Night of the Ice Storm

by Stout, David;

  Off to the other side of the main building was a small structure that had once been servants’ quarters. Now it was the golf pro’s shop. In front of it was the starter’s shed and the first tee.

  “Let’s see what’s what. Will.”

  As he walked with the publisher across the gravel parking lot where horses had once been cooled, Will heard cheerful shouts and splashes from the swimming pool behind the building. For a moment, he glimpsed the cool cobalt water, savored the tanned limbs of slender women and the joy of their children.

  Will knew that the publisher had pressured the city and county for tax breaks on the country club property, so that the club could more easily afford to see to the comforts of the dwindling ranks of the wealthy. And Will knew in his heart that the children he had seen on the city street not a half hour before were no less worthy.

  “Hurry up, Will,” the publisher said. “Getting hot in the sun.”

  The building was full of the sounds of hammers and power saws and smells of plaster and paint.

  “We’ve been promised it’ll all be done on time, so say a prayer,” the publisher shouted into Will’s ear.

  Will nodded; it was easy to pretend that the grimace he made from the noise was really a smile.

  The publisher put his hand on Will’s elbow and steered him toward the bar. The noise there was lower.

  A half dozen men knelt on the floor, their work clothes wet from sweat as they pulled up moldy old carpet and the tacks beneath.

  “This is long overdue, Will. We’ve waited too long to spruce up the old place.”

  Will wondered what the publisher had in mind when he said “we.” Will belonged to the club (though only because he was editor of the Gazette), but he didn’t come to it that often. He had never felt comfortable here.

  “The new carpet’ll be a royal blue, Will. Krause tells me it’s the best he has.”

  “Hmmm.” Emil Krause owned The Carpet Prince of Bessemer, the biggest rug and carpet seller in three counties, belonged to various boards and committees, and got his name in the Gazette a lot.

  A tall, well-muscled man in denim work clothes approached, his mouth twisted into a half-smile, half-sneer. Will recognized him and was on guard instantly.

  “Hey, Arkie! Long time no see.” The publisher shook hands warmly with Archangelo Grisanti, contractor, civic mover, Knights of Columbus leader. And pain in the ass, Will would have added.

  “Hi, Lyle. Good to see you. Hello, Will.”

  “Arkie, good to see you,” Will said cordially.

  “Say, that Hurley gal of yours is causing me a lot of grief,” Grisanti said.

  “How’s that, Arkie?” Will said.

  “‘How’s that …’” Archangelo Grisanti laughed and punched Will on the shoulder, playfully but almost hard enough to leave a bruise. “I’m just waiting for her next mistake,” Grisanti said. “That last one was a beaut.”

  “We ran a correction,” Will said. “Beyond that—”

  “If you feel wronged, our door is always open,” the publisher said. “That was my father’s policy, and it’s mine. You know you can call Will, Arkie. We recognize how misunderstandings can—”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Will said. He had been pushed onto a tightrope; he couldn’t go back, couldn’t stumble, couldn’t lose his nerve no matter what. “We need to be clear here. Jenifer made a mistake, but overall her stories have been fair and—”

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” Grisanti said.

  “Fair and above board,” Will pressed on. “And your company, Arkie, doesn’t come out too bad.”

  “Then why do I keep getting mentioned?”

  “Will, maybe he has a point,” the publisher said.

  Goddamn you, Lyle, Will thought. “You keep getting mentioned, Arkie, because the contracts do show a pattern. No, not a criminal pattern, we’ve never said that, but a political pattern.”

  It was bad enough to be on a tightrope, bad enough to have Archangelo Grisanti eager for him to stumble. Having the publisher watching and listening made it worse. Go on, Will told himself. No choice. Go on. “Look, Arkie, I know you pretty well,” Will said. “You know me. Okay? You got a beef, you call me. I always have spare time. Just ask Lyle.”

  The publisher and Grisanti both chuckled.

