The Night Is Cold

by Brandon Enns

  A melodramatic disturbance shaped his mate's face. "Don't say things like that."

  "Right. I'm sorry."

  Owen grimaced, then pulled out a Playboy from under his pillow. The cover had a young voluptuous woman bent over and collecting something up off the ground, near a motorcycle.

  Eli had made requests for books, and sometimes those requests were granted. Books were a nice distraction for Eli. When thoughts of wicked violence manifested, he would dive into research on any topic, it didn't really matter what. Non-fiction was better.

  "What are the odds we get paired up, eh? Pretty damn

  lucky I'd say," said Owen.

  "Luck has nothing to do with it. Their selection process consists of a randomized format, after factoring in the behavioral traits and crimes of the inmates."

  "Well, either way, I'm glad. You need anything? One of my licorice?"

  "I don't eat candy. You know this already."

  "More for me." Owen popped a piece into his wide mouth.

  There was a long pause. Steve still appeared uneasy. "It's just, I saw you talkin' to that guy. He's Syndicate. You never talk to nobody. You still have my back? 'Cause I got yours."

  A loud buzz sounded and their cell gate opened up automatically. It was yard time. More importantly, it was time for Eli to make a decision. Join the Syndicate or die. When, he didn't know for sure. He had survived this long due to his accord with the guards. He had a friend on the outside that paid off the guards, which would result in products for inmates.

  But he was losing some of his protection from other inmates as they gave up on their solo practices, the bribes no longer enough. Everyone was choosing sides. The guards couldn't be in his corner at all hours. There was a buzz around the Penn; a war was coming, and Eli could sense it. He didn't have to be told; he simply saw.

  ***

  Eli stood in the yard by himself on the west fence. From the east, a scrawny aboriginal man with underwear pulled high strode over. He asked Eli a very simple question. "We doin' this or what?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay, white boy."

  Eli nodded. Their locked-in stare continued. The gang member smiled, showing big blocky teeth. They were extremely white.

  "Danny P, you're gonna cut his throat. Or you can do it a different way," he laughed. "You got this?"

  "I got it."

  Murder would be the end of him. He'd be trapped there for the rest of his life.

  "Good shit, whitey, good shit." The gang member leaned in for a non-conventional handshake with Eli as they came in close for an awkward shoulder tap, Eli feeling a shiv being handed over to him. Holding a weapon made him feel alive again.

  "Follow me." He ambled ahead, stopped, and turned back. "Welcome to the Syndicate, cuz."

  As he turned his back to strut over to the other side, Eli had to choke down his desire. Pin the tail on the donkey never looked so fun. He remembered playing it on his eighth birthday. He was very good. Accurate and consistent.

  Eli's whole body pleaded. He gripped the shiv tightly. It was as though he hadn't drank water in two days, scorched by endless desert, and there sat a tall cold glass. Drink me.

  Eli pictured the shiv entering his back. The color of his blood, the serenity that followed. He would swiftly pull it out and cut his throat, exposing the levator-scapulae and the sternocleidomasoid. The thought nearly brought him to his knees with pleasure. I could make a stand here, and if I survive, I will start my own following. One with justice. I could clean this place up. No death penalty, no problem. I could make a life here.

  It made sense but wasn't enough. He had work to do on

  he outside and couldn't give up on that. Please. Don't. The shiv was clenched in his hand, ready to be plunged into the backside of the gang member, when suddenly his name was called. "BAKER!" yelled a guard from afar.

  He slid the shiv back up his sleeve hoping he hadn't been caught. Eli turned to face the guard, who wasn't approaching him. He walked slowly, making sure the shiv was securely in place. "What is it?" Eli yelled, still halfway across the yard.

  "Get over here now!"

  The walk over felt like forever, but finally, they were close enough to talk. "Your lawyer is here to see you, Baker. Make it quick."

