalo.

  “Relax, Chris. I’ll talk to the doctors, and we’ll have you out of here in no time.”

  CHAPTER 39

  The phone rang at nine A.M. and from his bedroom Jack heard his mother speaking, but with whom he didn’t know. He and Paul were in the middle of a serious game of Risk, and Paul was getting ready to invade Kamchakta. Crazy name for a country, but Jack had built a stronghold there and was determined to repel Paul’s plastic red army.

  “Asia will fall within the hour.” Paul gave an evil laugh and rubbed his hands together.

  “My armies will make toothpicks out of your men’s bones.”

  Paul rolled the die. Jack’s mother walked in as Commander Fussel was about to launch his assault on Kamchakta.

  “Mrs. Winter is on her way over to pick you up for the party at Ronnie’s house.”

  “I thought we weren’t allowed to leave the house.”

  He had thought they might need to sedate Mom with some pills or a shot after the way she reacted upon their return from the dance last night. She told Jack he wasn’t to leave the house until they caught the serial killer and put Vinnie Palermo in juvenile hall. Her little boy was not going to end up as a feature story on the six o’clock news unless he invented a cure for cancer or set a record in the Olympics. The house suited him and Paul just fine, anyway. The weather was still rotten, and as they played Risk, the wind gusted outside, spraying pellets of hail and snow against the house.

  “At first I thought you shouldn’t, but Mrs. Winter talked me into it. She assured me you would both be safe at their house.”

  “I’m not sure I want to go,” Jack said.

  “Me neither,” said Paul.

  “Why would you not want to go? She was nice enough to invite you two, so you should go. Now start packing overnight bags. She has a whole day of fun planned for both of you. Get.” She clapped her hands together twice and left the room.

  Talk about doing a one eighty. Cassie Winter had gone to work on her mind; Jack was sure of that. Why else would she all of a sudden want them to go out when last night the SWAT team could not have busted them out of here?
<
br />   “What’s going on?” Paul said.

  “It looks like we’re going to a sleepover.”

  “I’m not going. Not with that thing running around the estate.”

  “Paul, we have to. She’ll probably do bad things to us if we don’t. She’ll think we don’t like Ronnie or something. Let’s just go. I’m sure it won’t be inside the house, and if he goes into the tunnels, he’s on his own this time.”

  Paul folded his hands and looked down at them. He pursed his lips and twisted his mouth up. “We’ll have to take my father’s gun.”

  “Are you nuts? And keep your voice down.”

  “I’m not going without protection. That thing almost killed you and me. What if it senses us there and comes after us while we’re sleeping?”

  “If it comes while we’re sleeping, we’re still screwed.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Going to the fancy house again and making nice with Ronnie was something he could handle, but stealing a gun from Paul’s psycho dad was a whole other basket of eggs.

  “So we just walk up to your dad and ask him for the gun?”

  “Don’t be a dweeb. He goes to a war-gamers’ club on Saturday mornings and my mom sleeps until one or two. You’d have to set off a bomb to wake her up.”

  “What the hell is a war-gamers’ club?”

  Paul rolled his eyes as if embarrassed by the idea. “Him and some other guys who like military stuff get together and play these board games. You can get them in hobby shops. Things like Panzer Attack and D-day and all that crapola. They bet money on who will take over Europe and win the big war.”

  “That’s kind of weird. Grown men playing board games.”

  “I know, but as long as he’s gone I don’t care. So do we get the gun or not?”

  The idea didn’t seem as bad with Paul’s dad being out of the house. The idea of holding a real gun frightened him, but it was exciting at the same time. “Do you think bullets would really stop it?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s better than nothing,” Paul said.

  “We need to hurry, though. The limo will be here soon.”

  “Your destruction will have to wait,” Paul said, pointing at the Risk board.