Blood Runs Cold

by Alex Barclay

  ‘You dudes are slaves,’ said Salem, smiling.

  The attorneys laughed. ‘Yes, sir,’ said one of them.

  Salem tipped him with his elbow. ‘You get any lucky breaks today?’

  ‘We’re still here,’ said the attorney, deadpan.

  ‘As a witness to potentially suspicious activity,’ said Salem, ‘I might be giving Sheriff Gage a lucky break myself.’

  ‘Good for you. You want a cigarette?’

  ‘I do second-hand smoke,’ he said.

  ‘Glad to be of service,’ said the guys.

  Salem nodded. ‘You boys behave.’ He nodded again. ‘I’m going in.’ He slapped his thigh and a scruffy black-and-white border collie uncurled from her spot under the bench behind them. Mike Delaney met them in the foyer to take them through security.

  ‘How you doing, Salem?’ said Mike. ‘Thanks for coming in so late.’

  ‘I’m doing good.’

  Mike brought him through to reception.

  ‘Let me tie Misty here to your flagpole,’ said Salem.

  ‘Sure, go ahead.’

  They left Misty and went down the hallway to Bob’s office. They walked past a board with the FBI’s Most Wanted on it. Salem pointed to a man with a handsome face, fair hair and sharp cheekbones. ‘Now, him I’ve seen. That guy.’

  ‘Uh-huh?’ said Mike. ‘Really? That’d make you the first since he disappeared.’

  Salem smiled wide. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘First is good. Damn right. I never come first.’

  ‘Well, today’s your lucky day, then. What was he doing, this guy?’

  ‘Wearing a mask.’

  ‘Right. This happen at Hallowe’en time?’

  ‘Couldabeen. It was a couple weeks back, right in December there, but couldabeen.’

  ‘Right. So this mask covered his face?’

  Salem nodded, holding his hand over his mouth.

  ‘And behind this mask, you saw this guy right here?’ He smiled as he pointed at the poster.

  ‘It was clear. Exactly,’ said Salem. ‘You’re a smart kid.’

  Mike laughed. ‘Not as smart as you, buddy. You got vision like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s like superhero X-ray shit.’ He laughed.

  ‘Mike, give the guy a break,’ said Bob, walking into the hallway. ‘Come in, Salem.’ He shook his hand. ‘We’ll have an extra pair of hands here today. A lady called Ren Bryce. She’ll be along in a little while. She’s an FBI Agent. You’ll like her.’

  Salem nodded. ‘I’ll do my best

  22

  Ren placed each foot down carefully on the icy steps up to the Sheriff’s Office. She held her arm out for balance. When she was nearly there, her right leg shot out and she landed hard on her left side. Her hand scraped down the edge of the concrete.

  ‘Ow, you fuckers,’ she said.

  The attorneys flicked away their cigarettes and ran to her.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Ow,’ she said, sitting up. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Here,’ said one of them, taking her gently under the elbow, ‘let’s get you standing, see what the damage is.’

  ‘Oh, I’m scarred for life,’ said Ren. ‘It’s these boots,’ she said, kicking a foot out.

  ‘Ah, they were the fuckers. We thought it was us.’

  She laughed. ‘No. I don’t know you well enough to work that out. No, these boots – already today – have been covered in bodily fluids …’ She paused to push her hair back behind her ear. They were staring at her. ‘At an autopsy!’ she said. ‘Jesus, guys.’

  They laughed.

  ‘New boots for you, then,’ said one of them.

  ‘My most extreme excuse for a shopping trip yet,’ said Ren. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘Any time.’

  She gave them a small wave as she disappeared into the building.

  Misty lay by the flagpole in the Sheriff’s Office reception, but stood up when Ren walked in.

  ‘Aw, hello, there,’ said Ren, ‘How cute are you?’

  She walked over to her. Misty sat down and started barking.

  ‘Whoa,’ said Ren. ‘Not liking me very much.’

  She took another step toward her. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’m not all bad.’ She reached out under her collar to look for an ID, but she found nothing ‘And who might you be?’ Misty barked a few more times.

  Bob strolled through reception. He looked down at Ren. ‘Are you causing a disturbance?’

