P. Parrish - Heart of Ice

There was an edge of disgust in Rafsky’s voice.

“And you think he deserves to be in a maximum-security prison?” Louis said.

“He shot a cop, Kincaid.”

“But is prison justice for a man like him?” Louis pressed.

Rafsky set his bottle down and turned it slowly in the watery circle beneath it. “A long time ago I could’ve answered that without having to think about it,” he said. “But I don’t know anymore what real justice is.”

Rafsky’s eyes moved to Joe’s face. “Nor am I sure anymore who should issue it,” he said.

Louis felt Joe’s hand tighten on his shoulder, and for a long time the three of them were quiet. Plates clattered in the kitchen, and Madonna’s voice came from the jukebox.

Rafsky finally reached for his wallet. “I think our little party on this island is over,” he said. “I’ve got some things to finish, but for the most part the investigation’s on hold until our potential witnesses come back to the island, we get our positive ID with the DNA, and we’re allowed to interrogate Dancer.”

“So you don’t need us anymore?” Louis asked.

“No,” Rafsky said. “But I appreciate your help. Leave me your address in Florida. I’ll get a check in the mail for you.”

“Send it to the sheriff’s office in Echo Bay,” Joe said. “We’re going to my home for a while.” She glanced at Louis. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to leave first thing in the morning.”

Rafsky was laying money on the bar, and Louis noticed a split-second pause in his motion. Then Rafsky looked up-at both of them. For the first time the cool blue eyes had something warm behind them. Louis thought for a moment it was just the beer, but then he recognized it for what it was.

Envy.

Not the ugly green kind but more of a melancholy realization that what Louis and Joe had, Rafsky had lost. And for a second Louis had the feeling he was looking in the mirror. Fifty years old, living alone in a beach shack, married to his badge, and at odds with his only child because somewhere along the line he had stopped sending her postcards.

Rafsky pushed off his barstool and extended a hand to Louis.

“Good-bye, Kincaid,” he said. He looked to Joe and held out his hand. “Good-bye, Frye.”

She hesitated, then took his hand in both of hers. “Good-bye, Rafsky,” she said. “Be well.”

The waves were crashing against the pilings, and the dock was groaning under the onslaught of wind and water. Louis stepped outside the shelter of the ferry office and peered into the rain, but there was nothing to see but grayness. He went back inside.

Joe was huddled on a bench in the corner, clutching a Styrofoam cup. She held it out to him, and he took it, taking a drink of the hot coffee even though it had no sugar in it.

“I can’t wait to get off this island,” Joe said.

“I’m sorry this wasn’t the great getaway I had planned,” Louis said, sitting down next to her.

She burrowed closer to him. “We’ll make up for it when we get to Echo Bay. Did you think about what we talked about?”

Last night Joe had suggested he stay with her through Christmas. Her mother, Florence, was coming up for Thanksgiving, and it was time for Louis to meet her, she said. At first Louis had been reluctant, but he really had no reason to go back to Florida right now. He had cleared all his PI cases in anticipation of going into the academy, and he sure as hell wasn’t looking forward to spending another Christmas alone.

“Yeah, I thought about it,” he said. “I’d like to come stay with you for a while.”

She smiled broadly and wove her arm through his. They were silent as Louis finished the coffee.

“Where’s Rafsky?” he asked finally.

“He left on the first ferry this morning,” Joe said. “He was pretty anxious to get home to Marquette. It’s his granddaughter’s birthday today.”

Louis looked to the open doorway. A seagull took flight off a piling, straining against the wind, but finally gave up and turned back to land.

Through the rain, Louis spotted a smudge of red coming down the dock from Main Street. It was an umbrella, the person beneath bent low against the wind. Suddenly, a gust caught the umbrella, turning it inside out.

It was Maisey.

She struggled to right the umbrella but was clearly losing. Louis ran out to her. He grabbed the shredded umbrella and tossed it aside. Locking an arm around her shoulders, he steered her into the ferry office.

“Oh Lord,” she gasped, stopping just inside the open door. “Thank you, Mr. Kincaid.”

“Louis,” he said.

Her green plaid overcoat was sodden, and her plastic rain bonnet had blown down around her neck. She pulled the bonnet off and wiped her face.

“I went to the police station,” she said. “They told me you had gone home. But I took the chance you might be here.”

Her eyes slipped past him to the open door. Louis turned and saw the ferry far out on the lake, coming toward the island.

Maisey touched his sleeve. “I have to talk to you.”

“Is it about Rhoda? Did you remember something?”

“Rhoda?” Maisey shook her head. “No, no, it’s about Julie.”

With a glance toward Joe, Maisey turned so her back was to her and faced Louis. She closed her eyes for a long time and when she opened them Louis was surprised to see tears threatening.

“Maisey, what is it?”

“I wanted to tell you this yesterday when you came to the house, but I couldn’t talk of it. I just couldn’t.”

Louis waited while Maisey took a deep breath.

“I couldn’t tell anyone before now because it would have killed Mr. Edward to know.” She paused. “But he’s gone now, and I can’t keep it inside anymore.”

The tears flowed down her face.

“Mr. Ross. . he did things to Julie,” she said.

Her words came out as a low hiss. And Louis understood immediately what Maisey was saying.

“He molested her?” Louis asked.

Maisey stared at him, and Louis had the sense the word molested wasn’t strong enough for what Maisey was trying to tell him and for the anger she was feeling.

“He never let her be, Mr. Kincaid,” she said. “It started when she was about twelve, and it went on right up till that last summer here.”

Louis let out a hard sigh and looked over Maisey’s head to Joe. She had questions in her eyes, but Louis gave her a look that told her not to come over. It was clear Maisey was angry and embarrassed, but he suspected she was also deeply ashamed.

“Do you know this for certain, Maisey?” he asked.

She hesitated, then shook her head slowly. “I never caught him. And Julie never told me. But I know. I just know.”

Louis knew enough about incest to know that it usually began in childhood and often went on for years. He knew, too, that the victims often blamed themselves and rarely told anyone. Knowing what he knew now about the odd dynamics of the Chapman family, he suspected it would have been impossible for Julie to find a safe place within its cold comforts.

A horn blew. The ferry was at the dock.

Maisey saw it and her eyes shot back to Louis.

“Mr. Ross did it,” she said.

“Did what?”

Maisey wiped her face roughly with her sleeve. “One day Julie came home and she was all muddy and her blouse was torn. She told me she went hiking down the trail that leads from the cottage down to the lake and fell. But I know he did it.”

“Did what, Maisey?”

“He raped her, Mr. Kincaid,” Maisey said. “He raped her and got her pregnant.”

“I wish you had told me this when we first talked,” Louis said.

“If I told you, Mr. Edward would have found out,” she said. “I just couldn’t do it to him. I couldn’t break his heart.”