Dead of Winter

CHAPTER 17

She was there, standing on the porch, when he got to the cabin. He hurried to her, pulling her to his chest.

“You’re here,” he said.

Zoe fit her body against his, holding him tightly. “I just got back. I came right here.”

He kissed her. Her lips were cold and chapped. He cupped her small face with his hands. “I missed you,” he whispered.

He crushed her to his chest again and closed his eyes.

She pulled back to look at his face. “Something’s wrong?” she asked.

“Things are tense at work,” he said.

She smiled again. “Trees make you tense?”

He laughed but it was to cover his guilt more than anything. He had made up a lie about what he did, a lie he had told her on their second night together. He told her he was working for the Forestry Office, a temporary assignment connected with the University of Michigan.

“My boss is a prick,” he said.

“You need to reduce your stress level.”

“Oh yeah? Got any ideas?”

“Well, in fact, I do. You own a pair of running shoes?”

“What?”

“You can come run with me.”

He smiled to hide his weariness. “I had a different form of exercise in mind.”

She laughed. “Go get dressed. We’ll run to my place.”

They went into the cabin. He didn’t really want to go anywhere but played along, dressing quickly.

They struck off through the snow. Louis was chagrined that Zoe slowed her pace for his sake but as they rounded the east end of the lake he forgot his discomfort. He almost forgot, too, about Gibralter, the cases and everything, losing himself in the simple pleasure of running. He had forgotten how exhilarating it felt to run. He glanced at Zoe. And how good it felt to be in love. The realization struck him like a laser. How could he be in love after only a few weeks? No, it wasn’t love. It was lust, pure and simple. But then why had he missed her so much?

After an hour they came to a hill and walked up to a small log cabin set down in a stand of tall pines. Below, the lake was an opaque white expanse in the moonlight, rimmed with the yellow lights of cabins and a cluster of brightness where the town sat down on the south end.

“You’re really isolated here,” Louis said.

She held open the door for him. “I like it that way.”

Louis stepped inside. He was struck immediately by the smell, something sweet that transported him immediately back to college. Patchouli incense.

“Leave your shoes there,” Zoe said, pulling off her jacket and shoes. “I’m going to change.”

Louis slipped off his sodden Nikes and jacket, his eyes taking in the small room. From the outside it was a log cabin, much like his. But inside it looked like an exotic brothel. The log walls were draped with swags of gauze in peach and orange. There were brass candlestick holders on the mantel, the windowsills and the tables. A large rough-hewn wood coffee table dominated the room, filled with more candles and flanked by a Victorian sofa, upholstered in paisley. The floor was covered by an Oriental carpet and dotted with dozens of pillows, all in a riot of colors, fabrics and patterns.

Louis’s gaze traveled around the incredible room. There were no pictures, except for one large print in a heavy gilt frame above the fireplace. It showed two men and a woman having a picnic in the woods. The men wore formal nineteenth-century dress and the blissfully blank expression of cows. But the woman was nude, gazing out nonchalantly at whoever looked at the painting.

Louis was staring at the painting when Zoe came back in. She was barefoot, wearing a red caftan and carrying two brandy snifters. She smiled as she handed one to Louis and then set about lighting the candles.

“I’ve seen this painting before,” he said.

“Manet. Le Dejeuner sur l’herbe,” she said, going to sit on the sofa.

“’Lunch’…” Louis began then shook his head.

“’On the lawn,’” she finished.

“Can’t run anymore, can’t remember my college French,” he said, coming to sit next to her.

She smiled and took a sip of brandy. “The real one is in Paris. I want to go see it someday. It’s one of my favorite paintings.”

“Why?”

“The woman,” she said, nodding at the painting. “Look at her. She’s naked but she’s obviously the one in charge.”

Louis took a drink of the brandy, tilting his head and closing his eyes. He let the soft, warm liquid trickle down the back of his throat. He heard a gentle tinkling sound and looked back at Zoe. She had shifted to face him, folding her legs up under her on the sofa. She was wearing earrings, intricate little gold things with tiny bells.

“I like your place,” he said. “It’s very…”

“Overwrought?” she said with a smile.

“Romantic.”

“If you like early Turkish brothel.”

“I feel like I should be listening to ‘White Rabbit’ and stuffing towels under the door.”

She laughed. He felt so good, as if he were drifting in a warm ocean somewhere, surrounded by the smell of flowers. It was the patchouli and her perfume. She had moved closer to him, leaning back into the pillows, swirling the brandy in the glass.

