Snowball

by Gregory Bastianelli

  It looked like it was waving at him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Mason Drake was fuming inside, irritation gnawing at his innards over the fact Joy had given that woman’s kids the Christmas gifts they had bought earlier tonight. He knew he couldn’t protest without looking like a dick, so he bit his tongue and kept his annoyance buried. Maybe his wife could read his eyes, or his body language. If so, that was good. He wanted her to know he was pissed she had done that. The whole reason they had ended up stuck in this storm was because they took the time to get those gifts at the department store.

  Now she had given them away, so it was all for nothing. And here they were, crammed into this vehicle with a bunch of strangers, listening to their tales of winter woes. He hoped no one else had one like that Clark guy. Mason didn’t believe for a second most of the guy’s far-fetched story. It seemed more suited for an October night around a campfire than Christmas Eve. Hell, even he could top that if they wanted to hear about a crappy winter.

  “Who would like to go next?” Francine asked, as if reading his thoughts.

  Mason looked around at the others, hesitating to see who else might have something to share. The stringy-haired Salvation Army guy, Felker, looked uncomfortable, fidgeting in his seat across from him. He had locked eyes with Mason a couple of times since they’d got inside the RV and looked agitated. Mason smelled booze on the guy. He had a good sense for that, spending all those years checking on his parolees. They could never pull one over on him. He knew this guy wasn’t going to speak up.

  Clark’s friend, Graham, who sat beside Felker, held a smile that Mason thought looked like a cover-up. Hiding something, Mason suspected. He seemed to be in too good a spirit for the mess they were in. Over on the couch, beside Clark, the kids’ mother appeared restless. Mason could tell she liked that Clark guy, had noticed her inching a bit closer to him. But her face looked grim right now, and Mason felt she had a story in her past she didn’t feel like sharing.

  “Anyone?” Werner asked from the front of the RV.

  “I’ve got one,” Mason said, realizing no one else was going to make an offering. He sensed Joy’s eyes upon him but did not acknowledge her attention. She knew what story he was going to tell, had heard it before many years ago. “My worst winter memory happened when I was a teenager.”

  Mason had been returning from skiing one winter night with two of his buddies, Selden Crockett and Trent Cronin. It was after midnight. The trio had spent a long night on the slopes taking runs up until the final lift. Selden had brought a wineskin filled with cinnamon schnapps. It had been a great night on the mountain, crushing black diamonds and impressing some of the snow bunnies. They even went off trail a couple of times, making sure the ski patrol didn’t notice, and cut some virgin paths through the woods. Selden usually took the lead on those. He was the crazy one.

  It was exhilarating but exhausting and Mason was dozing in the front passenger seat on the way back, with Trent driving. Selden was still jacked up a bit, sitting in the back seat but leaning up over the front between the two of them, reliving some of the highlights of the night with a laugh.

  Mason remembered wishing he’d just shut up. Sometimes Selden could be a bit much, especially when everyone else was winding down. He just didn’t seem to have a cool-down button.

  The car was barreling down Route 115 and Mason never noticed Trent was drifting. He was probably just as tired as Mason, and maybe Mason should have been a better copilot considering how late it was. The curve in the road came up suddenly, and when Trent realized the tires were crossing the fog line, he overcorrected. They hit black ice and the car went sideways.

  Mason had always heard about how car accidents happened in slow motion, but it wasn’t the case for him. He looked at Trent’s face concentrating on getting the car under control, but out the driver’s side window the frozen lake loomed large and before he knew it the car was flipping.

  Mason reached out, trying to brace himself, at the same time wondering if he had his seat belt on. The crack of the ice as the roof of the car hit it was sharp, like a thunderclap, and the next thing Mason knew, icy water was pouring around him. How he got himself upright and oriented he wasn’t sure. He didn’t even know how he got out the door. He just remembered standing waist-deep in frigid water, but the adrenaline pumping through his body kept him warm. He didn’t feel the cold.

  The wheels on the car were still spinning, just above the hole in the ice the vehicle had plunged through. The bank of the lake was just a few feet away, and Mason made for it without even thinking of the others. Damn you, Trent, he thought as he reached the shore. What the fuck have you done?

  Once on shore, he realized Trent was beside him. He hadn’t even noticed him getting out of the car or running through the water. It was all just crazy. Looking at his friend, he had the sudden urge to break out laughing. Maybe because that was what Trent was doing, as if the whole thing was one big riot. But as he started to join Trent in the hilarity of the fucked-up situation they just escaped, he realized Selden wasn’t with them.

  They both looked back at the car and starting screaming his name.

  But Selden wasn’t there.

  That’s when things began to finally slow down. The rest of the night became a haze. Someone in a nearby house had heard the crash and called for help. Police, fire and ambulances arrived. Under protest, Mason and Trent were put into an ambulance and taken to the hospital. If he had hypothermia, he wasn’t feeling it. He wasn’t feeling anything, just numbness.

  His parents picked him up at the hospital and when he got back home, he drove to the scene of the accident. A small crowd was still gathered across the road from the hole in the ice. The car had been towed away, but rescue divers were still in the water.

