The wig. My old sneakers, sure to get my feet wet, but damn it, them’s the breaks.
The ninja cops outside knew my coat, at least the one I’d worn to Wendy’s, so I put on my fall barn coat instead. Not as warm, but again, yeah. Topped it off with a wool watch cap, and that was it. One last trip to the bathroom.
It was in the back of the house, and it had a window overlooking the houses, too close on all sides, and the back alley. Like I’ve told you, it’s an old house, chopped into apartments. Radiator heat. The windows haven’t been replaced since … Pearl Harbor, maybe? They were still on weighted pulleys. The wood contracted in the winter, splintered. A tough bastard to raise, and who would even want to in the winter? If I’d been smart, I would’ve stretched some plastic wrap across them to shield me from the cold.
Let me revise: I was smart enough. I just didn’t care. Gotta pay for something in this life. Might as well be heat.
I pushed up on the window, trying to find the sweet spot between making it move — a lot of goddamned effort — and making it move without the awful squeaks and grinds that sounded like it was dying. It was an inch-by-inch task. Took ten minutes to get it fully lifted, icy wind in my face the whole time, tensing me up. But then it was done and I stepped away, caught my breath, and did something I’d never done before. I climbed out of that window.
Second floor, and nothing beneath but what passed for a yard and rusting junk. If I did this right, I could jump wide enough to miss the old charcoal grill I’d never seen anyone use. And the fold up chairs that the neighbors had used, but hadn’t thrown away, even when the thread wore through and the frame cracked. It was a tight fit on the sill, even with my skinny ass. I looked for something to grab hold of, but the wood panels, the window frame, were all slick with night ice and offered no handholds.
“Shit.”
The technical explanation for what I did next could fill a page or two. I’m pretty sure it would confound illusionists. I held onto the bottom of the window while shimmying my ass out, somehow getting one leg free. With me in a skirt and absolutely not used to wearing one, that was not cause for celebration. It was sheer terror until I got the other leg out and had both knees on the sill, cutting into my skin. All I had to do next was—
Push away.
Easier said than done.
In my head, I saw it end two ways simultaneously — easy-peasy and excruciatingly.
And how would I get back in when I was done? Walk up to the front door? The ninja cops knew who lived here, and not one of the other tenants looked the way I looked right then. Those doubts, man. Doubts. Leaving that window open, someone would notice, right? The cop kind of attention, or the crook kind of attention, both were equally bad.
Push. Away.
Just. Do. It.
A deep breath of cold air, a cough, a slip, and then—
Eyes closed. Push. The weird sensation of freefall. Landed on my feet and, goddamn, that hurt. I rolled back onto my butt and over my shoulder, wanting like hell to cry out but remembering it was game over if I did. I opened my eyes. I had missed the grill of death by inches. Little ones.
I caught my breath and sat up. Ass aching, feet seriously pissed at me, but thankfully unbroken. Pain was fine. Broken wouldn’t have been, but I wasn’t broken. I was dirty, wet, and afraid. I turned my eyes to the windows all around. Some with lights on, some dark, and not a soul in any of them. I thought I was ready, but then, looking at my skirt, my legs, my shoes in the moonlight, realizing what this meant for me, I needed a few more minutes. Didn’t realize I was shaking. Didn’t realize how afraid I really was, not so much of the cops who were probably on stealth patrol outside my house, but of myself at that moment. What was I capable of? If I really was a woman, I should be able to pull this off, right? But Manny, the man-part of him taking the backseat, scoffed. Not a chance.
I whispered, “But it was your idea.”
“Was not.”
He was right. It was me all along. Or wasn’t it?
I stood, brushed myself off. I should’ve brought my gloves. I tucked my hands into my coat pockets, balled up and aching, just as I had done on my way to Wendy’s.
I started down the back alley, took out my phone, and called for a taxi to pick me up two miles away.
