Heart of Ice

19

Quiet. There were always these strange hours of quiet after a shooting. Maybe it was a natural reaction to the first moments of terror and the following lost time of chaos. Or maybe it was just that the fire of adrenaline finally burned out for everyone.

Louis rubbed his face and looked up. It was nearly seven, and the tiny office of the Mackinac Island Police Department was almost empty. Clark was outside dealing with the press. His second in command was busy logging evidence. The other officers were helping the techs process at the cabin and lodge. Even the radio was silent for the moment. Barbara, the dispatcher, pulling her second shift of the day, was staring vacantly at the wall, her hands cradling a cold cup of tea.

No one was talking. The tension was too thick. Word had come from the hospital fifteen minutes ago that Flowers’s condition had stabilized, but he was still unconscious. If he made it through the next twelve hours, the doctor said, his chances were good.

Louis turned his attention back to the form in front of him. He had been here an hour now and still had not finished writing out his statement or drawn the diagram of what had happened at the cabin.

It wasn’t the process. He had written countless statements far worse than this. But there was something gut-wrenching about this one. It was like it should never have happened in a place like this.

He thought back to the scene at the cabin with Rafsky. As angry as he was at the man he shouldn’t have said what he did. It had come out of frustration and anger at himself for walking into Dancer’s trap.

He glanced at the phone. He had called Joe twenty minutes ago. She said she was fine and would be there soon so they could go get something to eat.

Eat. . he couldn’t remember the last thing he had eaten. And right now, a big hamburger, two cold beers, and a warm bed with Joe at his side were the only things he wanted.

Clark came back in. He looked beleaguered as he walked up to Louis.

“How’d it go out there?” Louis asked.

“One of them asked where Ross Chapman is.”

The Chapmans. Shit.

“You better call him and fill him in,” Louis said. “We’re not going to be able to keep Dancer’s skulls quiet long. I don’t want Chapman hearing about it from a damn reporter.”

“I’ll go out to their house myself tonight.”

“Make sure he understands that right now we have no solid connection between Dancer and his sister.”

Clark nodded.

“Where’s Rafsky?”

“I think he’s still upstairs with Dancer.”

“Did Dancer ask for a lawyer?”

Clark shook his head. “The only thing he asked for was a pencil and some paper.”

“Why?”

“He wouldn’t say. I thought maybe he wanted to write out a statement or something, so I gave him a notebook.”

“You didn’t give him a pencil, did you?”

“No. Barbara had some of her daughter’s crayons in her desk. I gave him those.”

Louis nodded. “Good.”

Clark looked down at the statement form. “Are you going to be leaving the island soon?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet,” Louis said. “I want to make sure the chief is going to be okay first.” He leaned back in the chair. “Have you heard from his ex-wife yet?”

“She called me from the airport in Kansas City. She has a flight to Detroit tonight, but there are no connections until morning. She’ll be here tomorrow. I assigned a man to go pick her up and accompany her here.”

A sound drew Louis’s eyes to the foyer. Rafsky had come down the stairs from the courthouse. He gave Louis a quick look, then started back toward Flowers’s office. Suddenly he stopped and came back to the desk where Louis sat.

“I can’t get anything out of the bastard,” he said. “He said he wanted to talk to the black guy and the lady. What lady?”

The sound of the front door opening and a rush of cold air drew Louis’s eyes to the open Dutch door. He was sitting at an angle that gave him a clear view of the front entrance.

Joe.

She came into the office and every head turned in her direction. Just hours ago back at the hospital she had been shaking and smeared in blood. Now, in black jeans, black leather jacket and boots, her hair back in a neat ponytail, she was all business again.

Rafsky’s back was to the door, and he couldn’t see her. There was no way to stop it, no way to make this easy. Louis rose, his eyes on Joe.

Rafsky turned to follow Louis’s gaze.

A look of surprise moved across Joe’s face-not at seeing Rafsky, Louis knew, but at how he had changed.

Rafsky’s eyes flicked to Louis and then went back to Joe as he tried to figure out what was going on. When Joe came up to Louis’s side and put a hand on his arm-a small but obviously intimate gesture-Rafsky watched her carefully. Slowly, gradually, a look of comprehension settled into Rafsky’s face, followed by something else. At first Louis couldn’t read it, but then it registered-barely concealed contempt directed at Joe.

“Sheriff Frye,” Rafsky said.

“Detective Rafsky,” she said.

Again Rafsky’s eyes went from Joe to Louis and back to Joe. Louis wondered if Rafsky was going to ask about him and Joe, but Rafsky said nothing. The ringing of a phone finally split the awkward quiet.

Rafsky turned to Louis. “Dancer’s upstairs. Follow me,” he said. He glanced at Joe. “You, too, Sheriff Frye.”