Ice Run (20 page)

“No. Not really. I mean, I think Marty
was
here.”

“How can you tell?”

“Somebody
was here. There was some food on the table, and one of the beds was slept in.”

Leon came into the room, holding an ashtray. “Are these yours?” he said to Chris.

“No, I don’t smoke.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Camel unfiltereds.”

“You got it,” Leon said.

“That’s my uncle Marty’s brand,” Chris said. “He must have come here, but he wasn’t around when I got here yesterday. I’ve been waiting, hoping he’ll come back.”

“The rest of your family is all camping out at your parents’ house,” I said. “Do they know you’re here?”

“Hell, I don’t know. I left a message on the machine, told them I was going out looking. They could probably figure it out if they wanted to.”

“You seem to have a real communication problem in your family,” I said. “Like when you told them I was the guy who made your grandfather come to the hotel that night.”

He looked down at the floor.

“Now would be a good time to tell me everything you know,” I said.

He shook his head.

“I don’t give a shit about your uncles right now,” I said, “but Natalie is missing, too. I’m trying to find her. I swear to God, Chris, I will beat you right here and right now until your eyes bleed.”

“Okay,” he said. He wiped his nose on his sleeve again. He kept looking at the floor. “Okay, man. It all goes back to my grandfather, and some stuff he told me just before he … I mean, when he was still around. I’d go over there a lot, just to see how he was doing, sit with him for a while. Especially lately, since I’d been working at the hotel, which was right around the corner from him. That one night I went to see him, that was the first night where we were starting to get all that snow. I was talking to him about it, and I just happened to mention that I had carried some bags for a woman at the hotel, who had just driven all the way down from this town in Canada called Blind River. I asked her that in the elevator. I said, I hope you didn’t have to drive much in this weather, and she said, excuse me, I know how to drive in the snow and I came all the way down from Blind River.”

“That was the night before I got there,” I said.

“Yeah, I guess so. Anyway, I tell this to my grandfather because we were talking about the snow, and he says, Blind River, that’s where the devil lived. And I’m like, what are you talking about, Grandpa? I thought he was joking, but he got real serious and he said, I’m not making a joke, Chris. As far as I’m concerned, Blind River’s where the devil lived. Then he asked me what this woman’s name was. I said, I’ve got no idea. And he said, well if you get a chance, find out. I’d be interested to know.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “You looked her name up on the room registration.”

“No, it wasn’t like that. I didn’t go snooping around. I just asked Gail at the front desk. I said, hey, who’s that lady from Canada? I think I might know her. And Gail told me her name.”

“Okay, go on.”

“So I stopped in to see my grandfather on the way to work that morning, because my mother had made him something to eat. I told him, that woman’s name is Natalie Reynaud. My grandfather says, Chris, please tell me if you’re making a joke now. Is that woman’s name really Natalie Reynaud? I said, yeah, do you know the name? He said, I know the last name all right. That’s the devil’s name.”

“Did he say anything more about the devil? Like what this person did to earn that title?”

“No, I asked him about that, but he wouldn’t tell me. He said he wasn’t going to pass it down to me, whatever that meant.”

“Did he happen to say anything about killing the devil?”

“No, what do you mean?”

“Never mind,” I said. “Just go on.”

“He did say that the devil was dead now. Then he went into the bottom of the closet and dug out this old hat. He said, see this? This is the devil’s hat right here.”

“He didn’t say how he got it?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Okay,” I said. “Keep going.”

“So later, when I’m at work, he shows up all dressed up in his suit. I’m totally freaking out, because there’s no way he should be out walking around on his own like that, especially in bad weather. There’s a guy, even, who’s supposed to be keeping on eye on him over in the apartments. I asked him where Tony was and how come he was out. He said don’t worry, he just wanted to see the old hotel because all he does anymore is sit around in his apartment. So here he is sitting in the lobby, saying hello to everyone. He was happier than I’d ever seen him, you know? I figured, why not? This was good for him. I’d let him stick around and then I’d take him back home later. I had no idea he was gonna go out wandering in the snow. I swear to God.”

“Why didn’t you stop him? Didn’t you see him leave?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You were the doorman. How can you not see him leave?”

