by Chris Knopf
“Wow,” I said, “how did you miss that guy?”
“I used the Force. Not the dark side, in case you’re wondering.”
It was far better when we finally crossed Montauk Highway and worked our way up the back roads, already deep in snow but far less traveled. Better snow for Dayna to deal with. She settled into third gear and literally plowed ahead.
To help me resist the urge to chatter away and mess up her concentration, I switched around different radio stations. This gave us a range of perspectives, from “this is really bad” to “this is insanely bad.” Then the governor came on everywhere and confirmed the second opinion. He announced that he was ordering all roads in Suffolk County closed and warned that drivers of snowbound vehicles could be waiting a long time for rescue, given that municipal plows and emergency crews could barely move around themselves.
Dayna pressed on, unfazed by all the apocalyptic talk, her eyes forward and face set in a slight grin. She was enjoying this, which Harry pointed out.
“Me and Jeffrey sailed around the world when we first got together. There’s nothing out there that can match weeks of running downwind through the Roaring Forties. Talk about tricky driving.”
“What haven’t you done?” I asked.
“Saved a son of a bitch’s life.”
We started to relax a little before turning a corner and almost smashing into a pair of trucks that had already smashed into each other. The road was blocked. We jumped out to see what was what. No one was hurt, but neither truck (one a van, the other a small pickup) was going anywhere. And consequently, neither were we.
The driver of the pickup rolled down his window when Dayna knocked. He didn’t answer when she asked if he was all right. Harry tried in Spanish and he nodded. I don’t know where the conversation went from there, but with the help of the other driver—an Asian guy who had his own shovel—and Harry’s considerable contribution, we moved the little pickup to the side of the road, clearing a path for Dayna to squeeze through. I gave the Spanish guy my card after telling him through Harry if he caught any trouble for moving his vehicle, I’d fix it. He looked completely reassured, which was touching. His confidence was well placed, but he didn’t know that.
We moved more cautiously after that, if that was possible. We passed a few more vehicles that had succumbed to the slightest of inclines, but all were safely pulled over in full surrender.
“Man, it’s slippery,” said Dayna. “Four-wheel drive is a bare minimum.”
“I once drove across a frozen arctic sea in a box on treads, like a cross between a minivan and a tank,” said Harry. “That would work. And I’ve also sailed the Roaring Forties, so I totally dig what you mean about that.”
Dayna looked across me at Harry. “Oh yeah? Ever danced naked on peyote in the jungles of Belize to the songs of enraged howler monkeys?”
“No.”
“Okay, then talk to me when you do.”
It was silent in the truck for a little while, then Harry said, “Ever capture a pair of live Theraphosa blondi tarantulas in Venezuela and hand-deliver them to a hemophiliac billionaire living in a nuclear-bomb-proof cave in the Swiss Alps?”
“Don’t take the bait,” I told Dayna. “He can do this all day.”
This was the third time Dayna had been to the Buczek place, so she knew the way. When we reached the top of the drive, we saw it was already well filled with snow. She dropped the plow.
“So what’s the plan?” asked Harry.
“We call on Zina and ask her permission to search Hamburger Hill. If she refuses, we leave and spend the trip back apologizing. If she agrees, we go find that door.”
“And if it doesn’t open?” asked Dayna.
“We improvise.”
With that, Dayna pulled into the driveway and we were headed down the hill, the truck’s engine revving under the load and snow flowing out from the right-hand side of the plow like a white wave breaking on the shore.
Having run this route a few times, Dayna took us to the house with confidence. I felt myself start to feel some regret at the idea of barging in on Zina, which I easily shook off, pushing Harry with my shoulder and saying, “Let’s go.”
The three of us went up to the front door and I rang the bell. Saline answered, looking alarmed.
“There’s nothing to be concerned about,” I said. “We’re here to see Zina.”
“Nothing of concern?” she said. “We’re in the middle of a blizzard.”
“Not quite the middle, ma’am,” said Harry. “It’s going to get a lot worse.”
“Please tell her we’re here. It’s extremely important,” I said.
The door closed and we were left to silently wait on the porch. I hated this part, where you stood outside and looked at a closed door, wondering what was happening on the other side. This time, the door opened again.
“Come in,” said Saline. “You can wipe your feet on the mat in the foyer. The rest I’ll just have to clean up later.”
She said that last bit mostly to herself. I felt a little bad, but no way would I take off my boots.
Zina received us in the living room, sprawled as she often was on a love seat, wearing an outfit not all that different from the one in my dream. It seemed like Zina had perfected active loungewear—comfortable clothing made to look like you wore it to do something uncomfortable, like lifting weights or filling out tax forms.
“You always blow in with the storms,” she said to me. “Does that mean something?”
“Probably. You might remember my friend Dayna Red, and this is Harry Goodlander.”
He reached down and they shook hands.
“Sorry to bother you,” he said.
“You might be; Jackie certainly isn’t. She’s always push, push, push. Come on, isn’t that true?”
I told her Harry and Dayna would go sit in the kitchen with Saline so we could speak in private. After they left, I unbuttoned my parka and dropped into the opposing sofa.
