by M. K. Gilroy
Unless the wife is still awake, he thought. Then it’s going to get even icier in a hurry. When it’s hot it’s hot, he mused. But when things got cold, Justine could make it snow inside.
Now in his early sixties, he was very fit. A little jog was nothing. He ran three, sometimes four miles a couple of days a week. Of course that was in sunny California.
It was a bitterly cold January morning; hovering just above zero actual temperature, but ten below with the wind chill factor. Not even a thick wool overcoat with the new synthetic fleece lining skiers used and another three layers of clothing underneath, including a cashmere sweater Justine had just given him at Christmas, could keep that kind of cold from piercing him to the bone with a simple gust of wind. His throat burned from taking too big of a gulp of air. Each time he exhaled it appeared as if he was smoking a cigar. That was something else that displeased Justine. But a man has to have a few vices.
Too cold he thought. Just go back inside and wait. The driver will show up. His cab is running after all. Stay with the plan. Surely the girl at the front desk can find another cab. People get started early in New York City.
He hesitated, then hunkered his shoulders and kept going. With his first step down the steep decline of the path into Central Park, he knew that for certain this was a mistake. He had let his impatience get the better of him. He remembered a Jack London short story one of his teachers—Sister Anne, to be exact—had read aloud to his fifth grade class.
More than fifty years ago—what a memory!
What was it? Oh yeah, To Build a Fire. A gold prospector, impatient to meet up with his buddies, ventured solo into the Alaskan— or maybe it was the Canadian—Yukon Territory, despite repeated warnings from an old-timer that nothing good could come of traveling alone in Arctic conditions. He hadn’t thought of that story—or Sister Anne—in what seemed to be a hundred years.
Why am I in Central Park at four in the morning? Bad idea.
Nelson remembered that the prospector didn’t survive in London’s story. The old man had been right. After a few bad breaks and a few bad decisions, the prospector took a long, winter nap that stretched into eternity. He couldn’t remember all the details, but he thought the guy tried to kill his dog and use the inside of its guts to warm his freezing hands. The dog had smelled danger and danced out of his reach. Well, it might not be seventy below zero in Central Park, he thought, but what I am doing might be just about as stupid as the character in a Jack London short story.
Why am I thinking about Sister Anne and Jack London? I know why I’m thinking of Sister Anne. Growing up in a parochial school you never get rid of the sense of guilt. And I do feel guilty.
But a whole lot richer.
Near the bottom of the slope, he stopped to return up the path. He would head back in the warm lobby of the Dexter to have the girl at the front desk—might be from Brazil or possibly the Cape Verde Islands—call the dispatcher again. He wished he had listened to his youngest son and got the Uber app on his phone. One way or another, he’d eventually get a cab.
Then it happened.
Okay, this is the coldest weather I’ve ever run in. Klarissa might have been right that this was a stupid idea. But just this once. I’ll never admit it, which isn’t the same as having to be right all the time. Or is it?
I entered the southeast corner of Central Park feeling pretty good. I mapped out a four-mile route in the shape of a horseshoe. I’ll exit the park out the southwest corner at Columbus Circle, and then do a final sprint down 59th Street and back to the hotel. If the streets are clear of ice, that is. I tore my left ACL when I played soccer for Northern Illinois, had my wrist broken by a serial killer—you should see what I did to him—and have a few other battle scars from life. I’d rather not add a broken tailbone from slipping on ice to my checklist of injuries.
I really have wanted to try out the new Gore-Tex cold weather running gear I got for Christmas. My niece and nephew got me a new fleece hat with a hole in the back for my ponytail. Good kids. Even James who has learned at the ripe young age of six that flatulence is a real attention getter—and he is apparently crazy about attention. My sister Kaylen needs to check his diet. But he and Kendra got me exactly what I wanted.
Mom came through big this year and got me what I asked for rather than the annual Sunday-go-to-church dress she gives me that I never wear. She gave me high performance compression leggings and gloves that are rated for subzero weather. Whoever did the rating is either a member of the Polar Bear Club or might have exaggerated a little. Mom did good even if my legs and fingers are freezing. But they aren’t hurting as much as they were earlier, namely because I can’t feel them anymore. Is that good or bad?