If the taxi driver doubted my gender, he didn’t show it. Maybe because I played drunk and sad. I pretended to have a heartbreaking conversation with my best friend about a fake break-up so there would be no need for any talking with the driver beyond me telling him the name of the lodge in Castle Danger, a pitch higher, a little softer than my normal speaking voice. If I’d tried any harder, I would’ve sounded like the hags from Monty Python. He sighed. Good fare, sure, but not much chance of picking up someone on the other side. I didn’t have the cash to hold him there while I snooped, and I wasn’t going to use a credit card that could be traced. Already paranoid as shit. But Bosack made it clear that I wouldn’t get away with sniffing around somewhere I shouldn’t be, especially when on administrative leave.
All in time, we got there. I handed over cash for the fare, which I sort of underestimated, so his tip sucked. I climbed out and walked into the lobby before he figured it out. Luckily, the main lodge had a ‘warm up’ foyer between the first set of glass doors and the second. I ducked in and saw the night clerk look up, then down again. I was no threat. I pretended to finish my phone call as the cab spun its tires and rushed off.
I was alone. Past midnight, the snow up here didn’t disappear as quickly as it had in town. Plenty of lights glowed in the cottages to the west of the lodge, mostly retirees or rich folks taking in the melt as Lake Superior came awake again after so long, the sounds of ice chunks squeezing and clashing into one another, cracking, roaring, sometimes like distant artillery shells exploding. I didn’t know what to expect from Hannah’s cottage. Police tape? A forensics crew in paper suits with high-powered lights? Armed guards?
I stepped back into the parking lot and made my way over to the cottages, back down the twisting trail leading to the shore. Crack! Pop! No Snapple. Should’ve worn gloves. Should’ve worn wool socks. Pants would have been a start.
The snow had been cleared from the path. On the grass its top layer was evaporating, leaving a thin fog through which I just about saw that the cottage had indeed been taped-up, padlocked, and left alone.
Almost.
Closer and closer still, I realized the curtains were drawn, but there was some sort of light behind them. A weak one. And, there it was, movement. Slight, but there. They’d left someone to keep an eye out. Shifts, I guessed.
But why? I thought this was a dead end, according to the Chief. Why would there still be someone guarding this place? Were they expecting more company?
It didn’t matter, because I wasn’t interested in anything inside the cottage.
Like I’d figured out: Hans had been an outdoorsman. Paula had known Hans and Hannah. Hannah would’ve wanted Paula to figure this out. Just so happened she hadn’t done so yet, or Hannah had died before being able to give Paula the last clue. But now, in sudden cold clarity, it seemed obvious, Hannah had known better than to hide even a single iota inside that cottage. She would’ve hid it outside.
I stopped and looked around. Outside was really fucking huge.
But she would’ve wanted Paula to find it.
I stepped off the trail. The snow was wet, soaking through my shoes immediately. The explosions on the lake — ice crushing ice — covered any noise my steps might have made. Once I reached the corner of the cottage, I crouched, right below window level, and duck-walked past it as best I could.
Where, Hannah? Where? By a tree? Out on the beach? Under a rock? As I made it to the back corner, I turned to the screened-in deck. Under the steps? Or in the covered barbecue grill?
I made it to the other corner, scanning, thinking, juggling jigsaw pieces. The side wall, snow drifted up a couple of feet, not up to the window sill. A pair of snow skis and poles had fallen over
from where they’d been propped against the wall. Nice skis. Expensive ones.
Hans had liked to ski. In fact, he had ‘disappeared’ from a ski trip up around Lutsen, so went the official story. And here he was, leaving a fine set of cross-country skis out for anyone to take. That seemed … weird. I duck-walked closer, intrigued enough to plant my knees in the snow and take a closer look.
What if they hadn’t fallen like I’d first thought? What if they had been placed here, under the snow, waiting for the melt?
I reached out. My hand was trembling — cold, fingers turning purple.
I took the top ski, checked underneath.
There was the other ski, next to the other pole.
I was about to put it down again, but caught a glimpse of something not quite right. Flipped the ski again.
It had been scratched in pretty deep. At first I thought maybe it had skidded across some rocks or slammed into a tree. But no, this wasn’t an accidental scratch. Not at all. It was a deep, deliberate ‘P’, and right next to it, an arrow pointing down.