“I wasn’t down by the door.”

“Was it a maid or a waitress in the restaurant?”

He mumbled something.

“What did you say?”

“I said it was a waitress.”

“Okay, so what happens next? You know your whole family is gonna kill you, so you look for somebody else to pin it on.”

He started to say something, but stopped.

“At least you’re not denying it,” I said. “I’ll give you that. Is there anything you want to tell us? About your grandfather or your uncles? Or anything?”

“No,” he said. “That’s all I know.”

“Come on, then. We’re going.”

“I can’t,” he said. “I’ve got to wait here, in case Marty comes back.”

“Does he have a snowmobile?”

“No.”

“Well, the last flight is coming in soon. We’ll go see if he’s on it. If he’s not, then he’s not coming back here today at all.”

Chris didn’t look too happy about that, but he didn’t say a word. He followed us out the door and down the road, past the Grand Hotel and down the hill toward town. The clouds were coming in thick and filling every corner of the sky, casting everything in a strange, muted light. We caught another horse-drawn carriage on Huron Street. This time there were no other passengers. We went back up to the airport, passing through the long white tunnel of trees, the air feeling colder by the minute. Chris was hunched over in his seat like a kid on his way to the principal’s office. We got there just in time to see the plane landing. I watched each passenger getting off—a young couple who stepped off looking up at the sky like maybe this whole trip had been a mistake. An older man behind them. Another man, young and big, about Marty’s size—my heart raced for one second until I saw it wasn’t him. There were no Grants getting off this plane.

We got on with a few other people, all of us getting off the island on the last flight before the snow came. We touched down in St. Ignace, got into Leon’s car with Chris folded up in the tiny backseat. He wrapped his coat tight around his body.

“Are you taking me home?” he finally said.

“I thought you might want to tell your story to the police,” I said.

“That actually sounds better than telling it to my parents right now.”

“Okay, then. Just sit tight for a while.”

“I lost him once before,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“I lost my grandfather on the island, a couple of summers ago. I was supposed to be watching him and he wandered down the hill. They found him on one of the ferries.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So my father just about killed me. I mean, he really beat the hell out of me.”

“You’re in college, Chris. Learn how to take care of yourself. Or go to the police.”

“I know, I’m just saying… I shouldn’t have lied about it this time.”

“You’re right,” I said. It was another lie to think about as we drove the fifty miles back to Sault Ste. Marie. The snow hadn’t started yet. It felt like it was waiting to gather its full strength before hitting us again. All the while I kept looking out the window at the endless line of snowbanks as they whizzed by us. A long trail of white leading nowhere, with no answers at the end. The sun went down, and with it most of my hopes. It would be the second night with no way to find her.

We rolled into the Soo and headed straight across town to the City County Building. Leon parked in the back lot. Chris pried himself out of the backseat and stood rubbing his legs. I put a hand on his back and pointed him toward the door. He walked in with us and stood there with his arms folded while I told the receptionist we needed to see Chief Maven right away. That’s when it all went to hell fast. Maven came out of his office and down the hall, moving like a lineman rushing a quarterback. Behind him was one of his officers.

“McKnight!” he said. “Where the hell have you been?”

“I’m sure you remember Chris Woolsey,” I said. “He has a few things to tell you.”

“Of course I remember,” he said as he turned to Chris, his voice losing about half of its venom. “Please go with Officer Donovan. He’ll talk to you.”

Chris gave us one last look and went with the officer. Maven watched him leave. When he was gone, Maven turned and stepped in about six inches from my face.

“There was a state trooper over at the Woolseys’ house,” he said. “He says you two clowns showed up there today. What the hell were you doing?”

“You know what I was doing.”

Maven stepped away from me. He took his chief’s hat off, ran his fingers through what was left of his hair, looked at Leon for a moment, then at me. “I’m not going to say anything else, McKnight. I give up. You and your chauffeur need to go see Sergeant Moreland right away.”

“Why?” I said. I felt a sick chill in my stomach. Please, don’t let it be Natalie. “What happened, chief?”

“They found your truck,” he said, “with Michael Grant inside.”

