The Snow Swept Trilogy

by Derrick Hibbard

Gerti couldn't, for the life of her, figure out why someone would use her card to purchase five airplane tickets. Two of the tickets were domestic, and departed that night, and two more, international this time, departed the following morning. When Gerti demanded to know how a thief had rung up $10,000 within such a short period of time without the credit card company being alerted to the unusual spending, she was reminded that Gerti herself had called that morning and requested a limit increase for her cards over the next three weeks, on account of her vacation. The credit card company was now investigating Gerti for possible fraud.

  “And isn’t that just fabulous.” Gerti muttered and put her forehead on the table in front of her. She ached for an aspirin and a glass or two or a bottle of chardonnay. Even a backrub and neck massage from Simon, clumsy as he was, would be welcome at the moment. She wanted to wake up from this nightmare and find that it was all just a product of her overactive imagination. She wanted to wake up in Rome, with a black Italian espresso and a biscotti, ready for a day of mixing with the locals and seeing the sights. She wanted—

  The doorknob turned slowly, and the door was pushed open deliberately. Gerti raised her head from the table and saw the tall man standing in the doorway—no, not tall, gigantic was a better word. He looked at her with no expression on his face for several seconds, and then he smiled. He had deep scars on his face, and for some reason, the scars caught Gerti’s attention more than anything about the man. Whatever had caused those scars had come close to gouging out his eyes.

  “Ms.—” he said, pausing as he looked through a few pages in the manila folder he was carrying. His breathing was wet and raspy, and he favored his left shoulder as if it were injured.

  “Pettingale,” they both said at the same time, and Gerti burst out laughing. The man chuckled and entered the room.

  “Oh, am I glad to see you,” Gerti said. She stopped laughing when she heard a ring of panic and exasperation in her voice, and instead breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said and sat at the chair across from her. He laid out the folder and removed two small bundles of paper, stacking them neatly before him.

  Yes, he was definitely favoring his left shoulder, and although he tried to mask it, he winced in pain when he moved.

  “Well, I would probably be upset about waiting for so long—it’s been more than an hour, you know—but the truth is, I just want to get out of here.”

  “Understood, ma’am,” he said and rifled through one of the stacks of paper. “My name is Detective Stevenson, and I’m going to help you get on your way tonight. As you know, the airport has had quite a lot of excitement this evening, which is partly to blame for the extended wait time that you experienced, Ms. Pettingale.”

  “Please, it’s Gerti.”

  “And you may call me Oskar,” he said, nodding politely.

  Gerti noted a distinct accent in the man’s voice, despite his efforts to sound neutral. The accent was unfamiliar to Gerti, who considered herself well-traveled and well-versed in various accents from around the world.

  “Another reason to blame for your waiting here is that we are in the airport, and by its very nature, you must wait in an airport.”

  He paused with an awkward smile on his face for several seconds before Gerti realized that this was a joke. She gave a courtesy chuckle, which seemed to make the large man very happy.

  “You mentioned some trouble here at the airport,” Gerti said when the chuckles had died down. “Are you referring to my stolen credit cards and passports?”

  “Yes,” Oskar said, his accent coming on a little thicker now. “It seems that a police officer was shot earlier this evening, in a van outside the airport, and we think that the shooter may have gotten away, possibly using your identification.”

  “Oh my goodness, that’s horrible,” Gerti said. “How did someone not notice a shooting before the shooter could get away?”

  “The police van is armored, used to transport criminals. It’s a double edged sword when it comes to the van—bullets won’t go inside, but you can’t hear anything from the inside either. They think that the shooter shot the cop, then calmly left the van.”

  “And you think the killer might have stolen my identification? But then it would have to be a woman, and with a cop, I don’t know—”

  “Shooter, not killer. The police officer, a Detective Morales, is still alive.”

  “Well, that’s good at least, but I just don’t think that the girl who stole my stuff was the shooter. It doesn’t add up.”