  ***

  In an interrogation room, Eli looked across the table at his lawyer, Eric Dawson. He had a smirk on his face that didn't waiver. Mr. Dawson fit the bill of a so-called "sleazy lawyer," his hair slicked to the side and shining. Dawson was on the edge of the seat with what appeared to be good news.

  "You look well, Mr. Dawson."

  "I've got some good news, Baker."

  Eli shifted in his chair, wondering if his ticket, that sorceress, had come forward. "Did they accept my cassette player request?"

  Dawson laughed.

  "No, Eli, they did not accept your request. You're getting out."

  "What?"

  "They've found new evidence. I've already begun negotiations on a settlement with the government."

  Dawson was squirming in his chair. Surely, he'd be getting

  a pretty penny out of the deal.

  "Aren't you excited?"

  "I'm ecstatic," said Eli rigidly. Eli was ecstatic. His next breath in was a long one, but he didn't show any signs of pleasure.

  "It could be north of twenty million, Eli."

  He didn't care about the money. He would get his old welding job back anyway. Perhaps the cash would provide him with proper resources though. "How did this happen exactly?"

  He knew exactly how it happened.

  4

  Staff Sergeant Brian Peters watched his TV in the top corner of his office. A news reporter on CTV was positioned outside the Saskatchewan Federal Penitentiary.

  "A surprising twist in the case of Eli Baker took place today. Reports are confirmed that Mr. Baker, accused and convicted of murdering Tanner Pearson, the son of former Premier Dwight Pearson, will be released. The brutal attack took place ten years ago, and the province of Saskatchewan is shocked to hear that new evidence has come forward supporting Eli Baker's innocence."

  Eli walked through the gate, and there wasn't a soul in sight to greet him. The reporter continued on, "It is expected that Mr. Baker will see a settlement of at least twenty million dollars in mental and physical damages from his ten years served in Saskatchewan Federal Penitentiary."

  The news was hardly welcomed, given that Brian was the lead officer on the case, and the one to arrest Baker. It was all coming undone.

  Brian was startled by Jennifer Allen standing in his doorway. She was always pestering him for something. That girl, nosing around for special treatment at every turn.

  She wasn't above the job, nor was she above anyone else in the office. It seemed as though she needed consistent reminding of that fact. Patience was not one of her qualities, and it had to be. She was on the cusp and he didn’t want to rush her into his Major Crimes unit without being ready.

  She stood there in the doorway with her hand on her hip,

  leaning on one leg.

  "What do you need, Allen?"

  "A legitimate case, if you got one."

  "Not enough on the west side for you?"

  "Was hoping for something more elaborate, sir."

  "More elaborate...what would you prefer, Allen? You want me to hire someone to leave riddles and bodies scattered across the province?"

  She looked over at his desk, which had a donut box, one left. Classic glaze. He had been saving it for later.

  Eye on his desert, she smirked.

  He closed the top of the cardboard box, picked it up, and extended it to Jennifer.

  Brian had been trying to cut back, but his diet was failing,

  his belly telling the tale. He had once had the full package, handsome and athletic, but now he had become a cliché from one of many detective TV series’.

  "You're not gonna eat that?" she asked.

  "No."

  She waved off his offer, and he
dropped it in the trash. "Cutting back," he said.

  "What you got now?" Brian asked

  "There was a stabbing last night on Avenue P. Suspect and victim both came from the same bar. Going to check with the neighbors. Scene went down near the victim’s home."

  "Well good then. Let me know how that goes."

  An awkward silence filled the air, and she wouldn't leave. Go on, get. Scat.

  "Sir, I will, but I thought I was going to be utilized full-time. Or is that not happening anymore?"

  “What do you think this is? I’ll tell you what it is. Another

  addition to your resume if you handle it properly. You’re not ready.”

  Her face was tense. “I’m ready.”

  "I don't know what to tell you. Major Crimes has a handle on the workload as of now. There aren't any higher profile cases leftover and when you’re not with me, I need you writing tickets. This isn’t exactly protocol, what we’re doing. Maybe a touch more appreciation and a lot more professionalism is in order.”

