P. Parrish: Heart of Ice

Louis had been tempted at that moment to tell her about his plans.

He had taken the first steps to go back into uniform. Filled out the application for the Florida Department of Law Enforcement police academy to be recertified. Approached Sheriff Lance Mobley about a job with the county. Bought a second gun. Cleaned up his credit. He even joined a gym because he knew that going back in at thirty put him up against ex-marines and kids who had been pumping iron in their basements since they were twelve.

He hadn’t planned to tell anyone until he had a badge on his chest. But he didn’t like that Lily had turned away from him when he talked of his work.

“Look! Look!” Lily squealed. “I see the horses!”

They were close enough to the island now to see the sign for the old Chippewa Hotel. The engines cut off, and Lily broke away from him, heading toward the gangplank. He kept her bright yellow sweatshirt in view and finally caught up with her on the dock. As they walked up to Main Street, her eyes widened.

Victorian storefronts advertising fudge, souvenir T-shirts, fancy resort clothes, and oil paintings of Creamsicle-colored Lake Michigan sunsets. A horse and carriage clopped along the street right in front of them, and Lily watched as if it were Cinderella’s coach.

“Where are the cars?” she asked.

“They don’t allow any cars on Mackinac Island.”

“We have to walk everywhere?”

He pointed to the bike-rental shack, and her eyes lit up. She took off again, and he followed her, watching as she wandered down the rows of bikes. She looked up at him.

“These are all old,” she said softly.

“Well, we’re not entering the Tour de France,” Louis said.

His words were out before he thought about it and he didn’t know her well enough yet to tell if he had hurt her feelings.

Those gray eyes slid up to him. “I bet you think I don’t know what that is.”

He sighed. “Knowing your mother, I bet you know exactly what it is. Now pick out a bike. Please.”

She settled on a purple Huffy with a white basket. Louis chose the largest mountain bike, glad he had borrowed his landlord’s bike last week to practice. Lily sped off ahead of him, the sun glinting off the silver barrettes in her hair as she wound her way through the pedestrians, bikers, and horses.

They kept to the eight-mile road that circled the island, biking past the ramparts of an old fort, ancient limestone formations, and steep hiking paths that led up into the dark pines. And always, there on their right, was the deep blue expanse of Lake Huron.

Suddenly Lily stopped her bike.

Louis pulled up behind her. They were about three-quarters around the island. There was no one else on the road, and the whisper of the surf was the only sound.

“Look at that,” Lily said.

Louis looked to where she was pointing. Up on a bluff was a huge log building. It looked like an old hunting lodge, with a high peaked roof, dormers, and verandas wrapping two of the three stories. A rusted iron fence rose from the weeds in front.

“It looks like a haunted house,” Lily said.

“Could be,” Louis said with a smile.

“Can we go up there?”

Louis remembered enough about Mackinac Island to know that most visitors kept to the lakeside road. Only the adventurous and well-muscled took their bikes into the hilly woods. He looked down at Lily, meeting her expectant eyes.

“It doesn’t look like there’s any way up,” Louis said.

“Maybe there’s a back way,” Lily said.

She jumped back on the bike and was off, her skinny legs pumping. About fifty yards up the road she pointed left and turned.

Her sweatshirt was just a blur of yellow in the dark woods as Louis followed her up the dirt road. At the top he stopped to catch his breath. The trees were thick, the air at least ten degrees cooler here out of the sun.

There was no sign of her.

“Lily!” he called.

“Over here!”

But he couldn’t see her. He rounded a curve and pulled up at a chain-link fence. There was a big red sign: NO TRESPASSING. He was at the back of the old lodge. Lily’s purple bike was lying in the weeds near a gap in the fence.

Damn it.

“Lily!” he shouted.

Nothing.

He dropped his bike and ducked through the fence. As he trotted through the weeds, he caught sight of an empty swimming pool littered with leaves, but he was sure she had gone to the lodge.

He jumped onto the wide wooden veranda. All the windows were shuttered. He went to the front of the lodge. The heavy wood front door was boarded shut and padlocked. There was one window with no shutter but covered with two boards. He peered through the crack between them. He could make out a table with an old oil lamp but no sign of Lily.

Where the hell had she gone? His heart was racing. He had never felt this kind of fear before. He didn’t even understand it.

He spun toward the yard but there was nothing to see except the iron fence and beyond that the lake.

“Lily!”

No sound except the buzz of insects.

He headed around the side of the lodge, going so fast he almost missed it-a small metal door about five feet from the ground. It was ajar and there was a cinder block beneath it. It was a milk chute.

He jerked the door open and stuck his head inside.

“Lily! Answer me!”

“I’m here.”

Her voice was small and far away, but he let out a huge breath of relief.

“Come back to the milk chute. Now!”

“But there’s a reindeer head.”

“What?”

“Come in and look. There’s a reindeer head over the fireplace. Come look, Louis!”

“I can’t. Now get back here now!”

“Oh, all right.”

Louis stayed at the chute, peering into the gloom for that spot of yellow sweatshirt.

A sharp crack, a muffled scream.

Louis tried to wedge into the chute.

“Lily!”

Nothing.

“Lily!” he screamed.

He frantically scanned the back of the house. No way in.

He ran back to the front, back to the one window that wasn’t shuttered. He ripped the two boards off and used one to smash the glass. Inside, he took a second to get his bearings, then headed toward the back. The dark hallways were narrow and he kept calling Lily’s name. But there was no answer.

Then he saw it-a ragged hole in the floorboards. He dropped to his knees, but it was pitch-black below.

“Lily!” he shouted. “Lily!”

A muffled, kitten-like cry from below.

“Lily! Are you okay?”

“I’m scared.”

He let out a painful breath. “Are you okay?”

“My arm hurts.”

He could hear her crying now.

“Don’t cry,” he said quickly. “I’m coming down to get you. Don’t move!”

“Okay.”

He jumped to his feet, scanning the dark room. It looked like it was a kitchen but with no light he couldn’t be sure. And because the shutters were on the outside, he couldn’t even break the window. His mind raced and then suddenly he remembered the oil lamp he had seen through the window. He ran back to the front and grabbed the lamp. He shook it and let out a breath of relief when he heard a sloshing sound.

Matches. . goddamn it, matches.

He took the lamp to the kitchen and started yanking open drawers. Nothing. He was about to give up when he spotted a small tin box on the wall near the stove. He thrust a hand in the bottom and pulled out a handful of wood matches.

“Louis?”

“I’m coming, honey!”

It took four strikes against the fireplace to finally light a match. The old kitchen shimmered pale gold, and he dropped to his knees at the hole in the floor.

He carefully lowered the oil lamp into the darkness.

A spot of yellow. Then Lily’s tear-streaked face looking up at him.