  Gerti said this with a tone that she had used on Simon many times when she was sure of her superior logic and the improbability of his. The condescending tone drove Simon crazy, to the point where any discussion would more often than not escalate into a full-blown, explosive fight. But her tone seemed to have no effect on Oskar. He’d told her that he was a detective, but something was off about him. Something she couldn’t quite place. Gerti suddenly grew suspicious of this man, who hadn’t shown her a badge or anything for identification.

  “Are you with the Chicago PD?” she asked.

  The man didn’t say anything, just looked at her for several long seconds. The awkward grin slowly disappeared as he studied her, from her hair to her eyes and then to her body. She squirmed in her seat and looked away.

  He took a piece of paper from the stack and slid it across the table. Gerti looked at the page and saw a black and white picture printed in the center. The picture was grainy, but not so bad that she couldn’t see who the woman was. She looked younger in the picture than she had tonight, with shorter hair that was darker—almost a femme fatal kind of look. She was carrying a bag over her shoulder and had a rectangular object in her hands. She was in midstride and appearing to be in a hurry, wherever she was going. The girl also appeared to be healthier, with a fuller figure and there was something about her eyes that seemed more … bright?

  “Yeah, that’s the girl,” Gerti said. She reached forward and tapped the picture with her forefinger and nodded. “At least, she’s the one who spilled her drink all over me. I know that I had my wallet when I went into the coffee shop, and sometime between then and when I left the bathroom after cleaning up, my wallet was gone. Could have been someone in the bathroom, I don’t know, but, yeah, I recognize her.”

  The man was silently staring at Gerti, his face expressionless, and Gerti wished he would try to make an awkward joke again. She wished Simon were there, too, and she chided herself for traveling alone.

  But why is that? Her mind wondered. There isn’t anything inherently dangerous about this situation, just a creepy guy who…

  “Wait a second,” Gerti said, that condescending tone slipping its way back into her voice. “You don’t think that this girl was the one who knocked off that cop, do you? There is no way; the girl actually looks better and healthier in this picture than she did tonight. Not only was she much thinner, but she looked like she’d been through the ringer.”

  Oskar pulled the picture toward him and set it on top of the stack of papers. He pulled out a few more sheets and laid them in front of him. Gerti leaned forward and saw that the pages were printouts of ticket confirmations.

  “What was your destination this evening, Ms. Pettingale?” Oskar asked. His raspy breathing was getting worse, and his accent was fuller now, as if he’d been trying to hide it before. That thought struck a chord in Gerti, and she suddenly wanted to be done with this man and this airport. Screw it, she just wanted to go home and forget about CeCe, and Rome, and the whole stupid vacation. This was way too weird, and it was getting weirder by the moment.

  “Which is your ticket?” he said again, and the accent was strong. Scandinavian, she thought, maybe Norway or Sweden, but she wasn’t overly familiar with those accents, as she’d never visited those countries.

  “Uh …” she cleared her throat, “London first, Heathrow International, and then on to Rome.”

  “Right,” Oskar said
, scanning the pages. He saw the ticket that Gerti had just identified and slid it away from the others. He then turned his attention to the remaining pages, and meticulously lined them up in a straight line on the table.

  “Sir,” Gerti said, and had to clear her throat again. “I don’t see how I can be of any help to you right now. I’d like to just leave, if that is okay with you.”

  The man smiled quaintly.

  “You’ve helped a great deal, Ms. Pettingale,” he said, “because you see, this woman—” he motioned to the stack of papers—“this woman is a very dangerous psychopath who may appear weak and harmless, but has a penchant for killing innocent people, like she would have done to the police officer this evening, had she had a gun that didn’t misfire. She is a ruthless monster, the epitome of a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and you did help us narrow down where she’s going next.”

  “I did?” Gerti asked.

  “You did help in the investigation, and for that, I thank you,” the man said, hints of the goofy grin coming back. Gerti felt a wave of relief wash over her as the inexplicable tension suddenly left the room. She wondered why she’d felt the anxiety—or even fear, if that was the right word. She didn’t think it was actually fear, just the compounded stress of the day and a horrible set of circumstances.