The way he said it, I didn’t even have to ask. But Maven answered anyway.

“He buried the truck in a snowbank,” he said. “Then he bled to death.”

We crossed the bridge and found the police station. Staff Sergeant Moreland was standing at the door with his head outside, looking up at the snow. When he saw us coming, he held the door open without saying a word. He pointed down the hallway.

“In here,” he said, directing us to an interview room. The bright fluorescent lights hurt my eyes. “I was just watching the snow come down. It’s hard to believe there’s any left up there.”

I wasn’t sure if he was just trying to put us at ease with the small talk. He let Leon sit down next to me. Right away that told me something. If he wanted to put us through the ringer, he’d do us each separately.

“You would be Mr. Leon Prudell,” Moreland said, extending his hand. “Chief Maven tells me you were Alex’s old partner, back when he was a private eye.”

“Very briefly, sir.”

“I saw Alex just this morning,” he said. “I didn’t imagine I’d have the pleasure again so soon.”

“We’ll do whatever we can to help,” Leon said.

“That’s good to hear. As you know by now, we found Michael Grant. He ran off the road into a ditch. It didn’t take long for the snow to cover him. When the plow came by, it buried him completely. Somebody else ran off the road in the same spot this evening, bumped right into him. If that hadn’t happened, God knows when we would have found him.”

“Where was he found?” I said. I couldn’t help thinking about the whole family gathered at the Woolseys’ house.

“Just west of Iron Bridge.”

“He didn’t make it very far then.”

“I’m surprised he could drive at all,” Moreland said. “He basically had no left hand anymore. He had tried to wrap it up with an old rag.”

I could picture that rag in my mind. It was tucked into a pocket on the driver’s side door. Last time I used it was to check my oil.

“There were deep lacerations in his face and shoulders, too,” Moreland said. “He must have been losing a lot of blood, even with the low temperature.”

“Sounds like he never had a chance,” Leon said. “That shotgun ripped him apart.”

“We recovered your cell phone as well,” Moreland said. “It looks like he tried to call for help. There’s no record of the call ever going through.”

I wasn’t sure what to think at that point. It was a horrible way to die, bleeding to death, trapped in the snow. But if the gun hadn’t exploded, I would have been dead myself.

“That leaves Marty Grant,” Moreland said. “And Natalie, of course.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “In any case, Chief Maven tells me you two were busy today. You traced the nephew out to Mackinac Island?”

“Yes,” I said. “It looks like Marty was there. But not anymore.”

“I’m sure the Michigan guys will keep looking.”

“What about you guys? Have you found any leads here?”

He looked up at me. It seemed like he was more weary than annoyed. “We can’t find any trace of her,” he said. “All we can find are trucks and dead bodies.”

“I know this isn’t the most important thing in the world right now,” I said, “but when do I get the truck back?”

“We’ve already been through it. I don’t see why you can’t take it with you now.”

“Are you serious? In Michigan I probably wouldn’t see it for a month.”

“It’s around back,” he said. “I’ll take you to it.”

“I appreciate that.”

There wasn’t much more to say, so he showed us out. Leon waited for me in the parking lot while I went around to the back lot with Moreland. He unlocked the gate and led me to my truck. It was parked beneath a flood lamp mounted high on a wooden pole, the snow flying heavy now in the cone of orange light. My truck looked amazingly unharmed by its ordeal, aside from a dent in the snowplow.

“We cleaned it up a little inside,” Moreland said, “after we took some samples. But you might want to take it someplace for a better job.”

Only in Canada, I thought. They actually cleaned it up for me.

He gave me the keys. I opened the driver’s side door. My cell phone was sitting on the dashboard. The seat was still damp, and the heavy metallic scent of blood hung in the air.

“Did you guys happen to find a hat in here?” I said.

“That old hat you told me about? I think Grant had it on his head when they found him. I’m sure it’s in the lab right now.”

“That’s fine. It’s not important.”

“You still have my card?” he said. “You’ll call me if you get any more ideas? Maybe
before
you go chasing them this time?”

“I’ll try,” I said. “But I don’t think I can promise you.”

