Snowblind

by Christopher Golden

  The only thing he really knew—and over these few surreal days he had come to understand that it was the only thing that mattered to him at all—was that Isaac was back.

  “Why don’t you come out of there?” Jake asked.

  “Huh. No,” Isaac replied. “Why don’t you come in?”

  Jake crouched in front of the closet. “Really, Ike. Look around. There’s a storm, yeah. But it’s just snow and wind. The banging you hear is a shutter. I’ll go out and secure it in a bit and we’ll—”

  “No!” Isaac shouted, then clapped a hand over his mouth, obviously regretting the loud noise. He let his hand drop and Jake saw that his lips were quivering and his eyes looked on the verge of tears. “You can’t go outside. Promise you’ll stay in here with me until the storm has gone.”

  Jake swallowed dryly, unnerved by the fear in those familiar unfamiliar eyes. “Okay.”

  “Promise.”

  “I promise.”

  “Now come into the closet,” Isaac said.

  Jake sat on the floor, leaning against the doorframe. He put out his hand and Isaac slipped his thin, pale one—the hand of Zachary Stroud—out of the shadows to clasp it. The fear and sadness in his eyes gave way to a single, urgent plea.

  “You’re safe here, Ikey,” he said. “I promise.”

  Isaac’s lips trembled again and tears began to well in his eyes. “You didn’t believe me that night. About the ice men.”

  Jake had to look away, a nauseous twist in his gut. “I know. You have no idea how sorry—”

  “Will you believe me now?”

  With a shuddering breath, Jake pushed away his guilt and forced himself to look again at his brother.

  “I’ve asked you a dozen times to explain it all to me. How you can be here and what they are and … everything. You just change the subject, and I understand that. I do. You don’t want to talk about it. But if we’re in trouble now, if we’re in danger—”

  “They’re coming,” Isaac insisted, tugging on his hand. “Coming back for what’s theirs. We have to hide until the storm passes. We have to.”

  Jake tried to imagine spending the rest of the day and all night in his closet, and what that would entail. Flashlights. Snacks. Comic books. Maybe a board game. Quiet time in which to tell his brother what had transpired in the twelve years since his death. They had mostly skirted the subject in the days since the boy had first appeared. Isaac resisted any discussion of his death and the fact that the world had gone on without him. But if he was going to stay, that would have to change.

  Jake shuddered, closing his eyes and turning away. How could he stay? With everyone looking for the boy whose face Isaac now wore, a boy who might or might not even still exist somewhere beneath that face, how could Isaac stay here? How long could Jake keep him hidden?

  An image swam up into his mind, a memory of icy fingers reaching through the screen of his childhood bedroom window and grabbing hold of Isaac. A current of fear swept through him, fear to the bone, fear to make him remember the terror of that night as if it had been last night. The idea that the ice men might come for Isaac made him feel like screaming. He had let his brother down once before and he refused to do so again.

  “Okay,” he said at last. “I’ll hide with you. We’ll make a game of it. Though maybe the basement would be better—more room, more air to breathe. Or the attic—”

  “Not the attic!” Isaac said sharply, shivering. “Too many drafts. Open spaces.”

  “Okay. The basement it is. But you have to tell me everything you know about them, Isaac. Everything.”

  Isaac nodded. “Whatever you want, Jakey. Just don’t let them touch me again.”

  Jake gripped his hand tightly. A stranger’s hand. His brother’s hand.

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  For a few seconds, Isaac just held on. Then the boy let out a long breath and looked up at him.

  “Y’know, maybe you should go out and fix that shutter after all,” Isaac said. “But don’t leave it open. Close it tight. Close ’em all tight.”

  The snow fell so hard that the world outside the windows was nothing but a blur of white. Doug and Angela had been up late, and not woken until after nine. Now noontime had come and gone as he emerged from the shower and crossed Angela’s bedroom to peer outside. White, yes, but really the world had turned gray. Pressing his face against the cold glass, he looked up in search of some sign of daylight. Tomorrow—morning or sometime in the afternoon—the sun would return, the sky would be blue, and then the massive snowfall would attain the whiteness that nature intended.

