Cruel Winter
Page 31
They were kids’ voices. He tucked the gun in the crook of his arm and cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled, “Jack! Jack Harding! It’s Detective Kempf!”
He saw their flashlights bobbing in the darkness like fireflies. They drew closer.
“Is that really you, Detective?” a voice said.
“Either it’s me or Rich Little’s down here doing impressions.”
They materialized out of the gloom, Jack and a big blond kid in the lead. Jack had a revolver in his hand, and Kempf relieved him of it before there were any accidents.
“We heard a gunshot,” Paul said.
Kempf recognized Paul and Jack from interviewing them, but not the blond kid or the girl. The heavyset kid he took to be Ronnie Winter.
“It’s dead but I wanted to make sure.”
He pointed the light at the Wraith.
“It must have died when Cassie did,” Jack said.
“She’s dead?”
“Yeah. She mutated into some weird creature. Jack was smart and had us pull out the beams holding up the ceiling. She’s buried, bub.”
“You shot her, too? I heard this go off.” He held up the revolver.
“Yeah, I did it,” Jack said.
The kid’s hands shook. Kempf thought no kid should have to go through what these five just did.
Kempf slid the revolver into his coat pocket. He raised the shotgun and the flashlight. “Follow me. We’re getting out of here before anything else pops out of the dark.”
They followed Kempf, single file, and after winding through the tunnels for ten minutes, they reached the stairs to the mansion.
The five of them sat in the back of a police van wrapped in wool blankets. The rear doors were open and the lights from a dozen police cars flashed in the winter evening. News vans from channels two, four, and seven had pulled up, and cameramen readied cameras.
Right now the state police’s SWAT team was combing the tunnels. Jack wondered what they would think when they found the Wraith’s body, and if they would dig out Cassie Winter from the rubble. That would be a surprise.
Detective Kempf poked his head in the rear of the van. “I’m glad you kids are okay.”
“What will happen when they find the Wraith?” Paul asked.
“I don’t know. I think the coroner’s going to be in for the surprise of his life, though.”
Ronnie had the look of a combat-scarred veteran on his face. He stared at his shoes.
“Ronnie, I’ll need you to come with me,” Kempf said.
“That was my mom, wasn’t it?” he said.
Jack looked at the others and they looked away. It was apparent he would have to deliver the bad news, and it wasn’t a task he relished. “Yeah, it was. I’m sorry, Ronnie.”
“Ronnie?” Kempf said.
“Can you wait a minute?” Jack said.
Kempf nodded.
“I always knew there was something different about her, but nothing like that. She was a freak.” He paused. “What’s going to happen to me?”
“I guess I don’t know.”
“You guys are good friends,” he said. Then he looked at Kempf. “I have to go now, right?”
“We’re going to help you best we can.” Kempf held out his hand. Ronnie slid off the bench and Kempf gripped his arm and helped him out of the van.
He hated to see the kid wind up in a foster home or become property of the state, but that was the most likely scenario.
“See you guys,” Ronnie said. Kempf put his arm around the blanketed shoulders, and Ronnie Winter faded into the blowing snow.
“Think we’ll see him again?” Paul asked.
Jack shrugged his shoulders.
“You were really brave, Jack,” Emma said.
“Not really,” he said.
“Yeah, you were. That was a great idea, caving the ceiling in like that,” Paul said.
“You’re a hero,” Emma said, and kissed him on the cheek. He felt the blush creep into his cheeks.
“Jack and Emma sittin’ in a tree . . .” Chris and Paul sang in unison.
“Shut up, assholes,” Jack muttered, but he was smiling. “It’s over, isn’t it?” he said.
They all nodded.
“I’m glad you guys were with me.”
They all smiled, and he knew they were thinking the same thing.
Jack spat the remainder of the toothpaste into the sink, turned the faucet, and watched the water sluice the toothpaste down the drain. He grabbed the cup and rinsed, thinking about the week and the day that had started off normal and ended up being hellish.
He saw dead people, formless lumps under sheets wheeled out by paramedics, and blood, lots of blood, when they had walked out of the tunnels. It was spattered on the walls and visible in the flashlight beams the policemen carried. He felt older somehow, tired, and imagined adults going through their days and weeks like this, with a weariness that smudged on you every time you walked out the door to face the day. An internal grime that resisted all attempts to clean it. It was a rotten way to feel.
He twisted the faucet, cutting off the water. He grabbed a towel off the bar and wiped the toothpaste from his lips. Mom would give him hell about leaving a white smudge across her good towels, but that didn’t matter.
In the bedroom, Paul lay on the cot, wool blanket up to his chin.
“What you thinking about?” Jack said.
“Guess.”
“Me too. That was freaky, what happened. I don’t think I’ll sleep for a month.”
“What was she, Jack?”
“If I knew, I’d be a damned genius.”
“Ronnie’s going to a foster home. Good luck for them, huh?”
“They’ll need it.”
Jack crossed the room, threw his covers to the side, and lifting a leg, climbed into bed. He pulled the covers up and flopped his head onto the pillow.
“Jack, Paul, I need to talk to you.”
His dad stood in the doorway wearing the terry cloth robe Mom threatened to cut up and use for dish towels.
Dad knelt between Paul’s cot and Jack’s bed.
“You guys have had a rotten day, so I’ll keep it short. Paul, I’m calling Social Services tomorrow about your father.”
Paul sat up, a look of horror crossing his face, his eyebrows screwed into a look of anguish. “Can’t I just stay here?”
“Of course. But eventually your father is going to come get you or get the police to bring you home. Maybe this way things can get better, and I’ll talk to the person from the state about letting you stay here until this is straightened out.”
He patted Paul on the arm and at that moment, Jack Harding wanted to be just like his father, the reassuring presence, the guy who always came in and gave you a pat on the arm, told you things would be all right.
“Promise?”
“Stick hot pokers in my eyes.”
“You’re weird, Dad.”
“The weirdest. Good night, guys.”
He reached over and tussled Paul’s hair, then stooped and gave Jack a big hug, which Jack returned, feeling Dad’s stubble against his cheek.
“I hope he’s right,” Paul said.
“He usually is,” Jack said. “Usually is.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anthony Izzo received his Bachelor of Arts in English from D’Youville College. He currently lives with his wife and two children in upstate New York and is working on his next novel. When not writing, Tony enjoys reading, music, and playing guitar.
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Copyright © 2005 by Anthony Izzo
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