I slowly squeeze my hand into a fist. Ouch. Okay, I can still feel them.
I wasn’t sure what Austin was going to get me. I told him that if he felt the need to give me something for Christmas, I wanted something practical, not romantic. He asked what gave me the idea he would give me something romantic. I’ve always seen him be spot with how he interacts with people, but he overplayed that line about the fifth time he threw it out there. Sheesh. I finally let him have it. If I did happen to use an inappropriate phrase about where he could put his gift, he quickly regained his usual aplomb and dropped the teasing.
I think the real reason we’re still a couple is we live a thousand miles apart. I seem to be much better at long distance relationships. Austin did go big for me at Christmas—and did good. Very good. He bought me an arctic grade Patagonia running coat that might have cost a fortune. Klarissa looked up the list price online and told me, “He does like you; a lot.” I told her not to tell me the actual damages. But I would kind of like to know. I have to tip my Gore-Tex hat to FBI Special Agent Austin Reynolds, an ex-Army Ranger and rumor has it, member of Delta Force, for good measure. He was a good soldier for Christmas.
I bought him a silk tie, which I thought was quite nice—and if it hadn’t been half off list price would have cost way more than a tie should cost—but didn’t seem nearly as impressive after tearing wrapping paper off a large box and seeing the coat.
Kaylen and Jimmy got me a beautiful fleece sweat top that I’ve layered under the Patagonia. I think my upper body is the only thing warm on me. I hope they didn’t spend too much. They just had their third kid and I don’t think his pastor salary goes too far. I gave them what they would get from me even if it wasn’t Christmas. I made a coupon book that committed me to babysitting my nephew and nieces once a month. I could spend what I suspect Reynolds spent on me and never do half as well for them.
Count on Klarissa to steal the show. She gave me a balaclava—a fancy word for ski mask—something I hadn’t requested but could use right now. Of course James ran off with it immediately to play cops and robbers. I hate to see a six-year-old on the wrong side of the law already. If he keeps passing gas every time he’s next to me one of us may be going to jail anyway. What is that kid eating? He’s got to be saving it up for me.
I should have just told Klarissa thanks. But I tried to be funny, which usually doesn’t work with me, and asked her, “Are you telling me something about my looks, Sis? You could have saved money and bought me a paper bag.”
For once, everyone laughed at my attempt at humor—except Klarissa. She sulked whenever she was around me the rest of Christmas day. I would have felt bad but she seemed to have a twinkle in her eyes at the same time she was pouting. Drama queen. Who knows if she was gigging me like I suspect or I hurt her feelings? Or both? Our relationship is complicated.
I didn’t wear the balaclava this morning. Was that me being petty and having to be right? Big mistake either way. Pulling a wool gator up to cover half my face isn’t getting the job done. This can’t be good for my skin. I’m no Klarissa in the looks department but I do have good skin.
Okay, time to pick up the pace. I need to get out of this cold, despite my new gear, which may have met its match in Central Park.
The guy at the
bell stand warned me not to go in the park while it is still dark, that it is dangerous even in bad weather—“there are many bad people in there when it’s dark,” he told me. I don’t think he’s right about it being dangerous due to bad people this morning. Who else is idiotic enough to be out in this weather besides me? And I do know how to handle myself when things get rough. I alternate a krav maga and Brazilian jujitsu workout every week. My handgun scores are only up to average, even using the Sig Sauer the FBI let me keep. But pound-for-pound I can fight with anyone.
It might be a problem that I only weigh 115 pounds.
4
FRANK NELSON’S LEFT foot hit a patch of black ice and flew forward and to the side. He swung his arms to catch himself from falling, but his body was already catapulting violently backward. He felt and heard a ripping in his groin muscle from the thrust and angle of his left leg. Nearly airborne, he flailed to get his hands behind him to break the fall, but still thudded on his tailbone violently, the back of his head smacking the pavement a nanosecond later. His momentum carried him into a heels-over-head half-somersault. It would have been a full somersault if his head hadn’t got in the way to break the move. Excruciating stabs of pain shot up and down his right and left arms and all the way up his back as if they were in a race to reach his cerebral cortex and be the first to scream out in agony.