  Today, though … today he saw nothing but gray. It occurred to him that this was the true state of the world, endless gray, trapped between light and dark. He laughed at himself for even thinking it.

  Now you’re a fuckin’ philosopher, he thought, turning from the window and grabbing the overnight bag he’d brought in the night before. Clean socks and underwear, a fresh T-shirt, some deodorant, a toothbrush. He pulled on his clothes, including the jeans from the night before, brushed his teeth, and then left the bedroom, lured through the apartment by the delicious aroma of frying bacon.

  “Something smells good,” he said as he walked down the short hall that opened into the large space that included the living room on one side, a dining area in the middle, and the kitchen tucked away on the other side.

  Angela stood at the stove, hip cocked as she used a fork to flip the bacon slices. She had slept in a flannel pajama top and nothing else, but while he’d been showering she had located the bottoms and slipped them on. Though he’d have preferred her without them, he couldn’t deny that she looked adorable.

  Jesus, there’s a word you’d never have tagged her with in the old days.

  But then again, the old days were just that, and he was interested in starting over.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” she said, arching a playful eyebrow.

  “Please. You slept just as late as I did. You just don’t have anywhere to be.”

  Angela pointed to the small television on the counter with her fork. The volume had been turned down low, and soft voices emanated from it. On the screen, a reporter stood in the driving snow in heavy winter gear, standing with her legs apart to keep from being blown over by the powerful wind.

  “Nobody has anywhere to be,” Angela said. “Schools are canceled everywhere. The governor has asked businesses to let people work from home to keep cars off the roads and let the plows and sanders do their jobs.”

  She had cracked three or four eggs into a bowl and now began to beat them with a whisk.

  Doug barely noticed, staring at the TV screen. “Perfect.”

  A map of central New England showing snowfall totals appeared onscreen. For a moment he thought this was a forecast for the entire storm, but then he caught the words despite the low volume and realized that while they’d been sleeping, sixteen inches of snow had already fallen. He glanced at the clock about the stove—nearly ten A.M. Nearly a foot and a half in nine hours or so, and no end in sight. He felt a twist in his gut and wasn’t sure if it was fear or anticipation.

  He retrieved a glass from the cabinet and turned back to Angela.

  “If we’re doing breakfast for lunch, I’m going to have some OJ. Can I pour you some, or are you sticking with coffee?”

  She poured the egg mixture into a large nonstick pan, focused on the work as if he hadn’t said a word. Doug frowned, watching as she added salt and pepper and then dumped a handful of shredded cheddar cheese into the eggs.

  “Angie?”

  “Get out some bread, would you?” she asked. “I forgot…”

  Her back to him, she began to shudder.

  “Hey, hey,” Doug said, going to her and putting his hands gently on her shoulders. “What’s going on?”

  Angela shook him off, using a plastic spatula to chop and scramble the eggs. The bacon had started to burn, so Doug turned off that burner and slid the pan onto one that she hadn
’t been using.

  “Angela. Look at me.”

  When she turned, her face was flushed pink and there were tears on her cheeks. She pursed her lips as if trying to hold back words she refused to speak.

  “Oh, shit,” he said. “What did I do?”

  Rolling her eyes, she allowed herself a little laugh, but the sadness quickly returned.

  “You didn’t do anything,” she said. “It’s just this storm. And you’re going out, and I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

  The eggs had been on too long now, and Doug moved to her and kissed her forehead and whispered for her to let him take over. She stepped back, swiping at her tears and taking deep breaths to get herself under control. As he slid the eggs around in the pan, he lifted it off the stove and shut off the burner.

  “Plates?” he asked.

  Angela nodded, wiping her eyes one last time before standing on tiptoe to get a pair of plates from the cabinet. Doug used the spatula to scrape the eggs onto the plates in equal portions.

