Dead Of Winter (The Rift Book II)

by Robert J. Duperre

  Fear. Billy’s mind repeated the word over and over while he darted toward the prison’s front entrance. He threw open the front door and jumped into knee-high piles of snow. His head lifted to the sky. It was a complete whiteout. The storm dropped pellet-sized flakes with such intensity that he couldn’t see more than ten feet in front of him. He didn’t care. He knew he had to go to the place where he first gained his impenetrable inner strength, where he first realized the uselessness of letting his phobias rule his life.

  Philadelphia. Home.

  * * *

  After two days of trudging through the stifling white mess in seemingly eternal darkness, Billy realized that a three-hundred-mile journey through a blizzard, on foot no less, was a pipe dream. The optimistic part of him had hoped that the outside world would be a picture of normalcy compared to SCI Greensburg, that the conditions in the prison were the result of an isolated incident, for some reason unchecked by the local government. The empty streets, devoid of life, showed him how wrong he’d been. So he turned back towards Greensburg proper, steering for the town this time and not the prison, though he found it difficult to hold back eleven years of hard-formed habit.

  When the weather breaks I will start up again, he reasoned. His extremities burned from cold, which was bitingly indifferent to his efforts to stay warm. Even with four pairs of socks on his feet and his hands wrapped with towels beneath heavy-duty mittens, nature’s anger won out. Frostbite would overtake him if he didn’t find shelter soon.

  He trudged down the highway exit ramp and turned the corner into the center of town. A strong gust of bitter wind forced the tumbling flakes to fall sideways. Ice had formed on his beard and snot froze in his nostrils. He waddled deeper in the now thigh-deep heaps of white, headed for an abandoned strip mall. The howling storm roared in his ears, threatening him with its baritone wails. The abandoned cars on the side of the road had become mountains of frosty powder. There were no signs of life to be seen. He was completely isolated.

  At a large storefront display he stopped and considered the mannequins positioned inside, still dressed in the newest fall clothes and frozen forever in blithe poses. This particular store seemed to have been abandoned in a hurry, which offered him a sliver of hope, as the others he passed had long ago dropped their protective steel gates, leaving them inaccessible. He wiped frost off the window and peered into the darkness beyond. There was no movement, at least none he could see. He waddled his way to the front door and pulled on the handle. It rattled against its deadbolt, locked tight. Billy sighed, swung his bag from behind his back, and withdrew the pistol. He lifted his elbow to shield his face and swung the weapon’s butt in a strong downward motion. The glass, weakened by the cold, shattered upon impact. Huge chunks rained down from the frame. A large shard ripped through his jacket and slightly gouged the flesh on his forearm. He winced in pain, bit his lip, and clutched the wound with his off hand. It stung to high heavens. He hoped it didn’t bleed too much.

  The air inside the shop reeked of must and decaying textiles. It was only a few degrees warmer than outside, but at least he’d be shielded from the wind and wetness. He stepped forward. Glass crunched under his booted feet. A breeze struck him from the left and he turned towards it. The window beside the display that had first caught his eye had been smashed in. A six-foot-high snowdrift tumbled inside. He glanced at his injured arm and shook his head. So much for my thoroughness, he thought.

  “Hello? Is anyone here?” he yelled as he came upon the shop’s center aisle. He cupped his ear and waited for a response. None came. Racks of clothing flanked him on either side. He snatched a scarf from one of them, peeled the sleeve from his right arm, and wrapped the gash. The bleeding had already begun to slow. A relieved whistle escaped his lips. The wound wasn’t too deep, and would heal on its own. He tied a knot in the scarf, removed the flashlight from his pack, and delved in deeper.

  “Nobody home,” he sang as he pushed through the swinging doors at the rear of the shop and entered the stockroom. He shivered. He needed to get warm. Scanning the racks of dust-covered, left-behind inventory, he found something that would suffice; a propane-powered space heater. He checked the fuel gauge. It was half-full. He scooped the device into the crook of his arm and went in search of a reasonably comfortable place to lay his head.

  Through the next set of doors he found what appeared to be the manager’s office. A diaphanous green carpet covered the floor. Motivational posters were tacked to the walls. In the center of the room was a desk. Paperwork littered its surface. An instant of sadness surged through him. This desk shall never be used again, he thought. These posters now serve as inspiration for ghosts. Billy shook his head and forced away these musings. There would be no hopelessness for him, at least not now. He had better things to do.

  He proceeded to the other side of the desk, found something there, jumped back, and yelped. It was a body, sprawled out on the floor, covered with tattered blankets. He placed the heater on the ground, grabbed his firearm as a safeguard, and approached it. He pulled back the blanket, revealing the one hidden beneath. It was a boy, and though he couldn’t come to an exact estimate given the dirt and grime that covered his face, he guessed his new bunkmate couldn’t be much more than a teenager. The boy’s chest rose and fell with regularity. He smelled like a sewer.

  “Son?” asked Billy. “Son, are you all right?” He gently shook the kid, who shuddered in his sleep and rolled over. His flesh was ice cold. Billy knew hypothermia wouldn’t be far behind.