“It is true, I push,” I said, without apology, “and you’ve been patient with me. I want to be patient with you, too, but the questions are piling higher than the snow out there.”
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
“You’ve told me nothing that you know,” I said.
She frowned and smiled at the same time. I’d seen the look before. It was supposed to express strained credulity but did the opposite.
“What a thing to say.”
“Is your father still alive?” I asked. She held my eyes but didn’t speak. “After you left Poland, did he survive?” A crimson blush began to form around her neck, spreading upward toward her face.
“Who have you spoken to?”
“Did he?”
Darkness fell across her pale face. “No. They killed him. My mother watched. She’s now in the crazy hospital, so they might as well kill her, too. Who are you talking to? What are they going to do to me?”
There was a question I hadn’t even thought to ask myself. Not that it mattered. I didn’t have an answer.
“I don’t know who they are,” I said. “I only know your life was threatened and Tad went over to Poland and rescued you. For a price.”
She looked behind herself toward the kitchen.
“Saline knows none of this,” she said, her voice pitched to a near whisper.
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” I said, but just as quietly. “You and Tad were only officially man and wife,” I said, taking a chance, “not in the real sense, with all that goes with that.”
Her nearly regal feline poise began to sag.
“That’s very personal,” she said.
“Sorry. So’s Franco’s life, which you don’t seem to appreciate.”
“That’s not true,” she said, looking away.
“Then quit lying and tell me what really happened that night.”
She looked back at me, her eyes becoming more slanted as they closed nearly to a squint. “You ask a lot to come into my home trackin
g water everywhere and calling me a liar.”
“You let us in because you don’t know what I know, and you want to find out. You might not know our legal system, but you figure it’s better talking to your late husband’s family member than the cops. And you’re certainly right about that.”
She swung her feet down onto the floor, as if to become better anchored against incoming threats. She held her head in her hands and talked into the Persian rug.
“Tad was supposed to be gone for two days, but the storm was so bad they shut down the highways and he couldn’t get to where he was going. There’s a little cabin up near the road. It was built for some old Buczek long time ago. Franco fixed it up enough for us to meet there.” She looked up again. “But you know this already, don’t you?”
I nodded. “Franco told me. And I’ve been there. I’ve seen it.”
“You can go up there,” she pointed toward the ceiling, “and see our bedroom. Two beds. Part of the deal, he has to make everyone believe we are husband and wife. But you’re right, in real life just on paper. The only thing that happened up there was a lot of snoring. Unbelievable. No one could sleep through that.”
Another flurry of questions flew like startled birds into my brain, but I stayed on track. “Tad called Franco, looking for you.”
She nodded. “Franco tells him he was about to go clear off the woodshed, which was the truth. He was worried it would collapse from too much snow. But now, it would be a good way to get Tad away from the house so I could sneak back in, then make up some silly story about taking a walk in the storm. I ran down the hill as fast as I could with all the snow, and when I get to the house, he’s not there. That’s all I know. I never saw him again.”
“You didn’t run into him along the way?” I asked, almost casually.
She perked up in her seat. “Who, Tad? No. That would be disaster.”
“There was a disaster. He was killed,” I said. “Franco found him on the path you took to the main house.”
She struggled to understand me, or confuse me further, it was hard to tell.
“Me kill Tad? That’s impossible. He catch me out there it would be the other way around for sure.”
Not impossible for Franco, I thought, who trod the same path. But I didn’t say it.
“When you got back to the house, what did Saline say?” I asked, without conceding to her denials regarding Tad. “Weren’t you concerned about her?”
“Saline wasn’t there. She was back in her own house, I suppose. No reason to be here.” She looked toward the kitchen, fixing Saline’s location in the present.
“Where did Tad go when he left for long periods of time? What was he doing?”
“I don’t know,” she said, too quickly.
“Yes, you do.”
“So you’re a mind reader? You know what’s up here?” She pointed to her head.
“What’s under Hamburger Hill?”
She stiffened but held the set of her face. I could only imagine the terrors and stresses of the life she led in Poland and Russia, the types of people with whom she did daily business and the types of pressure they could apply. She would have a natural resistance to revelation, an instinct for half-truths and subterfuge.
“I don’t know what you are talking about. It’s a hill.”
“You’re giving us permission to go look for ourselves,” I said, taking out my phone. “I’ve got the Southampton police on speed-dial. They won’t have to ask.”
She pulled up her feet again and lay down on the couch, putting her clasped hands between her knees, tucking into herself.
“Suit yourself,” she said.
So I did.
* * *
Back in the kitchen, Dayna, Harry, and Saline were sitting on stools around a counter-height butcher-block table drinking coffee and munching on sausage and peppers, bits of ham, pickles, beets, and olives.
I grabbed an olive and announced to my partners that we had a job ahead of us, should they still choose to participate.
“You can come too, Saline,” I said to her.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“We’re going out to take a look around Hamburger Hill. Anything specific we should focus on?”
