Dead of Winter (46 page)

“Where are you going?” Louis said.

Jesse didn’t answer.

“Stop,” Louis said, moving toward the door.

Jesse glared at him. “Either you arrest me or let me get the fuck out of here.”

Louis started to the counter to get his cuffs from his belt but Jesse moved more quickly, pulling out his gun and pointing it at Louis.

Louis stared at the gun, not moving. “Jess, this isn’t the answer.”

“Let me go, Louis. I’ve got something to take care of.”

Jesse moved slowly toward the door.

“Don’t do this, don’t make it worse,” Louis said.

Jesse flung open the door and ran out, the door banging against the wall and slamming closed behind him.

“Jess!”

Louis grabbed his gun, ran to the door and jerked it open. He ran outside and stood for a moment, scanning the darkness. He went quickly around the side of the cabin. Jesse’s cruiser was parked where he had left it. Louis circled the cruiser, peering inside. An empty Jack Daniel’s bottle lay on the seat.

“Jesse!” he shouted.

He ran up the driveway toward the main road. He stopped, looking off into the night. Fresh boot prints led off down the road in the direction of town.

“Fuck,” he murmured.

He had blown it. He had tipped his hand and let Jesse get away. And now he was probably on his way to alert Gibralter.

Louis looked down the road and scanned the dark trees. He shivered. He had been walking in Pryce’s shadow for weeks and now, like Pryce, he was a threat.

He went quickly back into the cabin. He locked the door and pulled all the curtains closed. He paused to survey the room then dragged around a chair from the corner to face the door. He turned off the lights.

The walls of the cabin pulsated with the light of the dying fire. Picking up his gun and portable radio, he sat down in the chair. He pulled the afghan up around his chest and over the gun resting in his lap.

The cabin was dark and cold. He had let the fire burn out, not wanting to have any light detectable from outside.

The phone rang but he ignored it. It was the fourth time it had rung in the two hours since Jesse had left, and each time he had let it ring. This time, though, it wouldn’t stop, and finally he jumped out of the chair and grabbed it.

“Yeah?”

“Louis?” It was a woman.

“Who is this?”

“Julie Harrison, Jesse’s wife. Is Jesse there?”

“No, Julie. He was, but he left hours ago.”

“Oh, God...”

He could hear the fear in her voice and wished he had lied.

“Do you know where he went?”

“No, I don’t. Julie...Julie?”

She was crying.

“Listen, Julie –- ”

She had hung up. Louis set the phone back in the cradle and returned to his chair. He pulled the afghan over his shoulders and laid the gun in his lap. He massaged his right hand; it was stiff from gripping the gun.

He glanced at his watch. Just past eleven. His whole body was stiff with tension but sleep was out of the question. He had decided on his plan -— just get through the night until the morning when Steele was due back from Detroit.

A crackle of static drew his attention to the portable radio on the table at his side. “All units in the area, stand by for a BOLO.”

Louis picked up the radio, turning up the volume on Edna’s voice. “L-1 advises to be on the lookout for L-13. Subject has not been in contact with his residence and is reported missing.”

Louis listened as Edna gave a brief description of Jesse. Damn him. His wife was going crazy worrying about him and the asshole was probably passed out in a snowdrift somewhere.

He tensed. A light appeared against the curtain, the wash of headlights on the trees. He heard a car and then silence as the motor died. He shrugged off the afghan and gripped the gun.

Footsteps on the porch, heavy, a man. A knock.

“Kincaid! You in there?”

Gibralter.

Louis rose slowly, holding the gun at his side as he slid along the wall toward the kitchen.

“Kincaid! It’s the chief. I need to talk to you.”

He looked out the kitchen window and saw the Bronco. His chest tightened and he flexed his fingers around the grip of the gun. What was Gibralter doing here? He didn’t come to kill him, not in the Bronco, right here at the cabin. He was too smart for that.

Louis went to the door. “What do you want?” he called out.

“I’m looking for Jesse,” Gibralter called back.

There was something strange in Gibralter’s voice, a quiver of concern.

“Kincaid? His cruiser’s here. Is he there with you?”

“He left.”

“When?”

“Two hours ago.”

There was silence on the other side of the door and then Louis heard the retreat of footsteps from the porch. He went quickly to the kitchen window. Through the falling snow, he could see Gibralter shining a flashlight into Jesse’s cruiser. He headed back to the porch and pounded again on the door.

“Kincaid! Let me in. I need your help.”

Louis hesitated, debating what to do. He slipped the gun in his belt at the small of his back and unlocked the door.

Gibralter’s silhouette filled the door frame. “Why do you have the lights out?” he asked.

“I was asleep,” Louis said.

Gibralter took a step inside. Louis switched on a lamp, blinking in the light. Gibralter glanced around the cabin, his eyes coming back quickly to Louis. “Jesse’s missing,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“Julie’s called the station twice. He didn’t make it home.”

“Maybe he stopped for a drink,” Louis said. He was careful to stand a good ten feet away.

“On foot? There are no bars between here and his place.”

Louis watched Gibralter carefully, trying to reconcile what he knew about the man with what he was seeing in his eyes, a strange look of dread.

“What was he doing here?” Gibralter asked.

“He wanted to talk.”

“About what?”

“About you firing him today.”

“Was he drunk?”

“Wasted.”

“Why’d you let him leave on foot?”

“We argued. He ran out.”

Gibralter paused, his eyes steady on Louis. “I fired Jess to protect him.”

