P. Parrish - Dead of Winter

Louis shook his head in disgust. “Get out of here. I’m done listening to your bullshit excuses.”

Louis staggered past him to the porch. Jesse hesitated then caught up, grabbing Louis’s arm. Louis jerked away and pushed open the door. Inside, he kicked off his wet shoes and went to the sofa, dropping down onto it. He heard the door close and knew Jesse had followed him.

“Look,” Jesse said slowly, “I know I should have said something in your defense but if I had opened my mouth Gibralter would have canned me. And I couldn’t take it if I couldn’t be a cop anymore.”

Louis looked up at him. “What makes you think you ever were one?”

Jesse stared at him. “You know, I’ve had about enough of your shit,” he said.

“That makes two of us.”

“Come on, man! Cut me some slack!”

“You fucked up!”

“So did you!” Jesse yelled.

Louis closed his eyes. It was quiet. He heard a squeak of the floorboards and opened his eyes. It took him a moment to focus on the bottle in front of his nose. His eyes went up to Jesse’s face above him.

He took the bottle of Jack Daniel’s from Jesse, unscrewed the cap and took a swig. He grimaced and handed it back to Jesse. Jesse retreated three feet to perch cautiously on the arm of a chair. In the long silence, Louis felt the whiskey burn a path down his throat to his empty stomach. For a moment, he thought he was going to vomit. He opened his eyes to see Jesse holding out the bottle again. He waved it off.

“Why didn’t you quit?” Jesse asked quietly.

Louis shook his head. “Can’t…”

“Why?”

“He’s still out there.”

They fell silent. Luis shivered and reached down to pull the afghan over his chest.

“You got any wood?” Jesse asked, glancing at the cold fireplace.

Louis shook his head. Jesse waited for Louis to say something. Finally, he rose. “I gotta go,” he said. “Julie’s waiting up.”

Louis looked up at him, frowning. “Huh?”

“Julie. She was the one who told me to come over here, said she was tired of listening to me bitch about it.”

Louis squinted at Jesse. “Any more of that shit left?” he asked, nodding toward the bottle.

Jesse handed him the Jack Daniel’s. Louis took a drink and handed it back. Jesse took a swig.

“Whiskey’ll kill you,” Louis mumbled.

“Better than that cough syrup you drink,” Jesse said, nodding toward the empty Christian Brothers on the floor.

Louis pulled the afghan up to his chin and shivered. For a long time the cabin was quiet.

“Julie…” Louis said. “She like you being a cop?”

When Jesse didn’t answer, Louis looked over at him. He was still perched on the arm of the chair, picking at his fingers.

“I guess,” Jesse said. “I met her giving her a ticket. The first time we did it she made me leave my uniform shirt on. Said it made her feel like she was doing something criminal.”

Louis laughed softly.

“Why’d you ask about that?” Jesse said.

“No reason.”

“Shit, everything you said or do has a reason attached. You seeing someone?”

Louis shook his head. Jesse took another drink and held out the bottle. Louis waved it away.

“Can you talk to her?” Louis asked. “About the job, I mean.”

Jesse paused then nodded. “Yeah, most of the time.”

They fell silent again. Louis knew the booze had pushed him past his limit and that he was dangerously close to getting sloppy. But as much as he needed someone to talk to, he wasn’t about to let Jesse see him that way. As much as he needed to talk about Zoe he wasn’t ready to tell Jesse. He closed his eyes, drifting, drifting down…to sleep, he hoped, to blessed sleep.

He heard a sound, the door opening and closing. Jesse had left. But after several minutes, there was a thud. Louis opened his eyes to see Jesse kneeling to dump an armload of logs onto the hearth. He watched as Jesse stuffed newspapers into it and slowly prodded a fire to life.

The warmth curled slowly toward him and Louis extended his legs toward it. “Thanks,” he said.

“I wasn’t going to let you lay here in the dark and freeze to death and you’re too shit-faced to go outside and get some wood,” Jesse said.

“Yeah, why make Lacey’s job any easier than it is?” Louis said.

Jesse stared at him for a moment then laughed. Louis joined in. Finally, they stopped.

“You’re one sick mother,” Louis said.

“You’re the one who said it,” Jesse said, falling into the chair and uncapping the Jack Daniel’s. Louis watched him as he drank.

“You scared?” Louis asked softly.

Jesse didn’t look at him. He nodded then took another drink.

Louis rubbed a hand roughly over his face. “I found out some good stuff up in Dollar Bay,” he said.

Jesse looked relieved to talk business. “Like what?”

“He’s got survival skills, learned them as a lurp.”

“A what?”

“Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol,” Louis slurred. “They dropped the suckers from choppers in ‘Nam and they had to find their own way out of the jungle.”

“What, like some kind of test?”

“No, in combat,” Louis said, struggling through the booze haze. “Phillip said they were nuts and — ”

“Who’s Phillip?”

“My foster father. He said — ”

“You were a foster kid?” Jesse asked.

Louis yawned. “Bjork said that Lacey was a natural — ”

“Who’s Bjork?”

“Sheriff in Dollar Bay,” Louis murmured. “Great hair, little gold earrings…”

Jesse stood up, palms up. “I don’t want to hear this. You can tell me tomorrow.”

Louis tried to push himself up from the sofa. Jesse put a hand on his shoulder. “Stay there. And get some sleep. You’re gonna feel like shit tomorrow.”

Louis nodded, closing his eyes.

Jesse reached over and pulled the afghan up over Louis. “See you in the morning, partner.”

CHAPTER 23

Louis pulled the page out of the typewriter, his report on Dollar Bay finished. As he read it over for typos, he realized that his hand was shaking.

He let out a slow breath. That was it, no more heavy drinking like last night. He couldn’t afford to be off his game right now. He started to reach for his coffee but instead went to the water cooler and gulped down his third Dixie Cup of water.

He was crumpling the cup when Gibralter came in, unzipping his parka. Gibralter spotted Louis, gave him a curt nod and headed toward his office.

“Chief?” Dale called out.

Gibralter turned.

Dale hurried forward, holding out several pink slips. “Mr. Steele called again, twice this morning.”

Gibralter took the slips, crumpled them and tossed the wad to the trash. It missed and bounced to the floor. “Jesse here yet?” he asked Dale.

“In the locker room, sir.”

“Tell him I want to see him.” Gibralter looked at Louis. “You, too, Kincaid.” He disappeared into his office.

Louis poured a fresh cup of coffee. His eyes went to the pink paper on the floor and he picked it up. He unfolded it and stared at Mark Steele’s name, wondering what the calls were about. Was Steele trying to offer help in the investigation? Louis tossed the papers in the trash. Any help would be welcome at this point, even from an asshole like Steele. Picking up his coffee he went to the mailbox, pulling out the single paper from his slot. It was Lovejoy’s phone record. It must have come back while he had been in Dollar Bay.

Going to his desk, he put on his glasses. Most of the numbers appeared to be local but two stood out. The first was 578-7770, which Lovejoy had called every day at nearly the same time, 6:35 A.M. The last day he called it was on Sunday, December 1. The other number was 578-3482, a call made at 10:30 P.M. on November 30.