3
Joel Skovgaard had spent the same two days, while I was trying to escape hidden ninja cops and play Inspector Clouseau, holed up at Robin’s apartment, eating Chinese delivery, watching Netflix, arguing and making-up in his usual viscous cycles. Both physically and mentally bruised from the hard sex, hard conversations, and hard things they had yelled at each other. Once it had gotten so loud that the police had come to the apartment for a ‘wellness check’. I wondered if they had been there the whole time, summoned by Chief Neudecker and Dad Skovgaard to keep an eye on the stubborn son. Anyway, they left again in no time, fear on their faces after meeting Robin.
(Maybe it wasn’t abuse. Looked like it to me, but say that word around either of them, then you got hit upside your head with a duo of denial.)
There was a lull this particular night. The TV was on but muted. Robin was on the floor, cross-legged in a three-days-worn nightie stained with sweet and sour sauce, sweat, and cum. She stared at the opposite wall, rocking gently back and forth, while Joel, stone-cold naked on the couch, strummed his guitar and mumbled through some old Garth Brooks tunes. He hadn’t learned new stuff in, what, ten years? But why should he have? There was no expiration date on Friends in Low Places and Rodeo. Robin hummed along, no smile, no joy.
It was the sort of love that exhausted you, I guessed. The sort of chemistry that resulted in a violent reaction, but at least they had chemistry. Must be nice.
When Joel had first arrived, with the clothes on his back and the acoustic guitar he’d bought his first day back from the war, he told Robin what he’d done. How he’d skirted the charges. How the only reason why that cop was alive was because Joel wasn’t that great of a sniper after all, missing the headshot the same way he missed the bunny.
Robin had known better. Of course she had. And of course she had told him: “There’s no killer in you. There’s a scared little boy who likes to bully those weaker than him.”
Yes, this from the woman who loves him, and bullied him nonstop. Or maybe she just pursued him. Either way, she kept a tight hold on his balls.
Joel trailed off in the middle of the song, plucked open strings randomly. He said, “They want me to roll on Manny.”
“I know.”
“It was his fault I was up there.”
“I know.”
“But he didn’t deserve to be chased down like that. The tranny didn’t either.”
“I know.”
“These were supposed to be bad guys, not other cops. They attacked Manny. It didn’t make any sense.”
“Mm hm.”
More open strings. D, A, high E, high E, high E.
“Neither one of us are going to be cops anymore.”
“I know.”
“Jesus, Robin, fuck you, you know?” Exhale. Low E, low E, A, A, G.
She said, “What do you owe him, though? His demons shouldn’t fuck up your life, partner or not.”
“Well, thank you. That’s mighty helpful. Strips away all the nuance, doesn’t it?”
She turned her head away and went, “Ugh … then don’t ask what I think.”
“I don’t think I did. I was just thinking out loud.”
She straightened her legs and stretched as if to touch her toes. Came nowhere close. “If you want to be a stand-up guy, I respect that. But if you go to jail, I won’t wait for you. I want you here, and I think you should want to be here with me. If that means rolling on him, then roll on him. Because that’s better than being a failed cop killer.”
“I’ll always be a failed cop killer.”
“If you keep reminding yourself, you will. And I won’t put up with that, either.” Robin pushed up from the ground, went over to the couch, and pulled his guitar away. She dropped it on the carpet hard enough that all the strings clanged and echoed Joel’s thought: That’s an eighteen-hundred-dollar guitar, bitch. She straddled him. Noses touching.
She said, “I’m hard to please. I’m hard to deal with. Most men would’ve been long gone by now. They want to fuck me, but they don’t want me in their heads. You, I don’t get why you’re still here. You’re breaking me down, bub.” The tip of her tongue, down his nose, across his top lip. “I don’t want to be broken down, but you’re doing it. Keep doing it. I’ll keep trying to break you down first, but goddamn it, you’d better keep fucking doing it to me.”
He’d gotten harder with every word, and all she had to do was lift herself for half a second while she kissed him, and he was inside her again. She pushed down deep, slow, while taking in a deep, ragged breath.
