Ice Run (14 page)

“So what happened when you talked to the family?”

“I remember talking to the man’s father first, I think. He was pretty stoic about the whole thing. He was a real hunk of granite, you know what I mean? One of those old guys who’ve worked real hard all their lives. They’ve seen it all, sickness and death. Hard times. He was just trying to keep everyone else from falling apart, it seemed like. He didn’t have much to say to me. In fact, I don’t think he was real happy to have me there, asking them all these questions. He just wanted everybody to leave them alone.”

“I never met the man,” I said. “But from what I’ve heard about him, that sounds like him.”

“The mother, she was real upset. Naturally. I mean, this was their only child. The strange thing was she told me that her son had never been to Soo Michigan in his whole life. Which was hard to believe, since they only lived what, a couple of hours away. But no, she said. She never wanted him to go down there, because it was such a terrible place. And I can’t argue with them, of course. What am I gonna say? Here I am sitting there in their house, wearing a Soo Michigan uniform, and the only reason I’m there is because their son got murdered as soon as he set foot in the place for the first time in his whole life. It was pretty uncomfortable, to say the least.”

“I imagine.”

“So next, I talk to the wife. She was pretty young-looking, I remember that. A real attractive woman, too, but I don’t know …”

“What?”

“I didn’t say anything in the report, because, well, I wasn’t sure how I’d even say it. She just seemed to be a little … off center about things.”

“How do you mean?”

“It was hard to put my finger on. I mean, you were a cop. You know how it is when you talk to somebody and everything they’re saying adds up, but just the way they’re saying it, you sorta get the feeling that everything isn’t being said. You know what I’m talking about?”

“I think so,” I said. “Are you saying you suspected she was involved in the murder?”

“No, I wouldn’t go that far. It’s just that… God, what was it? All the time I was talking to her, she was telling me that her husband had gone down there to Soo Michigan to go to this bar at the Ojibway Hotel, and had never come back home, and that they had gotten a phone call the next morning … And I remember thinking, how come she wasn’t mad at him? I mean, on the night itself, when he left her with their kid so he could go all the way down there to celebrate New Year’s Eve? She told me everything else about that night, right down to the tiniest detail. I mean, this woman could
talk.
But not once did she tell me how she felt that night. Then even on that day, here I was talking to her about her dead husband, and she’s telling me all these other things about how she’s gonna have to live with her in-laws, and what’s she gonna do with her daughter. Again, not one word about how she was coping with it herself, or how she felt about losing her husband. She would talk about
anything,
but as soon as she got close to her own self, she would stop short. I think that’s what gave me a strange feeling about her.”

I thought hard about what he was saying. I’d known enough liars in my life. You can’t be a cop without meeting plenty of them. For the worst of them, the truly hopeless born liars, maybe this is how it all starts, by keeping a tight lid on your own secrets. By never revealing the truth about yourself. When you’ve learned to control the truth, then you can start bending it. Just a little at first, then a little more when you see what it can do for you. A lie can open doors for you. Or close them.

A lie can keep you safe.

“Now the best friend, on the other hand,” Henderson went on, “he had no problem telling me how he felt about it.”

“You talked to Albert DeMarco?”

“Yeah, that was his name. He lived just down the road. As I recall, the two of them were both going to go down to the Ojibway Hotel that night. The way he described it, it almost sounded like a rite of passage for these guys. Everybody in Ontario knew what a wild place Soo Michigan was back then, and especially when your families are telling you never, ever to step foot there. Well, you can imagine what a couple of young men are going to think of that.”

“But Jean Reynaud was married.”

“Yeah, I know. Either he just needed a guys’ night out, away from the family, or maybe stepping out was more of a habit for him. I never really got a line on that one. The one thing that was pretty clear was that Mr. DeMarco blamed himself for his friend’s death. He had some reason … What was it? He got real sick that day, or something. So Reynaud went by himself. Which struck me as odd, too, now that I remember it. I had all sorts of little alarm bells going off in my head that day.”

“Did you press them on it?”

“I tried to. But like I said, I was already in a tough spot, being the ambassador from Sodom and Gomorrah, trying to find out how their man had gotten killed. I needed special permission from the Canucks just to be there in the first place. So no, Mr. McKnight, I never did get anywhere with that case. I still think about it, to this day. Can you tell?”

“I think I’d be the same way.”

“You said the little girl became a cop. What happened to the rest of them? The man’s parents are gone by now, I’m sure.”

“Yes, they are,” I said. “So is Mr. DeMarco. I guess he died a couple of years ago. His mother’s still kicking around, though. I think she’s ninety-six years old now.”

“DeMarco’s mother? Oh yeah, I remember meeting her. I don’t think we talked much, though. She’s ninety-six, eh? That’s pretty impressive.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Tell me, Mr. McKnight. .. The fact that you’re asking me about this now. Does this mean you might have some new information?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Let me throw a name at you. Simon Grant. Does it ring any bells?”

“Simon Grant.. . Simon Grant.. .” There was a long pause while he thought about it. “No, it doesn’t. Are you telling me he might have killed Reynaud?”