“He doesn’t see it that way.”

Gibralter let out a sigh. “I know. I didn’t handle it well.”

Louis stared at him.
Bullshit.

“Kincaid, I need your help. I’ve got a bad feeling about this and we’ve got to find him.”

“What about Steele?”

“I tried. He’s gone until tomorrow.” Gibralter’s face hardened. “The moron he left in charge told me to go fuck myself.”

“What about your own men?”

“They’re already searching. Edna called here twice trying to get you. Didn’t you hear the phone?”

“I told you, I was asleep.”

“That’s why I came out here, thought maybe something happened to you.”

“Why’d you think that?”

“Lacey shot at you once,” Gibralter said. “He’ll do it again.”

Louis just stared at him.

“Come on, get your coat,” Gibralter said.

“I’m not going with you,” Louis said.

“Why the hell not?”

For a second, Louis thought of confronting Gibralter with what he knew about Angela and Johnny and with what he suspected about Pryce and the others. But if it was true that Jesse was missing then Gibralter was still in the dark. And it was foolish, even dangerous, to alert him to what he knew. It would all come out tomorrow anyway when Steele got back.

Gibralter was waiting for an answer. When he realized Louis was not going to go, he nodded grimly and started down off the porch. He stopped and turned back to face Louis.

“I’ve got blood on my hands,” he said softly.

Louis stared at him.

“Three of my men are dead, two of them because I was too proud to get help,” Gibralter said. “Jesse and I are the only ones left. I have to find him.”

Louis tried to read the emotion in Gibralter’s eyes but all he could see was fatigue and stress. The man looked pulled too tight, as if he knew everything was coming to an end.

Gibralter squinted at him through the falling snow. “I don’t like you, Kincaid. You know that, it’s no secret. But I don’t want to lose any more men, Jesse or you. Now will you come with me or not?”

When Louis didn’t answer, Gibralter shook his head and walked away. As Louis watched him his heart quickened. Jesus, what if he was wrong? What if Lacey had killed all three cops? What

if Jesse was lying out in the snow, easy prey for Lacey’s scope? No matter what Jesse had done, he deserved a trial, not a sniper’s bullet in his back. And no matter what he thought of Gibralter, he couldn’t sit here like a coward while the others were out searching.

“Wait!”

Gibralter turned.

“Give me a minute to get ready.”

“Dress warm,” Gibralter said. “We might end up on foot.”

The wipers kept up their monotonous rhythm as they drove slowly toward the main road. From the radio came Edna’s steady murmur, directing the other men on their search. Gibralter reached down and keyed the mike.

“Central, this is L-1. I’m 10-8 with L-11, joining the search.” He clicked off. “You sure he went in this direction?” Gibralter asked Louis.

“It’s the only road up away from the lake,” Louis said.

“Maybe he went down to the lake.”

“No, I saw his prints.” Louis was training the outside spotlight on the snowy shoulder. “He was too drunk to drive. Maybe he tried to walk home.”

“That’s three miles from here.”

It was quiet except for the groan of the wipers and an occasional spurt of radio voices. Louis moved his elbow so he could feel his gun against his ribs under his parka. He hadn’t bothered with the bulky uniform belt, just stuck the gun and his cuffs in the belt of his jeans.

“Can you see any prints?” Gibralter asked.

“No, but they’re probably covered by now.”

“Shit, maybe he headed in the other direction.”

“There’s nothing out that way.”

They crept on, Gibralter slowing the Bronco to five miles an hour.

“Hold it!”

Gibralter braked. Louis swung the light low on the shoulder.

“What is it?”

“Boot prints.” Louis got out, training his flashlight down in the snow. Gibralter was quickly at his side, shining his own light into the snow. The prints formed a faint but staggering pattern into the darkness of the road ahead. They followed them for several yards, walking in the headlight beams of the Bronco idling behind.

The prints ended abruptly in a flattened area of the snow. “Looks like he fell here,’ Gibralter said.

Louis swung the flashlight out into the field beyond and then across the road, finally picking up the prints again. They walked on, following them for another ten yards then the prints stopped again in another flattened area. But this patch was larger, messier, the snow shoved away in spots down to the bare ground. There were several dark spots, almost covered with a light dusting of new snow. Louis knelt to brush it away. The spots were blood.

Gibralter’s breath, stale with cigarettes, was at his ear. “Christ, what happened?”

“A struggle of some kind,” Louis said.

Gibralter swing his flashlight ahead down the road but there were no more prints. He straightened. “He killed him,” he said.

Louis looked up. Gibralter’s face, caught in the reflection of their flashlights on the snow, was drawn with pain. To his amazement, Louis saw tears in the man’s eyes.

Gibralter met his eyes and looked away. He turned and started back to the Bronco.

Louis looked again at the blood in the snow. A gnawing started in his gut, a gnawing that came from his guilt for letting Jesse walk out of the cabin.

“Jesse!”

Louis swing around. Gibralter was standing in the beams of the Bronco, staring out into the field, hands cupped to his mouth.

“Jesse!” he shouted into the darkness, his voice echoing back to him.

“Chief,” Louis called out.

“Jesse!”

“Chief!” Louis called out sharply.

Gibralter’s head snapped toward Louis.

“He’s not here,” Louis said.

Gibralter turned away and went back to the Bronco.

Louis scanned the field again, trying to find something, anything. But there was nothing. No Lacey, no body. No...body.