The Weatherman (16 page)

Rick Beanblossom and Andy Mack spat laughter across the table.

Cadieux went on. “These poor people ain’t even out of the water yet and this cop is putting together a TV deal.”

They shared another round of laughter. Then Rick lowered his voice to vacate the humor. “Listen, guys, I’m sitting on a story and it’s driving me crazy.”

“Like what?”

“I really can’t say. I promised a source. But I’ve got a list of tapes from the resource center. If this thing breaks, Dave, I’ll want you to do the editing. I’ll have the scripts ready, but you’ll have to edit your ass off. I’ve also got a ton of background material, too. We could beat the hell out of the newspapers on this one.”

“How big of a story are we talking about?”

“Bigger than the tornado.”

“You’re joking me?”

Andy Mack cut in, excited. “I want to help.”

Rick put his hand on the old man’s arm. “You’re in. When it breaks I’ll have a list of things that have to be done fast. You’ll know how to get them done.”

The old man smiled, a bit tipsy. “It’s those parking ramp murders, isn’t it?”

It was bar talk, and Rick Beanblossom felt he’d already said too much. He turned away. Ice was coating the window now, turning headlights and taillights into iridescent streaks. Rick was watching this diffused light show when, suddenly, the Weatherman’s face shone on the glass. He appeared almost as some avenging spirit as he rubbed away a spot of ice and squinted. Then he was gone. Rick leaned back in his chair and waited.

Dixon Bell entered the Daily News in his usual awkward style. He stood in the doorway, adjusting his eyes to the dark. Then he made his way to the bar and ordered a beer. Rick Beanblossom watched him the whole time. The Weatherman made heads turn. Maybe it was his newfound popularity, or his hulking physique, whatever, when he walked into a room people turned and stared. With a beer in hand he made his way over to their table, politely smiling through the crowd. “I thought that was y’all over here.”

Andy Mack stood and pulled out a chair. “Sit down, Dixon.”

“No, really, I can’t stay. Just thought I’d grab a cold one before I head home.”

“Nice weather,” Cadieux remarked.

“Boy, you called this one right,” Andy said, taking his seat again.

Dixon Bell remained standing as he stared out the freezing window. “The temperature is dropping fast,” he advised them. “Be hell to pay come morning. A sheet of ice on everything.”

Andy Mack raised his glass in salute. “Here’s to the best damn weatherman in America.”

“To the Weatherman.”

Dixon Bell smiled, embarrassed by the toast. He sipped his beer and looked slowly around the crowded bar.

Rick Beanblossom polished off his wine. “She doesn’t come in here, Weatherman.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve never seen her in here.”

“That wasn’t necessary.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Yes, you did.”

Some people call it Minnesota cool, others call it Minnesota smug, but whatever it was, Rick Beanblossom had it. He stared right through the Weatherman.

Dixon Bell turned and walked away, dropped his beer on the bar, and stormed out of the Daily News, disappearing into the demonic weather.

Andy Mack shook his head disapprovingly. “Why do you ride him like that, Rick? I’ve never known two men who have so much in common who can’t stand each other. If anybody has reason to dislike him, it’s me.”

“I have nothing in common with him.”

“You have everything in common with him.”

Dave Cadieux yawned. “I can’t imagine anything worse than being hung up on a woman that doesn’t give a damn about you. Fuck them kinda bitches.”

“That guy is sick,” Rick declared.

“No,” said Andy, correcting him. “He’s spooky.”

“You’re drunk, old man.”

Andy Mack got up to leave, his breathing heavy and strained. He wrestled into his coat. “Merry Christmas,” he said, almost crying. He stumbled toward the door. “And like the Weatherman says, ‘Y’all be careful out there!’ ”

By seven o’clock Christmas morning the Twin Cities were encased in ice-two cities under glass. It was still dark. Lieutenant Donnell Redmond knew the streets would be a mess. He knew this because at ten o’clock the night before he had done the unthinkable and tuned in Channel 7. He wanted to see for himself what the fat boy everybody loved had to say about the storm. After joking with the anchors about Harry Truman, the Weatherman delivered the bad news. “A warm flow of air from the southern plains overran a high-pressure system near the Twin Cities. Expect a mess come morning. Stay off the roads if possible.”