“I honestly don’t know that, sir. But it looks like he may have been involved.”

“What does he have to say for himself?”

“I’m afraid he’s dead now. He froze to death a few days ago.”

“My, it sounds like things are getting interesting up there.”

“I promise you, sir, I’ll let you know whatever we find out.”

“I’d appreciate it,” he said. “It’s good to close the book on things, even if it’s thirty-odd years too late.”

“I understand.”

“You’re gonna say hello to Roy for me, right? The two of you are good friends?”

“I’m not sure you could go that far.”

“Well, send my best anyway. What’s the weather like, anyway?”

“Cold and snow,” I said. “What else is it gonna be?”

“It’s eighty degrees here right now,” he said. “I was out working on the boat. But I’ll tell you, Mr. McKnight, even though it may be paradise down here, I still miss the old Soo-town. There’s just something about the place, you know what I mean?”

“I do, sir. Although eighty degrees does sound pretty good right now.”

I thanked the man, and promised to keep in touch. I even promised him one more time that I’d give his regards to Chief Maven. But I wasn’t about to go do that right then. I called Natalie. The machine picked up. I left another message, told her I had talked to the detective who had handled the case in 1973. I told her I was worried about her and that she should call me as soon as she got home.

You’re starting to sound like a nag, I thought. Let the woman be, for God’s sake. Maybe she just had a miserable time with her mother, and she wants to be alone for a while.

From there, I went right back to imagining the worst. She had promised me she would call, no matter what. She’s not the kind of person who breaks a promise.

What the hell was I supposed to do? I didn’t feel like driving back to Paradise. I didn’t want to sit around in my cabin. I didn’t want to hang out at Jackie’s and get another lecture.

I could go visit the Grants, I thought. Or the Woolseys.

No, Alex. You’re not the kind of person who breaks a promise, either.

I sat in the car for a while, watching the snow start to fall again. A county car rolled in next to me. The deputy got out of the car and hustled inside to get out of the cold air.

I picked up the phone again and dialed information. “Grace Reynaud,” I said, “in Batchawana Bay, Ontario.” I had no idea what last name she would be using now. She’d been Grace DeMarco at one time, Grace Reynaud before that. Hell, for all I knew, she was back to her maiden name now, whatever that was. But Reynaud seemed like a good place to start.

The operator found the name, but told me that the number was unpublished. I thanked her and hung up.

I watched the snow some more. I picked up the phone one last time. I dialed Natalie’s number and listened to it ring. The answering machine picked up, Natalie’s recorded voice asking me to leave a message. I turned the phone off.

Now what, Alex?

I put the truck in gear and pulled out of the lot.

When all else fails, it’s time to do something stupid.

Batchawana Bay was a small town, probably the kind of place where everybody knew everybody else. It wasn’t that far away. In fact, it was closer than Blind River. After I cleared the bridge, all I had to do was head due north on the Queen’s Highway instead of east. The snow was piled high to either side, but the road itself was clear. I figured I could get there within half an hour, easy.

I passed through Soo Canada, then hit the open road leading north through Heyden and Goulais River. There was nothing to see but white fields and trees bending under great weights of snow, until I finally began to see the frozen expanse of Lake Superior to the west. It was Whitefish Bay, my end of the lake, but seen from the wrong side. I had come all the way around the bay because I was worried about Natalie, because she was heading into a tough situation and most of one day had passed and I still hadn’t heard from her. That was all it took.

I would have driven a lot farther. I knew that. I would have done just about anything for her on this cold winter’s day, even with the bruises still fresh on my face, with my ribs still hurting and my knee still stiff. Jackie was absolutely right about me. But I couldn’t change that. That was the way I was, for better or worse.

As the town of Batchawana Bay got closer, I started to wonder why Natalie’s mother was living there. I had been up here before, and it had struck me as one of the loneliest places I had ever seen, the Canadian equivalent of Paradise, Michigan. Of course, maybe that’s why she liked it. I’d been down that road myself.

I figured the simplest thing to do would be to stop in at the most likely bar, ask if Grace was around. If it was her regular place, somebody would know her. Hell,
everybody
would know her. If it wasn’t, I’d just go on to the next place.

I stopped at a gas station near the public docks. As I stood pumping the gas, I breathed in the cold air and looked out at the bay. The ice stretched as far as I could see. Next to the station was a restaurant, with a long row of windows running along one side. In the summer, it would be a nice place to sit and watch the boats on the water. Today it looked like a nice place to stay warm and get quietly hammered.

I paid the man for the gas and moved the truck to the restaurant lot. When I opened the door, three men looked up from the bar.

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” I said. “How’s it going?”

“Not too bad,” the first man said. He had two empty shot glasses lined up in front of him. A cigarette burned in the ashtray. “Don’s in the bathroom, so you’ll have to wait a minute.”

“Does Don run this place?”

“No, he just cleans the bathrooms as a hobby.”

The other two men at the bar laughed. I closed my eyes and counted to three.

“Okay,” I said, “so do any of you guys know a woman named Grace?”

“Yeah, we know her,” the first man said. “Who’s asking?”

