Dead of Winter lk-2

by P J Parrish

  “He’s lying.”

  “Ballistics showed your gun fired both the bullets we dug out of Cole and his father.”

  “I told you, Gibralter had my gun.”

  “Cole says that after you shot him, you fired on Gibralter for no reason at all.”

  “Jesus Christ, Steele, does that make any sense to you?”

  Steele just stared at him.

  Louis ran a hand over his eyes. “Look, I went along with Gibralter’s plan but when I knew it was getting out of hand I tried to stop it. When Gibralter told me he killed Pryce, I knew he was going to kill Cole, too. I went along to stop him. I tried — ”

  He stopped, seeing the disdain on Steele’s face. He leaned back against the wall. “It’s all in the damn report.”

  Steele was silent, studying his face. “Kincaid, your fellow officers tell me you and Gibralter didn’t like each other. I saw your personnel file, the reports Gibralter wrote up on you. You yourself tried to tell me he was dirty. I think this was more personal than what is in that report.”

  Louis stared at him. Had he found out about Zoe? If that came out, no one would believe him. Everyone would think he killed Gibralter because of her.

  “Steele, listen,” Louis said. “I am a cop, a good cop, whether you want to believe it or not. Gibralter was crazy. I shot him to save a sixteen-year-old punk who didn’t deserve to die. I’m not sorry.”

  Louis pushed himself off the wall. “I’m going to see Harrison.”

  Steele caught his arm. “Out of professional courtesy, I will give you a few minutes with your partner then one of my men will arrest you.”

  “On what charges?”

  “Obstruction of justice, attempted sexual assault on a prisoner, conspiracy, excessive force and anything else I can think of. And unless that kid changes his story, I’ll add homicide.”

  Louis jerked away and started down the hall to Jesse’s room. He paused, watching Steele disappear into the elevator. Damn it, he wasn’t going to let this happen without a fight. He backtracked to Cole’s room.

  Cole’s eyes snapped up as the door opened. When he saw Louis he looked back at the television.

  “I want to talk to you,” Louis said.

  “No way, man.”

  Louis moved into Cole’s line of vision. “I saved your life. Why didn’t you tell Steele that?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because it’s the truth. And it’s about time someone started telling the truth.”

  “Yeah, like you guys know something about telling the truth. They’re dead, they’re all dead because of you.” He paused. “Even my fucking old man.”

  “There was nothing I could do about your father, Cole.”

  “What about the rest of it? You didn’t have to take me out of Red Oak! You didn’t have to stand there while he hit me with that tree! You didn’t have to…fuck. Just forget it.”

  Louis grabbed the remote from Cole’s hand and clicked it off. “I didn’t have to kill a cop to save you either.”

  Louis tossed the remote onto the bed. Cole’s eyes went to it, staying there.

  Louis moved closer to the bed. “Look, my life is in your hands, Cole. I’m asking you for help. I’m asking you to tell Steel what happened out there last night.”

  “Fuck you,” Cole murmured.

  “All I’m asking you to do is tell the truth!”

  “Someone has to pay!” Cole shot back.

  “For what? For Johnny, for Angela? Christ, Cole, I wasn’t even there! Why are you trying to bury me?”

  “Because you’re a cop. Someone has to pay.”

  Louis shook his head in disgust. “Justice, huh? Is that what you want? Is that what this is all about? Let me tell you about justice. If you don’t tell what happened, the man who shot Angela will be buried with honors. The man who beat your brother to death will go on being a cop. And me, the man who saved your ass, will go to prison. And you…you will go back to Red Oak for five more years.”

  Cole was staring at him.

  “Your anger will eat you up, you’ll end up in jail,” Louis went on, “and ten years from now someone will kill you with a shiv in the shower at Marquette and you’ll be buried in a prison cemetery.”

  Louis shook his head. “That isn’t justice, Cole, that’s stupidity.”

  Cole’s eyes glistened with tears but before they could fall he looked away.