  ‘Who’s the dawg?’

  ‘That is Misty, canine companion of Salem Swade, the Vietnam vet – our guy in the cabin. Hmm – she doesn’t seem to be a fan of yours.’

  He reached out his hand to pull Ren up.

  ‘I’m a little hurt by that, actually,’ said Ren. ‘Dogs don’t usually bark at me.’

  ‘You’ll get over it,’ said Bob.

  ‘I think she’s looking for treats,’ said Ren.

  ‘She’s come to the wrong place,’ said Bob.

  ‘So,’ said Ren. ‘Fill me in on Salem Swade. I only had a short note on him for the briefing.’

  ‘Yeah, that was from me. Sorry about that. It’s just we’re used to him here. Basically, he showed up a couple days ago with tales of people up in the woods, wearing masks, some shit like that.’

  ‘Okaay.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘But, obviously, we can’t ignore the fact he saw Jean’s lesbo-mobile at the Brockton Filly the Monday after she finished up work.’

  ‘Sheriff Robert Gage, I would expect better from you,’ said Ren.

  ‘My sister calls it that herself,’ said Bob. ‘Give me a break.’

  ‘How did Mr Swade know it was Jean’s?’ She paused. ‘Don’t tell me – from the description in the paper.’

  Bob smiled. ‘Why, yes.’

  ‘So, you’re used to him – meaning he shows up with revelations on every case you handle? Or just you’re used to him about the place?’

  ‘In fairness to Salem, he’s not a crank that way. But he does try to help us with things –’

  ‘Like, if he reads about them in the paper, for example?’

  ‘Well, we haven’t issued him with a police radio …’

  Ren smiled.

  ‘… Miss Smarty Pants. And how else do concerned citizens know what the Sheriff’s Office needs?’

  ‘Pillow talk?’ said Ren.

  Bob shook his head slowly. ‘What you’re seeing right now is a look known as “wistful”.’

  ‘Aw.’

  ‘Why don’t you come say hi to Mr Swade?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Bob looked at the torn skin across her hand. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Dead people’s insides. Icy patch. Dumb boots. I’m going shopping later.’

  ‘My wife blames clothes for things too.’

  Ren glanced down at him. ‘Does she blame your clothes… for that little problem you’re having?’

  Mike was still giving Salem a hard time about identifying people through masks.

  ‘Damn right,’ Salem continued, nodding at Ren when he walked in. ‘Nothing wrong with these.’ He pointed two index fingers at his eyes.

  ‘Salem, meet Special Agent Ren Bryce.’

  ‘Hi, Salem.’ Ren shook his hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Salem, ‘a pleasure to meet you.’ He turned back to Mike. ‘Super vision. That’s what you tell me, buddy.’

  ‘That’s what I tell you,’ said Mike.

  ‘And you all are the sheriffs,’ said Salem. ‘You know shit.’ He pointed at Ren. ‘She knows everybody. From Mohammed Ali to teachin’ Bruce Lee how to do karate.’

  Ren laughed, then finished for him: ‘I can lead a parade while puttin’ on shades in my Maserati.’

  Bob and Mike looked at each other and back at Ren and Salem.

  She turned to them. ‘It’s John Prine. Genius. “She Is My Everything”. Go to iTunes. Anyone who can write “Jesus, The Missing Years” …’

 
‘Got my music here, anyone wants a listen,’ said Salem. He rooted around in his pocket and pulled out a pink iPod Shuffle and clipped it to his coat. He hung the headphones around his neck.

  ‘Well, fuck me,’ said Mike. ‘Where’d you get your hands on that? Where do you even charge it? You got a laptop in your other pants?’

  Salem patted his pockets. ‘Can’t say that I do. The pod is from the kids work at the resort. Good kids. Take it in, charge it, load it, give it back to me at the Gold Pan.’

  Bob laughed. ‘Well, why the hell not?’

  ‘Damn right,’ said Salem. ‘Beats that silence up in my cabin any day. That mountain silence. Sometimes it’s just got the wind to keep it company.’

  ‘Take a seat, Salem. What do you need to tell us?’

  Salem shook off his parka. He was slight and wiry.

  ‘I hear stuff at night,’ he said, sitting down.

