by Louise Penny
And behind her the man calling to her. Pleading, Al-yce! Al-yce! Where are you, come back, I wasn’t serious. Al-yce!
Suffused with strength. Where moments before she’d been weak, paralyzed. Weak as if the tendons of her legs have been cut. As if the vertebrae of her upper back have been broken. As if her carotid artery has been slashed by an invisible knife wielded in the murderer’s hand, but new strength flows into her. Running into a snowy field beyond the parking lot. Thick-crusted banks of snow. Pathways through the snow, trampled by myriad feet. But the surface of the snow is icy-hard, treacherous. There has been a thaw, and refreezing. Melting, and immediate refreezing. Alyce is slip-sliding down a hill, into a ravine of rocks, boulders. Trickling water she imagines she hears, amid columns of ice.
Fainter now, the man’s uplifted voice. An attempt at laughter—Al-yce! I was only joking!
In the ravine she hides. A steep ravine, filled with snow. But beneath the snow, cast-off household things—broken chairs, sofa, stained carpet. The skeletal remains of a small creature—raccoon, dog. The man will drive into the interior of the park, along a winding road, calling to her—Al-yce! Darling! I love you, I was only joking! Come back! Sees, or thinks she sees, the headlights of the vehicle on the road until finally the lights have vanished and the wind is still.
Out of the steep snowy ravine. Clutching at rocks, her hands bloodied. And all the while snow falling, temperature dropping to zero degrees Fahrenheit.
How still, the soft-falling snow amid rocks! The yearning, the temptation to lie down, sleep.
Five miles back to the city. She will stagger to the highway, she will limp along the highway facing oncoming traffic. Blinded by headlights and her eyes aching where he’d kicked and punched and pummeled her until at last a motorist stops to pick her up.
Call ambulance? But no, Alyce insists no.
She is going to the hospital, no need of an ambulance.
Call police?—but no, Alyce insists no.
Trickle of blood between her legs. Not a sensation of heat but cold. Begins high in her belly, higher still in the region of her heart. Between her thighs clamped together tight, sticky clots she hopes won’t leak out and through her clothing onto the vinyl seat of the stranger’s car.
Thinking, I am alive. That is all that matters.
Elated to think so. Elated thanking the motorist for the ride.
Saying to the driver, Thank you. We owe you everything!
At the hospital, it is nearing midnight. At such an hour the front entrance of the building is locked, the foyer is darkened, and you must enter by the ER at the side of the building.
On foot, in light-falling snow. Lucky Alyce is wearing boots, these hours she has been walking, trudging, staggering in snow that has accumulated to a depth of four to five inches. On her hot skin, snowflakes melt at once. Laughing to see, as a child might see, how, behind her, there are no tracks in the fresh-fallen snow leading from the curb to the ER entrance.
“Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello? Let me in, please!”
A surprise to Alyce, the automated doors refuse to open. Locked from inside? She peers through the plate-glass window, baffled.
But yes, this is the ER. The reception area of the ER. Where they’d brought Roland B___ on a stretcher. An interior Alyce had not realized she’d memorized as one might memorize a poem unconsciously.
But at last someone comes to open the door. A medical worker in white nylon shirt, trousers. Alyce has no ID—Alyce has left her bookbag, her wallet, miles away. Fallen onto the floor of the man’s car, or out onto the frozen ground when she’d fled in terror of her life, to be discovered by a snow-removal crew in the morning.
At first they will not admit her into the ER. But then the decision comes to admit her.
Carefully it is explained to Alyce, she must take a back stairway to the fifth floor to where Roland B___ awaits her.
“You are his—granddaughter?”
“Yes! I am his granddaughter,” Alyce says, laughing. “He is expecting me. He won’t have gone to sleep without me.”
When she’d been alive she would have been deeply embarrassed. And the seeping-cold sensation between her legs, deeply embarrassing if anyone sees.
Now, grateful to be here. For nothing else matters, Alyce sees that now. The elderly poet awaits her. They will be together, he will cherish and protect her.
