Under the Ice

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  Pulling out my phone, I flipped it over, opened the cover, and took out the battery. I did the same with Camille’s phone, which was the same model as mine. There was some moisture on the inside surface, but I wiped it off with my shirttail and inserted my battery. When I depressed the power button, her screen lit up. I hit the voicemail icon and listened.

  “Mom? It’s me. You’ve gotta come get me, like now! He’s gone berserk. You were right. Oh my God. He’s coming back. Please, Mom. I’m staying at the Genesee Abbey retreat house. It’s called Bethany. Oh, Mom. Please co--” Shelby’s tearful plea was interrupted by a crash and a growl.

  The Abbey of the Genesee. I know it. York Road, just outside of the tiny hamlet of Piffard.

  I bolted into the house. “Joe? Adam? I need you. Siegfried? Can you stay with the family? I know where Shelby is. Camille’s gone after her. Come on. We’ve gotta go, right now.”

  I grabbed Joe’s arm and pulled him toward the mudroom. “Do you have your gun?”

  “In my jacket pocket,” he said. He turned white when we reached the door, but took a deep breath and followed us outside. I went for the Jeep, knowing we might need the extra high undercarriage to get through flooded areas.

  “Let me get my stuff from the cruiser,” Adam shouted, darting toward his car. He grabbed a flashlight, radio, and gun from the trunk, and we peeled out in the direction of the Abbey.

  Chapter 59

  I was driving too fast. I knew it. And at the bottom of Sullivan Hill, we slid sideways, spewing slush. We came inches from hitting a tree.

  “Careful, Gus. We’ve gotta make it there in one piece,” Joe said. He closed his eyes and a bead of sweat ran down his temple.

  Adam said, “I’m calling for reinforcements.”

  “Good idea.” We zoomed onto Maple Beach Road and headed for The Five Corners. Barely slowing for the stop sign, we rocketed up Goodland Road toward Conaroga. I’d have to get through the flooded area again, and hoped it hadn’t turned into a lake.

  Over the hill, down the hill.

  The sun peeked out from a gray mass of clouds hovering overhead, illuminating the bizarre broken landscape, showcasing the disaster. Every single tree was crowned with broken limbs. Driveways were blocked, cars crushed, and windows broken. An East Goodland fire truck was parked beside the Whitings’ farmhouse, pumping water from their basement into the street.

  Adam hung up. I looked in the rear view mirror. He wasn’t happy.

  “Problem?” I said.

  Joe opened his eyes and turned toward him.

  “Yeah.” Adam clipped his phone onto his belt and looked glum. “Everybody’s tied up. Matter of fact, they wanted both of us to come in, Joe. I told them what was up, and they agreed to let us cover this one. Everyone’s helping with emergencies. Driving old folks to the hospital to get oxygen. Helping to pump cellars and hook up generators. Keeping cars away from downed wires. It’s just us, guys.”

  A look of steely determination came over Joe’s face. He reached down to caress his firearm. “No problem. We’ve got it covered. Come on, Gus. Step on it.”

  I screamed over the top of the next hill, then stomped on the brakes when I saw a sea of red lights. Cars were backed up in front of the puddle-turned-pond. A fire truck pumped water into the nearby field.

  I looked at my companions.

  All at once, we said, “Twin Bridge Road.”

  I wrenched the wheel around and skidded in a U-turn, narrowly avoiding the next car coming over the rise. Backtracking a quarter mile, I turned right onto Twin Bridge Road. We passed Maddy’s house, the neat little Cape Cod that originally belonged to Camille. It looked forlorn, but the structure seemed intact. Later, when things settled down, I knew the yard would require some major chain saw action.

  I pushed the Jeep through thick slush, careful not to slip-slide into the deep gullies filled with ice and water. This road was not as well traveled. There were mushy tire tracks that seemed to work best, so I aimed for them and made my way as quickly as possible toward my alternate route into Conaroga. I swung right onto Crossett Road and headed north again toward the village. We approached a cluster of downed trees, and I slowed, stopping in front of one giant large branch. Backing up, I yanked the wheel and veered onto the far left shoulder. The Jeep tilted dangerously and nearly slid sideways into the ditch, but the tires finally gained purchase and pulled us back onto the road.