  “Cole, tell the truth,” Louis said. “Forget about me. You owe it to your brother and sister. If you don’t tell the truth, no one will ever know what really happened. Tell the truth about five years ago and about last night.”

  “Who am I supposed to tell?” Cole spat out. “That asshole in the suit? He’s a cop. I ain’t talking to no more cops.”

  “Okay. How about a reporter?”

  Cole frowned. “What? Like on TV?”

  “Newspapers,” Louis said.

  “He’ll write down what I tell him?”

  “If it’s the truth.”

  “Will Harrison go to jail?”

  “I don’t know. That will be up to a judge.”

  Cole wiped at his eyes, looking up at Louis. “But people will know, right? They’ll know about Johnny, they’ll know he wasn’t really bad? They’ll know Angela didn’t do anything wrong? They’ll know, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they’ll know I was too scared to do anything that night?”

  Louis imagined the frightened eleven-year-old, huddled in the closet of the Eden cabin. “Yes, they’ll know,” he said.

  Cole’s eyes fell. He picked at the edge of the blanket. “All right. I’ll tell him.”

  Louis stepped out into the hall. The trooper had found a chair nearby and was deep into his magazine. Louis saw Delp sitting in the waiting room. He waved, catching his attention and motioning him down. Delp hurried down the hall.

  “Get out your notebook,” Louis said. “You’re going to get the biggest story of your life.”

  “You’re awake.”

  Jesse looked up to see Louis standing at the door.

  “Yeah, on and off.”

  With a grimace, Jesse tried to sit up straighter in the bed. Louis came forward and slipped an arm behind his back, helping him.

  “Thanks.” Jesse held up his bandaged hands. “Doc says I might lose a finger, maybe a toe.”

  “I’m sorry,” Louis said.

  Jesse shrugged, his gaze dropping to the bed. Louis let out a breath, not knowing where to start.

  “I know what happened,” Jesse said. “Dale was here earlier and told me what he knew.”

  “He told you I shot Gibralter?”

  Jesse nodded.

  Louis hesitated. “I’m sorry for what I said when you came to my cabin to talk. I was wrong.”

  Jesse shook his head slowly. “You weren’t wrong about Johnny Lacey.”

  “But the other stuff, you — ”

  “Forget it,” Jesse said quickly. “If you hadn’t accused me of those other things I would have never figured things out, that the chief…” His voice trailed off.

  When Jesse spoke again, it was in a whisper. “I was on my way to see him,” he said. “He picked me up on the road and I told him it was over, that we couldn’t keep the raid quiet anymore.”

  Jesse paused, not looking at Louis. “That’s when he told me everything. He told me we had to see it through together. But I couldn’t anymore, not after he told me he killed Pryce.”

  “You told him you were turning yourself in?” Louis asked.

  Jesse nodded. “That’s when…”

  “He put you in the back of the Bronco,” Louis finished.

  Jesse picked at the gauze on his left hand. It was quiet except for the hum of a monitor above the bed.

  “I was laying in that cage,” Jesse said softly. “I was laying there and after a while it was like the cold affected my brain or something and I could see things real clear. I saw what he did, what he was. And I saw what I did, really saw it.”<
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  He looked at Louis. “I knew I was going to die but I saw it was, like okay, suddenly.” He shook his head slowly. “Seppuku.”

  Louis looked up. “What?” he asked softly.

  Jesse looked at him vacantly.

  “That last word you said.”

  “Seppuku?”

  Louis nodded. “Gibralter said that, in the woods.”

  Jesse leaned back in the pillows with a tired sigh. “It’s Japanese.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It’s how a samarai commits suicide, you know, when they ram their sword up into their guts? They do it as punishment, when they’ve dishonored themselves.”

  The room was silent again. Louis rose and went to the window, staring out at the gray day.

  “Jess, I have to tell you something.”

  “What?”

  Louis turned to face him. “Cole’s going public. He’s telling what he saw during the raid.”

