The Ice Harvest

by Scott Phillips

  He wasn’t far from Dora’s place, and on impulse he made a wide U-turn in the middle of the street and headed toward it. She lived with a roommate in the eastern half of a two-story duplex four blocks away from the hospital. He parked in front of the house and climbed the steps onto the front porch.

  The living room was dark, but in the bluish light from the street lamp coming through the living room window he made out a small, raggedly decorated Christmas tree with a few presents scattered around it. He pressed his cheek against the cold glass of the front door and held it there for a minute, uncertain whether to press the doorbell. He stepped back and leaned against the edge of the railing, trying to think of what he’d say when she came down.

  Maybe she wasn’t home. He stepped carefully down the snowy steps and walked up the short gravel driveway to the garage. Standing on his toes he looked in and saw two cars, one of them Dora’s old yellow Beetle. He went back to the door and stood there for a few seconds, finger poised an inch from the button. Finally he pressed it. It was three-thirty Christmas morning, and he had no idea what he’d say when she came down.

  A light came on upstairs and he thought about running away. He dug around in his pant pocket for a comb and didn’t find one, so he ran his hands through his hair, sticking them quickly into his coat pockets when he saw her slippered feet appear at the bottom of the stairs. She had on a robe, and she crossed the living room without turning on the light. The porch light came on, and he squinted, his hand shading his eyes, trying to get a look at her face. The door opened. It wasn’t Dora.

  “Charlie?” It was Lori, the roommate. Her face was puffy and red.

  “Sorry. Did I wake you up?”

  “No, my shift just ended an hour ago. I couldn’t sleep anyway.”

  He forced an insincere grin. “Waiting for Santa, right?”

  “What’s up, Charlie?” She wasn’t smiling, but she stood aside and motioned him into the living room.

  Lori shut the door and switched on a floor lamp. The room was bitterly cold, even stepping in from outdoors.

  “I came by to see Dora. Is she asleep?”

  “She doesn’t live here anymore.”

  “I just saw her car in the garage.”

  “I bought it from her. I have a new roommate now, from Lithuania. Come on into the dining room; I’ll put the space heater on.” She shuffled toward the back of the house in fuzzy pink slippers, beckoning.

  “Where’d she move to?”

  “Texas, a couple of months ago. Fort Worth.” She knelt before a small, cheap space heater and clicked it on, turning the dial all the way to the top, and then she shut the dining room door behind them.

  “She didn’t tell me.”

  “You stopped calling her, Charlie.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize to me. You want something hot to drink?”

  “I could use a drink, now that you mention it.”

  “All I got is coffee. I quit drinking.”

  “Oh. Yeah, that’d be fine, if you’re having some anyway.”

  Without a reply she went into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind her. Charlie sat down at the round, bare table, and as the space heater’s coils slowly shifted from gray to orange he took inventory of the tiny, sadly familiar dining room. On the shelf were two oversize coffee-table art books he’d given Dora, and last year’s Christmas gift to her—a framed pastel-toned poster of an Indian woman sitting on a blanket mashing corn—was still hanging on the wall. He’d bought it a year ago tonight, in fact, at a joyless little gift shop downtown that had gone out of business shortly afterward. Christmas morning Dora had given him the impression that she was crazy about it.

  Through the kitchen door the microwave hummed, and Lori poked her head through. “Milk? Sugar?”

  “No, thanks.” Her head disappeared again and the microwave bell dinged. Ten seconds later Lori appeared with two mugs, each with a spoon.

  “Might need a little more stirring. Sorry, it’s instant.”

  She plopped down onto one of the chairs. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Yeah, Merry Christmas. You going to see your family tomorrow?”

  “Mine’s all in Indiana.” She sipped tentatively at the coffee, testing it for heat. “You going to see your kids?”

  “Saw them tonight. Over at the in-laws’.” He put the mug to his lips, took in a small amount of hot, corrosive liquid, and surreptitiously spit it back into the mug.

  She gave him a curious look, head tilted to one side, eyes narrowed. “You get back together with your ex?”