“Well, I’m just an old hippie at heart,” she said.

“How old?”

“Thirty-five.”

He cocked a brow. “I’ve never been out with an older woman before.”

A black cat jumped up on the sofa and settled into Louis’s lap. Zoe reached to brush it away but Louis stopped her.

“It’s okay. I don’t mind,” he said. The cat began to knead his belly, stretching its paws and purring loudly.

“She likes you,” Zoe said.

Louis rubbed the cat’s head. “What’s her name?”

“Isolde.”

“Come again?”

“Isolde.” She pointed to a white cat cowering behind a chair. “That’s Tristan. You know, Wagner?”

Louis gave her a puzzled shrug.

“Tristan and Isolde. It’s an opera about two doomed lovers.” She paused, smiling. “Louis, don’t tell me you’ve never heard Wagner.”

“Sure. He wrote that music in “Apocalypse Now,” the part where Robert Duvall is in the helicopter talking about how much he loves the smell of napalm in the morning.” He sobered. For all he knew, her mother had been killed by some soldier in Korea.

But to his relief she didn’t seem to get it. She rose and went to the stereo, putting on a tape. Moments later, the music began, so softly he barely heard it. Zoe came back, fitting into the crook of his arm, laying her head back on his shoulder.

“This is Liebestod,” she said.

“Nice,” Louis said.

“It means ‘Love Death.’ It’s Isolde’s song of ecstasy, just as she’s getting ready to jump into the fire to meet Tristan in death.”

“Oh, those wacky Germans.”

Zoe closed her eyes. “Now, just listen to it. It starts out so slow, so sensual.”

Louis set the brandy aside and shut his eyes.

“Listen,” she whispered. “Hear how it builds?”

“Hmmm.”

“This part…listen to this. Louis? Are you listening?”

The music was growing louder. Zoe’s voice was at his ear. “Here,” she said. “The climax begins. It comes in waves, hear it?”

“Yes.”

“And now, just when you think it is over — ”

“Zoe.”

“It builds again.”

“Zoe…”

“Hang on, it’s only seven minutes long.”

“That’s not the problem.”

The music came to a crescendo then became quiet again, trailing off as it had begun. The only sound was the cat purring in his lap. Zoe kissed his cheek and he opened his eyes.

“I like opera,” he said.

“I knew you would.”

“But I don’t think I should stand up just yet.”

She laughed and went to put on another tape. It was Billie Holliday. He listened to “Trav’lin’ Light” and “Gimme a Pigfoot and a Bottle of Beer,” a small smile tipping his lips. Zoe was tapping out the tempo lightly on his thigh. It turned to a caress as Billie Holliday moved on to “What a Little Moonlight Can Do.”

The next song began, “Strange Fruit.” Zoe’s hand stopped moving. They sat motionless through the images of magnolias and black bodies hanging from trees. Neither moved until the tape went on to the next cut.

“When I was living in Mississippi I started listening to her stuff a lot more,” Louis said. “But I couldn’t listen to that song.”

Zoe leaned in and kissed him, her hand cupping his cheek. She pulled back, her dark eyes locked on his.

He wanted suddenly to tell her. To tell her the truth about himself, about what he was. He wanted to tell her everything, about what happened down in Mississippi, about the bones of the black man he had found in that grave under the tree, about how he had felt when he finally found the man’s murderer. He wanted to tell her about the terror he had felt in that cell when Larry Cutter put that rope around his neck.

She kissed him again, more deeply. He returned her kiss then gently pushed away from her. He rose slowly and went toward the fireplace. He stared at the painting, unable to turn around and face her.

After a moment, she came up and put her arms around his waist, leaning into him.

“What would you like to do now?” she said softly.

What he wanted to do was make love. But he couldn’t look at her. Not just yet.

“Can I see your paintings?” he asked.

“All right,” she said. “They’re in the other room.”

He followed her into an adjoining room. She switched on a small lamp. In contrast to the living room this room was barren. There was no furniture except for a table and one old chair. The table was covered with tubes of paints and cans holding brushes. In one corner stood a large easel, which held a bare white canvas about four by three feet. The north wall of the room was given over entirely to two huge bare windows. Outside, in the moonlight, Louis could see that all the trees within ten yards of the cabin had been cut down. Zoe saw him staring at the stumps.