  Jesse kept his eyes locked on Louis for several seconds then lowered them.

  “You’re going to lose your job, maybe worse,” Louis said.

  Jesse was staring at his bandaged hands. Louis turned to the window again.

  “Louis?”

  He turned.

  “Would you do me a favor?”

  “Anything.”

  “Call Julie for me. Ask her to come over here.”

  Louis nodded and moved toward the door.

  “Louis?”

  He turned again.

  Jesse’s eyes were bright with tears. “You did the right thing.”

  CHAPTER 44

  He had to leave the Mustang at the bottom of the hill and walk the rest of the way up. When he reached the cabin, he paused.

  What was he afraid of? That she would look different now? What was a woman supposed to look like after her husband was shot to death? Was he afraid of what she would say? What did a woman say to the man who had killed her husband?

  He knocked. For a long time, there was no answer but then the door opened and she stood before him. Her eyes narrowed against the bright sunlight as she looked at him.

  “Can I come in?” he asked.

  Zoe nodded and moved away. He came in and she closed the door. The drapes were closed, the lights low. As his eyes adjusted, he made out the cardboard boxes stacked near the door. The paisley sofa was gone, and most of the other furniture. He looked to the fireplace. The Manet print had been taken down.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, turning to her.

  “I’m closing the cabin,” she said.

  “Why?”

  She rubbed the sleeves of her baggy red sweater, looking around, at anything but him. “I don’t know. I don’t feel right here anymore.”

  “Zoe…”

  “Don’t call me that, please,” she said softly.

  She moved away, going to a table to pick up some books. He watched her as she stacked them in a box. She moved slowly, as if something hurt deep in her bones. He heard a sound, a soft mewing and turned. Two animal carriers sat by the door. He could see the white cat behind the grating.

  “You’re going away?” he asked. “Where?”

  “Chicago.”

  “When?”

  Her eyes met his. “Tomorrow, after the funeral.”

  “Zoe, we have to talk.”

  Her eyes brimmed. “About what, Louis? What can we say to each other now?”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  She spun away, covering her face with her hands.

  He was rooted to the floor by the sound of her crying. He wanted to hold her but he was afraid she would push him away.

  “I don’t blame you,” she said.

  He closed his eyes.

  “Brian died a long time ago,” she said. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s me.”

  Louis took a quick step toward her, touched her arm but she pulled back. She wiped her face with her sleeve and brushed a strand of hair back from her face. She looked around the room, her eyes dark with fatigue and confusion.

  “She’s gone,” she said softly.

  Louis felt something cut into his chest. “Zoe…”

  “I have to find her.”

  She knelt to look under a chair then rose and pulled back the curtains. Louis watched her, suddenly afraid she was breaking down.

  She looked up at him suddenly. “I can’t leave her here,” she said, her eyes bright with tears. “Help me find her, please.”

  Suddenly, he understood. The other cat. She was looking for the other cat, the black one.

  She went into the studio, calling her name. Louis drew in a slow breath and scanned the room, looking for the animal.

  Zoe came back into the living room. “Isolde, I can’t find her,” she said, her eyes frantic.

  “She’s here somewhere,” Louis said.

  “I have to find her now. I’m leaving tomorrow, there’s no time. I have to go, I have to — ”

  Louis grabbed her shoulder. “Zoe, stop. Come on, stop. Calm down.”

  She stared up at him then started crying again. He held her, stroking her hair, letting it all pour out of her, even as he struggled to hold his own emotions in. He held her until the crying dwindled and stopped.

  Finally, she pushed gently away from him, wiping her face, unable to meet his eyes.

  “I have to go, Louis,” she whispered.

  She moved away and he closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was standing by the door, wearing her coat. She was holding one of the carriers, waiting.

  He went to the door and she opened it. They stepped out into the bright sunlight. She didn’t look back as she went down the snowy walk, the carrier bumping awkwardly against her leg. She didn’t look back at him as she opened the door of her Jeep and put the carrier in the back. He waited, standing with his hands in his pockets. Finally, she faced him.