  “No, I just went over there for a few minutes.”

  “Because that’s what Dora thought maybe happened.”

  “No.” She was staring straight at him, and he found it hard to meet her gaze.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “I’m sorry I hurt Dora.”

  “Charlie, you’re so full of yourself it’s not even funny.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t mean to burst your bubble, Charlie, but you didn’t really hurt Dora. I mean, sure, a little at first, but she got over that quick enough. She knew it wasn’t going anywhere, anyway. She’d known it for a long time.”

  “She did?”

  Lori leaned back. “What do you want me to tell you, Charlie, that you broke her heart? Shit, she was dating one of the interns before you even quit calling. And if he couldn’t keep her from moving to Fort Worth, I certainly don’t think you could’ve. Don’t worry about it. Your conscience is clear.”

  “That’s a relief,” he said, though oddly it wasn’t.

  “I’m not trying to break your balls, honest. So how’s work and stuff?”

  “Same as always.”

  “They ever find out what happened to that stripper who disappeared? Dora said you knew her pretty well.”

  “Look, I probably should get going. Got six o’clock mass in the morning.”

  Lori snorted. “Yeah, you and me both.”

  At the front door Charlie gave her a peck on the cheek.

  “Good to see you again, Charlie. Sorry I’m feeling like such a bitch tonight. And sorry about the coffee.”

  “Thanks for letting me come in. Nice to see you, too.”

  “You know, you could call me sometime. It wouldn’t have to get complicated.”

  “Yeah, maybe I’ll do that.” He opened the door and stepped back onto the porch.

  “Sure. Merry Christmas,” she said, and shut the door behind her. As he stepped off the porch a woman in a flannel robe stared at him from the front window of the other unit of the duplex, her angry eyes wide open and her face pinched tight in the soft multicolored light of a Christmas tree.

  He got back onto the state highway headed west and pulled onto the access road leading to the Midas Touch, dark now and abandoned-looking, the only building for half a mile in either direction. He sat in the car and sorted through his key ring until he found a key marked MASS. A piece of hand-printed notebook paper was thumbtacked to the front door:

  WE WILL BE CLOSED CHISTMAS

  DAY SO OUR EMPLOYEES MAY

  SPEND IT WITH THEIR FAMILYS

  Inside it was cold and silent, with a faint moldy smell. He turned on the light in the front room and a brightly colored plastic bas-relief of Santa’s head winked knowingly at him from the cheap wood paneling.

  “Anybody here?” There was no answer. He turned to leave and noticed that he’d tracked in mud and, leaning on the front desk, picked up his left foot to examine the sole. The shoe was wet, with tiny crystalline chunks of hardened snow clinging to it, but no mud to speak of. Looking back down at the mud he saw a messy trail of it leading to Encounter Room Two and felt his sphincter snap tight. Involuntarily he glanced back at Santa, whose red-faced leer had assumed a threatening aspect, and cautiously began following the tracked mud.

  The trail led to the massage table, which was muddy and smeared with still-tacky
blood, then continued out to the storage room, and finally to the back door. Charlie looked at the door for a minute, wondering whether someone was outside it or not. The alarm light was on, and on the back door it could be turned on and off only from the inside. He stuck his key into the alarm box, turned it off, and stepped outside, apparently still alone. Two parallel furrows in the snow led to a patch of snow flatter than any of the surrounding area, about six feet long by three feet wide. He stood over it for a minute or so, then went back inside to find a shovel and, if possible, a drink.

  13

  He pulled open Ivy’s top drawer and found nothing but blank Mastercharge slips and a stack of special coupons: Buy five Oriental Massages and get a free Breast Massage. The other drawers were empty except for a couple of dense, well-thumbed paperback romances. He was sure Ivy kept a bottle in the desk; she must have taken it home with her for the holiday. He didn’t feel capable of digging up whatever was out back without a fortifying drink, but after a cursory search of the drawers and cabinets in the Encounter Rooms he had to face the fact that there was not a drop of liquor to be had in the Midas Touch that Christmas morn.