  Even at his young age, Mason knew it wasn’t a rescue anymore. It was a recovery.

  Some kids from high school were among the dwindling crowd, but no one approached him. That was good. He wanted to stand this vigil on his own. And he wouldn’t leave. He ended up not having long to wait.

  They brought Selden’s body out of the water, his sandy hair slicked back, his face pale, frozen arms outreached as if waiting for an embrace. They laid his body on the side of the road, and the stiffness of it struck Mason as fake, like a mannequin.

  Put your arms down, he thought as he looked at what was left of his friend. You look like an idiot, put your arms down. Selden’s hands were clenched into fists.

  Mason wanted to yell, scream, run from the scene.

  But something kept him there, waiting until they took his friend away.

  Mason didn’t think any part of this horrid event could be any worse. But the next day, he heard that the divers found Selden’s body way out toward the middle of the pond. The authorities figured he swam out of the car and became disoriented underwater, unable to find the hole in the ice the car had broken. They said he must have felt around the ice, looking for the hole, but kept swimming farther away from it.

  Was that why the arms on his frozen body were raised, his hands balled into fists? Was he trying to break his way through the ice?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Joy caressed her husband’s arm, surprised he had shared that story and wanting to comfort him, knowing how difficult a tale it was for him to tell. She knew the story still bothered him, even waking him from an occasional nightmare, especially on those cold winter nights when a fierce wind blew.

  Seeing his distressed expression when he finished his story made her regret even more what had happened with Jerome at her office party. Joy looked at her husband’s soft eyes and thought she didn’t deserve him. She needed to be better.

  He didn’t look toward her as she admired the lines on his face, the strength of his bearded jaw. He was a strong man whose heart was still softened by that horrible memory.

  Joy knew exactly how he felt. She was s
omeone who could relate to that and he knew it. Maybe that was what had brought them so close in the first place when they’d met so long ago. They didn’t share right away, but when the time was right, it turned out they were both haunted by similar tragic stories. It became a bond, something they both had endured alone, but the relationship they forged allowed them to share that pain.

  She wouldn’t share that story tonight. No, not with these people. That was one difference between her and Mason. She still kept her story between the two of them.

  The fact that her story involved a night of skiing was beyond ironic. It was one more thing to connect them. Her friend was named Quinn Bowie. Not a boyfriend, just probably the closest male friend she’d ever had. They always joked about hooking up some day as the two of them traipsed through the tribulations of young adult life, giving each other helpful advice with endless attempts at securing a meaningful relationship, and being there for comfort when those failed miserably.

  But they remained just friends, and it was probably better that way, not to move beyond that boundary and risk losing what they had. Because what they had was perfect, but it didn’t prevent her from wondering.

  That night on the mountain was just another example of how much she enjoyed their time together. If only a suitor could provide that much contentment. Quinn was the one who taught her how to ski. He convinced her to eschew taking lessons and let him bring her up to one of the ski areas in the state. He was patient and considerate, never getting frustrated with her as she took tumble after tumble before finally getting the hang of it. And once she did, they spent many nights, often on the spur of the moment, heading to the slopes when neither of them had other social engagements.

  Quinn was an accomplished skier, and she learned a lot just trying to keep up with him. He liked to go fast, but never left her behind, making sure he reined it in enough for her to keep up, even when it meant sticking to the intermediate trails instead of the black diamond ones he preferred.

  It was the last run that awful night, when Quinn convinced her to try one of the more experienced trails. She sat beside him in the chairlift with butterflies in her stomach. But somehow, he soothed her, removing most but not all of her fears. He made her feel safe. On that ride up the ski lift, she started to wonder if maybe they shouldn’t try to be more than just friends.

  They were off the ski lift in a flash and Joy was amazed she was able to keep up with him as they swooshed down the slopes. It was a good thing it was so late that there was hardly anyone else on this trail. It made it easier for her not having to worry about running into another skier. She knew Quinn could go much faster, but was glad he made sure not to get too far ahead, looking back over his shoulder every now and then to make sure she was okay.

  It was one of those glances back at her when Quinn must have hit some bump or icy spot in the snow, and soon his body was flailing. He tried to regain his balance, but at that speed it was no use and he pitched forward, slamming into the ground and barreling over several times.

  When he finally came to a stop, near the edge of the trail, Joy headed for where he lay, surprised she was able to keep her composure enough to concentrate on what she was doing. She wasn’t too concerned at first. Quinn was a great skier, so she was sure he knew how to take a tumble. It couldn’t be the first time he had fallen. She almost expected him to pop up laughing before she even reached him.

  He did manage to push himself up on all fours by the time she came to a stop by his side. Joy didn’t get a chance to even ask him if he was all right. She heard a gurgling sound, and as he lifted his head, she screamed.

