Castle Danger--Woman on Ice

by Anthony Neil Smith

  I was still thinking it was a cop joke. I would log in and find a hundred emails from men looking for a date because the cops had used that email to sign me up for Grindr. Maybe Joel. I mean, he could’ve lifted my keys during one of his lunch disappearances. I could see that.

  Another look around. I didn’t see anyone peeking around corners, or crowded around a second-storey window. I didn’t hear giggling, guffawing, chortling, or any other sounds of macho bullying rituals, so I shoved the slip into my coat pocket, got in my car, and drove home.

  I microwaved a plate of boneless Buffalo chicken wings and sat down to watch Big Bang Theory re-runs. My couch was more off-kilter than usual, like I’d finally broken both legs off the end I called “Whitney”. I tilted my plate on my knee to compensate, sipped a can of Sprite Zero, and stared at the deposit slip on the coffee table.

  Of course I had already tried it. As soon as I got in. Typed in the address and waited for magic to happen. But it wouldn’t let me in without a password. And the password didn’t appear after I’d typed in the address. So I tried them all. My birthday, my birthday backwards, “Manny”, my mother’s maiden name, my last name, my favorite flavor of ice cream (coffee), curse words, longer curse words, combinations of lots of curse words because I was angry and tired and my eyes were straining.

  Then the number on the email itself — 4664. Maybe it was that obvious. But, no, it wasn’t. Backwards would’ve been the same thing. No joy there.

  On the couch. Chicken wings. More like chicken-ish wings. Clumps of kinda chicken molded into a wing-type shape. Hot chemical-sauce, impervious to all manner of cool beverages, especially my Sprite. But I liked it anyway. It warmed my insides after a day out in the cold. We expected plenty of melting and re-freezing between early April and summer, with spring a sort of idea that comes and goes so quickly, we forget it even exists in the rest of the state, let alone the world beyond. So I coated my mouth and throat with the waxy fire sauce and imagined it was the same thing as a hot summer day on one of Superior’s hard rock beaches, your skin burning while your feet froze numb in water too cold for swimming.

  Warm and alone. Except … that deposit slip. It hinted at something else. A way to not be alone. Some sort of connection. Fuck the cop joke. What if I really met someone?

  I couldn’t put a name to it, couldn’t even find the right feeling. Dressing up like a woman, well, it felt okay. But was that the extent of it? Dressing up or actually dressing? Pretending to be a woman or just being one? None of this made any sense to me. As soon as the video was over, I couldn’t imagine it anymore. It was all fantasy. In real life, I could never … I shouldn’t … why? Why? What was I missing?

  I had tried to burn my junk off, so I wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore, but now I was just worrying about it twice as much.

  Fuck. I sat the plate on the table and picked up the deposit slip, headed for the computer.

  And if it was a Grindr account, did they have an option for “transgender”? Did I even qualify? I mean, would just thinking about it, shaving my legs and ass, putting on make-up, was that enough?

  Back to the Hotmail screen. Type in the address. And … well?

  Think of cop jokes: “Cocksuck”. Nope. “Blackandblueballs”. Nope.

  Think of the number. 4664. Like a pin code?

  People turn numbers into letters sometimes. 1-800-CALL-SLY? Or 555-CASH-FST? Or George Costanza’s “Bosco”.

  Letters for numbers.

  I jumped up, grabbed my phone from the kitchen counter, and poked it awake. Pulled up the phone dialer. C’mon, c’mon. Did these newfangled smartphones still have that? Of course, why wouldn’t they? People still do those numbers on TV …

  4664. 4 is GHI. 6 is MNO.

  First thought: HOMO. Tried it. Nothing. Wait, because that’s 4666.

  HOHO? No. 4646.

  GOON? No. 4666 again. There were no fucking words here. Don’t get flustered. Think acronyms. GOMH “Get Out My Head”? Nope. IM. “In My”. In my what? “Humble Opinion”? NO! NO! NO!

  “Fuck you!” I yelled at the monitor.

  I wanted to throw the computer across the room.

  Took a deep breath.

  I didn’t throw the computer across the room. Something wriggling on the back burner. Something making my brain itch.

