The Ice House

by Ray Ouellette

  “Law's eyes were wide with panic,”she continued. “His face was contorted with fear. It wasn't working out, the controlled exit from life, but he never once said for them to stop. I guess the panic and grabbing for the tube was a reflex, natural, like a man that's trying to drown himself to commit suicide, but ends up trying to breathe.”

  “I hope to never again hear a scream like the one Law let out. Once again, although I despised what went on, I almost cried at that scream. Maybe it was a scream of desperation, I don't know. I've had people say that it must be difficult for the rich to face death, that we have more to lose, a great life to leave behind. Maybe that was what I heard in that scream. Anyway it echoed off the walls for what seemed like an eternity.”

  “That cancer specialist member of the staff that I told you about earlier, Randolph Hill, had difficulty coping. “He yelled, “For Christ's sake!” Everyone looked at him, more out of concern than anger I suppose, he just shook his head, shrugged and got back to work.”

  “Law struggled now. I was all nerves, sweating. Law broke, or loosened one restraint and they fixed it. But it was too late anyway. His eyes were wide open when he gasped his last breath. The staff was quiet, just standing there in shock, watching. Then they regained their composure and another flurry of activity, the actual cooling and freezing.”

  “I don't remember much about the technique of it but the machine cooled the solution. It was still circulating. Some kind of machine was moved over the chest to provide heart action. I think it was necessary until his brain was cold enough to stop any deterioration of brain cells.”

  Mrs. Lowell put the fingertip of one hand against her cheek as she thought back. “There was a temperature at which they kept the body for a longer time to allow ice-crystals to form outside the cell walls. I think this was supposed to remove most of the water from the inside of the cells so when he was cooled further there was less of a chance of any damage to the cells.” She drew a deep breath. Her eyes wandered around the room. Stopping here and there on some object that must have held a memory or helped her to recall more.

  “The coldness of those men was a good match for the job they were hired to do,” Her gaze was directed at Lynn as if to imply that what she was now saying was intended for her and would be more understood by her. The word coldness received emphasis by a jab of her index finger into the arm of the chair. “They never once explained a thing to me or even acknowledged my presence. After about a half hour more I just left the building and came home.”

  “The feeling of despair and emptiness that I felt has never left me.” Mrs. Lowell blinked to prevent the moisture that was accumulating above her lower eyelids from becoming tears. Lynn felt her eyes becoming moist as well. She was experiencing empathy for Mrs. Lowell. They were abstractly in a similar situation, both having enjoyed the affections of the same spirit. Lynn felt fortunate that whatever it was that caused personality, whether it was genetic or environmental or something else, had made Frank's spirit-body combination a nice one this time. It could easily be, she felt, her spirit sitting in Mrs. Lowell's place telling the pathetic story.

  Mrs. Lowell gave Lynn then Frank a look that contained nothing except seriousness, as if to say, “You'd better listen carefully to this because it's the most important thing I've said yet.” “I think you may have great reason to fear these men. Their dedication and the financial reward. And they've been specially chosen for their willingness to break the rules. She raised a finger to accentuate another point. “The police are not to be trusted. They won't help you in any situation that involves the project. It's like a foreign diplomat. The Ice House seems to have immunity from everything.” She got up. “If I can be of any help or if I can think of any way to help you, we'll be talking again.” She looked tired and her speech was beginning to flow less easily again. “This has worn me out,” she said.

  Mrs. Lowell thought for a moment, appeared to be mustering up some remaining energy, then said, “This could be pertinent. You're probably not supposed to know about them. The staff would never tell you.”

  Frank gave her a bewildered look.

  “Paul...something, I can't remember.

  “Owans.” said Frank.

  “Paul Owans is dead. An accident they say. I don't know. He was dissatisfied. Always complaining.” She waited for comment but getting none continued. “Did you come across the name Don...ah...Phillips I believe?”

  Frank said he saw the name in a few entries in the unofficial log at the Ice House.

  Phillips is in the Lowell Institute just on the edge of town. He and Paul got along well. I remember now.

  “The Lowell Institute?”said Lynn.

  “A mental institution. Even here in Southford people have mental problems. Phillips was committed against his will.”

  “When?” said Frank.

  “A long time ago.” She shook her head. “A long long time. Thirty something years ago.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “Mrs. Lowell mentioned a brother,” Frank said. “I wonder if Lawrence Lowell has any more relatives on his side of the family.”

  Lynn replied, “She said older brother. Maybe dead by now?”

  “Maybe, but if he was just a few years older he would be what...eighty something?”

  “Yeah. Did that listing where we first found out about Lawrence Lowell mention the size of the family he came from?”

  “I don't think so,” said Frank. “I could ask Bostwick, but it doesn't appear that there are any family members involved in the project. I've seen nobody around and no indication of any writing by a relative in the logs. Might be a brother or sister alive somewhere outside the area. I'll try to remember to ask Bostwick next time I see him.”

  They headed for the motel to check out and move to another. They'd use a fake name this time and keep the rental car out of sight.

