P. Parrish - Heart of Ice

Greek mythology and American poetry. Aunt Bitty must have been a remarkable woman.

“Yes, that’s good,” Louis said. “Now, do you remember talking to us about Julie Chapman?”

“Bones now. Julie Chapman is just bones.”

“Yes,” Louis said. “But you and Julie had something in common. You and she were sort of the same. Do you want to know how?”

Dancer’s head came around slowly. Louis had wondered if Dancer understood that he wasn’t the same as everyone else, and now he had his answer. Dancer’s eyes were wide with curiosity as to how he and someone like Julie Chapman could be anything alike.

“Julie was a lonely girl who got her feelings out by writing poems,” Louis said. “That’s how she coped with her life and her sadness. She put her heart into her poetry.”

Dancer just stared at him.

“You cope by drawing pictures,” Louis said. “Your pictures are your. . friends, sort of, people you could have around you but who you didn’t have to talk to.”

For a split second there was a hint of a smile but then Dancer turned away. “I can’t draw here,” he said.

“I know,” Louis said. “Maybe we can fix that. But today I want to do something else with you, something that will help us find out who killed Julie. Are you okay with that?”

The guard’s voice boomed from across the hall. “Hey, how about hurrying up this little shrink-rap session. I got other work to do.”

Dancer suddenly slid off the bunk to the floor, hugging himself like a sulking child.

Louis glanced at the guard. “Thanks a lot.”

The guard looked at his watch.

Louis leaned down to Dancer’s ear. “I want you to listen to me,” he said. “I’m going to read one of Julie Chapman’s poems to you, because I think you will understand her words better than I can.”

Danny put his forehead on his knees.

Louis opened Julie’s book to the poem “Centaur.” Then he leaned back down to Dancer, keeping his voice low.

“ ‘You came to me in the golden rays of the sun, half a horse and half a man. .’ ” Louis began.

“Like a centaur,” Dancer said.

Louis looked up. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Finish the poem,” Dancer said.

“ ‘Your brown velvet flanks so strong and smooth,’ ” Louis went on. “ ‘Your gentle eyes of sea-foam hues. You carry the wilderness in your soul, you carry me away and melt the black ice of my heart.’ ”

“Give me a fucking break,” the guard said.

Louis rose quickly and went to the bars. “You’ve got no idea what I’m doing or why I’m doing it. Now shut the fuck up or go find something to do.”

“All right, smart-ass,” the guard said, reaching for his keys. “You’re done here.”

Louis glared at the guard. Damn it, he shouldn’t have mouthed off to him. He couldn’t risk getting thrown out now. The closer Dancer got to trial, the harder it was going to be to get permission for another visit.

The guard unlocked the door. “Let’s go.”

Pissed, Louis turned back to gather up the books. But Dancer was flipping pages in one of his sketchbooks. Louis held a hand up toward the guard.

“Give me ten seconds, man. Please.”

Dancer finally stopped turning pages and stood up, drawing back into the shadows. Louis looked down at the open book on the bunk.

It was a head-and-shoulders portrait drawn in pencil. The boy had light wavy hair, a hint of a smile, and was wearing a madras shirt. Dancer had concentrated most on the boy’s eyes, carefully shading them and pressing the pencil tip deep enough to literally carve the eyelashes in the paper. There was something very feminine, very romantic in the pose, and Louis thought he knew what Dancer had captured-the moment this boy fell in love with Julie.

“Cooper the Yooper,” Dancer said. “Cooper the Yooper.”

“What?” Louis said. “Is Cooper his name?”

“Cooper the Yooper, Cooper the Yooper. .”

The guard stepped in the cell. “Let’s go, mister. Now.”

“Danny, is Cooper the boy’s last name?” Louis pressed.

“I said let’s go!”

The guard clamped a big hand on Louis’s shoulder. Louis resisted the urge to shrug it off and picked up the books and followed the guard out of the cell. The hard clang of the door brought Dancer forward.

“Those are mine,” Dancer said, pointing through the bars at the sketchbooks.

“I know but you can’t have them in here,” Louis said.

“Will you take care of them for me?” Dancer asked.

“Yes.”

“And my skulls? You’ll find them all and take care of them, too?”

“Yes. I promise.”

Dancer retreated back into the shadows of his cell. As Louis walked away, he glanced back and saw that Dancer was back sitting on the floor again, staring at the tiles.

At the door, the guard paused before he hit the buzzer and looked back at Louis.

“You working for Dancer’s lawyer?” the guard asked.

“No, I’m working with state investigator Norm Rafsky,” Louis said. “I’m on your side here, man.”

“Sure didn’t sound like it,” the guard said.

“I’m just trying to find out who killed a girl.”

“The one whose bones they found on the island? You working that case?”

Louis nodded.

The guard’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Louis. Then he hit the buzzer again and the door slid open. Louis stopped at the cage to gather his pocket items and wallet. He felt eyes on him and looked back to see the guard leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest.

“Did that retard know the girl?” the guard asked.

“Yes. And maybe the man who killed her.”

The guard pushed off the wall, nodding toward the sketchbook. “Can I see the picture?”

Louis opened Dancer’s sketchbook, and the guard stared at the drawing of the boy for a long time.

The guard looked to be around forty, the same age Julie’s boyfriend would be now. “You recognize him?” Louis asked.

The guard shook his head. “Nah, but I heard that name before.”

“Cooper?”

“Yeah, Cooper the Yooper.” The guard pursed his lips. “When I was playing football for Newberry I remember there was a kid they called that. He played for LaSalle. Helluva wide receiver if I’m remembering right.”

“Is Cooper his last name?”

“His name is Cooper Lange,” the guard said. “Him and his old man run a bar over on High Street called the Ice House.”

Louis gave the guard a nod. “Thanks.”

“I got a sixteen-year-old daughter,” the guard said. “I hope you find the fucker that killed that girl.”

The bar was almost deserted, just Bald Billie and his wife, Tammie, holding down their usual spots by the waitress station and a couple of snowmobilers at the high-top in the window. Business had been slow all month after a summer that had been the worst in years.

Not the first time Cooper Lange wondered if he shouldn’t talk to his dad about getting one of those big projection TVs like the place down on Main Street had. Serving the best whitefish sandwiches in the U.P. just didn’t cut it anymore.

“Hey, Coop, where’s the game, man?”

Cooper looked toward the pool table where his friend Nick was reracking the balls and grabbed the remote off the cash register. He was about to turn the channel when he saw the crawl below the newscaster.

COP SHOOTER TRIAL SET FOR MARCH

And then there he was. Older, fatter, and wearing orange jail clothes. But it was definitely Danny Dancer.

Danny had been charged only with shooting the island police chief and shooting at two other cops-a black guy and a woman. But Cooper had heard the talk around the bar that Danny was connected to the bones found in the lodge. Wild rumors about his cabin in the woods, with human scalps hanging from the rafters and the stink of decomposing body parts.