P Tracy - Snow Blind

But first he had one last piece of business to take care of, and he hadn’t for one second considered leaving it undone. He’d spent the last three years stewing in a cell, thinking about it, waiting for the day, and now the day was here.

So he’d cleared the snow away from the exhaust pipe, then crawled back into the car to warm up a little before his trek; see if he couldn’t dry out his shoes a little. He’d turned the heater on high, leaving the window open a crack so he wouldn’t gas himself to death.

A good move, he thought, because the heat had put him right to sleep for a solid two hours – it was three a.m. already – and chances were, the new snow had blocked the exhaust a while back.

He shut off the car and climbed out the window for the second and last time, and started walking. He didn’t know where the hell he was, but he knew where he had to be. Back to the lake, then just follow the shore, because if there was one place in Minnesota you’d find some kind of civilization, it was anywhere near water. Damn lakeshore property sold for a small fortune, even at the tippy-top of the tall state. The lake wasn’t that far back, and maybe slogging it wouldn’t be so bad.

You live long enough in prison where the lights are on all the time, you forget what real dark is like. Even in a landscape buried in white, you had to have a little illumination to reflect off it, or you were walking blind. The moon was ideal – lit up the world like a big strobe in the winter – but even starlight was enough when you had this much snow. But there was no moon, no stars, and he had to work at staying on the road to find his way back.

He found the lake after half an hour, but already, he couldn’t feel his feet. The snow around the lakeshore was even deeper than it had been on the road, crawling up over his knees, soaking his jeans and then freezing them solid, until they scratched his calves every time he took a step.

Another half hour, and most of his face was stiff and the nerves had shut down, and still he hadn’t seen a single house, a single structure of any kind, except the ghostly shadows of fish shacks on the ice he’d passed earlier. A lot of them had heaters, and, Lord, he’d been tempted, but he couldn’t go back there.

Fifteen minutes more and he decided that this was the biggest lake in the state, the only one without houses on it, and that he was going to die. The funny thing was that it wasn’t even that cold out; not by Minnesota standards. Ten, maybe even fifteen degrees, and freezing to death in that kind of balmy winter temperature would be just plain embarrassing.

So he pushed on for another agonizing ten minutes, veering away from the lakeshore, up a shallow hill to a flat, empty field that seemed to go on forever. The hill, shallow as it was, had damn near killed him. By the time he got to the top he’d fallen twice, his lungs were burning, and the sweat was freezing his hair to his forehead. That’s when he started counting steps instead of minutes, and he knew that was a bad sign. Bend a knee, he told himself, then let the thigh muscles scream while he lifted a foot he could no longer feel above the snow, then stop to breathe and cough and then do it all over again with the other leg. He stopped counting at five, because he couldn’t remember the number that came next. And that’s when he saw it.

Such a dim, tiny light, barely visible in the distance through the falling snow, maybe a mirage, but maybe not. He started counting steps again.

It wasn’t exactly the kind of shelter he’d been hoping for, but it was out of the wind, a few degrees warmer than the outside, and by God it was going to save his sorry life, and the truth was that for the first time in a long time, he had a lot to live for.

Payback, he thought, stumbling around on half-frozen feet, feeling his way in the darkness with half-frozen fingers until he found what he needed to survive the night.

Iris Rikker hadn’t been up before the sun in ten years, and she didn’t like it. By the time she stumbled her way through the dark bedroom to the wall switch, she’d cracked her elbow on the dresser and stepped in a fresh pile of cat vomit.

‘Shit. Shit.’

The offending cat materialized when the light came on. She was sitting near her little surprise, blinking her startled pupils down to pinheads.

‘Puck, you puke,’ Iris muttered, then hopped on one bare foot into the bathroom and stuck the other one in the sink.

The water was freezing. Iris sucked air through her teeth when it hit her foot. It would take long minutes for hot water to rise two floors from the ancient heater in the basement, and she didn’t have extra minutes this morning. New water heater. It was first on the list of home improvements she might be able to afford now. That was something, at least.

Even the sound of running water couldn’t drown out the breathy wail of the wind around this north corner of the old farmhouse. Icy pellets of sleet dived out of the dark to tap at the bathroom window, where a layer of frost had built up on the inside wooden sash again. New windows. Maybe that should be first.

She scowled at the sleet hitting the window as she dried her foot, thinking about moving to California, or Siberia – anywhere she could count on the weather to be reasonably consistent. Two days ago she’d ridden her bicycle the quarter-mile to her mailbox; yesterday the mailbox had disappeared under a foot of snow; this morning a new storm front was adding a coating of ice to the mix, just for openers.

The cat waited until Iris was sitting on the toilet, then came into the bathroom and simply stood there, staring at her.

‘Voyeur. Puking voyeur.’

Puck blinked at her, then came over to rub against her legs. Iris chose to interpret this as a kitty apology, and stroked the thinning black fur. The cat was fifteen this spring, and probably shouldn’t be blamed for the occasional uproar of an aging digestive system. ‘Poor Puck. Don’t you feel good?’

The cat began to purr, then promptly threw up on Iris’s other foot.

It was six a.m. and still dark when Iris finally went downstairs to the kitchen. She wore the clothes she’d laid out the night before after an agonizing hour of indecision. Black slacks, white pullover, and a black blazer waiting, draped over the back of her chair. She had purplish smudges under her eyes this morning, and makeup wasn’t helping.

She was in the middle of her first cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal when the phone rang.

‘Is this Iris Rikker?’ a male voice asked.

‘Yes, who is this?’

‘Lieutenant Sampson. We’re down at Lake Kittering, public landing, you know where that is?’

‘Uh…’

‘North shore, just past the courthouse, right next to Shorty’s Garage. We’ve got a body.’

Iris stood absolutely still, connected to a brand-new world by the length of a phone cord. She took a breath. ‘I can be there in half an hour.’

‘No, you can’t. The roads are shit. But don’t worry. This one isn’t going anywhere.’

The click of a sudden disconnect made her blink. She eased the receiver back into its cradle, then took a step back from the phone and hugged her arms. She looked around at her cozy kitchen – white cupboards, dark green wallpaper, a jug of dried flowers on an oak table. It smelled like fresh coffee and the cinnamon candle she’d lit last night. It was a nice kitchen – a homey farm kitchen – and phone calls about bodies didn’t belong here.

There was a full-length mirror on the inside of the closet door, and Iris looked into it as she pulled on a pair of moon boots she’d had for ten years and a black parka she’d bought last week. Something old, something new, she thought, wondering why she looked so small this morning; a little blond-haired woman with blue eyes too big for her face and very pale skin.