  “You can talk to me, Arkie,” Will continued in his best man-to-man style. “But I can’t pull the rug out from under one of my reporters.” Pause to breathe before taking the biggest step of all. “Lyle wouldn’t let me do that even if I wanted to.”

  Archangelo Grisanti looked at Will, then at the publisher, then back to Will.

  Yes, Will thought. I’ve won for now. I’ve won a reprieve.

  “All right, goddammit,” Grisanti said. “I’ve blown off my steam for now. The Gazette’s been pretty good to me, mostly. What the hell …”

  “You’ve been good to us, Arkie,” the publisher said.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Will said.

  “Tell me,” Grisanti said, leaning conspiratorially toward both his listeners. “Will, does your attitude have anything to do with the fact that the Hurley gal has one of the nicest set of tits in the city?”

  The publisher guffawed and slapped Archangelo Grisanti on the shoulder.

  Goddamn you, Will thought. Goddamn you a million times, Lyle.

  “I knew you’d understand that, Arkie,” Will said, punching Grisanti’s shoulder as hard as Grisanti had punched his. “But she’s still the best goddamn reporter in town.”

  “Especially now that Ed Sperl’s gone,” Grisanti said. “Damn shame.”

  “Yes,” Will said, wondering how many tickets Sperl had fixed for Grisanti’s drivers.

  “Well, look, time’s wasting. Arkie, why don’t you show us around,” Lyle Glanford said.

  “Let me catch up,” Will said. “I need to check out the plumbing.”

  “We’ll be on the second floor,” Grisanti said, leading the publisher away.

  The men’s room was one floor down. Will found the stairs behind a temporary partition of sawhorses and canvas. Yes, it had been a long time since he had been to the club. Everything seemed strange.

  The light near the bottom of the stairs was dim. Will held on to the railing. He caught a smell of mold. Damp. It was damp in the basement.

  He paused in the gloom at the bottom of the stairs. More partitions on either side of him. Dim light. He could barely see. He felt dizzy. The ancient basement had a smell that seemed familiar.

  Will thought he heard humming sounds from far away. Then he heard hammering sounds, far away. No, the hammering was closer now, closer. Whack, whack, whack.

  Where was the bathroom? Where? The light was so dim. Will felt hot and short of breath. Straight ahead, into a dark passage, the only way that wasn’t blocked off. The passageway smelled of ancient mold and decay. He felt afraid, as though lost in a nightmare.

  Near the end of the short, dark passage Will found a door. He turned the knob. Open. Yes, the gurgle of plumbing and a stink that almost made him faint. The bathroom, no doubt about it. It seemed so different. But the smell, the smell …

  He held his breath against the stench as he used the urinal that he could barely see. Then he rushed out into the gloom.

  Will leaned his back against a cold wall, cleared his eyes, breathed deep despite the smell. From far away, the sound carrying through the walls, he heard humming and hammering. Closer! There was a hammer noise that was closer. Whack, whack, whack.

  Have to get out, have to get out, back to light and fresh air.…

  Which way? There, canvas hanging, wooden sawhorses, behind the canvas more dark. Canvas smells of damp and rot; the touch of the canvas felt slimy on his sweaty arm.

  Here, down here, Will thought. Dark hall, but smell not as bad. Whack, whack, whack. Hammering noises all around him now, the noise filling his ears.

  Whack, whack, whack!

  Will wanted to scream like a child. Light and air. Need light and air. />
  Light! Under a door just ahead of him. Push on the door. Nothing. Find the doorknob, twist hard. Push with both arms, then harder with a shoulder. Push!

  The door burst open, and Will stumbled out, into the sunlight. He had come out of the basement onto a concrete apron near the driving range. Several players were hitting balls.

  Whack, whack, whack.

  “Buddy, you must be lost.” The young man who came toward Will wore a golf shirt and visored cap with the club insignia.

  “I was just, I was just using the john.”

  “Basement’s supposed to be closed off. Someone shoulda told you. Use the john next to the pro shop.”