  Oskar reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cell phone, wincing with pain as he did. He tapped the screen and pulled up a number, then dialed. She waited patiently, hoping that it would be over soon, so she could call CeCe, and maybe even Simon.

  “Gertrude Pettingale,” was all he said. He ended the call and returned the phone to his jacket pocket. He stood up, and Gerti started to do the same, but he waved for her to return to her seat.

  “Please, sit down,” he said.

  “But aren’t we finished?”

  “We are.” He paused, licking his lips. “Almost finished. Have you noticed how the cold air makes your lips dry?”

  Gerti scowled at the abrupt awkwardness of the question. She started to say that yes, she did notice her lips drying out in the wintertime, but he continued talking without waiting for her response.

  “Every year since I was a little boy, it is the same. The winter comes, the cold arrives and I marvel at how my skin dries almost instantly in the winter wind.” He began to walk around the table, toward Gerti, and she felt her heart beating faster and faster, with each step closer, and then he was right behind her, and she held her breath until he continued on without touching her.

  “I come from a country where it gets very cold each year, and to me, it was always so fascinating, such an intricate and tender mystery of the universe, that the moisture was sucked dry from the air by winter itself.” He stopped on the other side of the table, directly in front of Gerti, and she watched him warily.

  “I don’t understand what this has to do with my cards and passport being stolen,” Gerti said, and made the move to stand up again.

  “Please sit down,” Oskar said, smiling. His voice was soft and gentle, and the smile on his face was warm.

  “I’d really like to go home and get some rest,” Gerti said. “I’m tired and I need to figure out what’s going on with my friend in London, and I’d really just like to put this day behind me. I feel like you are trying to get me to say something about chapped lips, but—”

  “No,” Oskar said, “I’m not trying to get you to say anything; it’s just something that I’ve been thinking about. The cold and dry air and mysteries. Like you, for example. You woke up this morning with no idea that fate and chance would turn against you before the day was done. I woke up with no foreknowledge of our meeting, yet here we are, together in this room. You had no idea that your last few moments of life would unravel in a tiny room underneath an airport, and I, again, did not know that your last breaths would be spent with me. Another mystery in a world full of mysteries.”

  Gerti stood up quickly, knocking her chair to the ground. She picked up her purse and crossed to the door. She kept her eyes trained on him.

  “Sit down,” he said. Gerti stopped walking and turned slowly, shaking her head.

  “Listen, I don’t know who you are or what you are talking about. Maybe you’re having a breakdown, with the stress and everything, but I’ve got to go.”

  “Sit down, Ms. Pettingale,” he said. She hesitated, but then returned to her seat slowly.

  “See there!” He clapped his hands together with bang.

  “Another mystery! Here I am, telling you very clearly that I intend to see you die in this room, and yet you sit down when I ask you to sit down. Now why is that? Is it because you think of me in some authority position, like the police or security, and for fear of disobeying an authority figure, you disregard not only your instincts, but knowledge of what I just said? Or maybe you realize the futility of your situation? That if you sit here and try to play nice with me, that I will forget that I ever said that silly thing about you dying here, as just so much nonsense?”

  His accent was very strong, and Gerti thought it must be Swedish. She looked at the door, only a few feet away, and knew that he was right. If he wanted to kill her, he could and would. She couldn’t believe what she was thinking, couldn’t believe how fast the situation had turned from awkward to horrifying. She wanted nothing more than to get out of the room and away from this psycho.

  Screw Rome, and CeCe and Heathrow International, she wanted to be in her bed at home, preferably with Simon there and his arms around her, and their covers pulled up to their chins to protect against cold air.

  Oskar reached into the pocket on his pants and pulled out a small metal case. He set it on the table and opened it, revealing a tiny hypodermic needle and a small vial of yellowish liquid.

  “Please,” she said, “I didn’t do anything.”

