Castillo Linda - Outsider

The boy raises his arm, but it’s shaking violently. He reaches for the branch, but his sleeve is soaked and heavy and he misses. His gloves are wet, hindering him, and his coat is waterlogged.

“Datt,” he squeaks.

“Grab it.” Adam says the words equably, but I see strain and alarm on his face. “God is with you. Stay calm.”

Bracing one arm on the ice to keep himself from being pulled down by the weight of his coat and skates, the boy tries again. His hand breaks through some of the small branches, fingers clutching and ineffectual.

“Both hands,” I tell him.

Sammy lets go of the ice and lunges, tries to grab the branch with both hands. But the branch crumples, his glove catching and sliding off. His hand smacks the water. His shoulders sink. Water washes over his face. His head goes under.

“ Mein Gott. ” Adam slithers closer. Too close. The ice gives beneath his elbows. Water rushes over the surface, soaking his coat. He doesn’t seem to notice the shock of cold or the danger of his position.

“Here!”

Gina’s voice. Behind me. I look over my shoulder, see the sturdy branch in her hand. Quickly, she drops to her knees, then dives onto her belly and slides toward the boy. She’s closer to him than Adam or I, coming at him from the opposite side. Gray water washes into her coat, but she pays it no heed. Clenching her teeth, she sweeps the branch across the ice with such force that it nearly strikes the boy, but she stops it just in time.

“Grab it!” she shouts. “I got you! Grab on.”

The boy’s head breaks the surface. He’s sputtering and choking, beginning to cry. He lifts his hand to grab it, but the waterlogged glove weighs down his arm.

“Shake off your glove!” I shout. “Grab the stick!”

The boy slings off the remaining glove, makes a wild grab for the length of wood, gets it on the second try. Small blue fingers cling to the branch. Adam scrambles closer to Gina. The ice groans beneath their weight. He’s shoulder-to-shoulder with her and takes the stick from her.

“Hold on tight!” Adam gets to his knees, wriggles backward, pulling. “I’ve got you, son. Hold on. Don’t let go.”

At first the ice crumbles beneath the boy’s weight, his body acting as an icebreaker. Adam continues to pull and finally the ice holds. The boy’s shoulders, hips, and finally his legs emerge until he’s facedown on the ice.

Adam scrambles to his feet, bends, and scoops up his son, wraps his arms around the boy. “I’ve got you,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

I sidle away from the hole on my hands and knees. Still on her belly, soaking wet, Gina scoots away from the hole in the ice, using only one elbow due to her injury. When I’m a safe distance away, I get to my feet. Watching her, realizing she risked going through the ice herself to save a little boy she barely knows, I’m moved. The punch of emotion that follows surprises me. That’s the thing about Gina. She’s loyal to a fault and sometimes it’s all or nothing. It’s one of the reasons I loved her.

Bending, I offer my hand to her. She takes it, her glove dripping. She winces as I pull her to her feet. For the span of several heartbeats, we stare at each other, breathing hard. When her face lights up with a grin I can’t help but return it.

“Don’t get cocky,” I tell her.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Turning away from her, I work off my coat and follow Adam. The Amish man carries his son to the bank, water dripping, the droplets turning the snow gray. Gina walks beside Adam, her hand on the boy’s forehead, making eye contact with him, talking softly.

Annie and Lizzie huddle next to the lacing stump, watching. Annie has begun to cry. Lizzie looks on, frightened.

The three of us reach the bank at about the same time.

“Get that wet coat off him,” Gina tells Adam.

Next to the fire, Adam drops to his knees, lays the boy on the ground. With shaking hands, he struggles to remove his son’s sopping coat. All the while murmuring gentle words in Deitsch, letting Sammy know he’s going to be all right.

The sound of Sammy’s cries shakes me. Sweet Sammy, whose voice never ceases to fill the empty spaces around us. His body shakes violently. His legs and arms vibrate against the ground as if gripped by a palsy.

“It … b-burns, Datt,” he says.

Gina goes to her knees beside them, her coat already off. Once the boy is free of his coat, she thrusts hers at Adam. “Put it on him.”

Adam drapes her coat over the boy’s wet shirt and suspenders. “You’re going to be all right,” he says tightly.

“We need to get him to the house,” I tell Adam. “Get him dry.”

“ Ja. ” Nodding, the Amish man scoops the boy into his arms and breaks into a lumbering run toward the house.

Both girls have begun to cry, so I go to them, put my hand on Annie’s shoulder and give it a squeeze. “He’s going to be okay,” I tell them. “He’s just cold. Come on. We’re going to need to get inside, too, so we can put some more wood in the stove.”

CHAPTER 20

Damon Bertrand detested wholesome little towns with their steepled churches and bow-tie merchants. He’d grown up in a town just like it—less the Amish and tourists—where farming was the mainstay, the cows outnumbered the people, and the best job a man could hope for—if he wasn’t a farmer, anyway—was shift work down at the auto-parts factory in the next town. The day he left for college he swore he’d never go back.

There was one motel in Painters Mill and it was a dump replete with 1980s décor, a breakfast buffet with a commercial-size waffle iron that was invariably surrounded by kids, and carpeting that smelled of sweaty feet and dog piss. He and Mercer had checked in upon their arrival and then headed to town.

Not for the first time since they had embarked on this most unpleasant of tasks, he found himself thinking about retirement. Florida was looking better by the minute. With or without his wife. His kids were practically grown and had become strangers to him in the last few years. He doubted they’d miss him. Who was he kidding? They probably wouldn’t even realize he was gone. No, he thought darkly, as they idled down Main Street, there wasn’t a single person, place, or thing he’d miss about Ohio.

Bertrand fingered the steering wheel and looked out at the bleak winter landscape. The one good thing about a small town was that it would be easier to find someone. Folks were friendly, helpful, and unsuspecting. And Colorosa was the kind of woman people remembered. Not because she was beautiful or flashy or some nonsense like that. No, Gina Colorosa was memorable because she possessed a larger-than-life personality, a big laugh, and she never shied away from the limelight. Women generally hated her. Men loved her, maybe a little too much. Gina just loved Gina; she looked out for number one—and fuck the lot of them.

The sun had made a short-lived appearance earlier, but a bank of clouds roiled on the northern horizon. According to the weather service, the area was in for another round of snow this afternoon. Hopefully, he and Mercer would get a line on Colorosa quickly. If she’d stopped for gas or gone into a pharmacy for first-aid supplies, or stopped for food—surely someone would remember.

As challenging as finding her might prove to be, it wasn’t the most difficult task they faced. Making contact with her in just the right way was going to require finesse. She wasn’t some dumb criminal or rookie cop. Not by a long shot. Gina Colorosa was wise to the ways of the world, as street savvy as any hustler, and a survivor—with nine lives to boot. She was unpredictable. When the time came, she wouldn’t go down easy.