P. Parrish - Dead of Winter

“Let me help you,” Gibralter said, moving around in front of the lectern. “My name is Kincaid and I am a bleeding heart pussy who feels sorry for cop killers and I have no concept of what it means to wear a badge like the rest of these fine men.”

Louis felt his body go tight. The room was dead silent and the five faces became a blur.

“Explain to your fellow officers why you let a cop killer go.”

Louis kept his eyes on Gibralter. “The computer report said Lacey was still in prison. We didn’t — ”

Gibralter cut in sharply. “Take responsibility for your own actions, officer. There is no we in this scenario.”

Louis glanced at Jesse but he wouldn’t look at him. “I had no reason to hold him,” Louis said.

Gibralter picked something up off the lectern and held it up to the room. It was a photograph of Thomas Pryce, spread-eagled on his staircase, his pajamas covered with his blood.

“Is this not a good enough reason, officer?”

Louis felt his face grow hot.

“What about this?” Gibralter asked, holding up another photograph. It was a close-up of Lovejoy’s face, his eyes open, his hair forming a halo of icicle spikes around his face.

“I made a mistake,” Louis said stiffly. “But I put out the APB, we can still find him — ”

“He’s gone!” Gibralter yelled. “He’s fucking gone! Do you think he’s as stupid as you are?”

The room was silent. Gibralter came forward, pausing inches in front of Louis. He reached up suddenly and pulled off Louis’s tie, ripping the collar open. Louis stumbled back then steadied himself, glaring at Gibralter.

Fired. He was being fired. A flash of shame came over him, followed by a wave of relief. Gibralter reached for his shirt again and Louis tightened, expecting Gibralter to rip his badge off his pocket. Gibralter stuffed the two photographs down Louis’s shirt.

Louis went rigid, his jaw clenching in anger.

“Tell them,” Gibralter said softly. “Tell these men how sorry you are.”

Louis kept his eyes locked on Gibralter’s face.

“Tell them!” Gibralter shouted.

Louis pulled the photographs from his shirt and looked at the other men. He saw Cornwall and Evans, their faces charged with contempt. His eyes settled on Jesse, who was staring at his shoes.

“I am sorry,” Louis said.

A phone rang out in the office. Someone coughed. Louis could not stand it any longer and dropped his gaze to the floor.

“All right, listen to me,” Gibralter said, going back to the lectern. “Here is where we are going to begin.”

When Louis looked up he saw that Gibralter had gone to a map that had been put up on the bulletin board. Louis stared at the map. It was nothing but a patchwork of colors and he struggled to bring it into focus, struggled to bring himself back into focus.

He took slow, careful breaths, trying to quell his anger. He wasn’t going to let Gibralter win, not this way. He wasn’t going to let Gibralter humiliate him, blame him, and then drive him out. He would stay until Lacey was caught.

Gibralter was giving assignments for a search and Louis concentrated on the map on the wall. The county was a large square with a grand total of five towns big enough to merit dots. About a third of the county was given over to the Huron National Forest. The rest was sheer wilderness. Thousands of square miles to hide in.

Louis shook his head. Nine men…they would never find Lacey. They would need help from the state police. Why wasn’t Gibralter talking about that?

Finally, Gibralter dismissed the men. They filed past Louis, no one making eye contact. Louis waited. He knew this wasn’t over. Gibralter leaned on the lectern, his eyes locked on Louis. He drew a cigarette out of his pack of Camels and slipped it between his lips. Slowly, he lit the cigarette. It sizzled in the quiet room.

“What do you think I should do with you?” Gibralter said.

“Suspension would be in order,” Louis said.

“No.”

“Am I fired?”

“No.”

“Then what will by my exact assignment during the search?”

“You think I’m going to put you out there with the rest of the men?”

Louis decided not to answer.

“First of all, you don’t deserve to be with them,” Gibralter said, pointing the cigarette. “And second, the way they feel about you right now I wouldn’t put it past someone to take a shot at you.”

Louis felt the knot of anger reforming in his gut.

Gibralter straightened off the lectern and went to the map, his back to Louis. “Right now, if we’re going to find this motherfucker Lacey, I need every man I have. If I didn’t need you, you’d be gone. You understand?”

I understand that we need outside help, damn it, Louis thought.

“But I don’t want you around here right now, Kincaid,” Gibralter said, turning to him. “I don’t want to see your face. You’re going to Dollar Bay.”

“Excuse me?”

“Lacey lives in Dollar Bay. I want you up there to find out anything you can. Take the Bronco unit number three. The keys are in the box. Pack what you have in your locker, get a few personal things from home and get the hell out of here.” Gibralter turned away. “Dismissed.”

Louis stared at Gibralter’s back. He was being exiled. Lacey wasn’t going back to the U.P. now. He was still here, hiding and waiting until he could kill the rest of the men who had been at the raid that night. Lacey was here. And Louis was not going to be allowed in on the real work of finding him.

Louis left the briefing room, closing the door. The outer office was deserted, except for Florence, who gave him a quick look of sympathy then averted her eyes.

He went quickly to his desk, threw some things into a large manila envelope and headed to the locker room. It was empty and as he approached his locker, he slowed. The locker was ajar. He never locked it; no one here did.

He opened it slowly. Hanging from the hook was a used Kotex sanitary napkin with a note that had one word: Pussy.

There was too much empty road and too much time to think on the way to Dollar Bay.

About Pryce, Lovejoy and Lacey. About watches that ran in cold water, serial numbers on meaningless guns. About dead teenage girls and Jesse’s hair-trigger temper. About Gibralter. About Zoe. About himself.

Keeping his left hand on the wheel, Louis used his thumb of his bandaged right hand to ease the lid off the Styrofoam cup. He took a sip of the hot coffee and carefully set it back in the cup holder. His stomach was sending up groans of hunger, despite the greasy 7-Eleven muffin he had already downed. He glanced at his watch. Back at the 7-Eleven he had called Dollar Bay and was told Sheriff Bjork would meet him at twelve-thirty at a local tavern. He was running late and he pressed the gas pedal, easing up over the speed limit. No matter. The road was empty. It pretty much had been that way since he crossed the Mackinac Bridge about an hour back.

The stunning scenery flew by but he didn’t really notice it. It occurred to him that he was becoming immune to the vistas of pristine snow with their black-green frames of pine forest. He no longer saw the beauty in it, no longer found anything of charm in the stark serenity of the Michigan wilderness. Now, it all looked just…lonely. So incredibly, terribly lonely.

He passed through a tiny town, some speck called Little Bear, and didn’t slow down. It was like the countless others he had seen as he made his way north up the peninsula. Not a human being in sight. He pressed on.

A half hour later, he came to a sign announcing the city of Houghton. He glanced down at the map open on the passenger seat. Dollar Bay was just beyond.