P. Parrish - Dead of Winter

Bjork waited for more.

Louis sat back. Just say it. “I cut him loose.”

“You didn’t check on him? You didn’t put two and two together?”

“I didn’t know who he was. The name meant nothing. And the DOC had him listed as being in prison. It turned out to be a typo.” Louis let out a breath. “A damn typo.”

Bjork studied him.

Louis stared into his beer. “It was Christmas. I tried to do something decent.”

“Well, Louis, there is decent and then there is dumb.”

“Thanks,” Louis said.

“Did you expect sympathy from me?”

He met her eyes briefly then looked away. “I don’t know what I’m expecting anymore.”

“How come nobody in the department thought of him, thought the barricade situation would — ”

“I have no idea,” Louis interrupted. He stared at a set of carved initials in the tabletop.

“Louis,” Bjork said. “You will get him.”

He looked up at her. “Right.”

She shook her head and glanced at the bar. Her eyes lit up and she waved to someone, who hollered a friendly hello across the room.

Louis stared at her. “You like it here, don’t you?”

“I love it. It’s my home,” she said with a smile. “I mean, I’ve traveled some, lived below the bridge for a year even. But I always come back. I belong here.”

He could almost feel his mind slowing, slowing as it approached this strange bend in the road. Home. That’s what he had thought Loon Lake would be. A safe place that he could settle into. But it was not as it had first seemed. Nothing was as it first seemed. Loon Lake wasn’t a postcard paradise; it was a place of death. Jesse wasn’t a partner he could count on; he was a coward, his judgment clouded by blind loyalty to Gibralter. And Gibralter, what was he? Certainly not the perfect chief.

And Zoe…what he had felt with her. What was that?

“Louis?”

He glanced at Bjork. “What are you thinking?”

“About Loon Lake, the job. My chief.”

“I talked to your chief today. Strange man.”

“He called you?”

“Ya, wanted to make sure you arrived okay.”

“Christ,” Louis said under his breath, looking away.

They were silent, the laughter and music of the tavern floating around them.

“What else did he have to say?” Louis asked finally.

Bjork fiddled with the neck of the Stroh’s bottle.

“What else?” Louis pressed.

“He said he was concerned because you, quote, couldn’t find your ass with two hands, unquote.”

Louis felt the heat creeping into his face but he didn’t look away.

“Sounds like a hard-ass,” Bjork said.

Bjork reached across the table and touched his hand. Louis looked down at her hand. Her nails were short with chipped, rose-colored polish. There was one of those mother’s rings on her finger with three little gemstones. He withdrew his hand and dropped it in his lap.

Bjork sat back, looking at him. Then she quickly raised her bottle and drained it, setting it down loudly.

“Well, I need to call it a night. How about you? You okay?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Bjork stood up, looking down at him. Her eyes were watery in the neon light and he wanted to believe it was from the booze, no veteran-to-rookie sympathy. Or worse, some woman-to-man thing. Christ, he had started the night thinking about what Bjork might look like handcuffed to a bed and now she was looking at him like he was her kid.

“Lieutenant Byrd will have your evidence ready for you tomorrow morning,” she said. “Swing by and pick it up.”

Louis nodded.

Bjork hesitated then extended a hand. “It was a pleasure, Officer Kincaid.”

Louis took her hand. “Thanks, Bjork,” her said softly. “Thanks for everything.”

No doubt about it. He was drunk.

On the drive home from Dollar Bay he had stopped off at the grocery to pick up a six-pack of Heineken. It had taken only two hours to go through that and then he had moved on to the Christian Brothers.

Now he was sprawled on the sofa, staring into the dying fire in the hearth. Something in his fogged brain was telling him to go outside and get more logs but he was too tired to move.

With a grunt, he turned and reached for the bottle on the floor. He brought it up to his eyes, squinting. Empty. He stood and stumbled to the kitchen, jerking open the cupboard. Empty. No booze, no food, no woman, and soon, probably no job. What a shitty week.

Going back to the sofa, he grabbed a hooded sweatshirt, jerked open the door and headed to the lake. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe to just cut a hole in the ice and jump in. Hell, they wouldn’t find him until spring unless, of course, he floated up under some kid’s ice skate like Lovejoy had. That would be just his luck.

He was halfway to the shoreline when it occurred to him that he could be a walking target for Duane Lacey’s rifle. At least he was too drunk to feel the bullet.

Leaning heavily against a tree he stared blankly out at the dark lake. He had to stop this. He had to stop drinking so much. An image flashed into his head, his mother’s sunken face, leathery against the white pillow of her deathbed. For the first time he was beginning to understand how people could drink themselves to death. He ran a shaky hand over his face. No, he was just, what? Stressed out? Under pressure? Shit, all cops drank too much, didn’t they? He wasn’t like her. He wasn’t going to die like she did, liver eaten away, alone and scared.

He looked up. The moon was a sliver scythe in the black sky. Louis squinted across the lake, trying to make out the specks of lights, wondering which one was Zoe’s cabin, thinking about Jay Gatsby. Gatsby, the stupid putz who stood around mooning out at Daisy’s dock.

“Kincaid,” he said, “how in the hell could you be so stupid about so much?”

He heard a noise and spun around, trying to focus on the cabin. He saw a car and wondered why he hadn’t heard it pull up. He let out a breath when he saw Jesse heading to the cabin’s porch. Fucking traitor.

Jesse knocked, waited, knocked again. He started back toward his truck.

“Hey!” Louis called.

Jesse turned and Louis stepped out of the shadows. Jesse trudged out to him. “What you doing out here?” he asked.

“Looking for UFOs,” Louis said.

Jesse looked up, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his parka. Louis watched him from the corner of his eye. He was wearing a turtleneck and jeans, and his hair blown down across his forehead. Out of uniform, he looked like a teenager.

“What are you doing here?” Louis said.

Jesse shrugged. “I just wanted to know how it went in Dollar Bay.”

Louis eyed him coldly. “You can read the report.”

Jesse’s sigh came out in a long white vapor. “Look, Louis, I came here…Shit, I guess I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?”

“The chief was kind of rough on you the other day.”

“Aw gee, thanks for your support,” Louis muttered, starting back to the cabin.

Jesse hesitated then followed. “Maybe I should have said something, Louis, but it’s hard with the chief, the way he is about things. I mean, it’s a small department and I — ”

“You left me hanging out there by my balls.”

“There was nothing I could do!”

“Bullshit.”

“What?” Jesse asked, throwing his arms up. “What was I supposed to do?”

Louis faced him. “You could’ve told me about the raid. You could have told me about those kids. You could’ve told me about their fucking father!”

“I didn’t know he was out!”

“You should have! It was your job to know.”

Jesse spun away suddenly and started toward his Bronco. Then he stopped and turned, looking down at the snow. For several seconds he said nothing. “All right,” he said finally. “I should have known. I should have double-checked the fucking record.”