On the fifth floor. She is breathless from the stairs, there are no elevators at this hour. She is breathless from hurrying. The corridor is deserted. Where is the nursing staff? The doors to several rooms are ajar. And the door to room 526 is open, there is a blinding shaft of sunshine inside.
“Alyce, my dear! My darling. Where have you been? My beautiful ghost-girl, I have missed you.”
On the morning of December 11, 1972, the body of a young woman was found by hikers in a snow-filled ravine in a wooded area of Tecumseh State Park five miles north of Bridgewater. The young woman was initially believed to have been strangled to death, for there were multiple bruises on her throat as well as elsewhere on her body, but the Tecumseh County coroner has ruled the primary cause of death to be hypothermia. Subsequently identified as nineteen-year-old Alyce Urquhart of Strykersville, New York, a sophomore at the university, the victim is believed to have been left unconscious by her assailant or assailants in a ravine, to freeze to death when the temperature plummeted to a low of zero degrees Fahrenheit during the night.
If there were tire tracks on the roadway and in the parking lot near the ravine, a five-inch snowfall had covered them.
The deceased young woman had been an undergraduate in the College of Arts and Sciences at the university. Residents in her dormitory were reported to be shocked by the news of her death and spoke of her with respect and admiration, saying, You could see that Alyce was a very serious student. The rest of us would goof around, but not Alyce. She was always in the library. (At least, we thought Alyce was always in the library. We’d see her rushing off after class, she’d say she was going to study in the library where it was quiet, then she wouldn’t return until midnight.)
No, Alyce didn’t have a boyfriend, or a man friend. Never saw her at frat parties, or anywhere with a guy.
During her freshman year at the university Alyce Urquhart had earned high grades and was on the dean’s list. Her current instructors have testified that the young woman was an outstanding student until mid-November, when with no explanation she ceased attending classes regularly and failed to complete assignments.
Her philosophy instructor, Dr. Simon Meech, testified to police that Alyce Urquhart had done “usually very good” work in his section of Introduction to Philosophy.
No, he had not had any personal contact with the victim. He’d only realized that she was one of his students when he’d seen the “shocking and tragic” article on the front page of the local newspaper and checked the name against his class list to discover Alyce Urquhart on that list.
Dr. Meech had begun to notice that Miss Urquhart was missing classes when she failed to turn in a written assignment in early December. She had not offered her instructor any explanation and there had been no contact between them. Our undergraduates are adults whom we treat accordingly, Dr. Meech said. They must be responsible for attending classes as for completing their coursework.
Yes. The deceased had turned in work of unusual quality for an undergraduate in philosophy, and especially for a young woman.
Bridgewater police officers are investigating the death, which has been classified as a homicide. At the present time there are no suspects. Anyone with information that might prove helpful to the case is asked to call the Bridgewater Police Department at 555-330-2293.
Alan Orloff
Rule Number One
from Snowbound
“You look like crap, Pen.”
Pendleton Rozier, my longtime mentor, opened the door wide, then coughed into the crook of his elbow. “If only I felt that good.”
I stepped into th
e entryway of his shotgun shack in Revere, the dump he’d been living in since I met him, and handed over a brown takeout bag. “Here. This’ll help.”
He shuffled over to a beat-up recliner and plopped down, while I sat on a folding bridge chair across from him. He set the bag on a metal TV tray and fished inside. Removed a container of soup and a plastic spoon. “Chicken noodle?”
“They were out. I got lentil barley.” I shrugged. “All they had.”
Pen snapped off the flimsy lid and took a spoonful. Blew on it for fifteen seconds, hand shaking as he did.
I’d known Pen for almost thirty years and had pulled dozens of jobs with him, from the small holdups when I’d just been starting out to an all-out blitz at a UPS warehouse two years ago. He’d shown me the ropes, given me advice. Saved my life a couple of times too. Now my teacher—my friend—looked older than his sixty-four years. He’d been heading downhill for a while.
He slurped his soup, then made a gagging noise as he dropped the spoon onto the tray. “Blech. Who would ruin good soup with lentils, anyway?”
