Richard Hawke - Cold Day in Hell

“You hear that? She’s still alive.”

“Step away!”

Ross trained the light on Megan for a few seconds, then again on the body lying at his feet. “She’s alive, Detective. I’m sure she’d be very grateful to you if you’d help her out.”

He reset his foot on the woman’s back and grunted as he shoved. The body rotated easily. Three quarters of a turn and she dropped cleanly off the dock, landing with minimal splash in the black water. Ross trained the flashlight on her. The bound legs swung down and out of sight. Her hair fanned out on the surface. In the flashlight glare, the top of her head resembled a softball. It followed swiftly after the legs.

Ross flicked off the flashlight. “Your call, lady.”

MEGAN’S CLOTHES TOOK her down. Even without her coat and her shoes, which she had frantically pulled off, her saturated clothes took her down like an anchor. She hadn’t expected it. She groped for the sinking body but found nothing. She didn’t even know if her eyes were open. There was nothing to see. Total blackness. Megan thrashed at the water.

She was flying.

She was floating.

She was swimming.

She was sinking.

Dark as the grave, Megan thought, sweeping her arms in front of her. Dark as the womb. She was already lost. Up. Down. Her lungs were holding, but the shock of the water’s temperature-delayed at first-arrived. It attacked her like cold knives slashing at her skin.

Her limbs were already losing feeling. Was she flexing her fingers? She thought maybe. All the switches were being flipped off. Megan could not have imagined anything this cold.

She kicked her feet. She groped. She gathered the blackness into her chest. Her lungs were beginning to ache. And she knew what was happening.

Josh.

Her brother’s face appeared to Megan as if it were right there in front of her, as if it were inside an illuminated bubble. For weeks and weeks he had pulled her out of herself, dragged her back into the light and sat there with her, coaxing her back. Patient. Loving. Loyal. Oh, Lord. Josh. Please don’t look at me now. All your efforts. Your sweet efforts.

She felt ashamed.

Failure is cold and black.

Megan’s arms crossed back and forth over each other. There was no seeing them at all. There would be no more seeing. She was kicking her freezing feet. Going where? Out to sea? And for what? She imagined herself grabbing an armful of slick weeds at the bottom and holding tight, curling up to them.

Her lungs were hurting badly now, as if a corkscrew were working its way into her chest. This was a fool’s end. She scissored her legs one last time, kicking with all her remaining strength. Arms outstretched, fingers splayed, Megan kicked and opened her mouth as wide as it would go.

ALAN ROSS DASHED across the snow. The poor woman. She had looked pathetic, struggling to strip off her overcoat, as if the sleeves were suddenly three times too long. She was so small, he doubted she’d have the strength to pull Tracy out of the water even if she got the chance.

Ross went around to the front of the house and let himself in the front door. His fingers went automatically to the house alarm, but halfway through the code, he realized that the alarm was not activated. He frowned. He couldn’t remember if it was he or Gloria who had been the last one out the door on their most recent trip. It wasn’t like either of them to forget the alarm.

Ross was dying of thirst. He started for the kitchen then veered into the dining room, where he fetched a bottle of Dewar’s from the liquor cabinet. He took the bottle into the kitchen and dropped a few ice cubes into a tumbler and poured the glass three quarters full. Swiftly he took it down to a quarter in one gulp.

There were a million questions but no time to find answers. If the police detective didn’t freeze to death or drown, she’d be back on the scene any second. With or without Tracy. Frankly, he hoped it was with. He couldn’t afford to have Tracy Jacobs’s body washing ashore somewhere. He had to return to the original plan. If need be, he would deal with the detective in the same manner. It was getting so complicated . Ross stared hard into his glass. The one piece of information he’d like to know was whether the detective was the only person who had pieced the murders together, or if there were others. The good news was that she had apparently come out here alone. This suggested she was on a cowboy mission, rushing out by herself, like a fool. Ross prayed he could be so lucky. If Lamb was the only one wise to him, it was still possible he could manage events to keep himself safe. If not…He wasn’t ready to think about it. He’d have to disappear. How the hell he was going to do that, he didn’t know. If it came to it, he’d figure it out. Problem. Plan. Execute. It’s what he was all about.

Ross finished off his drink and slammed the glass down hard on the counter. Fuck you, Marshall! He downed another half glass then went into his study and, using a key from the top drawer of his desk, unlocked the narrow closet on the east wall where he kept what Gloria snidely referred to as his “coon gun.” An old Winchester pump-action.22, less for raccoons than for squirrels and groundhogs, which seemed more plentiful in these parts. Ross wasn’t anything near a full-fledged hunter. Sometimes he liked sitting out on the patio with the rifle propped up on the banister. Point and shoot. Squeeze and kill. It was so easy. Anyway, there were more squirrels and groundhogs on the planet than necessary. Ross enjoyed the pump action. What normal, healthy guy doesn’t like the pump action?

Ross glanced out the window at the boathouse. No movement that he could see. He had to get back out there. If the detective did make it out of the water, he needed to be there waiting for her. Squeeze and kill. Ross went out into the front hall. What he saw there made him stop cold.

Rosemary Fox was descending the staircase. She was in a neck brace and was wearing one of Ross’s own bathrobes, the belt tied loosely. Her semi-wet hair fell down over her half-exposed breasts. Her face was horribly bruised. The expression on it was dreamy, serene. The corners of her mouth turned up in a smile. The eyes didn’t join in.

“Alan?”

Abruptly, the front door opened. A man was standing there holding a pistol in his hand. Ross swung about, his rifle hip-high, and fired.

THE BRASS MALLARD NEXT to my face tore off the door. The wood splintered, and I took a few shards on the face. I leaped to my left into the house, performing a complete-if clumsy-roll, then a second one. Anything so long as I was a moving target. I came to a stop on my elbows.

Alan Ross was standing at the foot of the stairs, pumping his rifle. Behind him on the stairs stood Rosemary Fox. She wore a green bathrobe, and the fingertips of her right hand rested lightly on the banister. A huge bruise dominated her face.

I brought my gun up. Ross fired before I could, but his shot sailed over my head. I sighted on him. Rosemary Fox screamed. “ Alan !”

I held my shot. Ross darted to his left, disappearing into the next room. As I scrambled to my feet, Rosemary Fox took a poor step. Her feet came out from under her and she landed sideways on the stairs, bumping down to the bottom step. I dashed past her.

Ross was slamming through a swinging door at the far end of the room. The kitchen. I crossed quickly and caught the door as it was swinging closed. Ross knew the house. I didn’t. He wouldn’t knowingly trap himself. The kitchen led elsewhere. My guess? Outside.

Or the garage.

I retraced my steps at a dead run. Rosemary Fox was still on her fanny at the bottom of the staircase. Her robe had fallen open. She looked like a serious lush.