  Her face reddened.

  “Take care of this one, we debrief, and you get back on the road. I'll let you know when anything elaborate comes up."

  "You handled the Baker case, right?"

  "Christ, Allen. Get out of my office."

  She lingered, half-turned for the door.

  Brian turned away. "I'm gonna start my P90X. You can stand there and sulk if you want. I'll give you five minutes of viewing time and then I need you back out there."

  Jennifer exited after being foiled. It wasn't his job to make sure she felt of great importance.

  Brian laid a mat down and began his core routine. As he knelt down on the mat, he felt a familiar pull in his lower back, an injury that had nagged him for years. His physiotherapist had been telling him to work on his lower core and flexibility, but he was never able to commit for longer than a couple weeks at a time. Still hunched over in pain, the secretary walked in to get a nice view of his backside.

  "Oh, sorry sir.” She was probably mortified.

  "Get my water bottle, will you?"

  "Yes, of course, sir."

  She exited, leaving Brian in the same position. "So

  hungry," he whispered under his breath.

  ***

  Brian leaned up against the boards with a whistle in his mouth, watching his peewee hockey team skate through a flow drill. His kids were choppy and heavy footed. There was no effort shown to counter their deadened legs. The team's last game was a pathetic showing with much of the same, and they ended up winning by one goal when they should have dismantled the opposing team. He watched them screw up a drill for the last time before blowing his whistle in three short, angry bursts.

  "Get in here!"

  They skated in and took a knee. He waited silently, the buzz of the overhead lights interrupted by a cough.

  "I'm almost at a loss for words, guys. Back-to-back games now. Losses don't bug me. It's the lack of effort. I don't ask for a lot. I ask for hard work. I hope for execution. It doesn't always come, but the effort, that should come every goddamn time! I thought I'd let you guys figure it out. Flow drills, special teams, fuck it! Shinny! Would you guys like some music while you play?"

  Brian's breath rose in the cold air as he glared daggers at each kid individually. "Quit wasting my fucking time!" Most flinched. Some lowered their heads.

  "Clearly I should have trusted my instincts. And my instincts are that we should skate. Oh, yeah. We should skate until they turn the lights off in this miserable barn."

  In the back of the group, Brian spotted two kids whispering. He skated over and looked down on them.

  Bitter memories of their last game leaked into his mind once more.

  "Line up. Red line, blue line. We're gonna be here a while, gentlemen."

  None of them dared to groan at the order.

  A short, blonde woman trudged around the end boards and jumped over to get to the players' bench. Brian skated over.

  His wife, Susan Peters, was short and cute but had put on a little weight along with him. She charged over like a bull. Now he was one of the kids.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  "You know what I'm doing."

  "Very macho, Brian. These kids are twelve years old. What's the matter with you?"

  "I already told you."

  "I'm so sick of this shit. You know who deals with the parents?"

  Brian rolled his eyes and immediately regretted it.

  "Don't you..." Susan sighed. "You just don't seem to get it."

  "This is about the trip, isn't it?"

  She scoffed, looking up at the lights. "Yes, Brian, it's about the trip."

  Brian pretended not to hear the sarcasm and continued on with the theme. "We will get another chance to go. I just can't right now with work. You know it isn't a good time."

  "Yes. I know."

  The dog house now belonged to him. He needed to salvage something. "Let me take you out this weekend. That place you like. Please."

  He had clearly not won her over with his Hail Mary.

  "Good?"

  "We'll see."

  Brian blew his whistle and slapped his stick on the ice while he stared at his wife. He flashed a big grin to try and win her over. It usually did, but not this time.

  "Dial it back." Her voice was flat and angry, indicative of sex that would go unpracticed tonight.

  He turned back to observe the work ethic of his little soldiers. Connors was dragging behind. "Connors, are you kidding me? Get your fat ass in gear. Let’s go! I wanna see dinner on the ice, if that's what it takes!"

