The Snow White Christmas Cookie (27 page)

Mitch’s stomach lurched again when he saw the deep knife wounds in Casey’s abdomen. He could make out at least six of them in what was left of the afternoon sunlight. A man hadn’t done that to him. Casey had been killed by a savage animal.

Teeth chattering, he pulled the dead man’s sweatshirt on over his own head, snugging the hood down over his frozen ears, burying his hands in its kangaroo pouch. He didn’t care that the lower half of the sweatshirt was soaked with Casey’s ice-cold blood. Couldn’t afford to care. He was grateful for whatever he had. It would have been nice if there’d been something tucked inside of that kangaroo pouch. Like, say, a cell phone. But that was too much to hope for. After he’d warmed his hands for a moment he removed Casey’s socks and slid them on his own frozen feet. The socks were nothing more than thin cotton. And they were caked with snow. Barely any protection at all. But they were something.

His next challenge was Casey’s sweatpants. As he crouched over Casey, preparing to pull the pants down his legs, Mitch’s nostrils encountered some truly terrible smells. Casey’s sphincters had released when he died. One of those real-life things that they never show in the movies. And, in real life, Mitch couldn’t put those pants on no matter how cold he was.

That left the bloody shower curtain, which would at least work as a windbreaker. He rolled Casey off of it, folded it in half and wrapped it around the lower half of his body, tucking it at his waist like a bath towel.

Problem Two: I’m miles from nowhere.

Solution? Start walking.

Right. He had to make his way through that deep snow. Back across the beach to the path, then up the path to the parking lot. The lot had probably been plowed. Easy walking. Beyond it was a road that dipped under the Amtrak railroad trestle and then after a mile or so met up with Route 1. That wasn’t so far. He could make that. And maybe he’d encounter somebody before he reached Route 1. It wasn’t the middle of the night. People would be out and about. Sure, they would. He’d flag someone down and ask them to call Des on their cell phone. Not a problem. He was clothed and socked. Hands tucked inside of the kangaroo pouch. Ears covered. He could do this. All he had to do was get up and start walking.

Problem Three: I can’t actually get up.

Solution: Yes, you actually can.

Slowly, Mitch got to his feet, wavering as he stood there in the gusting wind. The setting sun now was a sliver on the western horizon. Darkness was falling. He paused to say good-bye to Casey. Promised the guy he’d be back for him as soon as he could. It wasn’t a long speech. This wasn’t the time for words. It was the time for action. He gave Casey a jaunty wave, then snugged the shower curtain tight and started his way through the deep snow one rugged step at a time. He made it three whole strides before flashbulbs started popping in front of his eyes and he fell back down, dizzy beyond belief from those blows to his head. Everything was spinning.

Don’t pass out. You can’t pass out. It’ll drop into the twenties once it gets dark and you’ll freeze to death. Don’t pass …

The roar of an engine brought him back. It was the Acela speeding its way across the trestle toward Boston, its passengers all warm and cozy inside, and wearing things like trousers, underwear and sweatshirts that weren’t caked with someone else’s blood. They were probably thinking about the hot meal they’d be having when they pulled into Boston. It would be supper time. Nothing like a scrumptious supper in Beantown on a cold, windy night. A big, hot bowl of clam chowder for starters. Then a rib eye steak, medium rare, with hash browns, creamed spinach and plenty of fresh bread slathered with sweet butter. A nice bottle of Chianti Classico. Chocolate cake for dessert. A double espresso with a jolt of Balvenie on the side. Mitch could practically taste it as the train tore past and then was gone, leaving behind the howl of the wind and the faint strumming of a guitar. Mitch recognized the tune—Leonard Cohen’s “The Stranger Song” from
McCabe and Mrs. Miller.
Mitch had been downloading it yesterday, back when he was a warm, sentient film maven as opposed to a dazed oaf sitting half frozen in the snow with the winter darkness closing in on him. He had to get up. Get up and keep walking—same as Beatty had to get up and keep walking after he got shot at the end of
McCabe and Mrs. Miller.
Beatty with his bowler hat and beard and that stupid line he kept saying to people. What was that line?

“If a frog had wings he wouldn’t bump his ass so much, follow me?”

Except no one ever did.

