Ice Run

Chapter Eight

“Oh my God,” she said.

“Natalie.”

“Oh my God.”

“How did you get in here?” I sat up too fast and paid for it.

“The door was open,” she said. She reached her hand toward me, stopping just before she touched my cheek. “Alex, what happened to you? Oh my God.”

I didn’t say anything. Her face was inches from mine now. She was looking at me with those eyes. She finally touched me, just the tips of her fingers on my face.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice low. “Alex, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Look at you.”

“You didn’t do this.”

“This wouldn’t have happened to you if we hadn’t been there at that hotel.”

“Who told you that? How did you-”

“This is what you get,” she said. “Just for being around me. First I hurt you and then you get beat up.”

“Stop, Natalie.”

“You really look terrible.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“I mean really, really terrible.”

“How did you find me, anyway? You’ve never been here before.”

“Vinnie gave me directions,” she said. “I called him and asked him what had happened to you. I left a couple of messages on your machine.”

“I couldn’t talk to you yet,” I said. “I mean, I just couldn’t-”

“It’s all right. I don’t blame you.”

“But why did you come all the way over here?”

“I had to, Alex. Okay? I don’t even know why. I just had to see you.”

“Well, I guess I’m glad,” I said. “A little surprised, but glad.”

“Vinnie told me something happened at the funeral. He said you ran into some trouble.”

“Yeah, I suppose you could say that.”

“Who did this, Alex?”

I sat up. “I can’t even think straight right now. I haven’t eaten anything today, and all of a sudden…”

“Here, just stay there,” she said. “I’ll get you something.”

I didn’t fight her. I watched her as she banged around in my kitchen for the next few minutes, trying to find something edible.

“The place is kind of a mess right now,” I said.

“Don’t worry about it. Where are your pans?”

“I don’t think any are clean. It’s been sort of a tough week.”

She picked up a pan from the pile in the sink, then put it down again. “Alex, put your coat on,” she said. “You’re coming with me.”

“I don’t feel like eating out, Natalie.”

“We’re not eating out, Alex. I’m taking you to my house.”

“I can’t.”

“Come on, get up.”

“No.”

“Alex…”

“I can’t leave, Natalie. I’ve got the cabins, and I’ve got to plow the stupid snow.”

“I already talked to Vinnie about it. He’s going to take care of your cabins. You’re supposed to leave your keys in your truck so he can plow.”

“Figures Vinnie would be involved in this. You had this all planned out?”

She came over to me. “No, Alex. Not all of it.”

“Well, let me tell you something. Nobody else could get me out of bed today.”

She smiled for the first time that evening. It was good to see. “Whatever you say. Now come on.”

She put a hand under my arm and helped me out of bed. When I was on my feet, I went into the bathroom and splashed some cold water on my face. She was standing by my desk when I came back in the room. She had a framed picture in her hands, the only framed picture in my whole place. “Is this your father?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“Good-looking man.”

“Yeah, he was.” I picked up my coat and put it on slowly.

“You should pack some clothes, too.”

I stopped. “How long am I staying?”

“Until you’re better.”

“I don’t have that big a suitcase.”

I settled on a few days of gear and we went outside into the cold and the dying light. Her Jeep Cherokee was parked next to my truck. It felt strange to be leaving the truck behind, but I got into the passenger’s side and we were off.

We breezed right through Canadian customs. Even though she was on leave, she could still identify herself as an officer of the Ontario Provincial Police. The man asked about me and they exchanged a quick joke about me being her prisoner, and then we were sailing through Soo Canada.

It was getting darker by the minute, another winter day ending, this one in a way I would have never guessed. Neither of us said a word as the quiet streets passed by.

“So are you going to tell me?” she finally said.

“What’s the question?”

“Who did this to you?”

“Let’s just say I shouldn’t have gone to Mr. Grant’s funeral. His family didn’t make me feel very welcome.”

I could see her gloved hands working hard at the steering wheel now, like she wanted to pull it right off. “Did you call the police?”

“The doctor did. My old friend Roy Maven paid me a visit.”

“The Soo Michigan chief?”

“Yeah. The same guy who told me the day before to stay away from the family.”

She shook her head. “So why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t know the Woolseys were part of the family. It was a mistake.”

“So for that they get to assault you? Because you made a mistake?” She turned to look at me, trying to keep one eye on the road. “Just because you showed up at the funeral? Imagine if you were still a police officer and you found somebody beaten all to hell and they said something like that.”

“I’m not saying that, Natalie. I’m not saying I deserved it.”

“I’m sorry, Alex. I’ve just heard it too many times. I’m sure you did, too, when you were a cop.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But it was always a woman. Black eyes, teeth missing. Whatever. It was her fault, not his.”

“Yes,” she said. “You’re right. It’s always a woman.”

