P. Parrish - Heart of Ice

Too bad your father doesn’t just fly away one night in his sleep, then you would have everything you need to be the man you were meant to be.

I love my father, Sandy.

Uh-huh. Right.

She rolled away from him, smoked a cigarette, and fell asleep. Soon after, not wanting to be near her anymore, he slipped from her apartment and chartered a flight back to the island. On the way, he made a decision. He would tell his father that he wasn’t going to sit out the campaign waiting around the island for news about Julie. And he was going to demand that his father unlock an untouched trust left to Julie by their grandfather and give him the money he needed to win this election.

She was dead, damn it. His father had never been willing to admit it. Five years ago, Ross had finally petitioned the court to declare Julie legally dead. After his father saw her death announcement in the newspaper, the last of his father’s affection for him seemed to disappear.

Ross rose and went upstairs. As he passed Maisey’s room, he paused to make sure she was snoring, then moved on to his father’s room, stopping at the open door.

His father was sleeping, frail-looking in the enormous four-poster bed.

Ross went to the bed and stared down at his father. For several months now he had known Dad wouldn’t make it much past the New Year. While Maisey was already grieving in her own way, he had felt so little he often wondered what was wrong with him.

I love my father, Sandy .

But he had known since he was about twelve that it wasn’t the kind of love a son should have. It was obligatory, forced, sometimes offered desperately in the hopes of getting a splinter of the affection his father saved for Julie.

As Ross grew older he gave up on love, becoming instead the consummate actor playing the role of a loving son, because that’s what people expected of the Chapmans. And even as his father grew sicker and more distant, even as Ross had his own children and made a name for himself in Lansing, he continued to play the same role.

Decades of pretending.

And now, as he stood there and looked at the old man who had once been the indomitable Edward W. Chapman, he was stunned to feel an ache in his chest. It was the ache of needing love from someone who didn’t love you back, and it was real. He knew because he’d felt it once before.

Ross looked down at the oxygen tank, at the gauge that monitored the flow rate. A tiny red needle quivered over the number two. The voice of Dad’s doctor in Bloomfield Hills drifted to Ross, like a cold breeze from a crack in the window.

It’s important the oxygen flow stay consistent. Too much or too little could be fatal in a matter of minutes.

Ross shut his eyes, trying to erase what he was thinking.

Wouldn’t it be nice if your father just flew away?

It would get him the money he needed to finish his campaign. It would buy the bigger house Karen wanted. It would allow him to set Sandy up in an apartment in D.C. And he could get rid of Maisey.

Slowly Ross reached down and turned the dial on the oxygen tank up to four.

His instinct was to watch his father’s face, but he forced himself not to look, afraid that his father’s eyes would open and he would see his son standing over him.

Ross listened for some indication that death had come, but the seconds passed so slowly he began to count them in his head. Still, he heard nothing but the hiss of the oxygen growing louder and louder and louder.

Shame suddenly engulfed him.

Ross tightened every muscle and closed his eyes.

Fifteen, sixteen. .

Then, as soft as if it had come from another room, he heard a cough.

Or had he?

Ross forced himself to look down at his father. Nothing about the old man had changed. There was no sudden gray hue to the skin, no flop of his head toward the side, nothing to confirm the horror of what he had just done.

Ross put a finger to his father’s neck, then to his wrist, holding it there for nearly a minute even though there was no pulse.

Ross turned the oxygen dial back to number two. Then he stepped away from the bed, feeling as he had with Sandy that afternoon-suddenly sickened by the thought of being there a moment longer.

He moved to the window.

It was pitch-black but the pale light behind him haloed his reflection in the glass. The image was almost transparent, defined only by patches of frost and slivers of light.

I have killed my father.

How had he become this man? A man who cheats on his wife, who drinks with criminals for donations, who lies to old women for votes.

“ You flew away and time grew cold.”

The tears came. He stayed at the window, letting them fall.

His only thoughts were, as always, for himself.

How did I become this monster?

The phone jarred him from a deep sleep. Louis knocked the receiver to the floor and lunged for it.

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Kincaid?”

He rubbed his eyes. The room was dark and cold. “Who is this?”

“It’s Maisey Barrow.” A long pause. “Mr. Kincaid, I. . Mr. Edward is dead.”

Her words dissolved into sobs. Louis swung his legs over the bed and fumbled for the light, switching it on.

“Maisey, calm down,” Louis said. “Are you sure?”

Joe touched his arm. “Louis, what is it?”

He held up a hand to silence her.

“He’s cold, Mr. Kincaid,” Maisey said. “I went into his room a few minutes ago, and I found him. I touched him. He’s cold as ice.”

“Okay, okay, listen carefully, Maisey.” Louis rubbed his face. “Is Ross there?”

“I. . yes, he came back last night. I think he’s asleep.”

“Go wake him up, but it’s important that neither of you touch anything.”

She was sniffling.

“Maisey? Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll be there with the police as soon as I can.”

He depressed the receiver and dialed the police station. He directed the dispatcher to call Sergeant Clark and tell him that Edward Chapman was dead. Then he asked the dispatcher to send a car immediately to the Potawatomi Hotel. He hung up and turned to face Joe, who lay propped on one elbow staring at him.

“Edward Chapman is dead,” he said.

“Good Lord,” Joe said softly.

Louis reached for his jeans. “Get dressed. I’ll go wake Rafsky.”

* * *

Ten minutes later, Clark was behind the wheel of the police SUV waiting for Louis outside the hotel. Louis climbed in the front, Joe and Rafsky in the back. Clark was wearing a police parka, but Louis saw the striped collar of his pajamas beneath. No one said much as Clark drove through the dark deserted streets.

A pale smudge of pink was coloring the horizon over the lake as they pulled up to the Chapman cottage. The first floor was ablaze with lights, but the second floor was dark. The grass, hardened with frost, cracked under their shoes as they went up the lawn. Louis was surprised when Ross, not Maisey, met them at the door.

“I can’t get her to leave his room,” Ross said, gesturing toward the stairs as they went in.

Ross was wearing sweatpants and a rumpled black sweater. His hair, always so carefully styled, was a wild mess. His eyes were red, and his face was puffy. It was obvious he had been crying, but the faint odor of liquor was also on his breath.

“She won’t leave him,” Ross said. “Please, you have to talk to her.”

Louis glanced at Rafsky and Joe. “Give me a minute with Maisey, okay?”

Rafsky nodded. “We’ll wait down here for the doctor.”

There was no way to get a coroner here quickly from the mainland without chartering an expensive plane, so Clark had called the island doctor who had been caring for Edward Chapman during his stay at the cottage.