“Sorry.”
He tried to fit the lid back on the container, but after a moment of fumbling around, he gave up and leaned back in his chair. “Kane, as much as it hurts me to say, I’m losing my edge. Afraid I’m going to make a mistake that’ll cost me—or someone else. Feh. I’m gonna hang it up. Retire.” His voice caught. “Right after this one last gig.”
“Didn’t you say you were going to do this until the day you died?” He’d been squawking about retiring for the past ten years, but this time his stone-cold eyes told me he was serious.
“Can’t a guy change his mind? I’m going to relax for as long as I’ve got left. Move to a trailer park in Boca and enjoy some early-bird specials.” Pen sputtered off into a coughing jag. When he finished, he wiped some spittle from his ashen face. “So, how’s the job coming along? Ready for me yet? The ride is gassed up and rarin’ to go.”
I needed some clean wheels for when I dumped the van we were using, and Pen had always delivered. Despite his age—or maybe because of it, no one suspected a geezer waiting in an idling car—he was a damn good driver. At least he used to be. “You sure you’re up to it?”
He waved his hand. “Don’t let the coughing and wheezing deceive you. I’ve never failed on a job yet, and you know it. I got enough left in the tank for this. Wouldn’t do it if I didn’t.”
“Sure, sure.” The truth was, I didn’t need Pen—what I had planned didn’t require a fast getaway, and I didn’t anticipate any problems. But I owed him for all he’d done for me, and it seemed fitting to throw a bone his way and send him off to sunny Florida with a few bucks in his pocket—50,000 of them. Call it a token of appreciation for showing me the ropes, watching out for me.
Pen squeezed my arm. “Thanks, Kane, for giving an old guy one last thrill.”
The late-afternoon Allston Diner crowd had thinned, and the servers were stealing some downtime before the dinner rush began. If there was a dinner rush. I’d only eaten there once before, a few months ago, and that was at 8 a.m. after an especially profitable office burglary two exits down the Mass Pike.
Of course, compared to the latest haul, that job was chump change. Penny ante. A paltry piss in a deep lake.
Across from me, my unseasoned partners in crime—both in their thirties, younger than me by two decades—finished up their meals. Jimmy Fitzpatrick, the Irish thug wannabe from Southie with the nonstop mouth and the pasty skin, devoured anything as long as it was fried and doused with ketchup. Nagelman, who always looked like he’d just been released from solitary, gaunt and pallid, was vegan. Or some such crap. I couldn’t keep up with all the latest diet fads, and frankly, I didn’t trust a guy who wouldn’t eat red meat. It didn’t help that all the leftover slimy green gunk in the bottom of Nagelman’s bowl made me queasy.
I balled up my napkin, tossed it onto my empty plate, and stretched an arm across the back of the vinyl booth.
“They got good pie here.” Fitzpatrick wiped a ketchup smear off his chin.
“Maybe we should discuss what we came here to discuss.” Nagelman glanced around, then leaned forward and adjusted his thick-lensed glasses.
“We can multitask,” Fitzpatrick said. “We ain’t idiots.”
“I didn’t say we were idiots. I just think we should get down to—”
“And who the eff put you in charge, anyway?”
I held up my hand. “Girls, girls. Relax. Why don’t we talk business first, then those that want pie can get pie. Okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Fitzpatrick glared at Nagelman. “Whatever.”
“Fine,” Nagelman said, glaring right back at Fitzpatrick.
I cleared my throat. Broke out a fresh smile. It was always much more enjoyable to deliver good news than bad, although I sometimes did look forward to dumping bad news on those I despised. “Our interested party is ready. Finally.”
It had taken a few weeks before my fence had lined up customers for the unique—and highly identifiable—treasures we’d stolen from a truck bound for a chichi Back Bay museum. About a dozen bejeweled pieces from some twelfth-century Russian dynasty.
“Wa-damn-hoo,” Fitzpatrick said. “’Bout time. First stop, Vegas, baby!” He tapped out a drum solo on the edge of the table with his fat fingers.