She kept driving, following the Queens Highway due east, past the Garden River First Nation, past the old railroad bridge with the message written in white paint. this is indian land. We went through the small town of Echo Bay, and passed McKnight Road. It made me remember the first time I had come this way, and how that road had seemed like a good omen to me.

We drove through Bruce Mines, then Thessalon, past the abandoned motel on the side of the road, then the great expanse of the North Channel opening up to the south of us, through Iron Bridge and past the Mississauga Reserve, then finally into Blind River. A small spotlight lit up the monument next to the town hall-two men riding the logs, a testament to the great logging years on the channel. A couple more miles east of town we turned up her long driveway. With the four-wheel-drive Jeep, she crunched her way through the five inches of new snow without a second thought.

When we were inside, she made me a quick dinner. Then she took me upstairs and ordered me into bed. It was the same damned bed we had rolled around in every other time I’d been there. But now she just watched me lie down, never moving from the doorway.

“That was bad,” she said.

“What?”

“In the car. I was taking it out on you. I’m sorry, I’m just…”

“It’s all right.”

She closed her eyes. “I don’t know anything anymore,” she said. “Look at me. I’ve got no idea what I’m doing, Alex.”

“Come here.”

I held up my hand. She came to me and took my hand and then I pulled her down on top of me. Her hair fell in my face.

“I’m sorry,” she said, in a voice so low I could barely hear her. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that.”

“But I am.”

“It’s okay.”

“No,” she said. “No.”

“It’s going to be all right. I promise.”

“Tell me the truth, Alex. How bad did they hurt you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Tell me the truth, God damn it.”

“Okay,” I said. “Everything hurts. Inside and out. Absolutely everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll try not to make it any worse.”

She took her clothes off, shivering and suddenly covered with a million goose bumps. She started to take mine off, but didn’t get far. We made do and we went slow. It felt good and bad at the same time.

Afterward, as she lay next to me, she touched the bandages over my eyebrow, and on the back of my head.

“You should sleep,” she said.

“I will. Are you gonna stay?”

“Yes,” she said, getting up. “I’ll be right back.”

I was out before she could keep her promise.

I woke up alone. It took me a second to remember where I was and how I had gotten there. It took me yet one more second to remember how much my head hurt. It was the first night I had slept all the way through since leaving the hospital.

I picked my watch off the bedside table. It was almost noon. I said her name once, then again a little louder. She didn’t answer. But I knew she had spent the night here in the bed with me. There was another pillow next to mine, and I could smell her scent, her hair, the soap she used. I figured at this hour she was already downstairs.

It was quiet. Something about that fact bothered me, until I realized what was missing. There were no snowmobiles outside, no constant buzzing all over the place, the sound I was accustomed to waking up to every winter morning.

I got out of bed slowly, like my head was a bomb that could go off at any second. I went into the bathroom. When I was done washing my face, I took a good hard look in the mirror. Maybe I looked a little better, I thought. Maybe one notch below Quasimodo now. But I still had the full array of bruises and the red streaks in my eyes that made me look possessed.

She came back, I thought. She came back to this face. I can officially believe in miracles now.

I went down the hallway, passing the other upstairs bedrooms- the master bedroom with the portraits of Natalie’s grandparents, the bedroom with the canopy bed and the frilly white bedspread. Everything had a slightly sad and dusty smell to it. I didn’t know how she could spend so much time here in this big empty house.

The grandfather clock was ticking at the top of the stairs. Aside from that there was no other sound.

“Natalie!”

No answer.

I went down the stairs, the old floorboards creaking with each step. The dining room table was completely taken over by moving boxes. All the china had been carefully packed away. All the curios and souvenirs of a family’s long life in this house. The living room was just as empty. Or maybe it had been called the “parlor,” once upon a time. There was a sofa, two matching chairs, a coffee table, and more boxes.

I parted the curtains and looked out the front window. Her Jeep was parked in front of the house. There was no garage to park it in.

“Natalie!”

Still no answer.

Then I noticed the old barn outside, across the snow-covered field, with an open side door fluttering in the wind. I found my boots. I swore as I bent over to pull them on to my feet. When I stood up straight, the blood was pounding in my ears. I was so dizzy I had to lean against the wall. I needed some more drugs, or hell, maybe an early beer or two, but first I had to find out where Natalie was.

I grabbed my coat and went out the front door. The sun was shining, but it was cold and the wind was kicking up so much sparkling glitter, it was like it was snowing all over again. I didn’t see any tracks, but I tromped all the way through the deep snow to the side of the barn. The door was still swinging in the wind, but I saw that it was just barely open, stopped by the packed snow on the ground. I pulled it hard until I could squeeze through.

“Natalie!”

