Steve Hamilton - Ice Run

“Yes. They were there, too.”

“Where is this, ma’am?”

“Out on the ice,” she said. “The ice run.”

“The ice run?”

“I told Warren and Luc not to go. They didn’t listen to me.”

For the first time, I was seeing some connection between the Grants and the Reynauds, but it didn’t go back to a murder in Sault Ste. Marie three decades ago. It went back a lot further.

“They never listened to me,” she said, as she started to shake. I took her hand. It felt like the most fragile thing I had ever held.

“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s okay.”

She took a long ragged breath and then laid her head back on her pillow. I tucked her blanket around her neck.

“I’ll let you rest,” I said. “I’ll come back and see you again soon.”

She didn’t say anything else. She closed her eyes and was still.

When I went back out, I confessed to the nurse that I might have put some stress on Mrs. DeMarco with my questions.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” the nurse said. “She’s an amazing woman. If you think about it, she’s seen most of the twentieth century. You should see some of these pictures.”

“Which pictures?”

“In here,” she said, pointing to a cardboard box behind her. “Celia brought this over. She wasn’t sure what was going to happen now, if Mrs. DeMarco would even be going home or if she’d ever work for her again. She didn’t want all this to get lost, you know, if somebody comes in to clean out the house.”

“Would you mind if I took a quick look?”

“I don’t see why you couldn’t,” she said. “Here.” She picked up the box and put it on top of the desk.

The contents weren’t organized in any way. The photographs were jumbled together among the old newspaper clippings, sports ribbons, report cards, Mrs. DeMarco’s marriage license from 1923- the whole mess a tattered paper trail from a long, long life. Just looking through it made me feel sad. This was all she had left. She didn’t even have most of her memories anymore. They were cut off at 1930. A lot of this stuff in the box she wouldn’t even recognize now.

I found some of the color photographs. They were the same kind of washed-out old Polaroids, like the one Natalie had of the three men. A young girl was blowing out birthday candles. I looked at it for a few seconds before I realized the young girl was Natalie, maybe twelve years old. It hit me in the gut like a sucker punch. I recognized her mother in the picture, and her stepfather, Albert DeMarco. A younger Mrs. DeMarco stood behind them, next to a woman who must have been Natalie’s grandmother.

“Are you okay?” the nurse said.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry. It’s just…” I shook my head. At that moment I would have given everything I owned just to see Natalie one more time, and to know that she was safe.

“I should get out of your way,” I said. I flipped through a couple more pictures, the colors getting brighter and clearer as the subjects got older. The last one I looked at was a picture of Mrs. DeMarco standing next to a man. It took me a moment to realize it was her son, Albert. That sick feeling hit me in the stomach again, the same thing I’d felt every time I had seen this man’s face. Someone had made them pose together in front of a fireplace, Albert wearing a grim, impatient smile.

I put the picture back in the box. Then I picked it up again. I looked at the two faces again. Mrs. DeMarco looked old, but there was a fullness and a color in her face. I was guessing this picture was taken maybe ten years ago. So Albert DeMarco had to be about sixty years old here. A rich and successful man, looking bloated with food and success and an easy life. And that “hurry up and get this over with” smile.

I stood there and looked at the picture for a long time. Something about it bothered me. I couldn’t figure out what it was.

“I hope you’ll come back and visit her,” the nurse said. “I don’t imagine she’ll be getting too many visitors.”

“I’ll do that,” I said. I kept staring at it. God damn it, I thought, there’s something about that face…

“It’s such a shame,” she said. “She should live in Nevada. God knows he could afford to move her there.”

I looked up at her. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying, it’s a shame.”

“You said he could afford to move her there. Who are you talking about?”

“Her son,” she said. “Mr. Moneybags.”

“Albert DeMarco?”

“That’s the one.”

“I thought he was dead.”

“That would be news to Celia. He’s the man sending her the checks every month from Nevada.”

I looked at the picture again. In one sickening moment it all came together.

I knew this face looked familiar. I had seen it somewhere, not long ago.

When I was standing there at the airport, looking carefully at each person to see if one of the Grants was getting off that plane… The young couple first, looking up at the sky. Then the older man behind them, with that same look of impatience, the exact same face as in the picture I was holding in my hands.

I thanked the nurse and ran. She must have thought I was crazy, but I didn’t care. I ran down the hospital corridor, pressed the elevator button, waited for all of two seconds and then hit the stairs. I went down the six floors and then out into the night. I got into my truck and picked up my cell phone.

The snow was coming down hard now. There was already a thick coat of it on my windshield. I waited to see if the phone would pick up a signal. When it did, I dialed a number. Then I stopped. I hit the end button before the call could connect.

No, I thought. I can’t call Leon again. He just got home. He’s explaining everything to his wife. Now I’m gonna call and ask him to come out again in the middle of the night? I can’t do that.

There’s only one other person I can call. Maybe a better choice anyway. Leon’s a good friend, a good ex-partner, but there’s one other person in this world who’s gone down the line with me even farther.

I dialed the number. He answered on the second ring.

“Vinnie,” I said. “I need help.”

“Tell me what you want me to do.”

“I need a snowmobile.”

“You hate snowmobiles.”

“Not tonight. Does your cousin Buck still have one?”

“He’s got two.”

“He’s got a trailer?”

“Yes. Where am I going?”

“St. Ignace, by the point,” I said.

“Where the trail leads out onto the lake?”

“Yes, that’s the place. Vinnie, I know it’s a tough night to come out, but it’s important.”

“I’ll be there,” he said. Then he hung up.

I cleared off the windshield, pulled out of the lot, and drove into the falling snow.

He’s alive, I thought. God damn it, he’s alive.

It didn’t make any sense to me. Natalie wouldn’t have lied about that. She wouldn’t have lied about anything. But her mother…

That’s it. Of course. Somehow her mother made her believe he was dead. Another lie, like Natalie’s dead dog, like the story she told those men in the bar about Natalie dying from food poisoning. This lie was the worst of all. But why?

I gunned the accelerator, pushing the truck as fast as it could go on the icy road.

The hell with it, I thought. I can figure it out later. Right now I have to get out there. Not only is Albert DeMarco very much alive, he’s out on Mackinac Island right now.

And if I had to guess, I’d say that probably means one thing…

Natalie’s out there, too.

It was pushing midnight when I finally hit St. Ignace. I wasn’t sure where the hell I was going, but I knew there had to be a parking lot somewhere on the shoreline. I worked my way south, staying close to Lake Huron until I finally found the parking lot they used for the ferries in the summer. Now there were about a dozen vehicles in the lot, all covered with snow. There was no sign of Vinnie, or anyone else for that matter. It was the loneliest place on earth, because who’d be stupid enough to go out on the lake on a night like this?