Mitch’s feet ached now. He willed himself back up onto them anyway. He was standing tall. Walking tall. One foot in front of the other. He was fine—until suddenly everything seemed to be tilting at a funny angle and he realized that he wasn’t walking or standing tall anymore. He’d pitched over onto his side like a mighty oak in a hurricane and lay there in the snow once again.

Get back up. Keep walking.

He wanted to. Really, he did. Except it was so hard to get up. And so easy to just settle down into the snow and stay here.

Problem Four: You’re going to die.

Solution: Accept it.

They’d left him here to die. That was why they’d taken his clothing. And he was going to die—right here next to Casey. It wouldn’t take long now. Mitch wished he could leave Des a goodbye note. But he had nothing to write with. Doubted his fingers would be able to hold a pen anyway, even though he had them tucked inside of Casey’s sweatshirt. What were the four degrees of frostbite? He’d just been watching a special about it the other night on The Weather Channel. The first degree was frost nip, which affected only the surface skin. Second degree, the skin froze and hardened but the deep tissue wasn’t affected and you were still basically okay. But once you got to degrees three and four, the blood vessels, nerves and muscles started to freeze. That was when they started talking about gangrene and amputation. And then there was the whole hypothermia thing, which occurred when your body temperature dipped below ninety-five degrees. He figured that had to be on the table soon, what with the windchill factor and all. Bottom line? If no one found him in the next twenty minutes Mitch Berger, noted film critic, would achieve the fifth degree, which also went by the name Certain Death.

I don’t want to die. I want to live. Please, God, don’t let me die. Let me live. If you let me live I-I promise you I’ll take back every bad word I’ve ever said about Danny Kaye. I’ll even watch every single one of his movies, I swear. I don’t want to die.

But he knew he was going to. This was the end. As he lay there on his side Mitch drew his knees to his chest and hugged them tightly, his teeth chattering as he waited for death to come. He didn’t welcome it. But he accepted it. He had to accept it. Death was the only choice left to him. And he was okay with that, because he was very, very lucky.

I became the man I wanted to be. Did the work I wanted to do. I loved a special woman. When I lost her I didn’t think I’d make it—until I met a woman who was even more special and I loved her even more.

That’s pretty much all a man can ask for, isn’t it? What else is there? Kids? Okay, he and Des didn’t get that chance. But he did pretty damned good for a shlub from Stuyvesant Town. True, maybe this fade-out scene right here was a tiny bit on the sad side. Maybe he was blinking as he fought back the tears that had started to come. Blinking as the flashbulbs started popping before his eyes again, bright as could be. But this would be over soon. He just had to surrender to it. And so he did. Mitch closed his eyes and he surrendered.

“If a frog had wings he wouldn’t bump his ass so much, follow me?”

C
HAPTER
17

T
HEY FLOORED IT TO
Breezy Point, lights flashing and sirens blaring as they tore their way around the rush-hour traffic on the Post Road—Des in the lead car, Yolie on her tail with Tommy the Pinhead and Gigi Garanski handcuffed in the backseat of her cruiser. It took them ten minutes to reach the park turn-off on Route 1. When the road dipped under the Amtrak trestle, Des hit a pothole that was deep enough to rattle her spine. She slowed now as she drew nearer to the parking lot, her eyes searching the dusk for someone out walking. Someone large and Jewish who was desperately trying to find help. But she saw no one as she pulled into the deserted parking lot, her high beams sweeping the woods alongside of it.

If he’s dead then I’m dead, too. I’ll stop eating. I’ll stop caring. I’ll die. I’ll just curl up and die.

She left her engine running, jumped out and threw open the back door to Yolie’s cruiser. “Where are they?”

“On the beach,” Tommy the Pinhead answered. “Like I told you.”

“He’d better be okay. Because if he’s not I swear I will shoot you both and leave you here. The coyotes will eat your remains.”

“Tommy, she’s
scaring
me,” Gigi whimpered.

“Shut the hell up, will ya? The dude’s fine,” he assured Des. “I just gave him a little love pat on the head, that’s all.”