  Will nodded, then walked around the outside of the main building, up a terrace, back to the main door he had entered with the publisher a short time before.

  Just before he went inside, he wiped his face with his handkerchief. The cloth came away from his skin soaking wet.

  The light in the study was on. Karen looked up from the computer. “Article idea for a journal,” she said. “Thought I might get to it when the reunion’s behind us.”

  “It can’t come too soon.”

  “Longer day than usual.”

  “Publisher didn’t think I had enough to do, so he took me out to see the club.”

  “Oh? The renovations are going all right?”

  “Yes. The paint should be dry, and we can be pretty sure no chunks of plaster will fall onto the roast beef.”

  “I left a couple of hot dogs on the grill for you. Kids are over at …”

  But he had already nodded and turned away. He took a beer from the refrigerator, slid open the door to the porch, and found the wieners still warm over the slowly dying coals. She had left buns, ketchup, and mustard on the porch table.

  He sat in a deck chair and took off his shoes. He was more tired than he had been in a long time.

  He heard the porch door slide open.

  “You don’t have to stop your work just because I’m home,” he said.

  “No. And you can be alone if you want. Shall I go back inside?”

  “No. I’m sorry. No.”

  She pulled a chair next to his and sat down. “Anything you want to tell me about?”

  What could he say? At the country club, I got pissed at a crooked dago contractor who tried to shaft me with the publisher and then made a lewd remark about a high-breasted young reporter for whom I have an overwhelming attraction.

  “Anything?” she pressed.

  And then I got lost in the dark basement and was terrified out of my mind because I guess I was thinking of something long ago that I can’t face.

  “Then maybe I should go back inside.”

  No! He put his hand on her forearm. She sat down, and he took her hand.

  “After this reunion is over, we are going to take a vacation,” she said. “The publisher is not going to stop us, and he’ll just have to find someone else to do the extra fifteen or twenty hours a week he takes for granted from you.”

  “A vacation? A real one?”

  “Somewhere with water and sand.”

  “The kids?”

  “We’ll leave them with my mother, at least for part of the time. She loves them, especially Cass. I haven’t worked out all the details yet, but we’ll do it.”

  She’s been thinking about this a lot, he thought. He squeezed her arm, feeling sorrow and guilt wash over his love.

  He finished his beer and squeezed the empty can. She reached over and took it out of his hand. “I’ll get you another. I’ll join you, in fact.”

  While she was gone, he saw sheet lightning, far away over the lake.

  “I saw that flash through the window,” she said, handing him a beer. “Feels like it could rain. The tomatoes could use it.”

  “So could the fairways.”

  “You haven’t played this year, have you?”

  “No. I have to practice. Dr. Hopkins said I should try to have fun.”

  “There you are. Here’s to fun.” She touched her beer to his.

  “I know I’ve been a load,” he said. “I’ll try to be more … more …”

  “Just be what you are. You’re Will Shafer. I didn’t marry you, didn’t go out with you in the first place all those years ago, because you were handsome or flashy. You’re not. But you are good and decent.”

  “I’ll get better for you.”

  “No. Get better for us, if you want to. Most of all, get better for you.”

  “I will. The doctor says the road I’m on goes only one way. I wish I knew where it led.”

  “Never mind. Just get there. Meantime, we have a reservoir we can draw on. It’s deep.”

  But not bottomless, he thought.

  “I can carry some of your load,” his wife said.

  “You have. You are.”

  “But you have to let me.”

  “I know.” But he knew he could never share his feelings about Jenifer Hurley. And he had not told his wife about the terror in the basement.

  Twenty-two

  Marlee found police headquarters a comforting place in an odd sort of way. The building was dirty-brown brick flecked with streaks of pigeon droppings and had been that way as long as she could remember. The inside had a smell she recognized instantly: a blend of tobacco smoke, burnt coffee grounds, and years of varnish and dust.