My voice reverberated through the high rafters. It took my eyes a while to adjust to the dim light, after the brilliant snow outside, but when they did, I saw the vast emptiness of that old barn, with the light shining through in thin slits here and there. A swirl of powder hung in the air as the snow worked its way through the cracks. It collected in a light layer on the floor, covering the ancient wood and the hay dust. There were a few farm tools hanging on the walls-a hoe and a pickax and some other metal contraptions I couldn’t have named to save my life. Everything was rusted to the point of disintegration, and an old leather horse collar was eaten away to almost nothing. If someone had told me this barn had been used in the last fifty years, it would have been a surprise to me.

I pushed the door open again and made my way back across the field to the house. I was starting to get genuinely worried. When I was inside, I knocked the snow off my boots and called her name again.

Nothing.

Then I saw the door. It was in the corner, behind the old wood stove. I tried it, and it opened to a set of stairs.

“Natalie, are you down there?”

I didn’t hear anything, but it looked like there was a light on, so I went down, holding on to the wooden rails. There was a strong smell in the air, a cellar smell, of moisture and rot and mildew.

It was dark, the way cellars used to be before they started building them with high windows. The stairs led to a small room filled with stacks of wooden crates and an old metal bicycle with long wooden fenders. The room led to another room, and then to another, the light growing stronger and stronger.

“Natalie, where are you?”

I went through one more room, this one with piles of old magazines on one wall, and on the other wall a set of shelves filled with mason jars. There was a door. It was half closed, the light streaming out onto the floor.

“Natalie?”

I pushed the door open.

She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by more boxes.

“Natalie, didn’t you hear me calling you?”

She didn’t answer me. She held an old photograph in her hands, its edges curled with age.

“What’s the matter?” I said. I winced as I bent down beside her.

She didn’t say anything. A single tear ran down her right cheek.

“What is it?” I said. “What are you looking at?”

She didn’t show it to me, but I could see just enough of it to make out three men. The photo was in color, but it had that washed-out look to it, the way color photos looked in the sixties. I was guessing the older man was her grandfather, and one of the other two men was maybe her father. She had come down to pack up all these boxes of old photographs, and had stopped to look at this picture of the grandfather she loved and the father she had hardly known. And that this had gotten to her, in the same way it would have gotten to me or to anyone else.

I was wrong.

“I talked to the doorman,” she finally said.

“What?”

“At the hotel.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The first night I got there. I talked to him. What did you say his name was? Chris?”

“Yes, but what does-”

“He helped me with my bag,” she said. “He rode up in the elevator with me, and he asked me how bad the roads were. I told him I had a Jeep, and that I knew how to drive in the snow. He asked me how far I had come.”

“Yeah?”

“So I told him I came from Canada. I’m pretty sure I said from Blind River. That old man, the man who left the hat, the man who died in the snow… You told me he was the doorman’s grandfather, right?”

“Natalie, I’m sorry. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She looked down at the picture and swallowed hard. “I need to tell you something, Alex.”

“What is it?”

“When you asked me to come over to Michigan, the first thing I thought of was this promise I had made to my own grandfather.”

“What did you promise him?”

She looked up at me. “I promised him I would never set foot in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan.”

“What? I don’t get it.”

“He hated that city so much, Alex. Once, when I was a teenager, a bunch of us went over the bridge to go to this bar. God, I thought he was going to have a heart attack when he found out. I never saw him so mad.”

She looked back down at the picture.

“Why did he feel that way?” I said. “I mean, I remember you telling me he thought it was a wild place.”

“There’s one thing we never talked about in this house,” she said. “My father’s death was the one forbidden topic. But now, I think it makes sense.”

“What? Tell me.”

“My father was killed in Michigan, Alex. In Sault Ste. Marie.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She shrugged. “I thought it was time to grow up, you know? My father’s been gone for thirty years now, and my grandfather’s been gone for fifteen.”

“Okay, so go back. What does all this have to do with the doorman at the hotel? Or his grandfather?”

She handed me the picture. I flattened it out. There were three men. The man on the left was the oldest of the three, maybe in his fifties. He was robust and he had a stern smile, and he was dressed in an old suit with a string tie. He stood with his hands on his hips, like he wasn’t quite sure whether he approved of the scene before him. The man in the middle of the picture was young, in his twenties. He had a big wide smile and he was wearing a light linen suit. He was moving toward the camera, his arms spread as if he were about to embrace the photographer. The man on the right was just as well dressed, his suit coat unbuttoned to show off his suspenders. His hands were in his pockets, and he stood watching the man in the middle with a thin smile.

“It was meant for me,” she said. “I’m the one he left it for.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look,” she said. She pointed at the man in the middle of the picture. “Look at what’s on my father’s head.”

It was the same shade of gray, the same band. The same shape. Forty years later, it would end up filled with ice and snow on the floor of a hotel hallway, but in this picture, it belonged to a young man from Canada. Sure, there were thousands more just like it. That much we knew. But somehow, we knew something else-the way you know in your gut that the most improbable thing in the world has to be true.

This was it.

This was the hat.