  Behind his back, Mike stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head. Bob glanced up at him.

  ‘Go on,’ said Ren. ‘What do you hear?’

  ‘Voices.’

  Mike gazed at the ceiling.

  ‘What kind of voices?’ said Bob.

  ‘Quiet ones.’

  ‘Do you have your headphones on when this happens, Salem?’ said Mike.

  Salem turned around to him. ‘Now you tell me how I could hear a damn thing with headphones in my ears?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Ren.

  ‘I saw people with masks on,’ said Salem. ‘Some of them were in funny suits. And I’m not talking aliens,’ he said, turning back to Mike. ‘They were regular people.’

  ‘What were they doing?’ said Bob.

  ‘They were walking around, then they headed out, maybe to one of the other cabins.’ He shrugged. ‘It was hard to tell what the point of this was.’

  ‘What kind of masks?’ said Ren.

  ‘These kind,’ said Salem, slapping a hand over his mouth.

  ‘Not Hallowe’en masks,’ said Mike.

  ‘I told you – no,’ said Salem. ‘But it was dark.’

  ‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘And you came in because you saw the posters up.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Salem. ‘If you see something strange … Lord knows what it’s linked into. There’s a lot of links in the background of things, people need to trace.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Ren. ‘Now, can you tell me about the car?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Salem. ‘I read about her missing car. A silver Subaru Forester. I recall seeing it in the parking lot of the Brockton Filly.’

  ‘When was that?’ said Ren.

  ‘It was a Monday night. The weekend after it said she went missing.’

  ‘Does January twelfth sound right to you?’ said Ren.

  Salem nodded.

  ‘Had you seen her car there before?’

  ‘Might have,’ said Salem. ‘But I know I did that night.’

  ‘Did you see the missing woman, Jean Transom?’ said Ren. ‘If it helps, I can show you a photo of her.’

  ‘I saw the photo in the newspaper, but I’ll take another look.’

  Ren laid it on the desk in front of him.

  He shook his head. ‘Damn. I don’t know. I can’t say that I’ve seen that lady anywhere. But you just don’t know the links going on places.’

  ‘We’re keeping an eye out for them,’ said Ren. ‘Is there anything else you can think of?’

  Salem shook his head and started standing up and putting on his coat. ‘I’m fairly medicated right now I’ve got to tell you. Thirteen meds last time I checked. I don’t know if they make me sharper. I can still get a little angry. But not so much.’

  Ren shook his hand. ‘Well, you look after yourself, Salem, OK? And you know where to find us. And is there anywhere we can find you?’

  ‘My cabin – there’s no number on the door.’

  Everyone waited for a laugh that didn’t come.

  ‘Bob, do you have a map of Quandary there?’ said Ren.

  ‘I do,’ he said, going to a file, searching through it and pulling one out.

  Do you ever keep anything on top of your desk?

  ‘OK,’ said Ren to Salem, ‘would you mind marking round about where your cabin is on this map?’

  Sure,’ he said, taking a red Sharpie she was holding out, marking the spot.

  ‘And what’s the best route to it?’ said Ren. ‘Like, the easiest.’

  ‘Right here,’ he said, moving his finger along it. ‘You want, I can mark it in.’

  ‘Yes. Please.’

  She studied it. ‘OK. That’s great. Thank you, Salem.’

  ‘Thanks, Salem,’ said Bob.

  He turned his pale eyes toward Ren. ‘You gonna come up and see me some time?’

  ‘I would really like that,’ said Ren. ‘Do you need a ride home?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mike. ‘Why don’t I take you and Misty back to the cabin?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Salem. ‘It was a pleasure, ma’am, all of you.’

  ‘You too,’ said Bob.

  Mike walked Salem down the hallway.

  Ren turned to Bob. ‘Bless him,’ she said, her hand held to her heart.

  Bob smiled. ‘Yeah? Well, whatever you do, don’t look at his file. Whoa. That’s some sick shit.’

  Ren’s eyes widened. ‘What?!’

  ‘I’m kidding. Little lamby.’

  23

  Ren pressed the cellphone to her ear with an icy hand as she walked down Main Street.