  “That’s too much for me,” she said.

  “They’re good for you,” he said, handing her the plate. “Get your bacon and sit. I’ll bring over your coffee and get us some juice.”

  She did as he’d asked and in another minute they were facing each other across the small table. Doug couldn’t resist stuffing a slice of bacon into his mouth while she played with her eggs and took a sip of juice.

  “We forgot the toast,” Angela said quietly, not looking at him.

  “Screw the toast.”

  She picked up a forkful of eggs and gave him a weary smile. “Kinky.”

  As beautiful as she was, for the first time he noticed just how dark were the circles beneath her eyes.

  “Did you have trouble sleeping last night?” he asked.

  “Maybe a little,” she said, and they both knew this was a lie. She’d had a lot more than a little.

  “What’s going on, Ange?” he asked, and then he let the question float there. He picked up his orange juice to give her time to gather herself, watching her over the rim of the glass as he took a sip. She hadn’t wanted him just to hold her, to comfort her, so he needed her to talk.

  She cupped her hands around her coffee mug, enjoying the heat coming through the ceramic. Cherie had always done the same thing when the weather turned cold and it reminded him just how close the two women had been.

  Angela fixed him with a hard look, no trace of a smile. “Take me with you.”

  “Take you where? You think I’m leaving—”

  “Today,” she said. “Take me with you today.”

  Doug blinked, mouth opening in a silent O. He sat back in his chair and slowly shook his head.

  “Babe, you know I can’t do that.”

  “You have to.”

  He studied her face. Where the hell was this coming from? He liked the new Angela Ristani—might even be able to love her—but if her transition from bitch to sweetheart included this neediness, that was going to be a problem.

  “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he said grimly, leaning forward to put emphasis on his words, studying her eyes. “This isn’t some kind of boys’ outing. We’re not going sledding or ice fishing or something. Baxter and Franco would not react well to you showing up. Hell, Baxter might just shoot us both.”

  Angela scoffed, picking up a piece of bacon. “Bullshit.”

  Doug grabbed her wrist as she tried to put the bacon into her mouth. He squeezed, knowing it might hurt her a little but needing her to pay attention. Her eyes brightened with surprise and anger.

  “Listen. Franco’s an asshole, but I don’t think he’d kill anyone. Baxter, though … I’ve known that guy most of my life. He did time in prison. I’ve heard rumors, some drug thing, once upon a time. Point is, I have no doubt that if it came down to him going back inside or pulling the trigger, we’d both be dead. So, I’m sorry, but you’re staying right here. The guy’s not going to commit a whole fucking boatload of felonies with someone he’s just met.”

  He saw that she wanted to argue, watched the struggle in her eyes, and then she turned away, her breakfast forgotten. Doug got up from his seat and went around the table to kneel beside her, touching her hair, turning her face toward him.

  “You know this. You’re a smart woman. So what gives?”

  When she spoke, it was barely above a whisper and with eyes downcast.

  “I just think we should stay together,” she said. “I’m afraid something’s going to happen.”

  “I’ll be fine, I swear,” he said, trying to reassure her. “I’ll be careful.”

  “It’s not…” she began, faltering and then finally lifting her gaze. “I don’t want to be taken away again. I just got back to you.”

  Doug knitted his brows at the odd phrasing, but the message was clear enough. The first time they had dated, he’d had no idea how much she cared for him. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.

  “I told you I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “Neither are you. I know it’s early days for us, but I like this … like being with you … very much. It was a little weird the last time. I felt like we both loved Cherie so much that in some way she was still between us. But now it’s just you and me, and I think she’d approve.”

  Her smile was bittersweet, but did not erase the worry in her eyes.

  “I think she would,” Angela said.

  “And I want to see where it goes.”

  “Me too,” she said, closing her eyes as if it hurt her heart to say it. “You have no idea.”