“I had to take them out. I needed the light,” she said. “You won’t arrest me or something, will you.”

He turned sharply then realized she was joking about his “job” with the forestry department. He shook his head.

He went to the table, touching the tubes of paint. Zoe hovered behind him. His eyes went finally to the canvases stacked in the corner against the wall and he picked one up. It was a landscape of the lake in winter, a stark study in grays, whites and blacks. He put it back and looked through the others. They were all variations on the same theme — somber-toned studies of nature caught in its coldest moments.

He turned to look at her. “They’re good but…bleak. Why no people?”

“I don’t know.”

She was looking up at him. She seemed suddenly self-conscious, vulnerable, in a way she never did, even when they made love. “I’ve never let anyone in here before,” she said.

He couldn’t think of anything to say.

“I’d like to draw you,” she said.

“What?”

“I’ve been thinking about it all night.” She hurried to the table.

Louis stared at her back. “Right now?” he asked.

She turned, smiling. “Why not? Take off your shirt.”

“Zoe — ”

She had pulled her hair back in a ponytail and was rummaging through a box of charcoal. She turned and saw that he hadn’t moved. “Come on, it’ll be fun,” she said with a smile. “I’ll turn on the space heater for you.”

She went to the easel and set up a small canvas. He hesitated then pulled his sweatshirt off over his head.

“Just sit down in the chair,” Zoe said. “However you’re comfortable.”

Reluctantly, he sat down in the chair. Zoe studied him for a moment then repositioned one of his arms on the back of the chair. She took her place behind the easel.

“Don’t move,” She said.

“For how long?” he asked.

“Until I get you sketched in.”

The room grew quiet. Louis sat motionless, watching her as she made swift arcing movements over the canvas. She frowned slightly in concentration as her eyes moved back and forth from the canvas to him. He could feel her eyes moving over his body but it was different than how she looked at him when they made love. He felt a surge move through his body and knew he was starting to get erect again.

She noticed it and laughed. She kept sketching.

His eyes drifted toward the windows. It had started to snow and the windows were starting to fog up from the space heater.

“You have a good face,” she said, sketching.

“Good?” he said.

She nodded. “I had forgotten how it all comes out when you draw people. Their characters, it comes out.” She wiped a strand of hair back from her face, leaving a smudge of charcoal on her cheek. “I can see things in your face,” she said. “Things that I try to put in my painting.”

“What things?” Louis asked.

“Goodness,” she said. “Grace, kindness, honor.”

He shook his head slowly, letting his arm drop from the back of the chair. She was concentrating and didn’t notice.

“Zoe…”

She looked up.

“Zoe, there’s something I have to tell you,” he said.

“What?”

He rested his arms on his knees, bowing his head.

“Louis? What is it?”

He looked up at her. “The first night, when you were talking about your father. Remember that?”

She nodded, the charcoal poised above the canvas.

Louis ran a hand over his head.

“For God’s sake,” she said with a small laugh. “What is it?”

“I lied to you. When I told you what I did for a living. I lied to you.” He let out a deep breath. “I’m a cop, Zoe.”

For a moment, she didn’t move. Then she blinked, turned her back to him and went to the table.

“Here?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Suddenly, she picked up a can of brushes and hurled it at the wall. It caught the edge of the easel and knocked it over, splashing colored water across the walls. The canvas fell to the floor. Louis reached to pick it up.

“Leave it!” she said. She was holding a hand over her eyes. It was shaking.

“Zoe,” he said, taking a step toward her.

She turned abruptly. “Get out of here,” she said.

“Zoe, let’s talk — ”

“Get out!” she yelled. She snatched his sweatshirt from the floor and threw it at him. “Get out!” She went stiffly to the windows, holding herself as she stared out at the snow.

Louis watched her for a moment then slowly went back out into the living room. He dressed quickly, stopping at the door to pull on his running shoes. He paused, his hand on the doorknob, listening. He could hear nothing from the other room. Finally, he opened the door and stepped out into the cold.

It was snowing hard. He could barely make out the lake down below and the lights of the town far beyond. He took a few steps off the cabin’s porch and down the hill then stopped. He turned to look back at the cabin. His chest, the entire inside of his body, felt hollow, as though everything had been scooped out. It burned, almost like when he had been shot.

He had fucked it up.

“Goddamn it,” he whispered. Then louder. “Goddamn it!”

He swung and slammed his hand into a tree.