Steve Hamilton - Ice Run

“What kind of gun is that?” he said.

“It looks like an old Thompson submachine gun.”

I shone the light down the barrel. Someone had plugged it with Cosmoline to keep the moisture out.

“Somebody knew what they were doing,” I said.

“Is that all that’s in there? Just guns?”

“Some shells, too,” I said, unwrapping an old cardboard box. I lifted another heavy bundle. “This one feels like a shotgun.”

“How old are they?”

“Hard to say, but one of the guns is gone.” I picked up a wad of loose paper, then dropped it back on the floor.

“Did I tell you how much I hate guns?” he said. “God, this makes no sense at all. What’s going on here, McKnight? Where is everybody?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

I went back upstairs. Something else was wrong here. Something I couldn’t quite place. Besides the broken window and the empty bottles…

I went through the ground floor rooms again. Nothing seemed out of place until I got to the living room. The sitting room, Natalie had called it. The couch was one of those awful gold things you saw years ago, covered with plastic. The two Queen Anne chairs made you feel like you had to sit up straight with your pinkies extended. There on the floor next to them was a television set, along with a VCR. Beside those was the empty box they had been packed in.

Her mother was here, I thought. She pulled out the TV so her mother could watch a movie or something. It was probably that or drive each other crazy.

And that smell, I thought. That was the thing that was bothering me. Her mother must have smoked, because the faint, stale smell of cigarettes was still lingering in the air. I saw one of Natalie’s salad plates on the floor. It was filled with ashes.

I reached down and picked up an open pack. Virginia Slims, with three cigarettes left.

“Did you find something?” Grant said. He came into the room and looked at the television on the floor.

“Nah, it’s nothing,” I said. But as I put the cigarettes on the plate, I noticed another pack of cigarettes, this one empty and crumpled up, partially tucked underneath the rim of the plate. I picked it up and tried to smooth it out.

“What is it?”

“It’s an empty pack of Camels,” I said. “Unfiltered.”

The look on his face told me everything I needed to know. I stepped up to him and looked him in the eye. It was all I could do not to grab him by the throat.

“These are Marty’s cigarettes, aren’t they,” I said.

“They could be anybody’s,” he said. He took one step backward.

“Anybody’s including Marty, right? These are his brand.”

“Look, McKnight…”

“I’ve seen enough,” I said. “It’s time to call the police.”

I left him standing there. I knew the kitchen phone was dead, but I could still use my cell phone. I went out into the snowstorm, fighting my way back to the truck. I got in, closed the door behind me, and picked up the cell phone. I waited as the stupid thing tried to find a signal-always a problem when the weather was bad, and especially when the phone lines were down and everyone else with a cell phone was using theirs.

I waited. I looked back at the house. Grant was still in there somewhere. I looked out in front of me.

The barn. The door was wide open. The last time I was here, that door was closed.

I got out of the truck and made my way to the barn. As I got closer, I saw that a great drift of snow had formed in the doorway, extending deep inside.

It was slow going, with the snow nearly up to my waist. I worked my way closer and closer.

I got to the doorway. Today there was no sunlight to come streaming through the gaps in the walls. The barn was dark.

I took a few steps in, waiting for my eyes to adjust.

Somewhere, far away, a voice was calling me. “McKnight! Where are you?”

I was about to answer. Then I stopped.

I saw it for one single second without any idea what it was, and then everything else caught up. There was a body on the floor of the barn.

Blood.

A body.

A woman.

Blood all over the hair. Blood everywhere.

Something else. Sticking up out of the floor. No, out of the body. A long wooden stick. No, some sort of tool. A farm tool, sticking out of the body.

The damage. The blood. She was butchered with this thing, this old farm thing made of wood and rusted metal.

This body… This woman…

“McKnight!” The voice again, close behind me now.

I turned and saw him. He stood in the doorway, looking past me at the horror on the ground.

“No,” he said. “God, no. Marty, what did you do? My God, Marty…”

He turned and started to run away, falling into the snow. He left me there alone with her.

I didn’t want to go any closer. But I had to.

I took one step.

Then another.

The hair, spread out around her head. The blade, the long wooden stick, the obscenity of it. I wanted to grab the handle and pull it from her back.

Please, no. Anything but this. Anything.

But wait. I reached down and touched the hair. In the dim light, it looked… red. This wasn’t Natalie. God, it wasn’t her.

I moved around to get a better look at her face. I knew her. I had seen her picture.

It was Natalie’s mother. The Irish looks, the red hair. This was her.

This was Grace, the woman I had never gotten the chance to meet, the woman with all of the lies, each one more fabulous than the last. Until now. She would never tell another lie.

I stood there for a long time, looking at her.

Then there was a sound. I looked up to see Michael Grant standing in the doorway again. This time he had the shotgun in his hands, the double-barreled shotgun from the basement.

He hated guns. I had heard him say that more than once today. He hated guns, but not enough to stop him from doing this right now, leveling it right at my head. Twenty feet away. He moved closer to me.

“No,” I said. “No.”

“I can’t let you leave now.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, McKnight. I’m sorry.”

It came to this, all these years later, since the last time I had looked down the barrel of a gun. Another day, another season, a hot day in Detroit. The feeling was the same.

But this one will be loud. An old shotgun. God in heaven, this will be loud.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

He pulled the trigger, and it was all the noise in the world ringing at once, all around me and below me until I reached out to hold it as tight as I could.

Then I let go.

Natalie. I am saying her name. A song with three notes.

Natalie.

She is above me, looking down at me with that smile, that expression both sad and happy at the same time, like it’s all a puzzle she hasn’t figured out yet.

Natalie.

I can smell her hair. I can feel her fingers touching my face, as light as snowflakes.

I open my eyes.

A wooden roof, high above me in the dim light, a fine powdery snow hanging in the air, melting on my cheeks.

I’m alive.

I sat up quickly, looking around me. My neck hurt. My ears were ringing. God, my ears. I could feel warm blood on my shirt. Was I shot? What the hell happened? He hadn’t been more than twenty feet away. There’s no way he could have missed.

I touched my neck, where it joined my shoulder. I was bleeding, but… What was that? Something hard and jagged, a sudden riot of pain as I felt it. I grabbed on to it, a cry coming out of my mouth before I knew what was happening. It was hot, and slippery with blood, but I held it tight between my fingers and pulled.

God, that hurt. I looked down at the thing as the blood ran warm down my neck. It was a fragment of metal, about a half inch long. What the hell?