  A shovel leaned against the wall of the storage room. Its blade was wet with grayish brown frozen mud. Charlie picked it up, turned on the rear floodlight, and pushed his way out the back door. The rear of the property was enclosed by an old warped chain-link fence, and beyond the fence he saw no sign of life. He stood for a moment over the spot, then began to dig. If Vic was down there, then the money was gone, Charlie was exposed, and his only option was to run. He kept digging anyway, more certain with every shovelful that it was Vic. The pain in his hip, almost forgotten, began to reassert itself.

  The soil turned more easily than he had expected, big chunks of solid, semifrozen earth already broken by the earlier excavation. His heart pounded from the effort nonetheless, and by the time he hit something soft about three feet down he was wheezing desperately. He uncovered most of the thing, a canvas package tied with twine and looking very much like a human body. He looked down at it, feeling tiny beads of sweat freezing on his face. He cut the twine at the head with his penknife and then sawed through the canvas. Beneath it lay the back of a human head, its short dark hair matted with blood. It might have been Vic or it might not. He became conscious of a stitch in his side, a consequence of the unaccustomed physical exertion, but he felt strangely calm. He tried to turn the body over so he could get a good look at the face, but the canvas was stuck fast to the soil beneath it and it wouldn’t budge. He took a deep, painfully cold breath, got a firm grip on the head itself with both hands, and gave it a good, solid twist. It didn’t budge, but there was a small, encouraging crackle and he tried again, putting his shoulders into it. It gave this time with a slow, wet, splintering sound punctuated by several sharp snaps. The bloody face, its eyes and mouth open in apparent surprise, was Deacon’s. Standing up and appraising the whole canvas Charlie saw that the body was far too small to have been Vic. He felt giddy with joy and disbelief. For the moment, anyway, he had a reprieve.

  He phoned Vic’s house from the front room. The other end picked up, but no one spoke. He hesitated. “Vic?”

  “What the fuck’s going on? I got home and the front door was wide open. I almost had a heart attack. Where are you?”

  “The Midas Touch. Deacon’s dead.”

  “Christ, what’d you do, dig the little fucker up?”

  “I saw there was a grave; I thought it was you.”

  “That’s real thoughtful of you, Charlie. I hope you put him back the way you found him.”

  “Sure I did, what do you think?” He hadn’t. In his excitement he’d raced straight back inside, leaving the grave open and the floodlight on.

  “You better get over here. We got more trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get here. You’ve spilled enough over the phone for one night.”

  He covered the canvas package with the frozen blocks of mud, but couldn’t get them on an even plane with the rest of the ground. He tossed a few chunks aside, settling finally for what was at best a more or less even coverage, which he then layered over with snow. When he stood back it still seemed to him lumpy and uneven, and he began smashing it flat with the shovel. After eight or nine solid blows, he was wheezing again and gave it up. He shoveled some more snow onto the top, smoothed it over with the shovel, and turned to go. At the door he stopped. Deacon had been a nasty little homunculus and had most likely died trying to get him killed, but it seemed wrong to leave without a prayer of some kind. He mumbled a Hail Mary, an Our Father, and what he could remember of the Ninety-third Psalm and then he opened the back door. Fat lot of good that did Deacon, he thought. He stamped around the area bounded by the fence, breaking the crust of the snow so that the disturbed area wouldn’t stand out so badly, then turned off the flood and looked out at the grave, trying to decide whether it was any more or less obvious than when he’d first seen it. He decided it looked all right and pulled the back door shut.

  It was four-forty-five in the morning when he got to Vic’s house. The lights were off again, and he went around the back way. Vic was waiting for him in the kitchen, wearing a bright blue down ski parka.

  “What the fuck took you so long?” His flat, round, usually pale face was bright red from anger or exertion or cold.

  “Just straightening up at the Midas Touch.”

  “No point. They’ll find Deacon the twenty-seventh or -eighth no matter what we do, and by then we’ll be long gone. Come on downstairs; I got something to show you. You’ll get a kick out of this.”

