Collapsed on the floor in front of the blackboard was the body of Miss Gillette, the teacher. Like Edward, her mouth formed a large and perfect "O," but no breath came from it. Or ever would again. Lying on her back, her eyes were open and staring at a spot on the ceiling, or perhaps at a star in a night sky millions of galaxies away.
Curled up on her chest, her arms wrapped protectively around it, was the body of Martin Deigner. Unlike his teacher, Martin's torso wasn't the image of restful repose. His body was broken and bent at the waist to nearly a 90-degree angle. His arms seemed unnaturally long, the result of having been pulled violently from their shoulder sockets, pools of frozen blood matting under his arms like crimson perspiration. The boy's face was obscured, covered in a heavy and opaque layer of frost. Jeb couldn't see his child's eyes, couldn't look into them and say goodbye or wail that he was sorry for not being there, for not saving him. But he knew it was his son.
"No!" Jeb screamed at the ceiling, pulling his son and the frozen teacher to his chest just as John cleared the doorway and came into the room.
Almost in melodic harmony with the pitch of the inconsolable father's wail, a sudden burst of wind exploded against the west wall and through the windows. Mixed in with the whistle of battering air was a loud pounding that sounded like a horse's hooves rebelling against a stall door. The pressure of the wind lifted the roof from the rafters, the shearing sound of wood ripping free from wood creating a third octave in the aural crescendo.
Relieved of the stabilizing weight of the roof, the beams and walls began to shift and heave over, slowly rolling east like a house of carefully stacked playing cards teetering toward a flattened pile.
The power of the rapid shift rippled the floor, knocking John backwards and out the doorway he had just entered. While temporarily stunned, he could hear the sound of the imploding building while staring at white snowflakes falling from a nearly black sky.
The snow continued to fall for two more days. It would be another three days after the storm ended before the townspeople and ranchers could pull off enough snow-covered pieces from the wrecked building to retrieve the bodies of nine-year-old Sara Williams and 12-year-old Edward Laskin. It took another day to find and recover the bodies of Jeb Deigner, and his 10-year-old son Martin, who was found still wrapped in the frozen but protective arms of school teacher Elise Gillette.
Chapter Two
Ridley, Pennsylvania
Monday
November 19, 2012
“It is hereby decreed by this court that the petition is granted in the matter of Connerman vs. Connerman. Settlement is accepted as submitted, and alimony is ordered as per the petition.” The judge tapped his gavel, shuffled some papers, then called out “Next case.”
The defendant turned to his attorney. “What does that mean?”
The lawyer continued filling his valise. “It means you’re a free man.”
Brad Connerman sat for a moment. “But I don’t want to be a free man,” he thought.
Nearby, the newly-minted former Mrs. Connerman followed her attorney from behind another table and down the aisle between two rows of dark wooden bench seats, a symbolic reversal of the trip down a different aisle six years ago which had begun this now “irretrievably broken” marriage.
“Wait! Sharon, I need to talk to you!” Brad started to follow her. There were so many questions to ask, so much pleading still to be done. The suited arm of his attorney blocked Brad across the chest.
“No, Mr. Connerman,” the lawyer said. “Judge Ellis has a pretty firm tradition around here. The former husband is required to remain behind this table for exactly 90 seconds after the ruling. I mentioned that to you yesterday in my office.”
“I just…I just want to talk to her.”
Franklin Willis, Esquire had been through this more times than he cared to consider during the 18 years since passing the bar. However, like a fresh layer of bark that broadens a tree each season, the years and experiences had thickened his skin.
“I know how hard this is for you,” Willis said. “Especially just a few days before Thanksgiving. But you knew how this was going to turn out. The time for talking is long since past.”
Brad continued looking beyond the open double doors in the back of the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of his former wife. He wasn’t working from a plan, had no script of a conversation with Sharon that would fix all of this. It was almost more of a habit, a running unmelodic song to his wife that he had been singing for more than three months. It was filled with verses of regret for promises broken, a refrain of new promises to be made, and a repeating chorus of “one more chance”. Brad had long ago run out of unique ways to say “I’m sorry,” and had even forgotten what he was supposed to be sorry for.
In truth, his most egregious infraction was simply being himself. And it was unfair. Popular movies consistently set an unattainable bar for relationships, establishing expectations of non-stop drama and harrowing conflicts forcing both participants to constantly prove their love for each other with car chases and slapstick. Even fairy tales punctuated romantic weddings with "happily ever after," ignoring the realities of mundane day-after-day existence that by necessity had to kick in after the honeymoon. None of those stories hinted at the tedium found even in successful marriages, the never-ending highways bordered by endless weeks without dragons, wicked witches, or trolls. Real marriage involved mortgages and property taxes and decisions about whether to have biscuits or toast at breakfast.
Brad had come to realize too late that such things simply weren't enough to keep Sharon's interest.
So she had gone shopping for a new adventure, finding it with a new prince charming she had met at the gym. While she was originally a once-a-week devotee of the Stairmaster, Brad wasn't paying attention when Sharon's visits to the local workout emporium increased to seven days a week. Like too many modern-day knights, Brad thought the wedding vows would serve as the suit of armor that protected their marriage from interlopers armed with penile lances. In fact, he thought his wife was undergoing some marital renaissance, mistakenly believing she was sharpening her curves and defining her tone just for him.