  Frank and Lynn drove out to the Lowell Institute to visit Phillips. They waited in a large solarium and eventually Don Phillips was brought by wheelchair. The orderly introduced him, and Frank and Lynn identified themselves.

  Frank noticed the blank look in Don's eyes, the unkempt appearance, the uncombed hair, a bit of stubble on the chin and Frank wondered if this would be a wasted trip.

  “Mr. Phillips. Lynn and I are here to talk to you about the Ice House...about Lawrence Lowell. I work at the Ice House.” Phillips cringed as if recoiling away from a punch. Frank waved his hand in front of himself a bit as if to say No it's okay. “I just started there. Just days ago,” Frank said. “I've been having problems and I am working there temporarily...to see if they can be straightened out. I--”

  Don turned to the orderly and said in a weak but insistent voice, “Thank you. You can leave us now. I'll be okay.”

  The orderly let out a doubtful sigh and looked over Frank and Lynn.

  “It's all right. We won't be long.” Frank said.

  The orderly left. “Do you know Paul Owans?” Frank said. “I saw his name in the unofficial log in the early years. I saw your name a few times but since there were so few entries by you, I figured you were a specialist maybe who was brought in for a short time. I was told that nobody ever leaves the Ice House, that nobody would want to.”

  Don spoke with effort, stopping at intervals to take a labored extra breath. “They leave if they're dead,” he said.

  “An accident they say,” suggested Frank. Don laughed and the effort made him cough and then wheeze to fill his lungs. “They killed him.” Don said. He looked around to make sure the orderly had left the room and then said louder and full of hate, “They killed him! They destroyed my body and mind so that I can't escape and I can't protest anymore.”

  “Why?...How?” said Lynn.

  “Paul died in a car crash. Off the road at night. Burned to death. But I know they did it.”

  Frank felt relief. Maybe it had been an accident. This man was a mental patient after all.

  “Why do you think they killed him?” said Lynn.

 
“He threatened to talk.”

  “Talk?” Frank fidgeted in his seat.

  “He was going to go to the authorities about a protester that was killed. He said that he had proof that it was murder. I don't know if you're aware that there were a few protests...religious...in the early days. That protester's death conveniently ended that protest.” Don said that the reason that he was sure Paul's death was murder was because Paul had said that if the person who did it wasn't brought to justice he'd go to the state cops.”

  Don continued. “Paul said it must never happen again. So they killed him off too, just like the protester.” Don raised a craggy finger and pointed at himself with a shaky hand. “I tried to run. I was his friend and I figured they'd kill me too. I tried to get to the state police before they thought about me. But the Southford police brought me here and I've never been allowed to leave. I'm Baker acted. They let me live in comfort but I'm drugged to death mentally, and physically ruined.”

  “Why didn't they kill you?” asked Lynn.

  He pursed his lips, apparently, without an answer, but then said, “Too many murders already I guess. One more death might make some of the other staff members uneasy. And the death reports go to the state. They might get suspicious. So here I am.”

  He regarded his surroundings with a look of resignation while Frank felt a shiver race down his backbone. Was this man accurate? Was his mind gone? Was it paranoid fantasies of persecution? Was he in here for a valid reason? Frank decided to ask a few more questions to get a better idea of Don's mental condition. “You'd think word would get out and people would flock here.”

  “They're not nice to outsiders,” said Don.“It used to make them...some of them anyway...feel bad, but now they're used to it. They see it as necessary. They see everyone around them acting the same way and so it seems normal. Mostly they're nice to each other.” He thought for a moment then said, “It's like the Dunkirk spirit in reverse. Instead of getting together to help each other because of a disaster, they stick together because everything's great. And they want to keep it that way. They help each other feel good about being nasty to outsiders. The moment they perceive that an outsider has more of an interest in Southford than just passing through on a Sunday drive, they turn it on. They make the Pennsylvania Dutch seem outgoing by comparison when it comes to strangers.”

  “We've experienced this,” said Lynn. Frank nodded in agreement.

  Don seemed to be enjoying the company and his mind seemed fairly clear. Maybe it had been a while since the last medication. He continued the conversation. “You talk about this town as being paradise and it may look like paradise, and it is in a way, except when the people let their mind drift back to thinking about why this place is paradise. And when they do, it ceases to be Paradise and becomes Hell. The townspeople live in constant fear. They have all the material goods they want., complete medical protection, dental protection so no bankruptcies for those things. No crime. Subsidies for everything. And yet they live in fear. A Sword of Damocles hangs over their heads, because they know that the moment something happens to Lawrence Lowell, it's all over for them. It all ends. It's back once again becoming part of the struggle that life always has been. How to pay medical bills. How to pay heating bills. How to afford a decent education for their kids. How to pay property taxes. How to avoid becoming a victim of the crime epidemic.”

  “Yeah, but I don't see anybody that appears to be worrying about anything happening to Lawrence Lowell. They all seem happy,” said Frank.