  In the center of Vic’s basement was a large footlocker riddled with bulletholes, all of them burst outward as though shots had been fired by someone inside it.

  “We’re gonna have some fun on our way out of town, Charlie.”

  “You’re a fucking dead man, Cavanaugh.” The angry voice came from inside the footlocker, which scuffled and scratched uselessly on the dust of the cracked green linoleum.

  “Big talk from a guy locked inside a trunk, Roy.”

  “Who’s with you? Is that Arglist?”

  “Shut up. Give me a hand here, Charlie; let’s take him upstairs and get him into the Lincoln.”

  “I don’t have the Lincoln.”

  “What are you driving, then?”

  “A Mercedes.”

  “What the fuck you driving a piece of foreign shit like that for? You got the best American car there is.”

  “The Lincoln’s full of puke.”

  Vic gestured at the gyrating footlocker. “Will that thing fit into the trunk of a Mercedes?”

  Charlie shook his head. “I’m not sure. Might have to put it into the backseat.”

  “That’s no good. I don’t want to have to listen to this cocksucker all the way to Lake Bascomb.”

  “Arglist, listen to me.” The voice was ragged and breathless. “You could still get out of this alive if you help me out of here. He’s gonna cut you out anyway.”

  “Shut up!” Vic gave the trunk a vicious kick, then pulled back in pain. “Jesus, my toe.”

  “Why don’t you just shoot him?”

  “Because I want to see him sinking slowly into Lake Bascomb. Besides, we have to get rid of the body somehow.”

  “So what happened, exactly?”

  “I was waiting for you, and around about one o’clock I heard a noise, so I went outside to check it out. So there’s Deacon, hiding behind the side of the house. I coldcocked him and took him into the garage and got him to tell me what he knew and who else knew it.”

  “You hear me, Charlie? I’m offering you a deal.”

  Vic started to kick the trunk again, thought better of it, and grabbed a length of steel rebar and smashed it on the lid.

  “Shut up, I said! Come on, Charlie; let’s go upstairs.”

  They climbed the stairs, Roy Gelles’s offers to cut a deal with Charlie following them hoarsely up into the k
itchen.

  “Come on into the living room, Charlie. I’ll see if I can’t salvage us a drink from the wreckage before we go.”

  The living room had been demolished. Furniture was overturned, upholstery slashed, drawers yanked out. The television lay on its side, a hole the size of a cue ball in its screen. The bottles on the bar, which had been full when Charlie was there waiting for Vic, were now empty. Vic went over to the liquor cabinet and opened it, searching for a bottle of anything at all.

  “This is adding insult to injury, you know? He just fucking poured it out.” Vic shook his head at the empty bottles as though examining a desecrated church.

  “How’d he get into that trunk?”

  “Oh, yeah. So I got back from getting rid of Deacon and there was Roy, tearing the place apart. I snuck up behind him with that chunk of rebar and coldcocked him just like I did Deacon, took his gun, pulled him downstairs, and stuffed him into the trunk. He’s wedged in there tight, Charlie. I was so tired I forgot to check if he had another piece on him. Turns out he did. I about had a fucking heart attack when bullets started coming out of that trunk, I’ll tell you.” He rose, shaking his head sadly. “Not a drop.”

  “Any beer in the fridge?” He wanted a drink. His head was starting to hurt.

  “Nope. Well, you have to drive anyway. I figure we can still make the eleven A.M. flight to JFK, even after a stop at Lake Bascomb. Come on, move your Mercedes into the garage and let’s see if we can’t fit old Roy into the trunk.”

  Charlie was surprised to find that the footlocker was indeed too long to fit into the trunk. He had begun to believe that the car would never let him down. “We could shove it halfway in lengthwise, stick a red cloth on it, and tie the lid down with twine,” Vic said.

  “There are traffic laws regarding oversize loads in trunks.”

  “Your problem is you think like a fucking lawyer, Charlie. Let’s just do it and get this done so we can get out of town.”