When he found the stack of heart-encrusted Hallmark cards in his wife's bottom dresser drawer, bearing handwriting that wasn't his, Brad suppressed his first instinct. Instead of trashing the house or hunting down the cuckolding bastard who had spoiled the fairy tale, Brad calmly confronted his wife with mature and civilized phrases like "straying" and "couples counseling."
Sharon explained that she had no interest in continuing the marriage, regardless of reasons. She wanted a divorce, having come to the conclusion that there was no romance or reason to stay in a marriage that offered nothing but a future of "more of the same." The fact that Brad was so sanitary in his confrontation, devoid of screaming or any other sign of passion, sealed the deal for Sharon. She asked him to leave. Thinking it would give her a chance to think things through, Brad complied, finding a house to rent month-to-month just a few miles away. The initial divorce papers arrived in the mail before his first electric bill.
Willis finished clearing the courtroom table reserved for defendants and their attorneys, and looked up at the clock.
“Okay, Mr. Connerman, here comes my 60 second speech. First, it would be stupid for me to say ‘forget about her,’ because she was a part of your life. But contrary to popular poetry, your life is not over. It’s time for you to start rebuilding that life with all things new. Fill your time, Mr. Connerman. Sitting around dwelling on it isn’t healing. You’re going to be tempted to call her, to follow her, to drop by her house. My advice is: don’t. Otherwise, you’ll be watching my bill begin to grow exponentially with protective orders, harassment charges, and stalking defenses. Keep yourself busy. Throw yourself into your work. Get a hobby. Buy a dog. Join a men’s club. Try therapy. Yoga. Anything that doesn’t involve the exchange of cash with a guy wearing gold teeth or the words ’90 proof.’ The cliché is a pisser, but it�
�s for real. Time is the only thing that’s going to make this tolerable, as long as you don’t leave that time to its own empty devices. Hang out with friends. Try not to spend too much time alone. Any of this penetrating?”
Brad turned to face his lawyer, but couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “Friends,” he said, looking at a spot on the floor. “You know, it’s a funny thing about friends. The ones who were your ‘friends’ when you’re married always wind up having to choose. Those who choose her camp cut you off like you never existed. Those in your camp begin to avoid you like you’ve got the divorce disease. You can see it in the faces of the wives, afraid you’re going to infect their husband with the ‘I wanna be free and knock around with the single guys’ virus. The only time you get invited to dinner is when they’re offering a menu of pity on toast. You become their good deed for the day. For parties and public get-togethers, you get to choose: do you stay at home and face 10,000 reminders of your wife? Or do you go to a room filled with married couples, reminding you of what you no longer have, what you no longer are?”
Willis took Brad’s arm and began directing him to the double doors at the back of the room. “Lawyers live in a world without wishes. It’s about what we can prove and insinuate. We can’t wish. But if I could, my wish would be that I could say you were wrong, Mr. Connerman. I wish that were so.”
Chapter Three
Fayette, Iowa
Monday
November 19, 2012
Her ragged breaths created little puffs of steam in the frozen air as she continued running blindly through the snowstorm.
While she had grown up in these woods, and loved them from a young age, the falling flakes of snow had camouflaged any landmark that might have led her to the familiar, something that might have given her a chance at survival.
The pristine white now blanketing the trees and paths conspired to create an alien landscape, one that was more friendly to the fatal purposes of her noiseless pursuer than the dark-haired young woman frantically careening through the underbrush.
It had started as a simple walk in the woods behind the home she had inherited from her mother less than a year ago, a ritual dating back to her childhood days of donning snagged woolen mittens and a dark-colored nylon parka pock-marked with patches of white where the stuffing escaped through breached seams. As soon as the grass was no longer visible under the accumulation of a new-fallen snow, every kid’s benchmark for “sticking,” she would head to the familiar trails on lone adventures through the silent, muffled forest.
Unlike the natural occurrences of darkness and thunderstorms, which both terrified her as a child, a snowstorm was actually cause for joy and celebration, a meteorological event that brought an excitement with the unknown.
On this day, ignoring the warnings that had filled the noon weather telecast, she had donned several layers of warm clothing, topped with her favorite brown turtleneck sweater, a hand-made Christmas present from her mother, and fled the too-quiet house.
When she was a child, Christmas morning frequently consisted of hand-made caps, sweaters, and scarves. Sometimes it was all her parents could afford. As she got older and the family evolved from poverty to financial stability, her mother continued to craft hand-made goods long after she could afford store-bought, partly as a reminder of those hardscrabble days, and partly as a tradition for her children.
The brown turtleneck was last year’s present, made lovingly by hands that had been savaged by arthritis, one of the more insidious henchmen of that most merciless pagan known as Old Age.
Now, with snow threatening, that daughter was ushered to the door by the teary memories of snowfalls spent with her parents, including the reassuring warmth of her mother’s soup that waited at the end of every snowbound trek.
