Steve Hamilton - Winter of the Wolf Moon

Fuck, like it matters. Like it makes any difference. Just keep walking. Or don’t. Just lie down right here and wait for them to come get you. They’ll be here any minute.

I’ll walk. Might as well. It’s such a lovely night. I’ll go this way. There seems to be a little more light this way.

What’s that, headlights? Here they come. I see headlights.

No, false alarm. Just your eyes playing tricks on you. Eyes are funny that way. Always playing tricks.

You know. Maybe I’m crazy. I don’t even feel that cold anymore. My hands aren’t cold. Wherever they are. My hands. I’m sure they’re here somewhere. I hope I didn’t leave them somewhere.

Headlights. Here they come. For real this time.

Nope. No headlights. I keep seeing lights. Down the road. But not headlights. Maybe it’s a UFO. That could be it.

The trees. On the side of the road. All that snow on them. They look like monks wearing white robes.

What’s that music? It sounds like a saxophone.

I should lie down here. Take a nap. I’m sleepy. What time is it? It must be late.

No. Keep walking. Alex. Alex.

The music is getting louder. It’s too slow to dance to. Just as well. I’m too sleepy to dance. I should lie down.

No. Alex.

It doesn’t matter. I don’t care anymore.

This snow is soft. I’m going to lie down now.

What is that music? I know this song. I hear it every night.

What is that light? It’s a UFO. I was right. The aliens are here. I’m going to lie down now.

I’m lying in the snow. It is so soft.

The aliens are here now. The machines are next to me. One on each side. The aliens are looking down at me. One big eye in the center of their heads.

Welcome to the planet Earth. I hope you like it here. We call this white stuff snow. It’s very soft. Perfect for lying on. Now if you’ll excuse me. I’m going to sleep.

I spent two more days in the hospital, the same hospital I had gone to after Bruckman-make that the late Lonnie Bruckman-and his friends did their number on me. The same doctor shined a light in my eyes, asked me what the hell was wrong with me. I was supposed to go home the last time and rest for a few days.

“I missed the hospital food,” I said.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” he said. “You’re also lucky to have your fingers and your toes still attached to your body.”

A couple snowmobilers had found me, a man and his son. The man was a scoutmaster and a volunteer fireman, one of those guys who are ready for anything at any time. He had the emergency heat packs. He had the electric hand warmers that connected to the snowmobile battery. He even had the pad on the seat that warmed your ass while you were riding.

“Those snowmobiles are amazing machines,” the doctor said. “Do you own one?”

“No,” I said. “Not at the moment.”

“You need to get one,” he said. “They’re a lot of fun, too.”

When the snowmobilers got back to Paradise, they called the sheriff’s office. An ambulance was sent out to bring me to the hospital. My core body temperature was eighty-seven degrees, three below the severe hypothermia line. They applied heat to my neck, armpits and groin on the way to the hospital. When I got there, they put me in a full body wrap. My temperature came back up, about two degrees an hour.

“Ninety-six degrees,” the doctor said, looking at the display on the thermometer. “How do you feel?”

“I still feel cold,” I said.

“You’ll feel better,” he said. “You’re still dehydrated from the vasoconstriction.”

“The vasoconstriction,” I said. “Of course.”

“We were concerned about all the blood,” he said.

“The blood…” I said.

“You were a mess,” he said. “But you didn’t have any bleeding injuries. That wasn’t even your blood, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t,” I said. “It’s a long story.”

“Somebody else’s blood,” he said, shaking his head. “Do me a favor. When you’re ready to tell the story to somebody, make sure I’m in the room. This I gotta hear.”

I did tell the story to Sheriff Brandow, and I did make sure the doctor was there to hear it. Brandow listened to everything I said and wrote it down without saying a word, then he sent his men out to find the ice shanty.

“They’re going to find two dead men in their underwear,” I said. “I don’t know what you guys are going to do about Bruckman.”

“As far as I’m concerned,” he said, “we can just wait until spring. If Champagne and Urbanic want him now, they can go in after him themselves.”

I passed those exact words on to the agents when they came by to see me. They weren’t happy.

“Let me get this straight,” Champagne said. “We’ve got two of Molinov’s men. Dead. We got Bruckman. Dead, and under the ice somewhere. We got no live bodies. We got no bag.”

“You’ve still got each other,” I said.

“It’s a good thing you’re in the hospital,” he said. “Because you’re going to need some type O in about one minute.”

I caught Urbanic’s eye. He was trying not to smile. After Champagne stormed out of the room, I asked him how he could stand having a guy like that for a partner.

“You were a cop once,” he said. “You ever had a partner you couldn’t stand?”

“Yes,” I said. “He got killed.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Every day,” I said.

“I’d feel the same way,” he said. “And besides, you should see him hit a golf ball. We’ve won the DEA Two-Man Best Ball seven years in a row.”

I was still thinking about that when Leon stopped by. He had more private investigator magazines for me and a small box.

“I’ve got a present for you,” he said.

I opened the box. Inside were at least a couple hundred business cards. “What’s this?”

“Read it,” he said.

I took out one of the cards. “Prudell-McKnight Investigations,” I read. There were two guns under our names.

“You see, that’s your service revolver, and that’s my Luger.”

“It’s looks like they’re shooting at each other,” I said.

“No, no,” he said. “It’s like the two musketeers. All for one and one for all. Or both. Or whatever.”

“You actually had business cards made up,” I said.

“I thought they’d cheer you up,” he said. “I’ll be back later, after work.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t like seeing my partner lying in a hospital bed,” he said. “I won’t feel right until you’re back on the case.”

“The case,” I said. “How much time have we spent thinking about this? How much trouble did we get into? Well, me, anyway. Not to mention two trips to the hospital. What do we have to show for it?”

“Well,” he said. He thought about it. “We’ve eliminated some suspects.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “You’re right,” I said. “We have done that.”

“Just get better,” he said. “Then we’ll get back to work.”

“Leon,” I said. “Seriously, I don’t know what the hell we’ve been doing, but I will say this. I’m glad vou were helping me.”

“See ya later, partner,” he said.

“See ya later,” I said. “Partner.”

When he was gone, I looked through the magazines he had left for me, then I took a nap. When I woke up, the two snowmobilers were there to see me, a man and his thirteen-year-old son from Traverse City. They both had crew cuts and firm handshakes. I thanked them and gave them my phone number, invited them up for a week in one of the cabins, whenever they felt like coming up again.

Bill Brandow came back again that evening. This time he had a brown paper bag with a cold Canadian beer in it. “I figured you could use this,” he said.