  “I loved you,” she said softly. “Was it wrong?”

  “No,” he said.

  She hesitated then nodded slightly. Her dark hair glistened in the sun, her eyes locked on his.

  “When will you be back?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  The question was there, in his head, but he knew there was no need to ask it. Nothing was possible for them. He had known that when he walked up the hill.

  He focused on her eyes, on her lips, her face, her hair, focused on every detail so he would remember. He would remember the taste of brandy on her mouth, the curve of her hip, the smell of patchouli.

  She got in the Jeep. She looked back at the cabin, then at Louis.

  “She might have gotten outside,” she said absently.

  “I’ll look. I’ll find her for you.”

  She nodded and started the engine.

  “Goodbye, Zoe,” he said.

  She smiled slightly. Then she put the Jeep in gear and pulled away.

  He watched the Jeep disappear down the hill. He turned and looked back at the cabin. He let out a breath, so long and raspy that it hurt his lungs. He was so tired, a sudden hollow feeling overtaking him, as if the last of his emotions had drained out of him with Zoe’s departure. He started down the hill.

  He didn’t know what made him stop and look back at the cabin. But when he did he saw something at the window. A small black form. A cat.

  It sat there calmly, staring back, its eyes luminous slits in the sun.

  He stared at it, transfixed. Its tiny pink mouth moved, a silent meow behind the glass.

  Damn…

  He went back into the cabin. The black cat came right to him, rubbing against his legs.

  “Damn,” he murmured.

  Picking it up, he put it in the empty carrier sitting by the door. Moving quickly, without looking back at the dim room, he left with the carrier, stepping back out into the sun.

  CHAPTER 45

  He rubbed his arms, watching the coffee dribble into the pot. It was the last of the can and he knew he was only going to get one or two cups out of it.
It was too cold to go out and get more and the Mustang hadn’t started in days anyway.

  Something touched his leg and he looked down to see the black cat rubbing against his calf.

  He pushed it away gently with his foot, thinking about Zoe. He had called several times about the cat but she had never responded. He assumed she had left for Chicago and finally had left a note in her mailbox, telling her he had the cat.

  He glanced down at the animal. It sat staring up at him, its tail swishing slowly back and forth on the linoleum.

  With a sigh, he looked back at the slow drip of the coffeemaker. Finally, he pulled out the pot and stuck the mug under the drip, staring out the window as he waited for it to fill. Frost obscured the windowpane. He reached up and used the sleeve of his sweatshirt to wipe it clear.

  Sunny…first time in a week.

  The pine trees stood tall and unmoving in their crisp green uniforms with their white epaulettes of snow. He shivered, glancing down at his feet in their old tube sox. His big toe was poking through a hole in the end. He used his other foot to turn the hole under as he pulled the cup from the machine. He stuck the pot back and walked to the table, sliding into the chair. Taking a sip of coffee, he picked up the stack of mail he had neglected for the last three days.

  A large manila envelope caught his eye and he stared at the Detroit return address with no name. He opened it.

  It was a copy of the Detroit Free Press, the most recent Sunday edition. As he snapped it open, a note floated to the table. He picked it up and read the unfamiliar scrawl.

  Thanks. I owe you one. Delp.

  P.S. How’s the weather up there?

  “Jerk,” Louis muttered.

  He looked at the front page. He couldn’t miss the big headline on Delp’s freelance feature story — THE KILLING SEASON. And the small blurb below that: “On a cold winter day, two teenagers were murdered. Five years later, the cops who did it are brought to their final justice.”

  It was a long article but he read all of it, and when he put it down he was left with a begrudging respect for Delp. He had done a good job on the article. It was painstakingly researched and written with the sensitivity of a good novel, and between the lines anyone could read the unspoken theme: that the Lacey teenagers were not the only victims.