I wasn’t sure if he accepted that, but he let me go. I started it up and pulled around to the front, next to Leon’s car, and rolled down my window. As Leon leaned out, I could see his breath in the cold night air.

“Thank you,” I told him. “Again. I really owe you.”

“It’s nothing, Alex.”

“Go home to your wife,” I said. “Tell her I’m sorry.”

“We’ll be fine,” he said. “Call me tomorrow.”

I watched him pull out of the lot and head for home. I didn’t move. I sat there as the snow collected on my windshield. It was getting late, I was tired, and if I had had any sense at all, I would have gone right home and gone to bed.

I couldn’t. I had to do something.

I could go out to Natalie’s house, I thought. Drive all the way out there in the snow to look through her empty house again. Looking for what? I had no idea. The house and the barn would be closed up now, anyway, both places taped up as official crime scenes.

There’s nothing you can do, Alex. There’s nowhere else you can go.

I finally pulled out of the lot and started driving. I found a gas station and pulled in to fill up the tank. The snow kept falling. I watched the imperial gallons click by, five quarts apiece. I went in and paid the man. He looked at my bruised and taped-up face, asked me if the hospital knew I had escaped. I told him he was wasting his comedic talent working at a gas station.

The hospital, I thought as I got back in the truck. I could go see how Mrs. DeMarco is doing. That would be one small thing, at least, instead of driving straight home. The General Hospital wasn’t far away, so I figured what the hell. Even though it was late, I could at least ask about her.

I drove over and parked in the emergency room lot, went inside, found an elevator, rode it up to the sixth floor. I walked up to the nurse’s station.

“Sir, can I help you? If you’re a visitor, you really need to come back tomorrow.”

“I’m just wondering about Mrs. DeMarco,” I said. “Is she still on this floor?”

“I recognize you now,” she said. “You’re the one who brought her in.”

“Yes, ma’am. How is she doing?”

“Not too bad, considering. Celia will be sorry she missed you. That’s Mrs. DeMarco’s day nurse. She was here a little earlier, dropping off some things.”

“Well, I was just driving by, anyway. I don’t want to disturb her.”

“Why don’t you go peek in her room? She was awake a little while ago.”

“Maybe I’ll do that,” I said. “Although it’s a little hard to have a conversation with her. I think she’s pretty much just living in the past now.”

“That’s actually a very common symptom of dementia,” she said. “As the memory breaks down, you get stuck in one particular time of your life. Sometimes it’s a good time. Sometimes not so good.”

I thought about that for a second. I imagined myself as an old man, living one traumatic day of my life over and over.

“She was talking about a funeral,” I said. “In fact, she was getting dressed for it.”

The nurse shook her head. “The one thing you really can’t do is try to talk her out of it, if you know what I mean. You can’t try to convince her she’s being delusional. The best you can do is just reassure her that everything’s going to be okay.”

“I understand,” I said. “Thank you.”

I went down the hall to her room and knocked softly on the door. I didn’t hear anything, so I pushed the door open and looked inside. Mrs. DeMarco was in her bed, the back tilted up so she could see out the window.

“Mrs. DeMarco?”

Her eyes were open. She didn’t say anything. For a moment I thought she was dead.

“Mrs. DeMarco?”

She turned her head slightly. “It’s you again.”

“Yes,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

“Where am I?”

“You’re in the hospital, ma’am.”

“Did I faint?”

“No, not really. You just had a bad day. The power went out.”

She nodded her head and looked back out the window. “It’s been a bad winter.”

I thought about what the nurse had said. “Mrs. DeMarco,” I said, “what year is it?”

“It just turned 1930, dear.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “That was a silly question.”

“No, I get the same way,” she said. “The years go by so fast.”

I wasn’t sure what else to say. I stood up and went to the window. I watched the snow falling. I thought about Natalie, wondered again for the thousandth time where she was at that moment.

Wait a minute. She said 1930.

“Mrs. DeMarco,” I said, turning back to her, “when you were talking about New Year’s Eve before …”

Her eyes were closed.

I stood there for a while. Just as I was about to leave she moved again.

“Where’s Albert?” she said. She picked her head up, like she was about to try to get out of the bed.

“Your son?”

“Where is he?”

