Steve Hamilton - Ice Run

“How did he get away?” I said. “How come I blacked out but he didn’t?”

“I couldn’t help but notice your other scars,” the doctor said. “Not to mention the little souvenir in your anterior mediastinum when I saw the X-ray.”

“What about it?”

“When were you shot?”

“In 1984.”

“So you’ve been there before. I’ve never looked down a gun barrel myself, but if somebody pointed a shotgun at me right now and blasted away, I imagine I’d pass out. Even if I wasn’t hit.”

“It was a different state of mind for Grant, you’re saying.”

“The man who fired the weapon? Exactly. He wasn’t expecting it. It was a total surprise.”

“So how far could he get? I saw the blood on the ground.”

“Hard to say for sure,” the doctor said. “Only thing I do know is that he’d better be getting himself to a hospital.”

It was hard to imagine. I almost felt sorry for him.

When I was all taped up, the doctor told me I could leave if I wanted to. I didn’t have a truck, of course, but the police officers were more than happy to escort me from the hospital. In fact, they even had a place for me to stay for a while, instead of going all the way home. In their polite Canadian way they made it quite clear I had no choice in the matter.

Before I went with them, I asked if I could see Mrs. DeMarco. One officer took me up to the sixth floor and let me peek into the room. She was sleeping. She took up such a small space in the bed. I stood watching her for a while. Her mouth was open, her breathing so thin you could barely tell she was alive. I couldn’t imagine how her heart kept beating. Almost a century old, this tiny woman in the bed. How much sorrow had she seen in her lifetime? How many hard winter nights like this one?

We left the hospital then. I rode in the back of the OPP car, across town to the main station. There I was shown into an interview room and asked to tell my story again. When I was done they asked me, again very politely, if I wouldn’t mind sticking around a little while longer, as there was somebody important on his way down to see me. I had no idea who they were talking about.

They let me lie down on a couch while I waited. I looked at the white tiles on the ceiling for a while, then I closed my eyes. I saw the body on the floor of the barn. The long wooden handle. I saw the two barrels of the shotgun pointed at me.

A noise woke me. I sat up, my heart pounding, ready for the gun blast all over again. An officer had come into the room and switched on the light.

I laid my head down again. My heart rate slowed back down to normal. I closed my eyes again. This time I saw Michael Grant holding the shotgun. It had already exploded in his hands. He looked down at what was left of the barrels. As he dropped the gun his hands were on fire. He held flames with each hand and the smoke rose to the ceiling of the old barn. He reached out to touch me with his burning hands.

I woke up then. There was a hand on my shoulder. The face looking down at me was familiar-the white hair, the rugged features.

“Mr. McKnight,” he said.

It came to me. It was Staff Sergeant Moreland, Natalie’s superior officer from the Hearst Detachment. I sat up and rubbed my eyes.

“What time is it?” I said. I looked out the window.

“It’s around eight in the morning.”

“Oh man,” I said, touching my neck. “I need some more drugs.”

“Perhaps we can talk first?”

He sat down at the table. He was moving slowly, and looked almost as worn out as I felt. I got up and joined him.

“Did you drive all the way down from Hearst?” I said.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I take it you remember me.”

“You’re Natalie’s commanding officer.”

“Do you remember what I told you the last time I saw you?”

“You told me to go back to Michigan and to never set foot in Ontario again.”

“I think it was more like a suggestion,” he said. “But yes, that was the general idea.”

“And obviously I didn’t.”

He rubbed his forehead. “Mr. McKnight, you understand why I said that, don’t you? You were involved in the worst homicide case I’ve seen in thirty-eight years on the Provincial Police force.”

“With all due respect, sir. I’m not sure ‘involved’ is the right word.”

“You were there, eh? You were right in the middle of it. Obviously, the whole thing took a toll on Constable Reynaud. When she went on administrative leave, I was hoping she’d be able to put it all behind her. Imagine my surprise when I find out now that she’s missing and that her mother has been murdered with an old ice hook.”

“An ice hook?”

“Yes. For moving blocks of ice around, when they used to cut them out of the channel. Someone stuck it right through her, McKnight, all the way to the floor. Once again, you’re right in the middle of everything.”

“Sergeant Moreland, I don’t know what happened to Natalie, but-”

He put his hands up to stop me. “If you’re involved in some relationship with Officer Reynaud, that’s none of my business,” he said. “Never mind what I’d say to my own daughter about it, who happens to be around the same age.”

I shook my head and looked away.

“But enough of that,” he said. “When she’s back home safe, then you and I might talk a little more, eh? Right now, I’m sure you’ll agree, our first priority has to be finding her.”

“Of course.”

“Naturally, we’re also trying to find the man who tried to kill you. His brother, too. I’m told that’s the person you were both looking for when you came up here?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I’d like you to tell me everything that happened,” he said. “I know you’ve already been through this.”

“You want to hear it yourself,” I said. “I understand.”

“Take your time.”

I went through it one more time for him, starting with Simon Grant in the hotel and ending with the scene in the barn. He listened carefully to every word. Even though he had a pad of paper and a pen, he never wrote anything down.

“Go back to Marty Grant,” he said when I was done. “You say you saw him in Batchawana Bay?”

“Yes, when I went up looking for Natalie and her mother.”

“You have no idea why he might have been up there?”

“No, I don’t.”

“And you have no idea why he might have gone to Natalie’s house, assuming he did?”

“No, other than what his brother said about the devil of Blind River.”

“The devil of Blind River,” he said. He slowly tapped on the pad with his pen.

“I’m thinking that had to be Natalie’s father.”

“But you never talked to Grace Reynaud about this?”

“I never talked to her about anything,” I said. “I never got to meet her.”

“At least not alive.”

“No,” I said. “Not alive.”

“We’ve been in contact with the police in Soo Michigan,” he said. “Apparently you know the chief down there, Roy Maven?”

“We go way back, yes.”

He came as close to a smile as he was going to. “So I hear. In any case, they’re looking for both of the Grant brothers down there. They’ve spoken to the rest of the family, but they’re not getting much cooperation.”

“I’m not surprised. They seem like a pretty tight family.”

“Apparently, they told Chief Maven that they weren’t going to say a word to him. That’s exactly how they put it.”

“As opposed to telling him that they had no idea where either of the brothers were?”

“Right. It sounds like they know something, but they’re not talking.”

“Have you checked the hospitals? I was talking to the doctor about that gun, the way it exploded. Michael Grant is probably hurting pretty bad right now.”