  Don said, “Maybe it's because they've had the benefits for so long. They would do anything to help the project succeed, anything to see that Lawrence Lowell is successfully revived, because then their benefits are locked in permanently. They coast for the rest of their lives. They only lose their benefits if something happens to Lowell's body and he can never live again.” He held up a finger momentarily, to make a point. “Let me give you an example. There was a plane crash back in 19...I don't remember the year exactly but a jet fighter crashed about a quarter mile from the Ice House. Looking at the smoke from down town it wasn't immediately ascertainable that it hadn't crashed into the Ice House. There was a massive explosion as the bombs on the plane exploded and shook the whole town. The police and many of the citizens who were near their cars rushed out to see the Ice House, but before the police could get back to town to announce that all was well, except for the pilot of course, four towns people had died of heart attacks and others had heart attacks but recovered. It was the sheer terror of believing that their secure world had come to an end, the fear that God himself had grown disgusted with their materialistic decadence and smashed their fantasy existence to oblivion. To them it was a horror worse than anything Stephen King ever wrote about.”

  A fleeting hint of a smile was followed by, “Here's how they cope. Here's how they appear happy. The amount of people on tranquilizers is fifty percent higher than the national average. The tranquilizers make them forget that their great little existence depends on Lawrence Lowell's body remaining safe in the Ice House and so they're able to be happy.”

  “That makes me feel pity,” said Lynn, “for the people around here, instead of envy I felt earlier. It's kind of pathetic.

  “The newspaper even ignored the jet crash incident,” said Don. “It was deemed too upsetting and so a small paragraph was stuffed away deep inside the paper to report the event. There was even talk of putting a committee together to go to Albany to try to get Southford declared a no-fly zone, restricted air space, but the idea never got anywhere. It was decided that it would bring too much publicity down upon Southford if they tried to keep aircraft from flying over. The last thing this town wants is publicity.”

  “I think you're right about that,” Lynn said.

  Frank and Lynn thanked Don and got up to get the orderly. Don, apparently concerned that he might not have conveyed adequately the desperation of this town and the lengths it would go to in protecting the Ice House, shot out an arm and grabbed Frank's wrist which such rapidity that Lynn and Frank both were startled. “If you need to get out of town, Don advised, “don't use the roads. Walk. At night. They'll get you. They'll get you. Don't let let them know if you're not loyal. Don't let anybody know. They'll get you.”

  Frank, seeing the earnestness on Don's face, wondered again, if he might truly belong here. They thanked him again, this time with shaken voices, then left. Frank took one last look back at Don's now wild-eyed look of desperation and he felt a shiver run up his spine.

  CHAPTER 24

  Frank and Lynn returned to their motel and entered the elevator to return to their room. The elevator smoothed to a stop and they got out. Frank saw the woman first. Lynn's mind was on other things, her eyes down. She noticed Frank had stopped and she looked at him, then in the direction he looked, the direction of their room. A red-haired woman leaned against the wall, stood on one leg, the other bent with the bottom of her foot against the wall. The woman caught sight of Frank at the other end of the corridor and stood away from the wall facing them squarely, her arms folded across her chest.

  Frank sighed and walked toward her.

  “Allison!, said Lynn. She turned to Frank. “I should...should I...” Lynn felt the intensity of Allison's stare as they approached.

  “No...stay,” he said.

  Allison drilled her stare through Frank, occasionally casting the killer stare at Lynn.

  “Hello Allison,” Frank said.

  “Can we talk...alone?” she said, as an arctic chill enveloped the corridor.

  Frank looked at Lynn resignedly.

  “I'll go down to the lobby for a while.” she said. Then she turned and offered Allison a look that said that she had a claim to Frank too. With her eyes, she said You've had four years and you've wasted your chance. I won't. Then out loud, “Nice to meet you Allison.” Lynn offered an empty smile. She looked at Frank, mostly to escape Allison's death stare.

  “I'm sorry. Lynn Beverly, this is Allison Crossf
ield.”

  Then Allison zeroed in on Lynn like a tornado bearing down on a trailer park. She took Frank by the arm, making sure that one of her breasts made firm contact with it. “Nice to meet you Lynn. I really appreciate your helping Frank with his problem. I'm sure your knowledge of parapsychology has been a great help. I take it your problem has been resolved by now, Frank and you can come home?” She waited for Frank to answer. Nothing. “You mean you haven't had any success yet?” She gave him a self-satisfied look. “I'm sorry to hear that you couldn't--”

  Frank interrupted. “We've only been here a few days.”

  “Well, I'm here now. I'll help. I'm not going to let anyone give my Frank a hard time. Now let's talk. Lynn, excuse us.” She steered Frank toward the door. “Oh,” she said with a triumphant hug of Frank's arm, “Do you have the key, Frank, or does she?”

  Lynn had been insulted, but she didn't have an insult to counter Allison's so she blurted out, just to come back with something, “Allison, how would you deal with a company that complains about their bottom line to our accounting firm when they're trying to make their product, which is jelly beans, a Fourth of July tradition?” Lynn was satisfied, that although her question had been ridiculous, she had regained the offensive.