  Quinn’s ski pole had snapped in half during his fall, and the jagged end had been thrust into his throat. Blood was pouring out the wound, even as Quinn brought his gloved hands up around it, trying to stem the flow. In the light cast down from the lampposts on the trail, she could see a stream of blood flow down the slope from where he kneeled. In the dimness of the night, the blood looked black, as if Quinn’s shadow was melting.

  Joy often thought about what she could have done different. Maybe if she had tried to find something to wrap around the ski pole in his neck to staunch the flow of blood, he wouldn’t have bled to death on the mountain slope in front of her. But all she did was scream for help. By the time it came, it was too late.

  So the fact that she and her husband had suffered separate tragic losses as a result of a night of skiing was an odd occurrence to bond over. But it somehow brought them together, and right now, as this horrible storm raged outside, trapping them in this vehicle, there was no one she would feel safer with than Mason.

  But she would not share her story with the rest.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Lewis Felker played with the brim of his Salvation Army cap, which rested on the table in front of him. He listened to these people’s stories, thinking they knew nothing of horror. Some old man dies of a heart attack in the woods. Big deal. And what was that hogwash about a dark figure following them through the forest? What was that pretty boy trying to insinuate? That someone had come to collect his grandfather?

  Felker shivered.

  He thought about the figure he had seen in the snow tonight and its apparent resemblance to the Iceman who slaughtered all those people years ago. Could this Clark guy have seen the same man Felker had when he was a boy? Or was it all a strange coincidence? There were too many bizarre things going on tonight, and it made him want another drink.

  If they wanted him to share his story, that’s what it was going to cost them.

  Felker cleared his throat, and everyone’s heads turned toward him.

  “I have something to tell,” he said in a raspy voice. “But I’m a little parched right now. Something to soothe the gullet would be helpful.” He shifted his eyes back and forth between the Volkmanns.

  “Why of course,” Werner said, getting up from his captain’s seat and sauntering over to one of the cupboards above the refrigerator. He took down the bottle of bourbon, unscrewed the cap and poured a healthy amount into Felker’s empty cocoa mug.

  The old man smiled down at him as Felker licked the top of his chapped lip. He brought the mug to his mouth and took a swallow. It ignited his mouth and was hot going down his throat. It was his turn to smile.

  “Anyone else like some?” Werner asked, glancing around.

  “Sure,” Mason said, offering his empty mug, which Werner gladly filled.

  That was what Felker was afraid of, and he glared across the table at Mason. He didn’t want others horning in on what little booze probably remained in the RV. Especially this guy who didn’t even want to drop a few bucks into his Salvation Army pot but had no problem spoiling his kids with last-minute Christmas gifts. Besides, Felker might need a few strong belts to get through his story.

  “I had a horrid winter one year,” he began, “back when I was a much younger man.”

  It was nighttime that long winter ago, when Lewis Felker and his friend Brodie Kane went snowmobiling on a trail off Route 107. The two had met in rehab, both trying to kick alcohol addiction. It didn’t work for either of them and once they finished their preliminary stint at the facility in Manchester, they hung out together, usually at dive bars.

  Felker’s brother-in-law owned a snowmobile that Lewis used to borrow some winters, back before he went into rehab. One night, he convinced his relative that his stint in rehab had changed him, and the guy reluctantly let him borrow the snowmobile again. It was a mistake.

  The moon was full and reflected off the smooth snow of the trail the night Felker took Brodie out for a ride. They drank the whole drive to the trailhead, where they unloaded the snowmobile and Brodie jumped onto the seat behind him. Trees lined both sides of the trail that cut through the woods. Felker had the snowmobile cranked as it sped across the snow, its headlight beam piercing the darkness to guide the way down the narrow path. He could hear Brodie laughing
behind him as they picked up speed.

  Up ahead the trail curved to the left, but Felker knew a path shot off from the trail into a farm field. It was a shortcut he had taken before, and it allowed him to really rev the machine up across the open field and then pick up the trail again on the other side.

  He slowed the sled down slightly, not wanting to miss the cutoff.

  “Hang on!” he yelled over his shoulder to Brodie, who continued laughing.

  The opening was there, and as Felker steered the machine into it, he could see the open field about fifty yards ahead. He let out a laugh as he gunned the throttle and the snowmobile shot forward. He knew he could catch some air coming out into the field if he got his speed up enough. He wanted to scare the shit out of Brodie.

  As the machine raced toward the opening, Felker grinned madly.

  The moonlight glinted off something ahead.

  Felker’s face froze in mid-grin. It was barbed wire.

  He had no time to slow down, no time to hit the brakes. He only had time to shout “Duck!”, and then he dropped his head down beneath the protective shield on the front of the snowmobile. The machine tore through the barbed wire fence and it did get airborne, rotating a quarter turn to the right side, and his body went flying.

  Felker landed in the snow, about thirty feet into the field. The snowmobile continued on past him another fifty feet before landing upside down in the snow, the engine sputtering out.

  I don’t feel anything, Felker thought. No pain, I’m not hurt. He was afraid to move at first, lying on his back in the snow, looking up at the stars in the night sky and the bright moon that had probably saved his life. I’m okay, he thought. I’m really okay.