Not possible if you’re a cop. The
BCA
office was in St. Paul. Redmond lived on a hill in Minneapolis. He stepped out the front door. His feet flew out from beneath him. He went down the porch stairs on his rear end. He slid across the sidewalk on his back. Then he rolled over and went down the hill to the street on his stomach, his arms protecting his head. It was the fastest he’d ever traveled from his house to the car. He was stunned. He tried to stand, but again his feet went out from beneath him. He lay sprawled on his back across the icy boulevard, peering up at the morning stars. The sky had cleared. “Aw, man, why do I live here?”

The tall lieutenant who grew up in Florida got to his feet, very carefully this time. He looked at the police Im-pala in front of him. Never had it been so shiny. He skated around to the driver’s side and tried the door. It was frozen. He gave it a kick. Nothing. It was a state car, so he gave it another kick. The ice fell away. The door opened. He grabbed the scraper from the backseat and spent the next twenty minutes chipping ice off the windshield. He was freezing. He didn’t bother with the rear window.

Donnell Redmond threw the heater on high. The man on the radio was announcing highway closings. He adjusted the volume on his scanner so that he could monitor road conditions and steer away from accidents. The city streets were like skating rinks. Wrecked and abandoned cars blocked the intersections. Tow trucks were out in force. At one corner an
NSP
crew was propping up a downed power line. The lieutenant had little control over the squad car as he went slip-sliding toward the freeway, which at least would be sanded.

Already headlights were inching east and west on I-94. Top speed was thirty miles per hour as Redmond crossed the river into St. Paul. The sand, salt, and melting ice filthied his windshield. He pushed the solvent button over and over. He’d forgotten to check the blue solution. Soon it was empty. The wipers pushed aside just enough mud for him to see the road. But he was almost to work.

“Car nineteen, have you got chains on?”

“Affirmative.”

“We got a strange call from a cell phone. Caller was driving around Como Lake … said he saw what appears to be two people down on the ice … might need help. But he wasn’t sure in the dark … said it could be tree branches or shadows. Can you swing through the park before you head in?”

“We’re not near there, but we’ll start that way.”

Donnell Redmond heard the call. He was moving slowly but steadily down the sandy freeway, approaching the Lexington exit to Como Park. At first he had no intention of exiting onto the dangerous city streets. He glanced at his rearview mirror. Through the ice he could see the blinking blue light of a sanding truck that was following him. Above him the freeway sign read
LEXINGTON
PARKWAY
. Then his curiosity forced him to change lanes. As he started up the exit he swore at himself for being a cop.

Como Park is the largest park in St. Paul, and because of its sylvan beauty, and its zoo, it is one of the most popular parks in the Twin Cities. The decorative gates to the park’s entrance are coated with ivy and flowers and could very well resemble the Pearly Gates. But in the wintertime the flowers are dead and the ivy is brown. The entrance gates stuck out of the frozen snow like a pile of rust and dirt.

The lieutenant fishtailed past the gates and steered for the lake. He applied the brakes, but they were useless. The car kept going, sideways toward the shore. “Always turn into the spin”-they told him that every year. But Donnell Redmond didn’t think Minnesotan. His Florida brain spun the steering wheel in the opposite direction. The car whipped around in a complete circle and crashed into a snow bank. He threw up his hands and looked out his window at the plowed drift. “I’m cool.” He kicked open the passenger door and crawled out of the car.

The park was frozen, cold and silent. The sun would start up any minute. Huge chunky snow piles blocked his view of the lake. He climbed up a pile but slipped and fell back down. Again he brushed himself off; then, gingerly, he made his way to the top of a small, icy mountain. The park pavilion was closed for the winter. Somebody had forgotten to take down the flag. Red, white, and blue icicles hung from the mast. Big ugly blackbirds picked through a garbage can out front. The white promenade on the lake’s edge, where the summer concerts were held, had a ghostly appearance, its huge pillars reminding Redmond of southern plantations. White birch trees grew at oblique angles along the shoreline.

At the south end of the lake orange fencing surrounded open water. Ducks flapped about. But stalactites from the storm weighed down the fence, creating a dangerous situation. It was while he was looking toward the middle of the lake that Redmond noticed strange shadows, like the caller had reported. Almost surreal in the predawn dark of an icy world.