But there would be no soup at the end of this journey, no warmth.
In her most imaginative childhood escapades, she couldn’t have mentally conjured the attacker now closing in just yards behind her.
Death came quickly, but it was anything but painless.
Confused and exhausted, the woman in the brown sweater finally succumbed to her mortal limitations, physiological boundaries that didn’t seem to apply to the one pursuing her. Unable to run any further, the fear-based adrenalin long since used up, she couldn’t even muster enough energy to issue a final scream.
The bitter chill was more than just a cause for physical discomfort. It sapped the young woman’s strength like a cheap car battery on a frozen day, leaving her as easy prey.
Had her mind retained even a single electron of reason, it still would have been unable to categorize or even acknowledge the reality of the hazy white figure that was about to take her life. Twelve years of public education and four semesters of community college provided an inadequate vocabulary with which to describe her killer. There was no left-brain taxonomic genus she could hang onto which could define him, and no right-brain imagination which could conjure an individual as horrifying as this.
It didn't matter. She could no longer think. She could no longer reason. She could only fear.
Her killer showed no remorse, no mercy, and but one emotion: unbridled rage, the kind that knew no bounds and obeyed no master.
As the last drop of energy spilled into the ether, the woman finally came to a stop near a tree, her knees buckling as she collapsed into the soft yet brutal snow. The figure in white never slowed, instead coming to a dead stop upon reaching its victim. As it drew closer, the face never grew any clearer. The featureless head contained crystal blue eyes like frozen water, but no nose or ears.
But it did have what passed as a mouth, a gaping black maw that was now growing larger as it came down and covered the lower half of the exhausted victim's face. The woman couldn’t even muster a whimper as her life left her.
The cold filled her body with a searing burn as her attacker blew an ageless, freezing stream of ice particles into her lungs. All of her organs were forced to simultaneously cease their function, leaving only the electrical impulses of her brain to register the excruciating pain that the cold would not anesthetize.
The last electrical impulses arcing through her brain asked not for mercy, rescue, or salvation. They asked but one feeble plea.
“Please, God, make it stop hurting!”
But the God to whom she prayed was not a merciful one on this day, because the excruciating pain continued for the rest of her life, an eternity of less than a minute.
The figure finally finished its frigid kiss, its effort to run his quarry to ground providing no sense of victory, and its power to so easily kill offering no satisfaction. The rage still reigned as it turned away.
Lying in the snow, her eyes could no longer move, her eyelids frozen open. But she could still see the white image of her attacker moving away through the snow, its rage unsated, searching for something else to destroy. Just a few feet away, the image of the attacker shimmered, then seemed to blend and disappear into the white.
Then, for the girl in the brown turtleneck, the white turned to blackness.
Chapter Four
Helena, Montana
Monday
November 19, 2012
"Line one is for you, chief."
"Thanks, and fuck you."
Ordinarily, he would have offered a more formidable verbal salvo at the fellow reporter for the racial jab. "Chief" would be an innocuous title in most newsrooms, or even a sign of respect when hung on a boss or superior. But Micah Roaz volleyed back, recognizing the taunt for what it was; a subtle dig at what his fellow newshounds jokingly referred to after hours as the "redskin in the room."
Micah wasn't particularly offended. In fact, he found irony in such a racially insensitive epithet spewing from the crucible where political correctness was forged and promulgated. The AP Stylebook, used by nearly every news agency in the country, was the undisputed Bible for socially acceptable euphemisms. For most of his career, he didn't even bother acknowledging his Blackfoot heritage. But since f
iling a couple of recent breakout stories with Native American overtones, Micah had resigned himself to the verbal bullseye now painted on his back.
In the most recent exchange he wanted to rip back with a pointed but ultimately good-natured retort, but he couldn't risk losing the man he hoped was on the other end of the phone. The Associated Press investigative reporter had worked too hard and paid too high a personal price for this moment.
"This is Micah," he said after picking up the phone and punching the blinking button.
"Is this Mr. Rose?"
It was a younger man on the line, not quite the one he had been waiting for.
"Actually it's Roaz. Ro-az. How can I help you?"
The man on the other line paused, as if summoning courage from a deep and distant well, or taking a long drink from a tall glass. Or perhaps both.
"This is Charlie Reever," the voice said. "Stevie Reever's son. You wrote a piece about him two days ago, about the storm."
"Yes, Mr. Reever," Micah said. "I'm so sorry for your loss. I can't even begin to imagine the pain of losing a father in such a tragic way."
"Thank you," the man said. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I know this is going to sound crazy, but I don't believe dad died the way you said in the story."
"Okay," Micah responded. After years of covering catastrophes and controversial issues, he knew better than to immediately start defending a story. "Tell me what parts I got wrong."
"Not wrong, exactly," the man on the phone answered. "I know you just wrote what the police and the coroner said. But there are pieces that don't add up. For starters, my dad was old, but he was still sharp. And he was way too smart to be out in the back yard during a snowstorm, even if the wind blew off the storm door and blew in the back door. He wouldn't have gone out in the snow, certainly not without a jacket."
Howl of a Thousand Winds Page 2
