Dead of Winter

CHAPTER 29

Ribbons of muted color against the brilliant cobalt sky.

They had all come. The state troopers in their navy blues. The Oscoda County sheriff deputies in their chocolate browns. A neighboring town force in their cadet blues. Another in their ink blacks. A fourth in their seal browns. They stood, in a mute unmoving mass, around Ollie Wickshaw’s casket.

The eight men of the Loon Lake Police Department were positioned in the front, dressed in dark blue, double-breasted overcoats and pristine white gloves. From his position as a pallbearer Louis watched them, struck by the contrast created by the extravagant coats and the pain-etched faces of the men. He thought back to earlier that morning. He had almost been late because he couldn’t bring himself to put on the uniform.

His gaze traveled to the family sitting stiffly in the chairs in the front. Ollie’s wife stared at the flag-draped coffin in a dry-eyed trance. A daughter of about twenty sat on her left, weeping softly. An older son sat on his mother’s right, holding her hand, staring off into the distant trees.

Louis’s eyes drifted over to Gibralter, standing stiffly nearby. Then he scanned the crowd, wondering if she had come. He didn’t see her and closed his eyes.

The minister’s voice droned on. Louis tried to listen to what the man was saying, tried to use the placating words to block all thought. He concentrated on the voice until it was a soft drone in his head, a mantra of numbness.

A gunshot pierced the quiet. He jumped.

He braced himself for the second and third rounds of the traditional salute. Quiet again. He let out a ragged breath.

He felt a nudge. Jesse was urging him to the casket. He took his place with the others and helped fold the flag into a tight triangle. He watched as Gibralter went to Ollie’s wife and handed her the flag. Gibralter hesitated then bent to kiss her cheek. He shook the son’s hand and stepped back in line.

The warble of a bugle drifted on the cold breeze. Louis caught Jesse’s eye. Jesse looked terrible, eyes red rimmed from sleeplessness, skin ashen with tension. Louis looked at the ground as he fought back the tightness in his throat.

When the last note died he looked up. Ollie’s son rose and went to a small wooden box positioned just outside the canopy. He opened a latch of the cote and there was a flurry of movement. Ollie’s prized homing pigeons circled upward. They dipped west and disappeared.

Slowly, people began to move away. Ollie’s wife and children lingered, talking to friends. Louis stood rigidly, gazing blankly at the crowd.

“She never comes,” Jesse said softly.

Louis looked at him.

“Jean. She never comes to funerals. Her father — ”

“I know.”

“Come on,” Jesse said, tugging his sleeve. “Let’s go.”

The Loon Lake officers were walking off to a nearby tree where Gibralter was waiting. He and Jesse joined them. For a moment the men just stood in silence. Finally Gibralter cleared his throat.

“This is the third time we have gathered to bury one of our own, the third time we have said good-bye to a friend,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “Let us now ask that we do not have to gather here again.” Gibralter bowed his head and the others took their cue.

Louis closed his eyes, feeling the wind on his neck.

Gibralter’s voice broke the silence. “’the glories of our blood and state are shadows, not substantial things. There is no armor against fate. Death lays his ice hand on kings.’”

The men began drifting away, parting to allow Louis a view of the cemetery. He glanced at Jesse at his side. “You ready?”

“Yeah, let’s get out of here,” Jesse said softly.

“Kincaid,” Gibralter said.

Louis turned.

“When can I expect you back at work?” Gibralter asked.

“I don’t know,” Louis said. “The shrink hasn’t said.”

“Let’s see if we can step it up some. We need you on the street.”

Louis looked hard at him. You didn’t need me New Year’s Eve, you son of a bitch. He looked away. The hell with it.

Jesse touched his sleeve and gave a nod toward the cruiser. They started toward the cluster of cars.

“Chief Gibralter!”

The voice sliced through the air. Louis turned.

“I’ll be damned,” Jesse whispered. “It’s Mark Steele.”

A tall man was walking boldly across the snow, his black overcoat flapping in the wind, two similarly dressed men following behind. The man’s hair was as black as his coat, his face whipped pink from wind. A gray cashmere scarf hung around his neck, and a speck of red, a tie, was visible between the lapels of his coat.

“It’s about fucking time,” Louis muttered. He went to a nearby tree, positioning himself within earshot.

Jesse sidled up to him. “Louis, let’s go,” he said.

“No, I want to hear this.”

Gibralter had turned toward Steele and was lighting a cigarette, his hands cupped over the match. Mark Steele stopped a foot before Gibralter, the flunkies lurking in the background.

“Steele,” Gibralter acknowledged curtly. He flung the match to the snow and blew a stream of smoke into the cold air. “Nice of you to show up for my officer’s funeral.”

“I’m sure he was a good man,” Steele said.

“But that’s not why you came, is it?”

“No.”

Gibralter took a drag on the Camel. “I don’t need you.”

“It’s not a matter of what you need anymore,” Steele said. “I’m taking this over.”

“I’m not going to let you do that,” Gibralter said.

“You have no choice.” Steele paused, leaning closer. “How many more are you going to bury?”

“This is our problem.”

“Not anymore.”

Gibralter stared at Steele. Then he tossed his cigarette to the snow, turned sharply on his heel and walked away. He brushed past Louis without looking at him.

“Jesse, come on,” Gibralter said brusquely.

Jesse shot Louis a look and followed Gibralter up over a slope toward the cruisers. Louis looked back to see Steele heading to an unmarked black sedan. The two flunkies hurried to open the door.

The cemetery was emptying fast, the cruisers and cars pulling away in a slow line. Louis spotted Jesse and Gibralter standing near the hood of Jesse’s cruiser. They were talking heatedly, Jesse shaking his head. Finally, Jesse hung his head and Gibralter slipped an arm around his shoulders.

It was clear that Jesse was falling apart, and what was that son of a bitch going to do to help him? Probably laying another of his fucking loyalty guilt trips on him.

Louis looked back to the gravesite. Ollie’s black coffin glistening in the sunlight. Two cemetery workers hovered nearby, impatiently waiting to finish their task.

Shivering, Louis stuck his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. His right hand closed over something hard and cold, and he pulled it out. It was the snowflake obsidian Ollie had given him on Christmas Eve. On impulse, Louis had slipped the thing in his pocket as he went out the door that morning.

Louis looked at the small black stone for a moment, turning it over between his fingers. With a last look back at the coffin, he started up the snowy slope to his car.