Swimming—no drowning—in pain, he knew that climbing back up the slope to the warmth of the Dexter Arms lobby had just become much, much harder. Impossibly harder?
Bad break. Bad decision. Nothing good can come from traveling in Arctic conditions alone, he heard echoing in the recesses of his mind. He could almost see the old timer, chewing thoughtfully on a plug of tobacco, slowly shake his head from side to side to warn the impatient prospector about venturing into the Yukon without a partner.
That’s what he had done, he realized, even before entering Central Park. Rationalization is amazing, he thought. Everything seems good, then you fall and realize you sold your soul to the devil.
Sprawled on the ground, his leg corkscrewed at a gruesome angle, he alternated between gasping for air and releasing soft moans. He could not remember a time in his life when he hurt more. Nothing came remotely close. He knew he blacked out when his head hit the ground, but he didn’t think it had been for long. Maybe a couple seconds.
“Dear God in Heaven, I don’t know if I can get up. But if I don’t, I’m going to freeze to death out here,” he prayed with all the sincerity and desperation he could muster. There are no atheists in foxholes echoed in his mind and he felt a sharper stab of guilt. There are no atheists splattered on a patch of ice either. If this is karma, then karma is brutal. So much for slipping inconspicuously into bed next to Justine.
He remembered the idling cab on the street above. His mind went back to London’s Yukon prospector, and then the thought of his own death, but he immediately chased the specter away with a shudder and a soft but audible moan.
You don’t think about death when you close a deal that results in $25 million being wired to an account you own in the Cayman Islands. It might not be enough to save his company from bankruptcy but it would be enough to fund the retirement he promised Justine.
I just have to get a couple hundred feet back up the path and I’m set, he thought. I’ll go straight to the hospital. I might not be able to get a cab, but surely I can get an ambulance. Justine can meet me there. Then after I get better, she can kill me. The thought warmed him. They could barb, bait, and banter with the best of them, but dear God, he truly loved that raven-haired dynamo. They were supposed to be sunning on the beach in Cayo Espanto, a private island off the coast of Belize in a week. Might have to delay plans. Nelson thought of death again.
“Shut up, Jack London! I’m not dead yet!” he screamed in his mind.
Ascending the slope was going to be the hardest thing he ever did in his life. But he could do it. He grew up in a blue-collar working class neighborhood in Cleveland, Ohio, called Brooklyn—an easy icebreaker when meeting New Yorkers.
Where you from?
I’m from Brooklyn.
You don’t sound like you’re from Brooklyn.
Brooklyn, Ohio.
Not real funny, but it elicited appropriate courtesy laughs.
His life and career were based on grit and determination. He hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. I can do this.
First he rolled back to his left side to avoid the avalanche of pain on the right side of his backside, the area that had sustained the brunt of his fall. But that released a tidal wave of angry sensory messages letting him know that the damage to his left leg was significant, too. He knew if he stopped midway, however, he might not have the courage to turn either way, so he rolled all the way back, sobbing as his hip touched icy pavement, and on over until he was facedown. He pushed himself up with his weight on his right knee, which might be the only joint to get off fairly easily in this tangled mess called his body.
Tears streamed down his cheeks. They froze before reaching his chin. He felt ice forming below his lip as well, and realized he had bitten all the way through it. The ice was his blood. He thought that might be something that happened in London’s story as well, but couldn’t remember for sure.
Crying and groaning loudly now, doing all he could to keep his shattered right hand and arm off the ground, he straightened his back, and made it up to a kneeling position on both knees. It took every ounce of effort not to keel over. He nearly fainted from the exertion.
Dear God, I think I’m going to vomit. Please help me not to vomit. Hail Mary, full of grace . . .
He breathed in deeply and nearly gagged, but was able to stifle the reflex and relax for a second.