  He turned back to watch his wife leaving the rink.

  Stick on the ice, he burst forward with two quick crossovers. Big Brian skated ahead of the group to the blue line. He hammered on the brakes, spraying snow.

  5

  His truck still had new car smell. The tires crunched over the packed snow as he pulled into his long driveway. There was not a neighbor within a ten-mile radius. He had a large section of land behind his home. His solitude was vast and white. The fresh powder out back had been taunting him to purchase a new snowmobile, just to try once. He remembered some of the kids in his old neighborhood using the alley behind his house. They all had nice machines. He liked the sound as they zipped by. The smell of the exhaust was pleasant too. But there was no room for self-indulgences like that.

  Eli approached the paving stone. He had already shoveled and swept it clean. He parked before the stone in order to avoid making tracks. The thought of doing so was discomforting to say the least. The snowy treads packing it on, repeated tracks built on top over and over again, forming an icy shell. He clenched the steering wheel, looking out at the paving stone.

  Instead of walking through the front door, Eli sauntered around the back of his house to the elevator shaft that led to both the basement and then another basement. He stepped into the corrugated steel shaft and pressed B2 to go to the second basement level. When the doors opened, he sucked in the frigid air and slapped his leather gloves together, making a loud smack.

  Straight ahead, there was only enough light from the

  elevator to illuminate cement pillars along the sides, the rest was hidden in the pitch black. Eli liked it dark. He retrieved a flashlight that was hung up in the elevator and walked to the back of his dungeon, lighting a large metal contraption. His oven. To the left of it lay a metal door on a wooden table, some welding equipment organized on the cement floor next to it.

  Eli put on his welding mask and gloves before grabbing the torch. He began welding the door, the flame lighting B2.

  ***

  The drive from Eli's to Naicam was about two and a half hours. His acreage was a thirty-minute drive southeast of Saskatoon, which was perfect for him because it was not too far from work. He liked the short drive to think about things. Eli drove past the Welcome to Naicam sign, his mind now clear of any contemplations.

  There was a row of spruce trees silvered and wei
ghted with snow. He passed a machine shop, and then a John Deere dealership. After a short stretch of highway, the town had come and gone. Something was stirring, but it was not nerves, nor was it excitement. What it was could not be described with exactness. Perhaps it was an awareness of his true identity, a hint of elation resting in his heart. He took a turn off the highway and continued down the gravel road, his car quiet thanks to a recent muffler replacement.

  Eli sat parked by a bluff of trees separating him from the old farmhouse. He reached into the glove box and collected his baseball gloves. He liked how they were smooth on the inside yet provided a great deal of grip on the outside. Then, the baseball bat. Unmarked. His brand.

  He flitted around a line of spruce trees to the far side of the

  house toward the back. Eli was on a mission that had been previously scoped and assessed.

  He arrived at the back entrance of the house. Using a lockpick set, he managed to gain access after a few minutes. Eli checked the living room and kitchen but found nothing. He moved down the hall and checked the bedrooms and bathroom. Nothing. He glided back toward the entrance, where the basement steps were calling to him. He could hear the TV playing on a low volume. Maybe he's asleep on the couch. Eli turned the corner but found no one there either. As he moved toward the laundry room, a cat scurried up onto the couch, making his heart jump up into this throat. The cat had a mouse in its mouth.

  He tried to call the cat over, but it ran away toward the laundry door, dropped the mouse, turned, and hissed. Kudos.

  ***

  Derek Reider rolled out from underneath a grain truck in his shop. A stereo system played a country song. He walked to his toolbox. The bass rumbled the walls. He dug for a differently sized wrench, then looked upward, trying to think of a song he had heard on the radio earlier that day. He was pissed with himself for not writing it down. While his mind searched, something caught the corner of his eye. He jolted at the site of a man standing in the entrance. The man was creepy, with a shaved head and goatee.