  The man unscrewed the vial and placed the needle through the rubber stopper. He slowly filled the needle until there was only a few drops left in the vial. When he was sure that there were no air bubbles inside the syringe, he set the tiny bottle on the table and walked behind Gerti. He ran his fingers through her hair, leaned forward and breathed in deeply.

  “I love the smell of apple scented shampoo. It reminds me of picking apples as a child,” he said, his fingers now groping at her neck, feeling along the tender muscles and bones. His face was close to her ear, and she could feel his warm breath on her skin, softly contrasting with the rough calluses on his hands and fingers.

  “Sir, please,” she said, crying now, “I just want to go home. I have money, do you want money? I can pay, just give me a phone, and I’ll pay!”

  He stood behind her, needle in one hand, the other hand running through her hair. He cleared his throat, and spoke softly and gently, in a voice that was closer to that of a university professor than a crazed killer.

  “Are you familiar with the word: utilitarian?" he asked.

  She shook her head, afraid that if she opened her mouth, she would break down into more of a blubbering mess than she already was. She sat with her back straight, fighting the urge to cringe beneath his touch, his fingers now caressing the skin under her jaw. Her mind screamed to stand up and fight, to yell and shout until someone came running to her rescue, but it was all just so insane. It couldn’t be happening, and especially not to her. She was an independent woman, divorced and living on her own terms, and these things happened in movies, not to her. The thoughts flitted through her mind in a panic, and several seconds passed before she realized that he was once again talking.

  “—part of the greater good, and that is your privilege.” Oskar spoke, his fingers now massaging her scalp, his manicured nails gently rubbing against her skin and hair, and she felt like screaming and throwing up, but he kept talking.

  “You see, sometimes one has to die in order to save many. You look through history, even your country’s recent history and you know that this is a hard truth, a cold truth, but a truth nonetheless. Your military kills innocent people as collaterals in a greater p
icture, to save many from their extremist brothers. Every day, someone who has done no harm, who is not involved, has to die, in order to create balance and harmony in the world, to prevent the sick psychopaths of society, the underbelly of all that is filthy and unwholesome, from exacting their goals on more innocents. They are heroes, those that die for the greater good, whether or not that realization sets in before their life slips away. They are heroes. And tonight, that person is you. You are the hero that will save many.”

  He eyed the needle, and held it close to her skin, holding the point on her neck just below her ear. “It will be painful, yes, but nothing that countless people have not gone through before. You will die knowing that you have not only served your country, but mankind, securing your immortality as a heroine in the war against terrorism.”

  Gerti listened to this and nearly jerked at the catch phrase she’d heard for more than a decade, spoken now with such frequency that it was diluted and nearly meaningless to most people outside of political circles. To hear it coming from this man—the man who was about to kill her, who had probably killed countless others, who was now lecturing her on the war against terrorism—it didn’t make sense, but her mind was too full of adrenaline and panic and fear to register much more than the seeming inconsistency.

  “Please,” she said again, the sound of her voice fading into a whimper. “Please don’t kill me. I’m not a terrorist, and I don’t want to be a hero.”

  “They’ll find you here in this room after a cardiac arrest, maybe caused by the stress, but certainly nothing out of the ordinary,” he said, ignoring her pleas.

  And it was that—the thought of some airport security guard, finding her dead and slumped on the cold metal table, the thought of Simon hearing the news and never knowing what had happened, that finally mobilized her.

  Her scream finally found its voice, and the sound was ragged and hoarse. She thrust her entire body into the man’s torso and jumped to her feet in the same motion. He jerked away from her, as if expecting her to have made this move, but he wasn’t quick enough. Her head collided with his nose and chin, and she pressed the full weight of her body into his chest and injured shoulder. He screamed in pain and stumbled backwards. She left her purse and phone on the table and darted for the door. Oskar recovered quickly, but the wound in his chest was seeping blood through his shirt. He grabbed the metal chair in which she’d been sitting, and threw it at her feet, nearly knocking her to the ground.