Then he vomited a toxic mixture of pinkish blood, too much coffee, and last night’s steak he ate at Peter Luger’s.
He nearly fell back to his side, but somehow held onto his balance. As he exhaled with a sputter, he realized at a near subconscious level that he was not alone.
What the . . . what did I just see? Medved Kublanov had just finished zipping his fly up when he saw the man go airborne. Other than throwing a man off a fourth story balcony that was the worst fall I’ve ever seen in my life. Med ambled over to take a look. He went down on one knee to see the man who was sputtering and groaning on all fours. His eyes widened and he froze in place. He looked up into the azure sky, a few snowflakes swirling. He looked closer at the man’s face. No. No. This can’t be. I think it is the guy I’m supposed to drive to Pasha Boyarov. What is he doing down here? Medved looked at his watch. Only one minute after four. Chert poberi! I should have peed in the street. I shouldn’t have drunk so much vodka. But why would he walk into the park alone? It was fifteen below zero Celsius. That was foolish. And it wasn’t part of Pasha’s plan.
Pasha likes things to go a certain way. What do I do now?
More than halfway. Past the point of no return. Stop whining. Just keep running. You hate it when people whine. Don’t be one of them.
But this is miserable. It feels like that moment when you eat a big spoonful of ice cream too fast and get brain freeze. The only problem is the freeze isn’t going away. My temples are throbbing. It feels like my head is going to burst. I turned thirty this past year. Isn’t that too young to stroke out, even under extreme conditions?
I slathered Vaseline on my lips in the hotel lobby. Seemed like a good idea, but it’s making the gator stick to my mouth and I feel like I can hardly breathe. Every time I pull the gator away I get stabbed with icy needles on my face. I wish I had worn that balaclava Klarissa got me. I’ll probably even admit it to her. Not today. But at some point. See, I don’t always have to be right.
My mom asks me why I never cry. Not even at my dad’s funeral. If she could see me now, she’d know I have tear ducts that are in perfect working order. The problem is my tears have turned to ice and are frozen to my face.
Just run. Stop whining!
Ed Keltto took two steps
into the darkness to put the bucket in its place—he didn’t need a light to know where it went. Then he heard a sound behind him. Maybe a footstep on crunchy snow.
Before he could turn to investigate he heard a whoosh through the air. Then he felt a momentary explosion of pain on the back of his head. By the time he fell forward and his head bounced on the rear panel of Nancy’s Chevy Malibu, he was out cold and felt no pain.
The attacker hissed a curse in the darkness. The plan was to move quick enough to catch Keltto before he fell forward. This had to look like an accident. But the single blow with the heavy steel crow bar with what was hoped to be just enough force to mirror cracking one’s head on icy concrete had done its work well—maybe too well. The attacker wedged between Keltto and the car bumper, secured his limp body in a bear hug before Keltto slumped all the way to the ground, hoisted him upright—a limp body feels heavier than a ton of bricks— turned 180 degrees and duck walked him back a few feet until Keltto’s heels touched the wood threshold. The next part was easy. Just let go and watch him fall backward out the side garage door. However he sprawled was fine. It just had to look natural. A lot of people slip on ice and hit their head. Some die.
When Keltto fell backward his head actually did bounce off the ground. How many blows to the back of the head was normal when someone fell?
The attacker looked around. The body looked good. Just like it should. But Keltto’s face was a worry. Would he have a bruise from hitting the bumper? It was ice cold, which should inhibit swelling. Good.
Killing a man. Wow. Is there a bigger leap you can make? Killing. It’s so final. What should I be feeling? Guilt? I don’t. Fear? Maybe a little. Okay, maybe a lot. But I don’t see how I can get caught.
The killer looked at Keltto again. Was he even dead yet? Better double check. If not, just squeeze his nostrils and cover his face until the deed was done. The killer had seen Tony Soprano do that to Christopher on a Sopranos rerun. It wasn’t necessary. There was no pulse on Edward Keltto’s neck. Good. One less thing to worry about.