  Marlee had got a call from Detective Jean Gilman the day after her column about the prowler. Could she come down to headquarters for a chat? Marlee had said yes. But now her guard was up; she had enough commitments, personal and professional.

  The detective emerged from behind swinging doors. “Hi. Thanks for coming,” she said.

  “My pleasure.” Marlee shook hands and studied the somewhat square face framed by short brown hair.

  “Let’s go back here.” Gilman led the way back through the doors’ into a dark corridor and then to a small, cluttered office.

  “Can I get you coffee?”

  “Sure, black is fine,” Marlee said. Gilman had motioned for her to sit in a cushioned chair.

  Gilman set a steaming mug on the desk next to Marlee and sat in the chair behind the desk.

  Marlee blew on the coffee, sipped, waited.

  “I read your column all the time. I think you do a wonderful job.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You reach a lot of women, I’m sure.”

  “I hope so.” Marlee studied the detective: dark sweater, little makeup, pretty but (deliberately) not too pretty.

  “I found the column on your experience with the prowler really moving.”

  “It was from the heart, believe me.”

  “I know this may sound sexist, in a reverse sort of way, but I think most men are really incapable of understanding how vulnerable a woman is. Do you agree?”

  Marlee sipped, thought it over. She didn’t really want a heavy discussion. “I think men, decent men, understand. Intellectually, they do. They just may not be able to know how it feels to be a woman in a vulnerable situation.”

  “Yes, good distinction.”

  “Men don’t worry about being raped.”

  “Not unless they’re prison punks.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Okay, I asked you to come by for a reason. A favor, actually.”

  “I figured.”

  Smile met smile head-on.

  “Yes, well. I’ve been doing some work lately with rape victims. We’ve always had, as I’m sure you know, a hard time getting them to testify. Even in this day and age.”

  “I know that.” Marlee let her go on for a minute or so before saying, “Maybe you should tell me what you want from me.”

  “Frankly, we’re looking for a little publicity. We thought your column, that is if you think it’s worth it …”

  “Oh. A column about what you’re doing?”

  “That, and maybe some input from you. From having read you, I figure you’d encourage victims to help us.”

  Marlee thought a
bout it. Gilman was taking things right to the edge, saying she didn’t want to presume and then doing just that. Although anyone who’d read her column could figure where she stood, so maybe Gilman had a right to presume. “I can’t promise anything now, but I might be interested,” Marlee said at last.

  “Fine. I figured that. You’ll think about it, at least?”

  “Yes, I will. I almost never promise anything right away, you understand. Sometimes I have to bounce something off the editor. Plus I’m careful at first.”

  “You have to have a little skepticism. I know.”

  Gilman smiled—a good smile, Marlee thought.

  “Yes, well. If you do say yes, you might be able to sit in on some of the sessions. If the women say okay. Which I think they might.”

  “I wouldn’t use names, of course.” Marlee wondered if Gilman had already made some promises she wasn’t telling her about. That’s okay, Marlee thought. I don’t mind being used if I get a good column out of it, and if I know I’m being used.

  “Oh, I forgot to mention, one of our male detectives takes part.”

  “A man? Talking to women about that?”

  “Yes. Not all the women want to talk to him, but some are willing. And the husbands find him reassuring.”

  “He must be a special guy.”

  “Judge for yourself. I’ll introduce you.”

  Marlee followed Gilman back down the hall, toward the swinging doors, and into an office the size of a janitor’s closet.

  A man was sitting at the desk and talking into the phone. Thick, neat salt-and-pepper hair, trim mustache, lean face with hard angles. He wore a crisp white shirt that showed off his broad shoulders.

  Handsome, Marlee thought.

  The man said good-bye into the phone and stood up. “Ed Delaney,” he said, offering a hand and a smile.

  “Marlee West.”

  “Jean filled you in?”

  “Yes. I said I’d think it over.”

  “I hope you say yes. Listen, it’s good meeting you, but I have to run.”