Ted Wood - Murder on Ice aka The Killing Cold

At last I made my decision. I had an advantage that Irv Whiteside had never earned. I know grenades. I have thrown my share of them. I know you've got a count of four to get out of the way when the pin is pulled and the lever flies away. In four seconds I could be around the corner of the cottage and flat on the ground where splinters wouldn't hit me. I decided to try it.

There was a jumble of prints against the back door. I stood there a moment, weighing alternatives. Then I pulled off my snowshoes, laying them flat, out of harm's way, and grasped the handle of the door. With my guts clenched into a tight ball I slammed the door open and threw myself for the corner of the cottage, rolling as I fell, curling my body around the corner out of the way.

I had a whole second left. I waited, pulling tight into the snow, aware of the nonstop hissing of the new snow drifting down on me. Nothing happened. I waited thirty seconds, then stood up. This time I opened the door calmly. Then I pulled my flashlight and checked the crack in the door for any sign of a trip wire connected inside. I couldn't see one. It seemed to me that was the way they would have set the trap, using a string which would be tightened as the door opened. There are other ways, better ways, but trip wires are the closest thing to foolproof.

When I was sure there was no trip, I lifted the flap on the right side of my hat, leaving the ear exposed, drew my gun, and pushed the door open another foot with my knee. Nothing happened. No metallic click alerted me to dive for safety. Moving quickly, I slid in around the door and dropped into a low crouch.

I was in the kitchen of the cottage, in darkness except for the beam of my light. There was nobody here. Under the door I could see the faint orange wedge of lamplight from the room where I had left my prisoner. I pushed the flashlight back into my pocket and opened the door slowly and carefully, checking for devices. There was nothing to see and I slammed the door wide open and jumped in, crouching low.

My prisoner was in the room, still cuffed to the log box. He did not move and there was no sign of anyone else in the room. I kept my gun at the ready and searched the cottage, bedrooms, closets, everything. There was nobody there but me and the prisoner, who still had not moved. I put my gun away and went to look at him.

His head was turned away from me, lying with one cheek on the stones surrounding the stove. I didn't like the look of him. He was too still. Had I hurt him more badly than I thought?

Still wary, I crouched and knelt on his free hand, then rolled his face toward me. He was dead, but it was nothing I had done. Someone had battered him with a log from the box. He had a massive injury over one eye and a second wound, a depression in the region of the temple. Blood had seeped out and matted, drying on the stones and sticking his hair to the surface.

I checked for a pulse automatically, even though I've seen enough corpses to know that this battler had thrown his last karate chop.

I did the only thing that made any sense-unlocked my handcuffs and put them back in their pouch. There was nothing to be done for the dead man, this side of an inquest, anyway. I had nothing to gain from staying here. I pulled the curtains over the window in case there was a sniper out there waiting for a clear shot at me. It didn't seem likely. They would not have drawn a bead. They would have thrown another grenade through the window once I was inside. If they had any more. But I was nervous and I did the only thing I could to protect myself.

There was a telephone on the kitchen wall. Not surprisingly, most of our island cottages are owned by wealthy people. They can afford the luxury of a phone cable even when they still go along with the anachronism of oil or gas lamps. A phone line is cheap, hydro lines for adequate power cost thousands to install. I picked up the phone and dialed the emergency number of the Ontario Provincial Police.

The voice at the other end said, "Corporal Reinhardt," and I felt better at once. I knew Harry Reinhardt. He was the station officer who contacted me when there were missing kids or stolen cars that might end up in a backwater like Murphy's Harbour-routine stuff. I'd struck up enough of a phone friendship with him to have had him and his family fishing up here last fall. He was a steady guy.

"Harry, this is Reid Bennett at the Harbour."

"Hi, Reid. Hell of a night, what are you up to?"

"I'm up to my axles in trouble, is what. I've still got that kidnapping and homicide I called you about, but now I've got two more homicides to report."

"Two more?" His voice went up an octave.

"Three altogether. The strangling, a blast victim, Irv Whiteside, the guy who runs-make that used to run-the Lakeside Tavern, and now a guy who called himself Nighswander, blunt instrument."

"Jesus Christ." He took a deep breath. "What in hell's going on?"

"It would take all night to explain but it started with the kidnapping. I need some troops, and I need 'em bad."

"Listen, Reid, we've got nothing moving right now, but I'll put you through to Parry Sound. Talk to the Inspector, he's the senior man tonight."

I thanked him and waited and another voice said, "Inspector Anderson."

"Chief Bennett, Murphy's Harbour. Inspector, we've got big trouble here." I gave him the outline and he asked a few questions-good questions that made me admit I had no idea what was going on or where it was likely to end, but that it could go on some more and maybe leave us with another corpse-the Carmichael girl. I didn't add that it might leave me dead in the snow. He would think I was overdramatizing.

He paused and I bored in. "I need your help, Inspector. I need a roadblock on the highway, north and south of the turn-off to the Harbour. And I'd like a check of motels for a vehicle towing an empty snowmobile trailer. It might give me a lead on the people involved."

He snorted an officious little laugh. "So you need help. You're into something you can't solve with a gun and you come crawling to the proper authorities."

"I'm not crawling, I'm following authorized procedures." I could guess what he was going to say and I wanted it over so we could go back to being two policemen on parallel courses instead of haughty parent and delinquent child-me.

"Authorized procedures are for me to be responsible for my own region, not for some Wild West war hero who stirs up a mess and then comes running."

"Let's skip the editorials. I'm doing the same as you-my best. I've been chasing down the disappearance of a girl. Now it's gone beyond one man's ability to handle and I'm asking for expanded help."

"Just like you did last summer, when we had to come up and bail you out."

That finally made me mad. "You couldn't bail out a leaky punt. Your men arrived in time to find me with all the troublemakers laid out like cordwood. All they did was get their names in the goddamn paper."

"That's it." He was gleeful now. "That's what you're after, publicity, glamor. You're not a policeman, you're a goddamn amateur."

"Cut the crap." It is not the way to speak to OPP inspectors, but he was way off limits. "I've carried out my duties here to the limit of my abilities. Now I'm asking you for the extended care you're paid to provide. Are you going to do it or not?"

"Who the hell do you think you're talking to?"

I had never met Inspector Anderson, but I could imagine him at the other end, veins swelling in his neck above the clean white collar he hadn't had to soil by climbing cabins and fighting with potential killers. I could see his clerk, some OPP constable, looking on respectfully while he thundered.

"I think I'm talking to a professional peace officer who has sworn the same oath as I have to uphold the same laws and to assist other police departments as requested. Is that true or isn't it?"