Steve Hamilton - Ice Run

Then the rest of it came back to me, all at once. The body on the floor. The long farm tool of wood and metal, like a spear. I looked behind me. I didn’t want to move any closer to her. I knew she was dead.

So what had happened? I tried to put it all together in my mind, Grant and me coming up here, the guns in the basement, coming out to the barn, Grant behind me with the gun.

I looked toward the door. There was something on the ground. I tried to get up on my knees, feeling the pain shoot through my neck every time I moved it. I crawled over through the ancient hay and dusty snow. I saw the gun, or what was left of it. It was like something out of a cartoon now, both barrels curled back like banana peels.

It blew up on him. The barrels must have been plugged with the Cosmoline, like the other gun I had seen down there. Thank God for fools who don’t know any better than to fire a gun that’s been wrapped up in a basement for who knows how many years.

Some of the shrapnel had hit me. It was better than getting my head blown off, but it still hurt like hell and it kept bleeding. I tried to get to my feet. I got about halfway, felt like I would pass out, then finally I was standing.

As I looked at the wreckage of the gun again, a sudden thought hit me. Grant was standing right here when it blew up. What happened to him?

The door to the barn was still open, the snow still drifting in. I went to it, moving slowly. I saw blood on the floor, a thin trail of it leading right outside. I followed the trail out into the snow and the wind. It was the last thing I felt like facing, but I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t stay in the barn, adding my own blood to the floor, or for God’s sake looking at what had been done to this woman.

I started back toward the house, the long fight through the snow. I could see that my truck was gone, and with it my cell phone. I had been in such a rush to get inside, I had left the keys dangling in the ignition. Now Grant was gone. I saw more blood in the snow, leading all the way to where the truck had been. He was hurt, but apparently he could still drive a truck.

I slipped in the snow. The pain ran like a white hot iron spike through my neck. I had to stop for a full minute just to catch my breath.

“Son of a bitch,” I said into the wind. “Goddamned son of a bitch.”

I started moving again. The snow was collecting on my shoulders. I worked my way to the back door of the house. It was cold inside, but at least I was out of the wind. I went upstairs to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. Very carefully I slid out of my coat, gritting my teeth the whole time. When I was done, I saw that the front of my shirt was soaked with blood. I needed bandages, or at least something to tape myself up with.

I rummaged through more cabinets, found the first aid supplies. Thank God she had a lot of them. I put some gauze squares on my neck, then did my best to tape them in place.

I went downstairs and tried the phone. It was still out. I could wait for the service to come back, keeping warm and trying to limit the bleeding. Or I could try to get out of here. Trouble with that was it was a long way back to the town. Two miles in this weather, in the shape I’m in… Not a great idea. Even if I just tried to get down to the road, how long would I have to wait for someone to come by?

I could go the other way, I thought, to Mrs. DeMarco’s house. But what good would that do? I’m sure her phone is out, too. For that matter, I hope she’s all right over there. She probably has oil heat, but with the power out… No, wait, I saw a good wood-burning stove in her kitchen. I’m sure she’s staying warm.

Wait a minute. I remembered seeing the medical alert tag, hanging around Mrs. DeMarco’s neck. You just press the button and help is on the way.

I went into the guest room. Natalie’s mother’s open suitcase was on the floor-all these clothes she would never wear again. I couldn’t touch them.

I went into Natalie’s old room, saw her clothes piled up on the bed. The room was a mess. I grabbed one of her shirts and wrapped it around my neck. All of a sudden I could smell her scent, just as if she were right there in the room with me. I had to stop and close my eyes. I took a deep breath. Then I went back downstairs and headed out the door.

The wind had died down a bit. It wasn’t snowing as hard. I had that much going for me. I made my way down the driveway-hell, if I got lucky, I might even see somebody driving a snowplow on the road.

When I got down to the road, I looked in both directions. It was a lonely road to begin with. Now it was like some ancient site where a road once ran, a thousand years ago. I put my head down and kept walking, thankful for the level ground at least, and for the fact that the wind was at my back. I could hear its low moaning along with my own breathing, and nothing else. My feet started to feel cold.

Mrs. DeMarco’s house was a half mile down the road, or so I thought. It seemed a lot longer than that as I worked my way through the snow. I was starting to feel like I had made a terrible mistake. But at last I saw a break in the tree line and I knew her driveway was just up ahead.

I trudged on and finally saw her house. The snow seemed to cling to every inch of it. There were no footprints, no signs of shoveling or any human activity. Worst of all, there was no smoke coming out of the chimney.

You’re a total idiot, I told myself. She’s not here. They came and took her away.

I went up the driveway, just to confirm my fears. I went to the front door and knocked, then without waiting I tried turning the knob. The door was unlocked. I pushed it open and stuck my head in.

“Hello?”

Silence.

I stepped inside. At least I’d get out of the cold for a few minutes before heading back. I’d make apologies later, if it ever came to that.

But damn, it was almost as cold inside as it was out. The heat had obviously been off for hours. I’ll make a fire, I thought. Get that stove going, warm myself up.

I went into the kitchen and opened up the stove. I found a pile of old newspapers and started to crumple them up. I looked around for some wood.

Then I heard the creaking. It was coming from somewhere above me. I stopped and listened.

Nothing.

I opened the pantry door, looking for the wood. Then I heard the creaking again.

It’s just the wind, I thought. The house is shifting in the wind.

But then I heard it again. There was someone upstairs.

“I hope that’s you, Mrs. DeMarco.”

I headed for the stairs and went up slowly, step by step. I made a few stupid jokes to myself about whistling in the dark. After what I had seen in the barn, I’d be whistling for a long time.

When I got to the top of the stairs, I saw four different doors. It was darker here, away from the windows. As my eyes adjusted, I saw an old kerosene lantern on a small table-either an antique for decoration or something the old woman had actually used long ago. There was no time to try to light it now.

I moved slowly to the first door and peeked around the frame. It was a sewing room, with a big black Singer machine, the kind with the treadle underneath. I heard a sound and spun around, ready to hit somebody. But the hallway was empty. I went to the next door and looked inside.

I saw Mrs. DeMarco, standing in her bedroom between a wooden armoire and her big four-poster bed. She was dressed in white undergarments from head to toe. On the bed she had half a dozen outfits laid out, all black.

She turned to look at me. If she was remotely surprised to see me standing in her doorway, she didn’t show it.

“I can’t decide what to wear,” she said.

“Mrs. DeMarco,” I said. “Are you all right?”