  He unpacked his bag, covered the unconscious youngster with extra blankets, set up his own sleeping area, and fired up the space heater. A blast of warmth greeted him like a deity’s kiss. He glanced at the boy again and wondered how shocked he would be to wake up and find that he wasn’t alone any longer. Best not to fall asleep, he reasoned. I must stay awake and let him know that all will be fine.

  After removing his binder from the bottom of the sack, he took two books off the desk, stacked them on the floor, and propped the flashlight atop them. In a ritualistic manner, he took his pencil from its sheath, licked the tip, and started writing. Night had come upon him yet again. With sleep not an option, the least he could do was let his demons free.

  He owed Her that much.

  * * *

  Marisa Angela Hernandez was the most brilliant of creatures. She was a graduate student completing her Masters in English, with dreams of becoming a teacher, a professor such as myself, and quickly fell under my tutelage. I had never seen a more driven and passionate student in all my life, save myself.

  At thirty-four, I had become the youngest department head in the history of Pennsylvania State University. My curriculum was always difficult and my classes always filled to capacity. I loved teaching, even more than writing, even though I already had a pair of reasonably well-received novels published by that time. I lived each day to its fullest, pouring every morsel of knowledge I possessed into my lessons and lectures. This enlivened and enriched me. And yet every morning upon waking, only one thing drove me to the brink of complete and utter bliss.

  The opportunity to once more see Her face.

  Marisa would often spend her free hours at my campus apartment in the same way I would with Arthur in the days of my youth. We read incessantly, scrutinizing the works of Kant, Popper, Rand, and Steinem, amongst many others. It was during these sessions that we grew close, much closer than student and teacher were ever meant to be.

  I felt helpless in her presence. The olive shade of her skin, the delicate slant of her eyes, the confidence that flowed from her with every word she articulated. I became obsessed in a quiet way, never holding my gaze for more than a moment, yet using those fleeting instances to drink in every ounce of her beauty, her intellect, her sensuality.

  We went on like this for a year, nary a word of attraction spoken between us. This ended one Friday evening in early March. The two of us sat together in my dwelling per our usual manner, with I on one side of the
room correcting essays and she on the other, composing her thesis on, if memory serves me, the elements of style in 18th century Irish literature. We spoke very little, with our noses pressed to our work, yet every so often I would feel the soft prickle of her eyes upon me. Each time I glanced up at her she would quickly turn away, as if the simplicity of the motion would be enough to eliminate that transitory look from the bank of my mental history.

  I turned back to my corrections. It was only a few moments later that a hand fell upon my shoulder. She stood beside me, her eyes glinting. She knelt down and kissed me with all the passion of her youth. I returned the gesture, though I knew I should not have, and embraced her lips with my own with such ardor that all ceased to exist save her and I. The planet stopped spinning on its independent axis and instead rotated around us and us alone.

  While my body urged me onward in this state of animal bliss, the veins of morality weaving their way through my conscience ordered me to cease. I drew back. Marisa smiled. I noticed such purity in her expression, and by comparison the picture in my mind, of her exposed beneath me, her back bent while crystal droplets of sweat beaded on her light brown flesh, seemed both out of place and misguided. My apprehension grew alongside my desire. I did the only thing I could.

  I pushed her away.

  “I am sorry,” I told her. “I cannot.”

  My insides twisted into knots with the knowledge that the forbidden seal had been forever broken. I wished to quell the tide before it crushed me with its guilt. I had fallen for a student, which was the very peccadillo for which I denigrated many of my male contemporaries. I had placed my job and my reputation in jeopardy and disrespected her in the process. In that moment, I felt nothing for myself but hatred. Putting her out of my life was my only recourse.

  Marisa closed her eyes and leaned into me. Her head pressed into my chest. If she expected a response, I would give her none in return. I sat as stiff as a concrete obelisk. She kissed me on the forehead and backed away.

  “I understand,” she said. She retrieved her jacket from the hook adjacent to the front entrance. The door opened and she stood in the foyer with her head down. Her body language screamed in ache, unhappiness, and defeat. My cold heart ached along with her.

  I rose from my seat and turned my back to her. “You should go,” I declared. I heard her sob quietly as she exited the house. The door closed behind her. The hesitant click of its mechanism seemed to protest my behavior, but I did not care. No matter how much I despised what I had done, I could not help but think that my actions were the correct ones. I took solace in the fact that she would soon realize I was right and be better for it. She would grow into a great woman, driven by intellect, and accomplish everything she set out to. Of this, I was sure.

  Of course, I was wrong, because I never saw her alive again.

  The name of the boy was Eric Calhoun. He was the child of a wealthy family from Greenwich, Connecticut. In the past, Marisa had spoken of the men who approached her. There were many occasions during our study sessions that she would speak of the benign in her life, such as the struggles her father encountered while raising her by himself or how the pain this small, destitute Cuban family experienced while living on the hard streets of Miami seemed to melt away during the occasions when the clan gathered together to celebrate the simple feat of existing for another day, another month, another year. Men were simply another facet of these conversations, and Eric was to be the last in that long line. She told me that he pursued her like a jungle cat, constantly at her heels. He would chase her down using a relentless hail of verbal barbs that he must have hoped would tire her to the point of submission.

