Ice Run

by Steve Hamilton

  I got out of bed slowly, like my head was a bomb that could go off at any second. I went into the bathroom. When I was done washing my face, I took a good hard look in the mirror. Maybe I looked a little better, I thought. Maybe one notch below Quasimodo now. But I still had the full array of bruises and the red streaks in my eyes that made me look possessed.

  She came back, I thought. She came back to this face. I can officially believe in miracles now.

  I went down the hallway, passing the other upstairs bedrooms— the master bedroom with the portraits of Natalie’s grandparents, the bedroom with the canopy bed and the frilly white bedspread. Everything had a slightly sad and dusty smell to it. I didn’t know how she could spend so much time here in this big empty house.

  The grandfather clock was ticking at the top of the stairs. Aside from that there was no other sound.

  “Natalie!”

  No answer.

  I went down the stairs, the old floorboards creaking with each step. The dining room table was completely taken over by moving boxes. All the china had been carefully packed away. All the curios and souvenirs of a family’s long life in this house. The living room was just as empty. Or maybe it had been called the “parlor,” once upon a time. There was a sofa, two matching chairs, a coffee table, and more boxes.

  I parted the curtains and looked out the front window. Her Jeep was parked in front of the house. There was no garage to park it in.

  “Natalie!”

  Still no answer.

  Then I noticed the old barn outside, across the snow-covered field, with an open side door fluttering in the wind. I found my boots. I swore as I bent over to pull them on to my feet. When I stood up straight, the blood was pounding in my ears. I was so dizzy I had to lean against the wall. I needed some more drugs, or hell, maybe an early beer or two, but first I had to find out where Natalie was.

  I grabbed my coat and went out the front door. The sun was shining, but it was cold and the wind was kicking up so much sparkling glitter, it was like it was snowing all over again. I didn’t see any tracks, but I tromped all the way through the deep snow to the side of the barn. The door was still swinging in the wind, but I saw that it was just barely open, stopped by the packed snow on the ground. I pulled it hard until I could squeeze through.

  “Natalie!”

  My voice reverberated through the high rafters. It took my eyes a while to adjust to the dim light, after the brilliant snow outside, but when they did, I saw the vast emptiness of that old barn, with the light shining through in thin slits here and there. A swirl of powder hung in the air as the snow worked its way through the cracks. It collected in a light layer on the floor, covering the ancient wood and the hay dust. There were a few farm tools hanging on the walls—a hoe and a pickax and some other metal contraptions I couldn’t have named to save my life. Everything was rusted to the point of disintegration, and an old leather horse collar was eaten away to almost nothing. If someone had told me this barn had been used in the last fifty years, it would have been a surprise to me.

  I pushed the door open again and made my way back across the field to the house. I was starting to get genuinely worried. When I was inside, I knocked the snow off my boots and called her name again.

  Nothing.

  Then I saw the door. It was in the corner, behind the old wood stove. I tried it, and it opened to a set of stairs.

  “Natalie, are you down there?”

  I didn’t hear anything, but it looked like there was a light on, so I went down, holding on to the wooden rails. There was a strong smell in the air, a cellar smell, of moisture and rot and mildew.

  It was dark, the way cellars used to be before they started building them with high windows. The stairs led to a small room filled with stacks of wooden crates and an old metal bicycle with long wooden fenders. The room led to another room, and then to another, the light growing stronger and stronger.

  “Natalie, where are you?”

  I went through one more room, this one with piles of old magazines on one wall, and on the other wall a set of shelves filled with mason jars. There was a door. It was half closed, the light streaming out onto the floor.

  “Natalie?”

  I pushed the door open.

  She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by more boxes.

  “Natalie, didn’t you hear me calling you?”

  She didn’t answer me. She held an old photograph in her hands, its edges curled with age.

  “What’s the matter?” I said. I winced as I bent down beside her.

  She didn’t say anything. A single tear ran down her right cheek.

  “What is it?” I said. “What are you looking at?”

  She didn’t show it to me, but I could see just enough of it to make out three men. The photo was in color, but it had that washed-out look to it, the way color photos looked in the sixties. I was guessing the older man was her grandfather, and one of the other two men was maybe her father. She had come down to pack up all these boxes of old photographs, and had stopped to look at this picture of the grandfather she loved and the father she had hardly known. And that this had gotten to her, in the same way it would have gotten to me or to anyone else.

  I was wrong.

  “I talked to the doorman,” she finally said.

  “What?”

  “At the hotel.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The first night I got there. I talked to him. What did you say his name was? Chris?”

  “Yes, but what does—”

  “He helped me with my bag,” she said. “He rode up in the elevator with me, and he asked me how bad the roads were. I told him I had a Jeep, and that I knew how to drive in the snow. He asked me how far I had come.”

  “Yeah?”

  “So I told him I came from Canada. I’m pretty sure I said from Blind River. That old man, the man who left the hat, the man who died in the snow … You told me he was the doorman’s grandfather, right?”