She dropped a half-eaten pickle on the plate. She put both hands flat on the table and stared at me.
“You can’t just do that,” she said. “This is private property.”
“Zina gave her permission. Sure you don’t want to come?”
“Why do you want to do this?”
“Why shouldn’t I? Come on, guys, let’s go,” I said, and led my gang out the door to Dayna’s pickup. I unfolded a still shot from the satellite video I’d stuck in my coat pocket. We looked it over, brushing snowflakes away every few moments, and established our bearings, plotting a route along the path I’d seen taken by the box van.
“Do you think your truck can manage it?” I asked Dayna.
“For sure. It’s actually easier in deep snow to get a grip. If we have to plow, I’ll plow.”
The first part of the trip took us farther down the main driveway toward the staff house. I had my eyes on the still, trying to plot the best place to turn off, so I didn’t see what Dayna and Harry saw, I just heard “Uh-oh.”
It was another pickup, about the size of Dayna’s, also with a plow slightly raised. Freddy was at the wheel. We were in a deep valley of plowed snow, inside a stand of young pine trees, with little room to pass by. Freddy slowed, but didn’t stop until his plow came up against ours with a slight bump. Dayna put the shifter into first gear and stood on the brakes. We heard Freddy’s engine racing and felt our truck slide backward.
Dayna let out a little yap of surprise. She let off the brakes and pressed the accelerator. We stopped sliding and held our position. Harry rolled down his window and yelled, “Hey, what’re you doin’?”
Freddy suddenly backed up, causing us to lurch forward. Dayna braked and we watched him pull back. Harry put his hand on the door handle, but I stopped him.
“Wait,” I said, a split second before Freddy sped forward again, wheels spinning, and plow rising. Dayna frantically shoved the plow lever forward and the truck in reverse, though we’d barely gotten under way when Freddy’s truck hit. Freddy had ballistics on his side. His head would’ve only slammed back into the headrest; ours pitched forward, along with the rest of us. Dayna at least had a hold on the steering wheel. Seated in the middle without a seat belt, I was the least secured, and if Harry hadn’t thrown his long left arm in front of me, I’d have gone through the windshield.
“You fucker!” Dayna yelled, shoving the gear lever back into first gear and hitting the gas, slamming into Freddy’s plow before he could retreat and locking up the two trucks like rams in a mighty contest of engines, gears, and tire treads.
At first it was a stalemate. Harry held on to me and braced himself with his other hand on the dashboard. The engine roared, and we shifted side to side, though stuck in place. With the plows raised, we couldn’t see much of the other truck, but could hear the scream of his spinning wheels and see the plume flying from the tires like the tail off the back of a hydroplane.
Dayna called him a few more impolite names and then did something surprising, and a little alarming. She took her foot off the accelerator and put it back on the brake. After pitching backward for an instant, we lurched to the left and then stopped. Dayna had cocked the steering wheel, causing us to crunch into the hardened snowbank. Freddy kept shoving us without letup, but we stayed in place. Dayna then put her truck back into gear, only this time in second. Harry saw what she did and said, “Hah.”
Dayna let out a growl and started to accelerate as she eased off the brakes. We moved forward, very slowly at first, but then more quickly. We could hear the rpms from Freddy’s engine rise and fall as he tried to regain traction, but his wheels just spun with little effect while our higher gear ratio and lower torque led to the opposite effect.
We heard his engin
e drop all the way off and felt a thud as he hit his brakes, and then pulled Dayna’s trick, turning backward into the snowbank. The instant he hit, Dayna slammed her truck into reverse and pulled back a few feet, using the plow controls to both lower it and change the angle of the blade to the hard right. We could now see Freddy’s truck, forty-five degrees off the center line with his rear end buried in the tall bank and his wheels spinning as he tried to regain forward momentum.
With her plow cocked to the right, and back in second gear, Dayna drove into the front left corner of Freddy’s truck, catching the side of his plow in a way that allowed her to shove the pickup sideways and farther into the snowbank until it was perpendicular to the driveway and hopelessly jammed in place.
Dayna stopped pushing and stepped on the brakes. Harry jumped out of the truck and grabbed his pickax out of the bed on his way around the rear bumper. I followed him and was around the truck in time to see him swing the flat end of the tool, like Mickey Mantle going for the stands, right into Freddy’s passenger-side window. Freddy thought this was a good time to leave his truck and run. Harry anticipated this and, like a giant arboreal ape, clambered over the hard cover protecting Freddy’s truck bed, and ran after him.
It took me a bit longer to get to the other side, but again, just in time to see Harry, with his loping stride, quickly overtake Freddy as he slipped and scurried over the slickened driveway. Harry came up to Freddy’s side, spread his right hand across the other man’s back and pushed. Freddy went splat, arms and legs splayed, spinning on his big belly across the frictionless surface.
Harry slid, too, but stayed on his feet, rotating around so he faced toward the other man, who was trying to wriggle to his feet. He might have made it, but I got there first and jumped on his back. Freddy went back down and I went with him, gripping the hood of his heavy down coat and pulling it backward, which had a decided choking effect.