  Angela sighed and kissed him, first on the forehead and then on the mouth, lingering for a while, her tongue touching his.

  “Just promise me you’ll take care of yourself,” she said, searching his eyes as if trying to memorize them in case she never saw them again. “And watch out. You never know what’s going to be waiting for you in a storm like this.”

  Harley strode through the storm, fighting the wind and the snow that pelted his face. It was midafternoon but it might as well have been midnight for all the daylight the storm let in. He would have cussed about it but his jaw was clenched in aggravation at the bitter cold that seemed to bite right through his clothes and cut him to the bone. The wind raged and swirled so much that it drove snowflakes down the back of his jacket and the collar of his shirt. Violent meth-heads and back-alley gangbangers he could handle—hell, he’d made short work of his fair share—but out here in the storm he felt like a little kid again. He just wanted a blanket and his old sofa and the TV remote. And cookies. Hell yeah, he wanted cookies, still hot from the oven.

  The crew from National Grid had arrived and was already raising the bucket on their truck to reach the power lines. One of the lines had come down and the transformer had blown. The good news was that the downed line wasn’t going to electrocute anybody; the bad news was that thousands of people in Coventry were without power. On the way over here, Harley had driven through several neighborhoods that had gone dark. Tonight there would be candles and flashlights and lots of blankets. The ones who could manage it and were smart would visit relatives or get a hotel room somewhere with power and heat, but that would also mean traveling in the blizzard, and that might be more dangerous than a frigid night at home.

  “You guys need anything?” he called, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the blizzard.

  Several of the crew looked up at him, then went back to their work. An older guy, winter hat pulled down tightly over his ears, waved to Harley.

  “We’re good. Long as you keep anyone from plowing into us, we’ll get this bitch purring again.”

  “You got it!” Harley said, waving as he turned back to his vehicle. Only once he had climbed back inside and moved the car to block oncoming traffic, flipping on the blue lights, did he continue grumbling to himself.

  There had been plenty of shifts that he had spent sitting on speed traps and lots of overtime working traffic details for road construction. It
bored the crap out of him. If it hadn’t been for the weather, he would at least have stood outside and directed traffic, giving him a chance to talk to the crew or to passersby, but nobody would be passing by tonight. And no way in hell was he going to stand around in the middle of a blizzard when the blue lights were all the warning that drivers needed.

  He left the engine running so that the heat would stay on, watching the blues strobing off the trees and the National Grid truck and every fat snowflake and listening to the static and garbled voices on his police radio. It had already been a long day and it was barely half past one. He didn’t want to think about what the night would bring. The shift he’d been scheduled for wouldn’t normally take him into the evening hours, but he was fairly low in seniority and he had a feeling some of the older guys would be playing that card, leaving the rookies and the young guys out in the cold.

  Harley sighed and slouched in the seat, leaning his head back. Idly, he slipped his cell phone out and glanced at it to see if he’d had any calls or texts. In the past couple of days he’d left three messages for Jake Schapiro and hadn’t heard back. Something was definitely going on with Jake and Harley worried that his friend was in some kind of trouble. Had he not gone out to the house and seen Jake with his own eyes, he might have been worried that he had somehow offended the guy. But whatever had gotten into Jake’s head, he hadn’t seemed pissed at Harley. Just preoccupied and a little paranoid. Harley thought of the way the shades had all been drawn and how strangely Jake had acted when he’d gone to the door. At first Harley had thought Jake had a woman inside, but when he’d ruminated on it later, he’d decided that didn’t seem likely. If he’d been having some kind of torrid sex weekend, that would explain how tired he looked and maybe—just maybe—the shades being drawn. But Jake had been unshaven and appeared not to have taken a shower. He’d looked skittish and not a little ill. That wasn’t the look of a man who’d fallen in love, or even a guy who’d gotten very lucky.

  What the hell are you up to? Harley thought, checking to make sure he hadn’t missed any texts.