Brian Freeman - The Cold Nowhere

Even in her drugged state, Dory knew that something bad was coming. I told Marty to stay away from her. I said she was sleeping with Stride, but he said he’d kill them both. One day later, Michaela and Marty were dead. Like an awful premonition come true.

Maggie approached Dory’s door. When she saw that it was half-open, she stopped and listened. The room was quiet, but she was cautious. Every Duluth cop was cautious about Seaway doors. More than twenty years earlier, a team of officers had tracked a suspect to a second-floor room at the hotel and faced a hail of gunfire as they tried to arrest him. One cop was wounded by a shot to the chest. Another died of a bullet to the head.

She nudged the door open with the heel of her boot. It was a tiny room, and it was empty; there was nowhere to hide. Dory hadn’t taken anything with her when she left. Her clothes were strewn across the bed. The bottom drawer in the rickety dresser against the wall was open. The window to the street was closed, and the room smelled of stale smoke.

Maggie stood in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips. She had a bad feeling. Why did Dory run?

She went to the window and saw a dusting of cigarette ash on the ledge. Her eyes flicked to the open drawer of the dresser near the floor. It was only open six inches, enough to see a messy stash of cheap lingerie. Underneath a pair of white panties, a glint of rosewood jutted over the laminate surface of the drawer. Her breath caught in her chest. She squatted and pushed the underwear aside with her finger, and what she saw was the slight hook on the rosewood handle of a knife.

The handle was dark with stains, and beyond it, the steel blade was crimson with dried blood. She recognized the knife. It was a Victorinox chef’s knife, part of an expensive set.

It was the knife that killed Kim Dehne.

Under cover of clouds, night fell like a stone.

The cold air resurrected winter, and wet April snow descended in streams from the black sky. He could hear its quiet hiss outside the open garage. Under the shelter of the roof, he could barely see the pines that grew near the old house, and the rural highway was empty.

It was safe to move.

He climbed into the Charger and revved the powerful engine. He backed down the rutted driveway, tires crunching, until he reached the highway. Martin Road was in the far north of the city. Most of the terrain around him was desolate woodland. The snow was heavy; soon it would cover his tire tracks and leave a virgin bed between the trees.

He turned right. In the mirror behind him, his tires kicked up a white cloud like a tornado. For four miles, he didn’t see another soul. When he finally saw headlights he slowed, but the other vehicle was nothing more than bright eyes behind a curtain of snow. He reached Rice Lake Road and turned south toward the city. Traffic thickened, but to anyone other than the police, a black Dodge Charger was just another cool sports car. He felt secure as he closed in on the urban corridor. Cars around him slipped and slid through the intersections, and he was careful to give them plenty of space. He couldn’t afford an accident.

He kept a tight grip on the wheel. His hands were covered in hospital gloves, and he wore leather gloves on top of those. His hair was completely covered by a wool cap. He was conscious of everything that might shed from his body. Every cough. Every flake of dry skin. Every mucus dribble from his nose. The odds of the Duluth Police recovering trace evidence from the vehicle for a DNA match were slim. This was the real world, not CSI . He was cautious anyway.

The steep downtown streets, when he reached them, belonged in San Francisco, not in the Midwest winter. He glided downhill, coasting through yellow lights, keeping an eye for patrol cars. This was the place where cops congregated, the place where he stood the greatest chance of being seen. Every cop was looking for a dark Dodge Charger. If the plates didn’t match, it wouldn’t matter. They’d follow anyway. They might even pull him over and spot the bloodstains on the leather interior. He couldn’t let that happen.

He held his breath, but the storm gave him cover. He passed through the hub of downtown and crossed over the interstate toward Canal Park. Like a ghost in the snow, he took the back street to the lift bridge and across to the finger of the Point.

It was three miles to Stride’s house.

*

‘We have to find Dory,’ Stride told Cat.

The girl sat cross-legged on one of the twin beds in the small room facing the street. She squeezed the gold chain around her neck between her fingers. ‘I don’t know where she is. I don’t understand any of this. You found the knife that killed Kim in Dory’s room?’

‘Yes, we did.’

‘I don’t know how it got there.’

‘Did you open the bottom drawer of the dresser?’ Stride asked her. ‘Did you look inside?’

‘I can’t remember. I don’t think so. I didn’t put the knife there. Really, I didn’t.’

‘What about Dory?’ Serena asked from the other twin bed in the room. ‘Could she have had the knife?’

‘No, why would Dory hurt Kim?’ Cat said. ‘She wouldn’t do that.’

Stride stood over her. She was scared to see his face dark with suspicion and concern. She felt his distance. He was the same as everyone; he didn’t trust her anymore.

‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said, ‘but we need to talk to her right away. Dory’s sick. You know that. Drugs can change people in terrible ways.’

‘She always told me she was a bad person,’ Cat said, ‘but not like this. She wouldn’t do this.’

Serena got up from the bed. She knelt in front of Cat and stroked her hair. Serena was strong; there was something about her that drew Cat in the way a mother would. A connection. A need.

‘Cat, listen to me. I know she’s your aunt. I know you love her, but you have to think about this very carefully. Is it possible that something could be wrong with her? Is it possible she could be violent?’

Oh, Dory. Tell me it’s not true.

‘I–I don’t think so.’

‘You don’t sound sure,’ Serena said softly.

‘I am. I’m sure. Dory didn’t do this. Neither did I.’

Stride sat down on the bed beside her. ‘We don’t believe you did, Cat.’

She hooded her eyes from both of them. ‘I know I’ve lied sometimes. I’ve kept things from you, and I’m sorry. I’m not lying now. Someone else is making this happen.’

Stride slid a photograph from his pocket and held it front of her. ‘Do you know this man?’

She stared at it. He was one of those middle-aged men who leered at her, like hundreds of other men. They were all the same, but he looked familiar. ‘I think I’ve seen him on television. Who is it?’

‘His name is Leonard Keck,’ Stride said.

‘Oh, Lowball Lenny. The car guy. Yeah, I’ve seen his commercials. When you’re looking for a deal, Lowball It! That’s him, right?’

‘That’s him. Have you ever met him?’

‘In person? No.’

‘Are you sure?’

Cat stared at the photo again. ‘Pretty sure.’

‘You never had sex with him? He was never a … customer?’

Her eyes widened. ‘No!’

‘You told me once you don’t usually look at their faces. Is it possible you don’t remember him?’

‘Well, I try to forget faces, but him, I’d know him. I wouldn’t forget. I never slept with him.’

Stride stood up again, and Cat thought he looked disappointed.

‘Do you think he did this?’ Cat asked. ‘Is he the one who’s trying to hurt me?’

‘I don’t know,’ Stride said. ‘I thought you might know something that could be a threat to him.’