Dead of Winter (52 page)

Jesse shook his head slowly. “You weren’t wrong about Johnny Lacey.”

“But the other stuff, you —- ”

“Forget it,” Jesse said quickly. “If you hadn’t accused me of those other things I would have never figured things out, that the chief...” His voice trailed off.

When Jesse spoke again, it was in a whisper. “I was on my way to see him,” he said. “He picked me up on the road and I told him it was over, that we couldn’t keep the raid quiet anymore.”

Jesse paused, not looking at Louis. “That’s when he told me everything. He told me we had to see it through together. But I couldn’t anymore, not after he told me he killed Pryce.”

“You told him you were turning yourself in?” Louis asked.

Jesse nodded. “That’s when...”

“He put you in the back of the Bronco,” Louis finished.

Jesse picked at the gauze on his left hand. It was quiet except for the hum of a monitor above the bed.

“I was laying in that cage,” Jesse said softly. “I was laying there and after a while it was like the cold affected my brain or something and I could see things real clear. I saw what he did, what he was. And I saw what I did, really saw it.”

He looked at Louis. “I knew I was going to die but I saw it was, like okay, suddenly.” He shook his head slowly.
“Seppuku.”

Louis looked up. “What?” he asked softly.

Jesse looked at him vacantly.

“That last word you said.”

“Seppuku?”

Louis nodded. “Gibralter said that, in the woods.”

Jesse leaned back in the pillows with a tired sigh. “It’s Japanese.”

“What does it mean?”

“It’s how a samarai commits suicide, you know, when they ram their sword up into their guts? They do it as punishment, when they’ve dishonored themselves.”

The room was silent again. Louis rose and went to the window, staring out at the gray day.

“Jess, I have to tell you something.”

“What?”

Louis turned to face him. “Cole’s going public. He’s telling what he saw during the raid.”

Jesse kept his eyes locked on Louis for several seconds then lowered them.

“You’re going to lose your job, maybe worse,” Louis said.

Jesse was staring at his bandaged hands. Louis turned to the window again.

“Louis?”

He turned.

“Would you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Call Julie for me. Ask her to come over here.”

Louis nodded and moved toward the door.

“Louis?”

He turned again.

Jesse’s eyes were bright with tears. “You did the right thing.”

He had to leave the Mustang at the bottom of the hill and walk the rest of the way up. When he reached the cabin, he paused.

What was he afraid of? That she would look different now? What was a woman supposed to look like after her husband was shot to death? Was he afraid of what she would say? What did a woman say to the man who had killed her husband?

He knocked. For a long time, there was no answer but then the door opened and she stood before him. Her eyes narrowed against the bright sunlight as she looked at him.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

Zoe nodded and moved away. He came in and she closed the door. The drapes were closed, the lights low. As his eyes adjusted, he made out the cardboard boxes stacked near the door. The paisley sofa was gone, and most of the other furniture. He looked to the fireplace. The Manet print had been taken down.

“What’s going on?” he asked, turning to her.

“I’m closing the cabin,” she said.

“Why?”

She rubbed the sleeves of her baggy red sweater, looking around, at anything but him. “I don’t know. I don’t feel right here anymore.”

“Zoe...”

“Don’t call me that, please,” she said softly.

She moved away, going to a table to pick up some books. He watched her as she stacked them in a box. She moved slowly, as if something hurt deep in her bones. He heard a sound, a soft mewing and turned. Two animal carriers sat by the door. He could see the white cat behind the grating.

“You’re going away?” he asked. “Where?”

“Chicago.”

“When?”

Her eyes met his. “Tomorrow, after the funeral.”

“Zoe, we have to talk.”

Her eyes brimmed. “About what, Louis? What can we say to each other now?”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

She spun away, covering her face with her hands.

He was rooted to the floor by the sound of her crying. He wanted to hold her but he was afraid she would push him away.

“I don’t blame you,” she said.

He closed his eyes.

“Brian died a long time ago,” she said. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s me.”

Louis took a quick step toward her, touched her arm but she pulled back. She wiped her face with her sleeve and brushed a strand of hair back from her face. She looked around the room, her eyes dark with fatigue and confusion.

“She’s gone,” she said softly.

Louis felt something cut into his chest. “Zoe...”

“I have to find her.”

She knelt to look under a chair then rose and pulled back the curtains. Louis watched her, suddenly afraid she was breaking down.

She looked up at him suddenly. “I can’t leave her here,” she said, her eyes bright with tears. “Help me find her, please.”

Suddenly, he understood. The other cat. She was looking for the other cat, the black one.

She went into the studio, calling her name. Louis drew in a slow breath and scanned the room, looking for the animal.

Zoe came back into the living room. “Isolde, I can’t find her,” she said, her eyes frantic.

“She’s here somewhere,” Louis said.

“I have to find her now. I’m leaving tomorrow, there’s no time. I have to go, I have to —- ”

Louis grabbed her shoulder. “Zoe, stop. Come on, stop. Calm down.”

She stared up at him then started crying again. He held her, stroking her hair, letting it all pour out of her, even as he struggled to hold his own emotions in. He held her until the crying dwindled and stopped.

Finally, she pushed gently away from him, wiping her face, unable to meet his eyes.

