Brian Freeman - The Cold Nowhere

‘What did you tell him?’

‘I told him no, of course, but Marty won’t believe anything I say. Sooner or later, he’ll get drunk and come back for me. You know that.’

‘If it would be better, I don’t have to come here myself. I could send someone else to check in on you.’

‘It wouldn’t matter. He thinks he owns me. Besides, I look forward to seeing you. So does Catalina.’

‘She’s a sweetheart.’

Michaela beamed, watching her child in the snow. The girl was dancing now, like a ballerina around the outline of her angel. ‘Sometimes I can’t believe God gave her to me after all my mistakes. I led such a stupid life after I lost my parents. All the parties, all the drugs, all the bad boys. Back then, I thought I deserved the things that Marty did to me.’

‘You didn’t.’

‘Girls can be blind, Jonathan. I loved him. He was tough and hard. That was what I thought I wanted. When we had Catalina, I hoped he would grow up, and I guess he did, a little. He’s good to her. It’s me that he hates.’

Stride said nothing. He saw no goodness at all in Marty Gamble. The man’s chiseled face was emblazoned on his brain: a tattooed skinhead skull, square chin, thin, flattened nose. His eyes were blue marbles. He had scars on his knuckles. He wasn’t tall, but he was buff from lifting weights and boxing at the Y. When he was drunk, his temper was like rocket fuel.

‘Dory tells me I’m a fool,’ Michaela went on. ‘She knew he was a monster from the beginning. She would scream at him to stay away from me, and Marty just laughed at her. It’s pretty sad when your drug-addict little sister has better judgment in men than you do. I wish I’d listened.’

‘This isn’t your fault.’

‘Oh, some of it is my fault. We make our choices, and Marty was my choice. I have to live with that.’ Her face grew worried, and she added, ‘Dory sounded frantic when I talked to her yesterday. Worse than usual. I think Marty went to see her. He’s probably not stupid enough to harm her, but I’m worried.’

‘I’ll have Maggie talk to her.’

‘Thank you.’

Michaela took his arm. It was a simple, warm gesture, but her closeness made him draw back. She knew she’d crossed a line, but before she could remove her hand, her fingers tightened into a vise around his coat. Her whole body stiffened like a wire.

‘Jonathan,’ she said sharply.

He followed her eyes to the road. At the end of her rural lot, he saw the twin gleam of headlights in the darkness. The car lights shot toward the house, illuminating the two of them like escaped prisoners. Catalina, in the snow below the porch, stared curiously at the bright eyes.

‘Get inside,’ Stride told Michaela.

Michaela ran down the porch steps and scooped the little girl into her arms. Catalina squealed in protest, but Michaela carried her inside, slamming the door of the little house behind her. Stride was alone. He marched down the long driveway, shielding his eyes. He drew his gun into his hand. Whoever was in the car let Stride get within twenty yards before lurching backward between the trees. The wheels roared and spun on the dirt. The driver leaned into the horn, blaring noise through the quiet night like a victory wail. By the time Stride bolted into the middle of the snow-rutted road, the car had disappeared. Even the tail lights were gone.

He stood there, holding his gun, his other fist clenched, powerless.

When he returned to the house, Michaela stood on the porch again, blocking the door. Catalina was inside.

‘It was him,’ she said.

‘I couldn’t see the car.’

‘It was him,’ she repeated.

He came close to her. Too close. ‘I really wish you’d leave town for a while, Michaela.’

‘And lose my job?’ she said. ‘Lose my house? I won’t let him make me run. You’ll protect me, Jonathan. I have faith in you.’

He felt her trust. Her faith was like an embrace. She believed in him.

Two days later, he stared down at her dead body, riddled with stab wounds, her blood like a lake. Marty’s body lay sprawled beside her, a gun in his hand, with his bone and brains shot across the hardwood floor of the matchbox bedroom.

‘Do you remember Marty Gamble?’ Maggie asked.

Ken McCarty, who was naked on top of her, paused in his thrusting. His face screwed up like a dried apple and she felt him wither inside her. ‘Wow, you really pick odd times to talk about work,’ he said.

Maggie wrapped her legs around his backside and pulled him deeper. ‘You’re right. Continue.’

Ken launched into his rhythm with renewed vigor. His face reddened with effort as he shook the bed frame, but the more he labored, the more he shrank, until she couldn’t even feel him between her thighs. Finally, in frustration, he withdrew and flopped over on his back beside her. His skin was damp with sweat. ‘Sorry.’

‘No biggie,’ Maggie said.

‘Thanks for reminding me.’

‘Oops,’ she giggled. ‘That’s not what I meant.’ She turned over on her side and reached between his legs to caress him. ‘Want me to work my magic?’

Her fingers kneaded and twisted as if she were working on bread dough, but the dough failed to rise.

‘I better take a rain check,’ Ken said. ‘Either that or I need some blue pills. That would be a first.’

‘My fault.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I like it better at night anyway. Hey, I caught a Bree Olson video on pay-per-view last week. There’s a hot position I’d love to try. You game?’

‘Always.’

He kissed her, and they tongued back and forth. His hands roamed her body. ‘God, you’re hot,’ he said.

‘Even for an older woman?’

‘Twenty-somethings got nothing on you, babe.’

Maggie grinned. She knew that Ken had had his share of younger girls over the years, and he probably still did. They’d only hooked up a couple of times. Even so, she was oddly pleased to think that he was watching porn when he wasn’t with her, rather than bringing home a girl from a Dinkytown bar.

She also knew that if she did anything well, other than her job, it was sex. She was open to anything and always had been. Sex didn’t really mean much to her, so she didn’t care about crossing lines. She’d never put sex and love in the same equation, not until she’d finally slept with Stride, and that had been a huge mistake, right up there with the McDonald’s McLean burger. A relationship with Ken, if it went that far, was safer. Wild sex. Lots of time apart. No pressure. The two hours between Duluth and Minneapolis felt like the right distance.

Ken rolled his naked body out of bed and pulled on his tighty-whities. He wasn’t tall, but everyone was tall to Maggie. He had a sandy crew cut and the tough-as-nails bulky physique of a carb-loaded cop. His blond goatee was neatly trimmed, and he had an easy grin. He still had a young, carefree style, which she liked. He was thirty-four, but he could have been twenty-four, an adult who was happy to stay a kid.

He wandered to the window in his underwear. Maggie had a condominium on Superior Street above the Sheraton Hotel, with a million-dollar view. Most of the other owners around her were rich doctors from St. Mary’s and St. Luke’s, who had mansions in the Cities and used the condos as their home base when they breezed into town to do surgery. Maggie was the only cop in the building. She’d inherited money after her entrepreneur husband was murdered, and she didn’t need to work anymore. However, she couldn’t imagine living like a socialite, getting her nails done and pretending to care about the Symphony Ball. She was a cop and would always be a cop. It also meant she kept working with Stride.