  In the west end of the village, poles leaned dangerously overhead, their wires drooping between them. Fire and emergency trucks screamed past us. Finally, when we reached the dark stoplight at Main Street, we were forced to stop. A patrol car sat blocking the intersection, lights flashing. The two cars before me had pulled U-turns.

  I pounded the steering wheel in frustration, then rolled down the window to talk to the policeman in the long, black slicker. “Officer? What’s going on?”

  He looked inside the car, recognizing Joe and Adam. Adam rolled down his window, too.

  “Lawson? We’ve gotta get through here, pronto. Mrs. LeGarde and her daughter are in danger. Her ex has got the girl and…”

  The cop leaned inside and grimaced, nodding to Joe and Adam. “Gotcha. But you’ll have to find another route. Sorry. Two poles are down just ahead and there’s no way through. Turn around and go back to Highland Road. Cut up that way. It should be clear. Just so you know, we’ve just called in a state of emergency. No unauthorized vehicles on the road unless absolutely necessary.”

  I stiffened, and almost said, “We’re authorized and this is an emergency,” but I thanked him through clenched teeth, swerved in a half-circle, and headed back up the hill toward Highland Road. We cut left through a long line of traffic, then drove rapidly through the slippery village streets.

  I tried not to gape at the destruction covering the village in what looked like a tinkertoy blanket. The ancient oak and elm trees were still standing, but massive limbs had crashed down overnight, obscuring many of the homes and yards. A woman stood on the sidewalk with a blanket around her shoulders, exchanging news with her neighbor. Her face was alive with excitement as she gestured up and down the road. Others were not so happy. One young man stared as if broken-hearted at his crushed SUV. Another family stood outside and gaped at their caved-in porch roof.

  I pulled my gaze away from the dramas unfolding before us and concentrated on getting through the village. When we reached the end of Highland, I turned left on North Road and followed it down the side of the valley to Route 63. I turned right, relieved to find the road relatively unaffected. Flat, fertile fields stretched to either side the road, providing no source of branches to clutter the roadway. I picked up speed when the road turned more wet than slushy.

  We reached the small hamlet of Piffard and hung a right on River Road. Once again, the road was covered in inches of icy slush, but there were tire tracks to follow. Joe slid out of his jacket and unsnapped his seatbelt. Adam sat forward with his hand poised on the door handle. I eased past the Abbey and began to read the names of the retreat houses. Most had been private homes at one time. Each was unique. When we reached the sign for the Bethany retreat, Joe told me to pull in the driveway.

  I turned into the snowy drive. A set of tire tracks led to the rear door, but there was no car in sight. Heart jack hammering, I parked near the stoop.

  Chapter 60

  The antique house was tall and square with a triangular peaked front supported by four slim white columns. Sand-colored bricks formed the exterior. Rows of small, square windows marched along the first and second stories. An oval window centered the gabled portico.

  We emerged from the car at a run. Joe beat me to the front door and hammered against it with his meaty fists. “Police, open up.”

  The door swung open on its own. We stood at the entrance and looked into a beautifully furnished period home. There were no lights on, but it was warm inside. I tried the wall light switch. Nothing.

  “Shelby? Camille?” I shouted, pushing past Joe.
r />   Adam and Joe split up. We searched the house quickly. It was empty, but the ceramic surface of the kerosene heater in the kitchen was still warm to the touch.

  “They haven’t been gone long,” I said, looking around one more time. There must be evidence of Shelby or Camille’s presence. Something.

  “There’s been a struggle,” Adam said, pointing to broken pottery on the floor by the refrigerator. We’d walked right past it the first time through. A set of white and blue ceramic canisters lay smashed on the tile floor. Pieces had scattered over the room. The tablecloth was pulled off the round table in the center of the room and lay beside a cabinet.

  Had Camille accosted Greg, demanding Shelby be returned? Had she even made it here in her little VW Beetle? If not, why hadn’t we seen her on the way over here?

  I pulled out one of the kitchen chairs tucked under the table and found Shelby’s backpack. “They were here, all right.” I picked it up and swung it over my shoulder. “What now? Is this a dead end, guys?”