  ‘Putrescine and perverts combined with shoe-shopping,’ she said. ‘What a start to my day. Never have business and pleasure collided so well.’

  ‘I’m laughing, and I’m not sure why,’ said Paul Louderback.

  ‘OK – my nice boots got ruined with chest-cavity juice yesterday. And I’m going to buy a new pair in a store Jean Transom visited a few weeks back, owned by a man who was arrested for child porn thirty years ago.’

  ‘Well, you never know,’ said Paul.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Anything else you want to tell me?’

  ‘Let me see – weird paw prints in the snow that probably mean absolutely nothing. Spoke to the guy who served Jean supper on Monday, January fifteenth – not a lot there… I’ve gone through Jean’s case files and nothing jumped out at me. Jean’s neighbor saw a lady visitor at the house a few times – no ID on her yet. I’m about to check out the pervert I mentioned. And I’m going to go talk to Jean’s one-three-seven tonight.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Paul. ‘Gotta go.’

  ‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’

  ‘Yup. Next week on Clues and Shoes …’

  Wardwell’s was a basement store with dummies in the window that were meant to be life-like but weren’t quite hitting the mark. Inside, every inch of floor space was taken up with rails of tops and tables of folded jeans and sweatshirts. A young, handsome guy was standing impressively still beside a messed-up pile of T-shirts. Ren got him straightaway: I’m tall, thin, beautiful, my jeans are too big, they’re belted below the band of my boxers, I rock.

  ‘Hey, what’s up?’ he said. He had come alive.

  Like Mannequin. ‘I’m doing good,’ said Ren. ‘How are you this morning?’

  ‘Well, I’m good too, as a matter of fact.’ He beamed a genuine smile.

  Ren gave him a break. ‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘That cold out there is something else.’

  ‘It sure is.’

  ‘But we’re in here all over-cheery and polite.’

  He laughed. ‘Well, we’ve got to fight it some way. Is there anything I can help you with today?’

  ‘I’ve shopped before,’ said Ren.

  He paused, then smiled. ‘Well, I’m here if you need me.’

  ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘You bet.’

  She wandered up a few steps to the back of the store, where she spotted the man who had to be Malcolm Wardwell. She knew he was seventy-one years old. Any years he could have dr
opped with his muscular frame were added back by rheumy eyes and slack skin.

  ‘Hello,’ said Ren. ‘Are you Malcolm Wardwell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Ren Bryce with the FBI. We’re investigating the death of Special Agent Jean Transom.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Hello.’

  ‘If I showed you a photo of her, would you be able to tell me if she came into your store?’

  ‘If it was a day I was here, I hope so.’

  Ren handed him the photograph.

  He nodded. ‘Yes, she was in here. I remember her. She was with her daughter – a little blonde girl.’

  Niece, probably. ‘And when was that?’ said Ren.

  ‘It was a couple of weeks back. And I know it was a Wednesday and it was before lunchtime, because we were clearing floor space for a delivery, so we were all trying not to get in the way.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘It was right after New Year, in fact,’ he said. ‘That same week.’

  I know that.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about her death,’ said Wardwell. ‘I remember thinking she was a nice lady.’

  ‘She was,’ said Ren. ‘Was there anything you noticed that you think might help the investigation?’

  He paused, then shook his head. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary.’

  ‘OK. Thank you for your time.’

  Ren walked through security at the Sheriff’s Office and grabbed her purse as it slid out of the X-ray machine. She searched through it for her cellphone.

  ‘Pardon me, Agent … Bryce?’

  Ren turned around. It was one of the attorneys who’d caught her when she fell up the steps.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ she said. ‘Did I look like I was about to fall again?’

  He smiled. ‘No, you were doing OK. You’re with the FBI, right?’

  ‘Yes. And you’re …?’

  ‘Ollie Haggart. Oliver Haggart. I’m a defense attorney.’ He gestured back toward the courtrooms.

  Ren tried to hide any recognition when she heard the last name. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Could I have a word with you?’ he said.

  ‘Sure. Go ahead,’ said Ren.

  ‘I guess you’ve seen the news report about the guy who went missing last year? Mark Wilson?’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked at him.

  ‘My brother is Terrence Haggart. He was the last person to be seen with Mark.’