P. Parrish - An Unquiet Grave

Louis could barely stand up. He needed to get out of the water. He started slogging toward a small wooden ladder on the other side of the walkway. His frozen fingers touched wood, but he couldn’t grip the rung.

An arm came around his neck, grappling at him, pulling at his jacket, almost taking him underwater, and Louis knew if he went under now, he would not come back up.

He spun, grabbed Ives behind the neck, and jerked him forward, chest to chest, so close he could feel Ives’s panicked breaths. Louis stuck the knife into his belly.

Ives jerked. Gasped.

Louis stabbed him again. And again.

Ives let out a rasp and his body went limp and he fell against Louis, the knife still in his gut, the water around Louis’s hand suddenly warm.

A thick stillness settled over them. No sound except the lapping of the water against the pilings. Louis draped one arm over the ladder rung, afraid he was going to pass out. Ives’s body started to drift away, the back of the parka ballooning with enough air to keep him afloat.

Louis didn’t want to think. Couldn’t think. He just needed to get out of the icy water that was eating away at his legs and chest and head.

The knife. . where? Then he remembered. It was still in Ives’s body. Louis looked out to the opening leading out to the lake. Ives’s body had disappeared.

He was shivering so hard he could barely hold on to the ladder rung. Willing every muscle to work, he started to pull himself up. His feet fumbled to find the rung, his legs burned. But suddenly he was there, flat on his belly on the wood.

He knew he couldn’t stay there. He struggled to his knees, then his feet. Stumbling from the boathouse, he trudged through the snow, the floodlight like acid in his eyes, the air so thick and so cold he felt like he had to push his way through it.

He went down. Hands. Knees. Snow in his nose. Icy water in his lungs.

Louis lifted his head. His legs. He couldn’t feel his legs. But he could feel his heart. Beating.

Jesus. Jesus. God, help me. I can’t think. I can’t feel. I can’t move.

Things were going black. But from somewhere he heard a sound. A sound he knew.

Sirens.

“What happened?”

For a moment, Louis couldn’t reply. Then he pulled the blanket tighter around his shivering body. Dalum was waiting, looking down at him with pleading eyes, like he needed someone to make him feel that what he was thinking wasn’t crazy.

Louis spoke, but nothing came out. His throat was raw or frozen and he cleared it. “I killed Ives,” he said.

“Out there?”

Louis nodded and he heard himself saying something about Seraphin and he was watching Dalum’s face as the words stumbled out. Then another face came into focus. Detective Bloom. And then Louis could see uniforms, hear other voices.

Bloom was talking now, face close, but his words were making no sense.

“Stop,” Louis whispered. “Stop. Speak slower.”

“You’re saying Buddy Ives killed Dr. Seraphin and you killed him in a struggle?”

Louis nodded. He realized he was only half dressed, wearing a dry T-shirt and socks. Two pairs. And he was only now starting to feel the warmth from the fireplace. He looked at it, wanting to move closer, but he couldn’t manage the strength.

“Who killed the man in the Volvo trunk?” Bloom asked.

“Ives.”

Bloom was quiet. Everyone was quiet. It was a deafening kind of silence, filled with questions and doubt.

“Ives is out there,” Louis said. “Go find him.”

“The lake may ice over by the time they float up,” Bloom said. “If that’s the case, we won’t find them until spring.”

Louis coughed, tasting water, feeling as if the muscles in his stomach were ripping apart, and he brought a fist to his mouth to stifle a second cough. His eye caught the lower end of a pair of uniform pants as they walked by. The cop’s feet were bare.

“Kincaid,” Bloom said.

“What?”

“I need some answers here. How do I know you didn’t go off the deep end and kill this Oliver guy? Or the doctor? Or that you didn’t murder Buddy Ives in cold blood?”

“You don’t,” Louis said.

“Then what do you expect me to do?”

“I don’t know.”

Dalum’s voice came back. “Detective, right now he needs a doctor. Let me take him over to the hospital.”

Bloom stood up. He said something to Dalum that Louis couldn’t hear; then he was gone. A few minutes later, he heard the squeak of a gurney and he was being helped up. He tried to keep the blanket around him, but the edges kept slipping from his fingers and he felt as if he were dropping off into a sleepy fog.

He was flat on his back, faces above him. Then the air was cold, the sky dark. A bump as they hefted him off the porch. Snow settling on his face. He could see sleeves. Patches. The red and white of the EMTs. The blue and gold of the state police.

“Dan?” he called.

“I’m right here,” Dalum said.

Two full days by the fire and still his feet felt cold. Most of his whole body felt cold, but it was his feet that bothered him the most. He hadn’t lost any toes to frost-bite. Had no permanent damage to his muscles. Or bones. The two ugly bruises on the side of his face would go away, too.

He slumped lower in the chair, easing his stockinged feet closer to the fireplace. He pulled the afghan over the MSU sweatshirt, and closed his eyes, listening to the perky voice of Jane Pauley on the Today Show as she told the ladies how to make Christmas ornaments out of egg noodles.

Phillip was on his way to Brighton to pick up Frances. Louis had overheard him on the phone last night, telling Frances that Louis had been through a rough time, killed a man, and almost drowned, and that Frances should come home and spend some time with him before he went back to Florida. She had agreed.

Detective Bloom had called last night. He still couldn’t find any bodies and the lake was starting to ice over, making the divers’ search dangerous. He said it might be spring before they found them. Asked Louis if he’d stay in Michigan for a few more days at least. Louis said he would. Until Friday. His flight left at two.

Louis glanced over at the phone. John Spera had called an hour ago to tell him he had gone through all the cremation cans. He had found a can with the number 926 on the top. There was no label, Spera had told him. Short of finding the cremation file in E Building there was no real way to prove it held Claudia’s remains. Louis told Spera to keep the can in a safe place until he could come and pick it up.

Louis muted the television, thinking about Claudia, how there was nothing to mark her existence except numbers. First that sad stone marker in the cemetery, then Spera’s tags, and now this. At least he had the ashes to offer Phillip. He hadn’t decided yet if he was going to tell him what Seraphin said about Claudia committing suicide.

Louis heard the hum of a car motor, close like it was in the driveway. But it was too soon for Phillip to be back. A few seconds later, he heard boots crunching in the snow, then the doorbell. He debated whether to answer it. His feet still prickled with every step, and the muscles along his back and legs were bruised and tight.

Again, the doorbell.

He pushed up out of the chair and hobbled toward the door. The bell had rung two more times by the time Louis opened the door.

Rodney stood on the porch, his camel overcoat buttoned all the way up, his gloved hand about to ring the doorbell again. Instead, he slowly removed his sunglasses.

“Good morning,” Rodney said.

“What are you doing here?” Louis asked.

“I’ve come to see Phillip. Is he here?”