  Adam put his hand on my shoulder. “Professor? We’re still waiting for that phone call about Robinson’s ex-con pal. There may be a link there. Here, let me try the department again. I know they’ve been swamped, but maybe George will come through for us.”

  He grabbed his phone and walked toward the living room.

  Joe turned toward the door. “I’m going to question the neighbors.”

  “They might not speak to you,” I said. “The Trappist monks who live in the Abbey follow strict orders of silence. And these retreat houses are offered to people who want peace and quiet. I think they’re allowed to spend a week of quiet, with no talking, if they want.”

  “Well, we might have to change that. Back in a flash.”

  He hesitated at the doorway, then ducked his head with determination and strode quickly outdoors.

  I banged my fists against the table and let out a yell. Sliding Camille’s cell phone from my pocket, I dialed home, feeling defeated even before Maddy answered.

  “Gus?” she cried. “Did you find them?”

  “We just missed them.” I tried not to let my frustration show. “They were here, for sure. But they’re gone now.”

  “Can’t you do something?” Maddy shrieked. I heard Siegfried asking questions in the background.

  “Put Joe on!” she commanded, clearly unsatisfied with my ineffectual rescue of her daughter and granddaughter.

  “He’s gone out to question the neighbors,” I said.

  “He did? Is he okay? Did he seem…”

  “He hesitated at the door, but he pushed through and walked right outside without turning back.”

  “Well, that’s good, anyway.” Maddy was silent for a moment. “What’s next?”

  Adam hung up and ran toward me, his eyes blazing.

  “Hold on, Maddy. Adam? What is it?”

  “We’ve found Gilmer Saltzmann. He’s living with his aunt in Avon.”

  I put the phone back up to my ear. “Maddy? We’ve got a lead. I’ll call you.” I hung up before she could answer.

  Joe barreled through the door. “I got your message,” he said to Adam. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 61

  On the way to the car, I stopped and stared at tire tracks that wound around the back of the house and toward a ramshackled shed. “Wait. Guys? What’s this?”

  Joe rushed to my side. “Cripes. How could we have missed these?” He began to follow the tracks, and Adam and I followed close behind him.

  There it was. Camille’s VW Beetle stood forlorn and empty, parked behind the shed.

  My heart plummeted. Greg had both of them now, my wife and my daughter. Rage filled me and I raced toward the car. “Come on.”

  Adam jumped ahead of me and took the wheel, looking determined. “Professor, let me drive. You’re in no shape to—”

  I interrupted him. “Fine. Just go.” I tossed him the keys, and jumped into the back seat.

  Joe hopped into the front beside Adam, and I slapped Adam’s shoulder.

  “Step on it.” The drive from Piffard to the town of Avon took three times longer than usual, almost forty-five minutes. We dodged downed trees and twice had to back up and take alternate roads. On Casey Road, we nearly hit three deer who flitted across the road, bounding from one frozen field to the next.

  Finally, at three o’clock, we reached the village, swung around the rotary, and headed east on Routes 5/20. After passing Tom Wahl’s restaurant, we took a right turn on Pole Bridge Road. About a mile down the road, Adam slowed, searching the street numbers. The tidy ranch homes seemed well kept, except for the new forestation of limbs strewn about the square yards. Counting down by twos, we finally reached number four-oh-two-oh.

  The house seemed out of place, with peeling paint and a sagging front porch. There were cracked windows in the front, but something told me that they weren’t a result of the storm. They had the look of prolonged neglect. Arborvitae grew wildly out of shape on each corner and along one side of the porch. Two old cars were parked on the driveway. A dented sedan was registered; the other wreck was up on blocks, its rear window shattered. A dried vine climbed out of the vehicle, curling around the antenna on the back fender. The driveway hadn’t been cleared, but there were fresh sloppy tracks leading to the rusty sedan. Adam passed slowly, then pulled over down the road in the entrance to a farmer’s field. The dirt track gave us just enough space to park the Jeep.

  Adam switched off the engine, turning to me. “The house is owned by a Natalie Peerson. She’s Gilmer’s aunt, currently in a nursing home after a fall she took a few months back. Gilmer is living here and has been keeping his nose clean. So far, anyway.”

