P. Parrish - Dead of Winter

“I loved you,” she said softly. “Was it wrong?”

“No,” he said.

She hesitated then nodded slightly. Her dark hair glistened in the sun, her eyes locked on his.

“When will you be back?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said.

The question was there, in his head, but he knew there was no need to ask it. Nothing was possible for them. He had known that when he walked up the hill.

He focused on her eyes, on her lips, her face, her hair, focused on every detail so he would remember. He would remember the taste of brandy on her mouth, the curve of her hip, the smell of patchouli.

She got in the Jeep. She looked back at the cabin, then at Louis.

“She might have gotten outside,” she said absently.

“I’ll look. I’ll find her for you.”

She nodded and started the engine.

“Goodbye, Zoe,” he said.

She smiled slightly. Then she put the Jeep in gear and pulled away.

He watched the Jeep disappear down the hill. He turned and looked back at the cabin. He let out a breath, so long and raspy that it hurt his lungs. He was so tired, a sudden hollow feeling overtaking him, as if the last of his emotions had drained out of him with Zoe’s departure. He started down the hill.

He didn’t know what made him stop and look back at the cabin. But when he did he saw something at the window. A small black form. A cat.

It sat there calmly, staring back, its eyes luminous slits in the sun.

He stared at it, transfixed. Its tiny pink mouth moved, a silent meow behind the glass.

Damn…

He went back into the cabin. The black cat came right to him, rubbing against his legs.

“Damn,” he murmured.

Picking it up, he put it in the empty carrier sitting by the door. Moving quickly, without looking back at the dim room, he left with the carrier, stepping back out into the sun.

He rubbed his arms, watching the coffee dribble into the pot. It was the last of the can and he knew he was only going to get one or two cups out of it. It was too cold to go out and get more and the Mustang hadn’t started in days anyway.

Something touched his leg and he looked down to see the black cat rubbing against his calf.

He pushed it away gently with his foot, thinking about Zoe. He had called several times about the cat but she had never responded. He assumed she had left for Chicago and finally had left a note in her mailbox, telling her he had the cat.

He glanced down at the animal. It sat staring up at him, its tail swishing slowly back and forth on the linoleum.

With a sigh, he looked back at the slow drip of the coffeemaker. Finally, he pulled out the pot and stuck the mug under the drip, staring out the window as he waited for it to fill. Frost obscured the windowpane. He reached up and used the sleeve of his sweatshirt to wipe it clear.

Sunny…first time in a week.

The pine trees stood tall and unmoving in their crisp green uniforms with their white epaulettes of snow. He shivered, glancing down at his feet in their old tube sox. His big toe was poking through a hole in the end. He used his other foot to turn the hole under as he pulled the cup from the machine. He stuck the pot back and walked to the table, sliding into the chair. Taking a sip of coffee, he picked up the stack of mail he had neglected for the last three days.

A large manila envelope caught his eye and he stared at the Detroit return address with no name. He opened it.

It was a copy of the Detroit Free Press, the most recent Sunday edition. As he snapped it open, a note floated to the table. He picked it up and read the unfamiliar scrawl.

Thanks. I owe you one. Delp.

P.S. How’s the weather up there?

“Jerk,” Louis muttered.

He looked at the front page. He couldn’t miss the big headline on Delp’s freelance feature story — THE KILLING SEASON. And the small blurb below that: “On a cold winter day, two teenagers were murdered. Five years later, the cops who did it are brought to their final justice.”

It was a long article but he read all of it, and when he put it down he was left with a begrudging respect for Delp. He had done a good job on the article. It was painstakingly researched and written with the sensitivity of a good novel, and between the lines anyone could read the unspoken theme: that the Lacey teenagers were not the only victims.

Louis dumped sugar into the mug and stirred the coffee, thinking about Jesse. He was facing felony murder charges for beating Johnny and conspiracy to cover up Angela’s death. Gibralter was dead, his reputation shattered. Zoe was gone, her life shattered. And he…

Louis sipped the coffee, thinking now of his own fate. Steele had dropped felony charges against him after Cole told the truth and recanted his statement about the Red Oak abduction. But Steele had still made an example of him, telling the TV reporters that “the actions of Louis Kincaid, while technically legal, were still unethical. I intend to pursue a charge of obstruction of justice, if only to ensure Kincaid does not remain a police officer in the state of Michigan.”

Louis poured more sugar into the coffee. It didn’t matter anymore. He had already quit. He would survive. He would survive, he told himself, if his bitterness didn’t eat him alive. He had warned Cole against it but he could see it happening to himself these last couple of days. He had changed somehow, on some very basic level, and it arose from something more than just what had happened with Zoe or even the fear he might never work as a cop again. He felt adrift, his faith in the power of his badge destroyed, the idea of what he was shaken.

Nothing was black and white, as he had believed, especially truth. Truth was nothing but different perspectives, refracted through the prisms of people’s pain. It was ever-changing, unreliable, not to be trusted.

He turned back to the rest of his mail, sifting through the junk flyers and bills. His eyes locked on a small envelope with a Flint return address. It was from Stephanie Pryce. He ripped it open.

The note was short, poignant, an acknowledgment for unraveling the truth about her husband’s death. She had added a postscript, the Churchill quote from Pryce’s funeral plaque. Louis read it, a hand rubbing his brow.

The only guide to a man is his conscience. With this shield, however fates may play, we march always in the ranks of honor.

He put the letter back in its envelope. Rising stiffly, he went to the living room. He stood for a moment, his lassitude threatening to overtake him. He felt something rub his leg and looked down. It was the black cat again.

“Don’t you have someplace to go?” he asked.

It was getting cold. The fire was burning down; he needed to go outside and get more logs. Slipping on an old pair of loafers and a University of Michigan jacket he stepped out onto the porch.

The bright sunlight made his eyes water, the cold air made his chest ache. He stared toward the log pile then paused, his eyes going out to the lake.

It glistened in the sun, its white blanket broken only by the ripple of a lone snowmobile. The sound of its motor drifted in to him, fading as it headed away toward the north shore. He walked down to the shoreline and stood looking out over the flat white expanse, his hands thrust in his pockets.

His fingers closed around something small and hard in his pocket. He pulled it out. It was a black stone, the snowflake obsidian Ollie had given him. He held it up to the sun. It is the stone of purity, that balances the mind, body and spirit.

More of Ollie’s words trickled into his mind, something he had said about finding his place, where he needed to be, something about water. What had he said?