  HNNH.

  Hannah?

  I typed in HNNH. Finger lingered over the enter key. I chewed my bottom lip.

  Aaaand … nope.

  Every muscle in me went tight, tight as a tightrope walker’s tightrope.

  But then, fuck it, I typed, “Hannah.”

  And — just like that — it worked.

  11

  I sat there, exhausted, not even seeing what was on the screen. All I knew was that I had cracked the password, and I had mail in an account with my name on it, one I hadn’t set up. This called for a fresh Sprite, and a fresh napkin to wipe the Buffalo sauce off my tingling lips.

  Several messages waiting for me. Some of them were just Hotmail “Welcome” and Hotmail “Upgrade to the Next Level” and Hotmail “Maybe You’d Like to Join Some Groups” and four spams.

  The last one, though, from Hannah4664@hotmail.com, had the subject line “Hi Manny.”

  Chills, I tell you.

  I clicked it. It opened. Only one line: Ten numbers.

  So this one was easy. That was a phone number, and from not too far away. All I had to do was call it. That was the easy part.

  Didn’t feel easy though, not then and there. It felt like the hardest thing in the world.

  Who was at the other end of that phone? Why go to so much trouble? Whoever it was knew the name “Hannah”, and the last time I’d met people who knew that, I ended up in hospital. Was this a reminder to keep my mouth shut? Was it a joke? I still couldn’t shake the feeling it was a joke. I checked the number from the email against Joel’s, against those of other cops I knew. But then, it wouldn’t be one of theirs, right? It would be a pre-paid phone, cheap, ready to toss after one call. A “burner”.

  My guts, roiling from the Buffalo wings, gave me the answer: Just call the fucking number and get this over with.

  So that’s what I did.

  Whoever picked up had been waiting for me. “So, Manny, you solved my riddle?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Well, it’s definitely not Hannah, you already know that. She’s dead, at the bottom of Lake Superior. But who she really was, and what she really wanted to tell people, that’s still up here on the surface. Would you like to know what it was?”

  The voice was interesting, sort of a bourbon smooth, cigarette rough voice that could go either direction — man, woman, I could not tell.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’ll tell you if you’ll meet me. We have a lot to talk about.”

  “Okay. So, how about Little Angie’s?” A huge Mexican joint right in the middle of Canal Park, always busy, always full of tourists. “I’ll buy you some tacos.”

  “Oh, no, no,” A small laugh swallowed by a sigh. “I’m flattered you’d like to be seen in public with me. But let’s find someplace less … busy? Say, Gooseberry Falls? Ten tonight?”

  “Isn’t it … closed, that late?”

  “Sweetie, they can’t close a waterfall, can they? Come on up to the top, and I’ll find you. Come alone, or I won’t bother to show up.”

  And just like that the line went dead. I looked at my watch. Five past eight.

  I called the number again. It rang through to voicemail. I called again. Voicemail. I called again. Voicemail. I called again. No longer in service.

  I paced a horseshoe around the room. Chewed on my middle fingernail. Bit off too much. It bled a little.

  This was a fucking trap. I wasn’t falling for it. Fuck no. Let whoever it was freeze up there at the Falls. I was out of this.

  But they knew how to find me. They knew my car. They knew I cracked the riddle. So they knew I was curious, and I wasn’t going to let this go
so easy.

  Looked at my watch again. 8:22.

  My dad couldn’t make it in time. I know, I know, I was told to come alone, but, no, I couldn’t. Not after last time. So, who was it going to be? Another cop? I tried to count the cops I could trust on my fingers and got as far as three, then took one back because I’d lost that one’s trust after the beating. Yep. Told me I wasn’t who he thought I was, but to give him a call if I’d like to attend church with him and his — stressed it very strongly — wife and family.

  And the other two, the Sarge? The Captain?

  I was fucked.

  In that case, there was only one thing to do: call my partner and tell him I needed a favor. The unspoken rule was you always get a favor, and then you pay it back. You’re even until the next favor. And as far as I was concerned, I’d done Joel Skovgaard a huge favor by overlooking what a shit cop he was, biding his time until the elevator stopped at his storey.