She thinks he’s a little kid, I thought. This man who had already lived his entire life, this man who had done horrible things to Natalie and God knows who else. He was dead now, and the world was undoubtedly a better place without him. But what could I say to her?

“He’s just fine,” I said. “Don’t worry about Albert.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

She seemed to accept that. She laid her head back down.

“Mrs. DeMarco,” I said, “do you feel like talking about what happened on New Year’s Eve?”

“I told them not to go,” she said. “I told them.”

“Who did you tell?”

“Warren and Luc. I had a bad feeling about it. You should be with your family on New Year’s Eve.”

It was the same thing she had told us before, the first time I had met her. We’d thought she was talking about the night Natalie’s father was murdered. But that would happen a good forty years later.

“Who are Warren and Luc?” I said.

“My husband, Warren,” she said. “And Luc Reynaud.”

Luc Reynaud. That would have to be Natalie’s grandfather.

“Mrs. DeMarco, do you know anyone named Grant?” It was a shot in the dark, but why not?

“Yes. They were there, too.”

“Where is this, ma’am?”

“Out on the ice,” she said. “The ice run.”

“The ice run?”

“I told Warren and Luc not to go. They didn’t listen to me.”

For the first time, I was seeing some connection between the Grants and the Reynauds, but it didn’t go back to a murder in Sault Ste. Marie three decades ago. It went back a lot further.

“They never listened to me,” she said, as she started to shake. I took her hand. It felt like the most fragile thing I had ever held.

“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s okay.”

She took a long ragged breath and then laid her head back on her pillow. I tucked her blanket around her neck.

“I’ll let you rest,” I said. “I’ll come back and see you again soon.”

She didn’t say anything else. She closed her eyes and was still.

When I went back out, I confessed to the nurse that I might have put some stress on Mrs. DeMarco with my questions.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” the nurse said. “She’s an amazing woman. If you think about it, she’s seen most of the twentieth century. You should see some of these pictures.”

“Which pictures?”

“In here,” she said, pointing to a cardboard box behind her. “Celia brought this over. She wasn’t sure what was going to happen now, if Mrs. DeMarco would even be going home or if she’d ever work for her again. She didn’t want all this to get lost, you know, if somebody comes in to clean out the house.”

“Would you mind if I took a quick look?”

“I don’t see why you couldn’t,” she said. “Here.” She picked up the box and put it on top of the desk.

The contents weren’t organized in any way. The photographs were jumbled together among the old newspaper clippings, sports ribbons, report cards, Mrs. DeMarco’s marriage license from 1923— the whole mess a tattered paper trail from a long, long life. Just looking through it made me feel sad. This was all she had left. She didn’t even have most of her memories anymore. They were cut off at 1930. A lot of this stuff in the box she wouldn’t even recognize now.

I found some of the color photographs. They were the same kind of washed-out old Polaroids, like the one Natalie had of the three men. A young girl was blowing out birthday candles. I looked at it for a few seconds before I realized the young girl was Natalie, maybe twelve years old. It hit me in the gut like a sucker punch. I recognized her mother in the picture, and her stepfather, Albert DeMarco. A younger Mrs. DeMarco stood behind them, next to a woman who must have been Natalie’s grandmother.

“Are you okay?” the nurse said.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry. It’s just…” I shook my head. At that moment I would have given everything I owned just to see Natalie one more time, and to know that she was safe.

“I should get out of your way,” I said. I flipped through a couple more pictures, the colors getting brighter and clearer as the subjects got older. The last one I looked at was a picture of Mrs. DeMarco standing next to a man. It took me a moment to realize it was her son, Albert. That sick feeling hit me in the stomach again, the same thing I’d felt every time I had seen this man’s face. Someone had made them pose together in front of a fireplace, Albert wearing a grim, impatient smile.

I put the picture back in the box. Then I picked it up again. I looked at the two faces again. Mrs. DeMarco looked old, but there was a fullness and a color in her face. I was guessing this picture was taken maybe ten years ago. So Albert DeMarco had to be about sixty years old here. A rich and successful man, looking bloated with food and success and an easy life. And that “hurry up and get this over with” smile.