She slammed the door and zipped up her Gore-Tex storm jacket. Then she and Yolie started their way down the snowy, windblown path into the park. They needed their big Maglites to show them the way in the deepening darkness. And the walking wasn’t easy. Every time she put her foot down it
kerchunked
on the hard, icy surface left by last night’s rain and went plunging down into two feet of soft snow. Each footstep was serious work.

“
MITCH?…!
” she cried out, her ears straining for a response. She heard nothing over the wind. “Damn, I hope he didn’t wander off and get lost.”

“If he wandered anywhere it would have been back toward Route 1. We’d have seen him. Mitch ain’t dumb.”

“But he got whacked on the head, Yolie. He’s already had one concussion this year. And this is Mitch we’re talking about. For all we know he may think he’s on a lion hunt with the Ale and Quail Club.”

“The Ale and Quail
who
?”

“You never saw
Palm Beach Story?
I swear, that sequence on the train has to be the funniest ten minutes I’ve ever … Will you listen to me? I’m even starting to
sound
like him. I swear, if that man’s still alive I’m going to kill him.”

“Okay, here we go,” Yolie said as they reached the narrower path that snaked through the woods to the beach.

She could hear the surf washing up on the rocks as they made their way down the path. It was considerably windier out on the open beach. Blowing really, really hard. The windchill was something fierce. They waved their flashlight beams out along the water’s edge and spotted two large shapes out there in the snow. Two large, motionless shapes.

“MITCH?!.…”
Des screamed over the howling wind.

Nothing. No response.

Des broke into a mad sprint through the deep snow, her legs straining, chest heaving as she gasped and gasped and gasped. “
MITCH?!.…
”

Still nothing.

The first person her flashlight beam found was Casey, who was curled up dead like a giant, frozen worm. Huddled a few feet away from him was Mitch, who lay on his side wearing only a Pats hoodie, a pair of white socks and a bloody shower curtain that had slid down around his knees. He was … blinking at her. Or trying to. His eyes were practically frozen shut. And he was shuddering so violently she could hear his teeth chattering. He had no pants on. Not even any underwear. The poor man’s genitals were fully exposed to the howling wind.

She whipped off her parka and fell to her knees before him, tears streaming down her cheeks as she wrapped it around him. “Oh, baby, baby…”

“D-Do you?…”

“Do I what?”

“Any c-clam chowder?”

“What’d he just say?”

“He wants some clam chowder.”

“Not a problem, big boy. We’ll get some in you right away.” Yolie took off her own jacket and put it over him.

“Can you
believe
they left him out here buck naked?”

“I can believe it.”

“Would have been nice if they’d mentioned it.”

“Girl, I think you need to accept that these are not nice people.”

“We’ll have to carry him back. I’ll take him by his arms. You take his legs. Be real careful with his feet. If he’s got any frostbite in those toes you don’t want to squeeze them or rub them.”

“Hey, I took the same lifesaving classes you did, remember?”

“Sorry, I’m just a tiny bit out of my mind right now.”

“No, you’re not. You’re fine. We’re all fine. Right, big boy?”

“K-Kids,” he croaked as they secured their jackets around him.

Des frowned at him. “Which kids?”

“
Our
kids.”

“He must be tripping.” Des shined her light on the back of his head. “Yeah, he’s been bleeding. Got whacked real good.”

Yolie worked the zipper of her parka up toward Mitch’s exposed genitals.

“N-Not sure I’m ready for our relationship to go this f-far,” he told her.

“I’ve seen a man’s tool before,” she assured him, zipping him up nice and snug. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen one so shriveled though.”

“From the c-cold. I-I don’t have frostbite
there
, do I?”

“Not to worry, stud. It strikes your extremities first. And, trust me, that ain’t no extremity. Girl, is it always so small?”

“We are not going to have this conversation right now. And no.”

“If you p-pop it into your mouth you’ll warm it right up.”

“He talking to me?”

“He’d
better
be talking to
me
.”

Now he was muttering something under his breath about a frog having wings.

“You following any of this?” Yolie asked her.

“Not a word. Let’s lift him on two, okay? One, two…”

They hoisted him up. Mitch was heavy, close to two hundred pounds. But not nearly as heavy as when she’d first met him. He’d taken off a good forty pounds of man-blubber since then. Which was a mighty good thing. It wasn’t easy horsing him back through that deep snow, step by step by step.