  “Natalie, I’m sorry. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She looked down at the picture and swallowed hard. “I need to tell you something, Alex.”

  “What is it?”

  “When you asked me to come over to Michigan, the first thing I thought of was this promise I had made to my own grandfather.”

  “What did you promise him?”

  She looked up at me. “I promised him I would never set foot in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan.”

  “What? I don’t get it.”

  “He hated that city so much, Alex. Once, when I was a teenager, a bunch of us went over the bridge to go to this bar. God, I thought he was going to have a heart attack when he found out. I never saw him so mad.”

  She looked back down at the picture.

  “Why did he feel that way?” I said. “I mean, I remember you telling me he thought it was a wild place.”

  “There’s one thing we never talked about in this house,” she said. “My father’s death was the one forbidden topic. But now, I think it makes sense.”

  “What? Tell me.”

  “My father was killed in Michigan, Alex. In Sault Ste. Marie.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She shrugged. “I thought it was time to grow up, you know? My father’s been gone for thirty years now, and my grandfather’s been gone for fifteen.”

  “Okay, so go back. What does all this have to do with the doorman at the hotel? Or his grandfather?”

  She handed me the picture. I flattened it out. There were three men. The man on the left was the oldest of the three, maybe in his fifties. He was robust and he had a stern smile, and he was dressed in an old suit with a string tie. He stood with his hands on his hips, like he wasn’t quite sure whether he approved of the scene before him. The man in the middle of the picture was young, in his twenties. He had a big wide smile and he was wearing a light linen suit. He was moving toward the camera, his arms spread as if he were about to embrace the
photographer. The man on the right was just as well dressed, his suit coat unbuttoned to show off his suspenders. His hands were in his pockets, and he stood watching the man in the middle with a thin smile.

  “It was meant for me,” she said. “I’m the one he left it for.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Look,” she said. She pointed at the man in the middle of the picture. “Look at what’s on my father’s head.”

  It was the same shade of gray, the same band. The same shape. Forty years later, it would end up filled with ice and snow on the floor of a hotel hallway, but in this picture, it belonged to a young man from Canada. Sure, there were thousands more just like it. That much we knew. But somehow, we knew something else—the way you know in your gut that the most improbable thing in the world has to be true.

  This was it.

  This was the hat.

  Chapter Nine

  “It was my father’s hat,” she said. “But why? Why would that old man go to all that trouble just to tell me he knew who I was?”

  She finally looked up at me. It was like she was seeing the damage on my face for the first time.

  “Alex.” She reached out to me. “This all happened because of me.”

  “No,” I said. “Come on. It’s not your fault.”

  “It is,” she said, looking back down at the photograph. “Of course it is. It was my father …”

  I looked more closely at the three men—starting with the old man on the left, who had obviously worked hard his entire life, who had seen so many long Canadian winters. Then the younger man in the middle, Natalie’s father, with the big easy smile, all charm and optimism. He was stepping toward the camera, drawing the attention to himself. Then the third man.

  “This man on the right,” I said.

  “Albert DeMarco. My stepfather.”

  I felt a sick flutter in my stomach. “The one you told me about?”

  “Yes, he was my father’s best friend back then. His family lived just down the road.”

  I bent down closer to look at him. “You say he’s dead now?”

  “They all are,” she said. “All three of them are gone. Two of them left too soon, and Albert not soon enough.”

  “Do you recognize where this picture was taken?”

  “It’s right here at the house, standing out by the driveway.”

  “When was it taken?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I think I remember that car, though. It was still here … Years later, I mean. It was a beat-up old thing by then, just sitting in back of the barn.”

  Behind the men I could just barely make out the tail end of a car. “So this must have been what, late sixties maybe?”

  “Yes. Somewhere around then.”

  I touched the photo where the corner was peeling away from the backing. “This is a Polaroid,” I said. “One of the early ones. The picture would come out and you had to stick it on the cardboard and smooth it out.”

  She shrugged. I might as well have been talking about a box camera with the big black hood and the gunpowder flash.

  “What else is here?” I said. “Any other pictures?”

  She pushed open the lid on the box. “There’s all sorts of old stuff here. Pictures. Souvenirs.”

  “What about these other boxes?” There were six or seven in all, lined up against the wall in this small room. Above them there were shelves with dusty old radios, lampshades, one of those old milkshake mixers with the steel canisters like you see in diners.

  “More history,” she said. “Most of all this was from before I was born. God, Alex.”

  “Why don’t we bring some of this stuff upstairs?”

  She wiped her face on the back of her sleeve and stood up. “I’m almost afraid to. What else are we going to find?”

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go up. It’s freezing down here.”

  She picked up the box in front of her. I grabbed two more. I was afraid the cardboard would give way in my hands.

  “This is all falling apart,” I said. “It’s a bad place to keep stuff like this.”

  “I didn’t put it down here, Alex.”

  “I know that. I’m just saying.”