A triangular sign stapled to a tree warned
DANGER-THIN
ICE
. A yellow wood rescue raft hung from another tree. Redmond slid down the bank and onto the frozen lake. He was shivering. He pounded his gloves together. At sunset the temperature had been above freezing. By morning it had plummeted to near zero. Every winter he promised himself he’d dress warmer. He never did. He moved across the lake like an Egyptian mummy, bruised and aching from his slide down his stairs. Slowly and deliberately he half walked, half slid his way across the fresh layer of ice.

The lieutenant was still a good distance away, but as he slid closer the eerie shadows began to take shape and form. It appeared to be a man on his knees praying over something. Or maybe the fool was ice fishing. Where else but in this godforsaken land would a man be stupid enough to risk his life in the middle of a lake to catch a fish on Christmas morning? “Do you need help?” Redmond shouted.

The apparition grew large and ominous, almost inflating like a balloon. The face remained dark and featureless, but its hair was icicles. Another shadow was left stretched across the ice. Redmond was startled. “Hold it there, sucker, I’m a police officer.” The police officer slipped and fell.

The ghostly figure moved across the ice, away from him. The other shadow lay still on the frozen lake. Redmond’s chase instincts kicked in. He clambered to his feet. “Police, stop!”

The big shadow seemed to have better footing. It ran off the lake and went north of the pavilion into the park. By the time Redmond stumbled off the frozen water the shadow was halfway up the steep hill beside a frozen waterfall.

“Now why don’t he slip and fall?” The big cop started up after him. The shadow vaulted a chain link fence that protected the icy falls and disappeared over the top of the hill.

Donnell Redmond grabbed onto trees and bushes jutting out of the ice and pulled himself up the hill a foot at a time. A walk bridge ran in front of the waterfall-a white icicle twenty feet high and a foot thick. A sign on the fencing read,
PERSONS
FOUND
IN
FENCE
AREA
WILL
BE
PROSECUTED
.

Redmond yelled, “You’re in big trouble now, Frosty!” He jumped the fence, grabbed onto trees, and struggled up the hill beside the waterfall. By the time he reached the top he was hurting and exhausted. He thought he saw the apparition melt into shadows in the woods below. He decided to do what they do in the movies. What the hell. He drew his .357 short-barrel. “Stop or I’ll shoot!” Then he fired a warning shot into the air. The gun sounded like a cannon, shattering the icy silence. The echo was crazy. But in the woods below, nothing moved.

Donnell Redmond walked to a concrete picnic table half buried in the snow and stepped to the top. Off to his right, hills of ice rolled over the golf course. Before him the woods were dark and deep. The sun was starting up, but the shadows created by the slivers of dawn only added to the hiding places. Whatever it was, it had gotten away. The frustrated lieutenant slid his gun beneath his coat. He turned and started back for the lake. He was at the top of the frozen waterfall when he heard an order that could only come from a fellow cop.

“Freeze, asshole, or you’re dead!” A St. Paul patrolman standing just off the walk bridge was pointing a gun up at him.

“Don’t shoot-I’m Lieutenant Redmond!” He reached for his badge, but slipped on his ass and zipped around the waterfall and down the steep hill.

The cop with his gun drawn jumped aside as what must have looked like a giant bowling ball coming at him slid by, flew over a retaining wall, and landed in a snow bank. The St. Paul patrolman lowered his gun. “Is that you, Donny?”

“No, it’s Peggy Fleming, dumb fuck.” Redmond got to his feet, aching and cold, checking his body for broken bones.

“I thought all you state boys had desk jobs.” He bolstered his gun. “We heard a shot.”

“I was chasing somebody.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“I got hardly no look at him. Just a big old shadow moving across the ice like a snowman.”

“You couldn’t have picked a worse morning to chase somebody. What’d he do?”

“Don’t know yet. Out on the lake.”

The sun was coming up on a crystalline day. The sky was ice blue, sun-splashed but frigid. The earth was iced over. Como Park was an icicle fantasy. Ice sculptures decorated the entire lakeshore. Ice angels hung from tree branches over the frozen water. Streets around the lake were mirrored and deserted.