  I made the call. The first time, it went to voicemail.

  Fuck voicemail!

  Not going to let him get away with that. I called again. Voicemail. I called again. Voicemail. I called again. Voicemail. I called again.

  Joel: “The fuck is your problem, faggot?”

  I heard someone in the background hiss and slap him.

  “I need a favor. I need it now.”

  Quiet. I don’t care how much a man hated his partner. It was Sam Spade who made that famous, right? “When a man’s partner is killed, he’s supposed to do something about it. It doesn’t make any difference what you thought of him. He was your partner and you’re supposed to do something about it.” Okay, not the part about being killed, not that. But a partner is a partner, no matter what you think of him.

  I said, “Joel? You owe me.”

  That got him to exhale in to the phone, the voice behind him asking, “Who is it? What’s going on?” His girlfriend? Robin?

  Joel said to her, “It’s nothing.” Then to me. “Leave me the fuck alone until I don’t have a choice.”

  He hung up.

  So did I. But I grabbed my jacket and key. Nope, doesn’t matter who you are, you don’t get to say no to your partner.

  It was easy to find. I had her name: Robin Malmon. Like Salmon. Not the most common name, so after a quick look in the White Pages online and a Google Maps link I was on my way. The dash clock on my car read 8:45. From here to Gooseberry, up the North Shore through Two Harbors and Castle Danger, maybe another forty minutes. Time to hurry.

  The apartment complex would probably have passed for snazzy in the Nineties, but these days it just looked like a retirement home. I pumped up the stairs and found the right apartment, knocked.

  About a minute later, a woman’s voice: “Who’s there?”

  “I’m looking for Joel.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I’m his partner. Manny. I know he’s here.” I cringed at that last part — who am I? His wife?

  She opened the door a crack, then closed it to undo the chain. Then opened it again. Hair tousled, wearing one of Joel’s camo shirts (I swear, most of his clothing is camo), hardly buttoned, and nothing else, I guessed. Cheek against the door, her bare leg hugging the door, the look in her eyes hard to explain. Awe?

  “You’re the one who got beat up at the gay bar.”

  Okay. Not awe. More like pure nerve. She had balls, and she liked showing them off.

  I nodded. “That’s me. I was looking for someone, for a case, but I got my ass kicked instead.”

  “Joel says it’s because you’re a sucker. They reeled you in hook, line, and the other.”

  I nodded again. “Sinker. Yeah, you’ve got me all figured out.”

  Joel’s voice in the background. “What the hell?”

  She grinned. “Your partner.”

  Suddenly he was there, craning over her shoulder, appearing out of the darkness like a gargoyle. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Robin lifted her chin, brushed her hair in his face. “I want to meet him.”

  “You just did.”

  “No, like, really meet him.” She opened the door wider. “Come on in.”

  I waited. Turned to Joel, lifted my eyebrows. When his stare didn’t make me back down, he grimaced, and walked back into the gloom. I followed. It was truly dark in that apartment, with blackout curtains all over. Robin switched on a lamp, which glowed slightly yellow and cast big shadows on the walls. She padded off to the bedroom — either an exhibitionist or just way comfortable with her body, which I could imagine was fine with a lot of people, like me, but made people like Joel hot for all the wrong reasons.

  He and I stood on opposite sides of the couch. Me dressed for an arctic winter, him in boxer briefs with a bulge, a wet spot, and nothing else. He crossed his arms. Like I’d said before, little bit of a spare tire going around his middle, but he made up for it on either end — legs like a linebacker, broad shoulders, thick arms, a neck that would take dynamite to crack.

  Joel said, “You’re here. This better be good.”

  Eye to eye. “I got my ass kicked because I was out asking questions about the woman on the ice. She was born a man, but either no one believes me or they’re determined to cover it up.”

  “Fine. You asked the wrong questions and they saw straight through you. I swear, it was all you, man. Whatever you did, they smelled you coming.”

  “Okay, you’re probably half-right. But it was because I asked the right questions.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Fine. What else do you want me to say? It doesn’t matter what happened. I don’t have to like you. You can’t make me like you.”

  “Is that the only reason you think I’m here? Jesus. I said I wanted a favor.”