That’s when someone knocked on the door.
Joel shouted, “FUCK!”
Robin slid off his dick and pulled her nightie down. “You go put some underwear on.”
“How about you first?”
“You can’t see nothing.”
“Jesus, you …” Bit his lip. Got up and went for some briefs.
Robin went to the door, opened it till the chain stopped her. “Yes?”
“It’s me.”
Her eyes went wide, then she grinned, opened the door and let me in.
I’d had to hitchhike back to Duluth. I’d had to break a trucker’s finger after he thought he could bully and grope me, and so the rest of that ride was a quiet, tense reminder that I still wasn’t what I appeared to be.
I had him drop me a few blocks from Robin’s apartment. By then he understood what I had under my skirt — no points for guessing, given that I’d told him after that first foray into my nether regions — and as I grabbed my things and got out of the cab, he started mumbling some nasty stuff he was going to do to me.
“Get to the ER and fix that middle finger. By the way, I’m also a cop.”
He didn’t need the details.
I climbed out, he drove away.
Since I didn’t see swirling lights from multiple squads in the apartment parking lot, I guessed maybe I was a little paranoid, but then I saw it. There was a single squad in the back of the lot — could be pure coincidence — giving them a good view of the landing outside Robin’s door. Anyone standing up on that floor, the cops would see them … from the waist up. Which is why I made my way around the back, over the fence by the covered hot tub, and up the stairs. The rest of the way, I was on my hands and knees. The thigh highs were ruined, obviously, and bloodied around the knees, when I knocked on Robin’s door and heard Joel shout, “FUCK!”
Then Robin opened it, looked down, and figured me out. She let the chain loose and allowed me to crawl in. I wondered what the cops in the lot made of that.
I stood, bloody knees, skirt, wig, all that. Robin crossed her arms and looked me up and down. “Wow.”
“You sound like my sister.”
“Does she know you’re wearing her clothes?”
“She wouldn’t be surprised.”
Robin sighed. “Let’s get you something not so wet. Clean up those knees. What’s that?”
&nb
sp; She pointed to the plastic bag I had tucked under my arm.
In spite of coughing, I could still grin. “Evidence. The final nail.”
Joel stepped out of the bedroom, briefs only, still sporting a chubby. Hands on his hips. “Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
He shook his head. “This is a bad idea.”
Robin said, “The bright side is it’ll be easier to arrest you both in one place. You can even share a backseat to jail.”
Joel stepped over and reached for the bag of evidence. I pulled it back. It was covered in dirt, mud, and sludge. I’d dug it out of the nearly frozen ground under the skis with my bare hands. Cracked fingernails, numb fingers, and aching bones. It was the key, and I wasn’t going to give it up easy. Inside was a personal note to Paula, only half-readable (I hadn’t had time to decipher the smeared ink), and two flash drives.
“This is what they were looking for. This is why they chased us. This is it. I was right. We were right. And they don’t want anyone to know! That’s why they didn’t let me help.”
Might as well have been talking to the door. Joel talked over me. “I got my ass chewed by the old Chief. And he’s right, too. You and me, we’re not cops anymore. We’re not partners. And all I’ve got to do to wash my hands here is tell them it was all you. You know that?”
Fuck no, I didn’t know that. “That wasn’t the way it was explained to me.”
Robin said, “Of course not. Shit, obviously they’re not going to say, sorry, but you realize we can’t let you run around like some X-Files kook, right? It’s jail for you. Enjoy being the prison bitch.”
My grip on the bag tightened. “I thought … I don’t know what I thought.”
“Guessing by the bag in your hand, I suppose you didn’t hear much of what they were saying because you were too busy solving conspiracies in that fucked-up head of yours.”
She was right. Too blinded to see that letting me go wasn’t the answer. “But if I was stupid enough to lead them to the … this …” I shook the bag.
Joel squeezed his eyes closed and seethed, held his hands up to his head like he was having bad brain freeze.
Castle Danger--Woman on Ice Page 17