  We got out of the car and approached the house carefully.

  “Is he dangerous?” I said, watching Joe unzip his jacket with his hand resting on the butt of his pistol.

  “Could be. He did time for murder.”

  Joe motioned to Adam to circle around the back of the building. Joe and I approached the front door, skirting broken wicker furniture and various other pieces of forsaken junk. I moved to the side, while Joe beat on the door.

  The curtain moved slightly, followed by the pounding of feet toward the back of the house. Joe kicked the door open and we burst inside.

  “Police! Stop.” Joe shouted. I glimpsed Gilmer dashing toward the back door.

  In seconds, Adam backed him into the kitchen. “Move it, Saltzmann. Let’s go.”

  The man looked to be in his mid-sixties, grizzled and unkempt. His white hair curled in greasy ringlets and his wrinkled clothes reeked of alcohol.

  I looked around the living room. A dozen empty bottles of Jack Daniels were strewn about the coffee table and windowsills. This area obviously hadn’t lost their power, because the television was tuned to a soap opera, where a chimpanzee, dressed as a bride, smiled at the camera and flew into the air. I grimaced, snapped off the power button, and turned back to Gilmer.

  Joe frisked him and pushed him onto the couch, snarling at him. “Where’s your pal, Greg Robinson?”

  The red-eyed Gilmer grinned and exposed a blackened front tooth. “Whatshit to ya?” he slurred. “And whersh your warrant?”

  Adam cleared the empties off the coffee table with one swipe of his arm. They clattered to the dirty shag rug. He perched on the edge of the table and fingered his pistol. “We can do this easy, or hard. We’re desperate, and there isn’t much time for protocol. What we need from you, we’ll get from you. Sooner. Or later.”

  Adam’s tough guy act blew me away. His eyes turned from soft blue to hard slate. I wondered if it really was an act. He was a cop, after all, and dealt with slime balls like this guy all the time.

  Joe grabbed Gilmer’s shirt and twisted hard. “Talk. Now.”

  Gilmer’s eyes widened in mock fear, then he pulled back and shrieked laughter. “You two local yokelsh think you can scare the pants off me? Ha!” He rolled onto his side and cackled, his inebriation giving him a fool’s courag
e.

  I wanted to pound him. Badly. To grab him and shake the information from his wheezing, chicken-legged body. It was all I could do to keep myself from launching across the air with fists flying.

  Joe shot an arm across my chest, glancing sideways. “Hold on, Gus.” He dragged Gilmer back to a sitting position. “You’d better watch yourself. This man’s wife and daughter have been taken by your buddy Robinson, and he’s pissed. He’s really pissed.”

  I deepened my scowl and almost growled at Gilmer. He took pause for a moment, then looked up at me. “He’s the father? Greg shaid he’s not really. Said she’s hish little girl.”

  I sat forward, listening hard to his slurred words. “Where are they?” I hissed.

  Gilmer raised one finger in the air, started to speak, then pitched forward onto the table.

  Chapter 62

  I stared at the drunk in horror. “God dammit! I don’t believe this.”

  Joe grabbed him and flipped him back against the couch. He slumped sideways and belched.

  Adam slid the coffee table back and crouched before him, slapping the man’s face. He winced and turned when Gilmer’s breath hit him square in the face. Trying again, he smacked the drunk’s cheeks. “Saltzmann! Wake up. Come on!”

  Gilmer lay comatose on the couch, breathing regularly and almost smirking in his sleep. I clenched my fists and held back the words that threatened to explode from my lips.

  Wake up!

  Joe told Adam to check upstairs to be sure no one was up there, then motioned to me to follow him into the kitchen. “Make a pot of strong coffee. If you don’t mind, see if there’s anything to eat. I’m starving and this might go on for a while. Meanwhile, I’m gonna douse him with cold water.”

  He grabbed a glass pitcher from the shelf and filled it up at the tap.

  Paint peeled from the old cabinets. Fronted with small glass windowpanes, they featured old-fashioned crystal pulls, dulled from grime and dust. I grabbed one and opened the cabinet over the counter near the coffee maker. Sugar. Flour. Cornmeal. There it was, coffee. Creamer. Filters.