“I have to go, Louis,” she whispered.

She moved away and he closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was standing by the door, wearing her coat. She was holding one of the carriers, waiting.

He went to the door and she opened it. They stepped out into the bright sunlight. She didn’t look back as she went down the snowy walk, the carrier bumping awkwardly against her leg. She didn’t look back at him as she opened the door of her Jeep and put the carrier in the back. He waited, standing with his hands in his pockets. Finally, she faced him.

“I loved you,” she said softly. “Was it wrong?”

“No,” he said.

She hesitated then nodded slightly. Her dark hair glistened in the sun, her eyes locked on his.

“When will you be back?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said.

The question was there, in his head, but he knew there was no need to ask it. Nothing was possible for them. He had known that when he walked up the hill.

He focused on her eyes, on her lips, her face, her hair, focused on every detail so he would remember. He would remember the taste of brandy on her mouth, the curve of her hip, the smell of patchouli.

She got in the Jeep. She looked back at the cabin, then at Louis.

“She might have gotten outside,” she said absently.

“I’ll look. I’ll find her for you.”

She nodded and started the engine.

“Goodbye, Zoe,” he said.

She smiled slightly. Then she put the Jeep in gear and pulled away.

He watched the Jeep disappear down the hill. He turned and looked back at the cabin. He let out a breath, so long and raspy that it hurt his lungs. He was so tired, a sudden hollow feeling overtaking him, as if the last of his emotions had drained out of him with Zoe’s departure. He started down the hill.

He didn’t know what made him stop and look back at the cabin. But when he did he saw something at the window. A small black form. A cat.

It sat there calmly, staring back, its eyes luminous slits in the sun.

He stared at it, transfixed. Its tiny pink mouth moved, a silent meow behind the glass.

Damn...

He went back into the cabin. The black cat came right to him, rubbing against his legs.

“Damn,” he murmured.

Picking it up, he put it in the empty carrier sitting by the door. Moving quickly, without looking back at the dim room, he left with the carrier, stepping back out into the sun.

He rubbed his arms, watching the coffee dribble into the pot. It was the last of the can and he knew he was only going to get one or two cups out of it. It was too cold to go out and get more and the Mustang hadn’t started in days anyway.

Something touched his leg and he looked down to see the black cat rubbing against his calf.

He pushed it away gently with his foot, thinking about Zoe. He had called several times about the cat but she had never responded. He assumed she had left for Chicago and finally had left a note in her mailbox, telling her he had the cat.

He glanced down at the animal. It sat staring up at him, its tail swishing slowly back and forth on the linoleum.

With a sigh, he looked back at the slow drip of the coffeemaker. Finally, he pulled out the pot and stuck the mug under the drip, staring out the window as he waited for it to fill. Frost obscured the windowpane. He reached up and used the sleeve of his sweatshirt to wipe it clear.

Sunny...first time in a week.

The pine trees stood tall and unmoving in their crisp green uniforms with their white epaulettes of snow. He shivered, glancing down at his feet in their old tube sox.  His big toe was poking through a hole in the end. He used his other foot to turn the hole under as he pulled the cup from the machine. He stuck the pot back and walked to the table, sliding into the chair. Taking a sip of coffee, he picked up the stack of mail he had neglected for the last three days.

A large manila envelope caught his eye and he stared at the Detroit return address with no name. He opened it.

It was a copy of the
Detroit Free Press,
the most recent Sunday edition. As he snapped it open, a note floated to the table. He picked it up and read the unfamiliar scrawl.

Thanks. I owe you one. Delp.

P.S. How’s the weather up there?

“Jerk,” Louis muttered.

He looked at the front page. He couldn’t miss the big headline on Delp’s freelance feature story -- THE KILLING SEASON. And the small blurb below that: “On a cold winter day, two teenagers were murdered. Five years later, the cops who did it are brought to their final justice.”

It was a long article but he read all of it, and when he put it down he was left with a begrudging respect for Delp. He had done a good job on the article. It was painstakingly researched and written with the sensitivity of a good novel, and between the lines anyone could read the unspoken theme: that the Lacey teenagers were not the only victims.

Louis dumped sugar into the mug and stirred the coffee, thinking about Jesse. He was facing felony murder charges for beating Johnny and conspiracy to cover up Angela’s death. Gibralter was dead, his reputation shattered. Zoe was gone, her life shattered. And he...

Louis sipped the coffee, thinking now of his own fate. Steele had dropped felony charges against him after Cole told the truth and recanted his statement about the Red Oak abduction. But Steele had still made an example of him, telling the TV reporters that “the actions of Louis Kincaid, while technically legal, were still unethical. I intend to pursue a charge of obstruction of justice, if only to ensure Kincaid does not remain a police officer in the state of Michigan.”

Louis poured more sugar into the coffee. It didn’t matter anymore. He had already quit. He would survive. He would survive, he told himself, if his bitterness didn’t eat him alive. He had warned Cole against it but he could see it happening to himself these last couple of days. He had changed somehow, on some very basic level, and it arose from something more than just what had happened with Zoe or even the fear he might never work as a cop again. He felt adrift, his faith in the power of his badge destroyed, the idea of what he
was
shaken.