Next to him, Nagelman issued an audible sigh, and the expression on his face screamed relief more than happiness. “Thank God.”
Did Nagelman ever smile? “He wants to meet tomorrow afternoon at three. That work in your schedule?”
Fitzpatrick nodded. “You bet.”
“We’ll all go to the meet, right? As planned?” Nagelman chewed on the inside of his cheek while his pupils jittered.
“That’s right, boys. Tomorrow at about this time we’ll be one million bucks richer. Each of us.” I’d planned the entire operation, but to keep peace—and because that honor-among-thieves notion was complete horse manure—we’d worked out an arrangement. Fitzpatrick and Nagelman would hold on to the goods in a secret location, and I wouldn’t divulge the name of the fence until the deal was ready. As for Pen, I’d pay him fifty thou out of my share, but I hadn’t mentioned his involvement at all, not wanting to get into any arguments about bringing in another guy.
After the exchange we’d split the proceeds and go on our merry ways, off to spend our loot.
At least that was the plan we’d all agreed upon.
Sometimes plans changed.
Nagelman wanted to run through the specifics again—what time to meet and where, who would take the lead during the meeting, contingencies if things went south—and we spent about thirty minutes hashing it all out. When we finished going through it all yet a third time, he seemed satisfied.
“So we’re good?” I asked.
Two nods.
“Now can I order some pie?” Fitzpatrick said.
“Knock yourself out.”
“I gotta take a leak first.” Fitzpatrick got up. “If she comes while I’m gone, I want a big slice of Boston cream, got it? Maybe some extra whipped cream on top. And ask for a cherry too. I’m in the mood to celebrate, and nothing says celebration like a plump red cherry.”
When Fitzpatrick was out of earshot, I leaned across the table. “You gonna be okay? We talked about this, right? Three mil divided in half is a lot more dough than it is split three ways.”
Nagelman dabbed his sweaty forehead with his napkin. “I know. But . . . you don’t think he’s got a clue, do you?”
“Him? He wouldn’t know a clue if it burst out of his chest like that monster in Alien. Trust me, he’s a dolt.” I glanced over my shoulder toward the restrooms. “But I don’t trust him, so you need to keep an eye out. Make sure he doesn’t get the idea that he can rip us off and sell the goods on his own.”
“He couldn’t.”
“I know he couldn’t; my guy’s the only one around who will touch our stuff. But he might think he can. So watch him, okay?”
> “I will, I will. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried in the least.” I smiled. “You want some pie too?”
“No thanks. They probably use lard in the crust.”
“Isn’t that the best part?”
My phone rang. Fitzpatrick.
“What’s up?” I said.
“Just checking in. We got the van,” Fitzpatrick said. “Everything on track with the meet?”
“Yep. Where are you?”
“Gas station. Nagelman’s in the can.”
“How’s he seem?” I asked.
“Like a mouse in a snake’s cage. He could use a Xanax or three.”
“Do you think he suspects anything?” I asked.
“Hard to tell, he’s always so twitchy. I asked him a few questions to feel him out, and he got all sweaty, like he does when he’s stressed. Best guess? I think he’s afraid I know about him and you planning to double-cross me, although I suppose he might sense we’re about to screw him. But so what? If he figures it out, I can snap him in half. His physique is certainly an argument for eating meat, huh?”
“Don’t hurt him, Fitzpatrick. There’s no need.” I didn’t have a problem stealing stuff from people—things can always be replaced. I drew the line at physical harm, unless absolutely necessary. I was an artful thief, not a two-bit goon. Not hurting people was one of Pen’s top ten rules. Right below his numero uno directive: never trust anyone. “Just be cool.”
“Whatever you say. You’re the bossman.”
My other line beeped. Nagelman. “Got another call. Listen, the last thing we need is you getting all macho and screwing this thing up. Remember, three mil divided by two is a lot more than if we have to divide it by three. See you in a little while.”
I clicked over to the other line. “Yeah?”
“It’s Nagelman. I think he might be onto us. Christ, he was—”