  “I don’t do favors.”

  “You owe me one. If any other cop on patrol acted like you, they’d soon be helping kids cross the street after school. But have I ratted you out? Have I squealed on your lunchtime vanishing acts?”

  “He’s right, Joel.” Robin walked back out of the bedroom, this time in thick sweatpants, several sizes too big, and thick socks. “Most days, I wonder if you work at all, the texts I get.”

  Joel looked away. “You started it.”

  Robin laughed and took hold of his bicep, melted into him. “So, so far left to go. Don’t you think, Manny?”

  Huh? “I guess.”

  “Manny knows. Manny put himself out there. He didn’t brood about it. He ended up in the hospital because he’s twice the man you are.”

  I held up my palms. “Wait, no, wait.”

  She practically hissed into his ear, “Twice.”

  Joel pulled away from her. “Fuck.”

  This was fascinating. Uncomfortable as all fuck, but what the hell was up with these two?

  I cleared my throat. “I need a favor. I’m your partner. I covered for you, and I need a fucking favor. You don’t get to say no. I need you. And you owe me.”

  He stared at one of the shadows on the wall, one like a raven, or a dinosaur.

  Robin said, “Tell him what you need. He can at least listen.”

  So I told him about the truth. Who beat me up, why, and what I’d seen. Why I hadn’t told anyone else yet. Why I felt I was all alone on this. All I left out was the part about me thinking I was more woman than man.

  I told him about the deposit slip, about all the trouble they’d gone to, about the person on the phone with the sultry voice. I even told him the part about me thinking it might be him or other cops playing a trick.

  I told him about Gooseberry Falls, now less than one hour away.

  He heard me out. And then I left Robin’s apartment alone.

  12

  The blizzard that had already blanketed the middle of the state was gradually darkening the sky to the west, approaching us as if on tip-toe, but already blowing the snow sideways, giving me a tailwind to get me up the shore. The evening was bright enough to see a quarter-mile ahead, yet too gloomy to see if any deer were between me and there.


  The four-lane highway ended right as I flew into Two Harbors, remembering just in time to slow down or face the wrath of local cops. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t get the cop exemption any more. Oh, yeah, they knew which car was mine. I bet my “fellow cops” had put out the APB in case I tried to drive a boy-toy to some secluded spot between Duluth and Grand Marais. There was probably a betting pool on who’d catch me first. I wasn’t going to give them an opportunity.

  I took another sip of Doubleshot. Brought three of them along to fight the fatigue. And the fear. Onward, along the virtually deserted road. Past Betty’s Pies, through the Silver Creek Tunnel, twists and turns, the trees to my left gathering snow, the lake to the right raging, but out of sight except for the corner-of-my-eye whitecap crashing against the rocks. Into Castle Danger, past the restaurant Joel had said he liked, Rustic Inn. Then, finally, I killed my headlights to turn in at Gooseberry State Park.

  There were more cars in the lot than I expected, which got me freaking out, ready to run. An ambush, had to be.

  But I waited. Nothing happened. No security guards, no toughs, no lady gymnasts. I parked and waited some more, my head back and forth to every window, every mirror, one per second. Fine. I had to get out for anything to happen, but not before I waited five more minutes. Looked at my dash clock: 10:06. My phone vibrated twice, but I ignored it. I’d come this far. It was time to find out.

  I climbed out of the car, slapped around by the wind. The pistol was cold on my back. Still not sure how movie guys wore them like that, the scratchy explosive things pointing at their asses, while they run around doing karate. I huddled into my coat and pulled the hood over my head, only to narrow my already limited night vision to what was straight ahead. Still anticipated the ambush. Still none came.

  The path led me up between the trees to the main park building — a visitor center housing a collection of models about the Falls, the woods surrounding it, the animals who lived here, plus a gift shop and some nice bathrooms. Locked up good and tight tonight, no refuge for the frozen, but at least the covered walkway blocked some of the wind, as I made my way closer to the steps leading up top, where the falls slipped smoothly over the first of three precipices, gaining speed, noise, and power when it was liquid, but tonight it was still a massive bloom of ice.