  She turned and headed for the stairs. I followed her. When we were back upstairs, I took a big breath of the warm dry air. We put the boxes down on the empty dining room table. I left her there and went back down to grab another box. It felt strange to be down there by myself.

  When I picked up the box, the flimsy cardboard started to come apart. Another photograph fell out at my feet. Another faded color picture, this time of a woman’s face. I bent down, picked it up, and looked into the eyes of a woman who had to be Natalie’s mother. She was fairer than Natalie, with red hair and green eyes. This was where Natalie’s Irish side came from, to go with the dark features inherited from her father.

  The woman was turned slightly sideways. She looked into the camera with a shy smile, perhaps a little too knowing at the same time. She seemed aware, most of all, that she was taking a damned good picture.

  When I got back upstairs, Natalie was sitting at the dining room table, a dozen photographs spread out before her.

  “Here’s some more,” I said. I took out the picture and showed it to her. “I’m guessing this is your mother.”

  She put her hand to her mouth. “My God.”

  “I shouldn’t even be looking at this stuff,” I said. “I mean, you should go through it yourself.”

  “Look at her,” she said, ignoring me. “She was so beautiful.” She took it from me and held it in front of her.

  “This was back in the sixties, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s her first name, anyway?”

  “Grace,” she said. “Her name is Grace.”

  “That’s a good name.”

  “God damn it, what did she do to herself?”

  “Natalie, has something bad happened to her since then?”

  “Just herself, mostly. Not to mention marrying Albert after my father was gone. Plus a lot of alcohol.” She put the photograph facedown on the table. “I’m sorry, I can’t even look at this now.”

  “There are a couple more boxes,” I said. “I’ll go get them.”

  I made two more trips to the basement. Whatever had caused such a strong reaction to seeing her mother’s picture, she seemed to put it behind her quickly. By the time I brought up the last box, she was busy sorting through all of the contents.

  “I guess I was saving the basement for last,” she said. “You can see why I was dreading it.”

  “Natalie, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, Alex. Here, look, I found another photo from that same day.”

  She showed it to me. Her father was standing in the middle of the shot again, the gray hat on his head. He had one arm around Natalie’s mother now, the other arm on his father’s back. The old man was smiling now, like he had finally given in to the occasion.

  “Where’s DeMarco?” I said. “Is he taking the picture?”

  “I think so. That first one must have been taken by my mother.”

  “That hat…”

  She shook her head. “It’s hard to believe, but I know it’s the same hat. I know it. And if Simon Grant had that hat…” She stopped.

  “What?”

  “Maybe he killed him, Alex. Maybe Simon Grant killed my father.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “It all fits,” she said. “We never found out who did it. Now maybe I finally know.”

  “Tell me again,” I said. “What do you know about how your father was killed?”

  “I told you, my grandfather never talked about it. Not ever. It was my mother who told me what little I knew. He was in a bar in Michigan and somebody killed him. I think that was her way of telling me to stay away from bars. Which was kind of ironic, coming from her.”

  “Nobody was ever arrested?”

  “Nobody.”

  I pi
cked up the photo again.

  “Natalie, didn’t you ever ask her to tell you the whole story?”

  She looked up at me. “What, ask my mother?”

  “Didn’t you want to know?”

  “He was protecting somebody, some woman in the bar. He was just an innocent bystander. That’s what my mother said, anyway.”

  “That’s all? If you wanted to find out more, couldn’t you just call her right now?”

  “Alex, it’s not that easy.”

  “Why not?”

  “You gotta understand,” she said. “I can’t just call my mother and ask her something like that. Not if I really want to know the answer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She lies, Alex. Every other thing she says is an outright, complete lie. It’s her gift. It’s the reason she was put on this earth.”

  “She lies even to you?”

  “Especially to me. She saves her best work for me. Her masterpieces. You want an example?”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s see. There were so many of them … Okay, how about this one? When I was twelve years old, when she and Albert got married, she moved out of this house and took me with her. We were living down by Toronto, in this really big house. The guy was already pretty rich by then. I’m in this huge house with a gigantic bedroom of my own and it was the absolute worst time of my life. I don’t even like to think of it now. But the one thing I had going for me was I had a dog. That was the only friend I had in the world, the whole time I was there. This little beagle mutt named Keon.”

  “You named your dog Keon?”

  “After Dave Keon, from the Maple Leafs. I was a big hockey fan, even back then. Anyway, one day I come home and Keon’s not there. I asked my mother where he was and she said he ran away. She gave me this whole description of him getting off the leash and her running down the street chasing after Keon, going through everybody’s backyard.”

  “Let me guess. The dog didn’t really run away.”

  “No, he didn’t. But it wasn’t enough for her to just tell me that lie. She had to go crazy with it. We were out there putting up posters, Alex. We put an ad in the newspaper. We were driving in the car, all over the neighborhood, me with my head out the window calling Keon’s name. We did that for five days. Until finally, the guy across the street comes over with one of the posters in his hand, and he says to my mother, ‘Hey, didn’t I see you run over a dog in your driveway?’”