  Marisa always stayed firm, however. She always said no. She did not wish to be a trophy on the arm of a talking monkey. She was strong. She knew what she wanted, or so I thought at the time.

  On the Monday following our encounter, the police found her bruised and battered corpse in a dumpster. I heard the story of that evening from her fellow students: Marisa, in a state of depression because of my rejection, agreed to dinner with the Calhoun boy. During that dinner, the brute became drunken and disorderly. He advanced on her. She declined. He became angry. The two of them left the restaurant with a barrage of poisoned words.

  The balance of the story remained shrouded in mystery, but I was able to put the pieces together without much trouble. Eric Calhoun obviously could not stand being thwarted, made to look a fool in public by some petite Latino girl. I became convinced that in his inebriated state he beat her beyond recognition and choked her until that pure heart within her chest ceased beating.

  To say I was despondent would be the understatement of the century. I cancelled all of my classes for the following week and concealed myself in my office. I ignored all visitors. The constant thought ran through my mind that if I had only given in to my desires, or perhaps even been only slightly more kind in my dismissal, that her preciousness would still be roaming the earth, alive and free. In that way, I was more than partially responsible for her death. I set the whole event in motion.

  The Calhoun boy was arrested the day after the authorities discovered the body of my Marisa. I followed his trial very closely. His family hired the best lawyer their money could buy, who succeeded in obtaining a solid alibi for his client. The fingerprints that littered the neck, arms, and face of Marisa were stricken from evidence due to either shoddy police practices or stacks of inherited Connecticut money. With no witnesses and no concrete evidence at their disposal, the prosecution was picked apart. The public cried out for justice, but those cries fell on deaf ears. The case became hopeless. The defense stated that the poor girl had obviously been attacked by a mugger on her way home that night while Eric was passed out in his off-campus apartment. It could have been a conceivable story had it not been for the smug grin pasted on the face of that privileged boy during the entirety of the proceedings. No, that told me all I needed to know. The boy was guilty.

  Guilty as sin.

  On the final day I went to the courtroom and watched as the jury exited their chambers after only forty-five minutes of deliberation. I held out for a miracle but deep down knew none would come. The forewoman stood in front of the microphone and uttered those two tragic words.

  “Not guilty.”

  I watched the Calhoun clan cheer as if they had won the lottery. The boy beat his chest and hugged his parents and council. With the show over, the crowd inside the courtroom rapidly dispersed. It was as if the air had been collectively let out of all those in attendance. I was the last one sitting when the family left.

  I exited the building and moved through the media throng that waited outside, my hands in my pockets. The newly freed young man was being interviewed, television cameras all around, and the words of he and his lawyer still echo in my head to this day. “I am just happy my name has been cleared…I feel sorry for the poor girl…you have to watch out nowadays…there are a lot of crazies out there…I hope the police catch whoever did this…”

  The whole thing made me sick.

  I went to my car, which I had parked by the curb outside the front steps, and reached beneath the seat. I pulled out the thirty-eight-caliber handgun I had purchased the week before in anticipation of this moment. I walked back through the swarm with the gun dangling loosely in my hand. I never attempted to conceal it, and yet no one paid me any mind. It was as if I did not exist. This struck me as ironic. For the first time since my childhood, I was of the shadows, invisible. I would not be for much longer.

  I pushed my way to the front of the mob until I stood face to face with young Eric Calhoun. He appeared confused at first, and I imagined his thoughts. Who is this nigger? What does he want? This only lasted for a moment before that pompous smile reemerged. I grinned in return and raised the weapon until its barrel rested on the bridge of his nose. His arrogance melted away, but he didn’t move. His eyes crossed as they stared at the gleaming metal cylinder

  I squeezed the trigger. The head of
Eric Calhoun snapped back from the force of the blow. His body collapsed. Those to his rear, his family and friends, were bathed in red. It dripped from their faces and clung to their neatly pressed suits and dresses. Onlookers screamed and scurried about. I opened my hand and allowed the pistol to drop. It clinked twice when it struck the pavement. Police officers surrounded me and forced me to the ground. They cuffed my hands behind my back and screamed for me to stay still. My body should have ached as they pummeled me into submission, but it did not. The entirety of my being was dead. I felt no more remorse for my actions than if I had stepped on an ant.

  The officers shoved me into a cruiser. Photographers snapped pictures. Spectators gawked with stunned, wide eyes. The officer who sat in the front seat told me that I was finished. He said I would be going away for a very long time, most likely the rest of my life, if the judge did not decide I deserved execution.

  To be honest, I could not have cared less.

  Chapter 3

  Brotherhood, Baseball, and

  the Art of Survival

  i

  “Ouch!” yelped Corky Ludlow. “What the fuck was that for?”

  He’d been lying in the snow, with his big belly pressed into the thick white stuff, when a sharp pain introduced itself to his bicep. The stick figure outline he’d been busy creating on the ground before him, of a couple engaged in compromising sexual positions, was wiped clean in his surprise. He glared through tresses of his long red hair.