“I’m trying to find her,” I said. “It’s important.”

“That didn’t answer my question, eh? And what happened to your face?”

The other two men laughed again. This was turning into some real entertainment on a gray afternoon. The first man picked up his cigarette and took a long drag.

“I’m a friend of her daughter’s,” I said. “Do you know where she lives or not?”

“Her daughter’s not alive anymore,” the man said.

“What are you talking about?”

“She died a few years ago.”

I stepped up to the man. He had the red eyes and nose of a hard drinker and he hadn’t shaved in a week. Hell, even with all my bruises, this man still looked worse than I did.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Did Grace tell you that?”

“Yes.”

“How did she die?”

“Food poisoning. Not that it’s any of your business, friend. Who are you, anyway?”

I closed my eyes again, counted to five this time. “Look, I just need to know where she lives. Can you tell me that, please?”

“As far as I know,” the man said, “Grace lives right here in this bar. It’s the only place I’ve ever seen her.” He nodded his head toward an empty stool at the far end of the bar.

“What’s going on?” another man said, stepping out of the bathroom. “Did somebody find Grace?”

“I’m looking for her,” I said. “Are you Don?”

“Yeah, who’s asking?”

“I’m a friend of Grace’s daughter,” I said. “Please, don’t start with the food poisoning …”

“Come over here,” he said. He led me away from the men at the bar, toward one of the big windows. “These guys aren’t gonna be any help.”

“So you know Grace pretty well?”

“As well as anybody,” he said. He looked down for a moment, and rubbed the back of his neck. It made me think that maybe he did more for Grace than pour her drinks. “Now, tell me why you’re looking for her, because I’ve been kind of worried myself.”

“She hasn’t been around today?”

“No, she hasn’t.”

“I take it that’s pretty unusual.”

“Yeah, you could say that. This is the first day I can remember that she hasn’t been in here.”

“Do you know where she lives?”

“Up the road a bit,” he said. “Within walking distance. Which is actually … well, let’s just say it’s a good thing on most nights. But anyway, I’ve called her a couple of times today.”

“Did you go over there?”

“Yeah, I did. At lunchtime. Nobody was there.”

“Her daughter was coming up to see her,” I said. “Last night.”

“You mean Natalie?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never met her,” he said. “I guess she wouldn’t bring her around here, eh? That would sorta ruin the story about the bad clams.”

I was about to smile for the first time that day when I happened to look over the man’s shoulder. Outside the window, at the gas station, a man was finishing up at the same pump I had just used myself. He was using his left hand. His right hand was in a cast.

It was Marty Grant.

“What the hell…” I said.

The bartender looked out the window. “What is it?”

“Over there, at the gas station.”

“You know that guy?”

I didn’t have time to answer him. I was already on my way out the door. When I got around to the gas station, Marty Grant had already pulled out. He was heading south. I ran back to my truck and fired it up, skidding my way out of the icy parking lot and onto the road.

You son of a bitch, I thought. What the hell are you doing up here? There’s no way it could be a coincidence. No way you’re up here doing a windshield job. There were probably a dozen auto glass shops in Soo Canada. Nobody would hire a man from Michigan to drive all the way up here.

I accelerated until I could finally see his truck ahead of me. I’m gonna run you off the road, Marty Grant. I’m gonna run you into the snow and then drag you out of that truck …

Wait a minute, Alex. Take a breath. Maybe I should go back, get Don the bartender, go find Grace’s house.

No. You heard the man. She’s not there.

God damn it, Grant, if you’ve done something to her. Or to Natalie. I swear to God …

I could feel my grip getting tighter on the steering wheel.

Okay, Alex. Take it easy. Just follow the man. Don’t do anything stupid. At least not yet. Just settle in and follow him.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. This is one of the men who beat me half to death. This is the man who swung at me the hardest, so hard that when he missed he’d broken his hand on the bricks.

He’s the worst of them. He’s the biggest. He’s the strongest. God damn it to hell.

I kept following him. It wasn’t even an hour on the road, but it felt like an eternity. I stayed a quarter mile behind him, all the way back down the Queen’s Highway to Soo Canada. The sun was going down as he finally reached the bridge with me behind him. I didn’t think he had spotted me, even as I pulled in right behind him at the toll booth. He pulled out of the booth and onto the bridge. Another car got between us. When he hit customs, he took one lane and I took another.

I could see that Marty got a quick once-over and was already pulling out onto the road. Meanwhile, I had to wait while the car ahead of me got the full treatment. I was expecting the agent to come out and start ripping the door panels off the guy’s car, when finally he was given the all clear.

I pulled up, trying to calm myself down before I spoke to the agent. Looking like a homicidal maniac wouldn’t do me much good right now, even though that’s about how I felt. The agent asked me the usual questions. I gave him the right answers and was on my way, but by the time I hit I-75, Marty Grant was long gone. No matter, I thought. I knew exactly where to go.

I took the exit and headed downtown, past the Ojibway Hotel, and onto Spruce Street. It was dark now. I pulled into the driveway, right in front of the garage door. I didn’t see Marty’s truck there, but so what. I parked and got out. After everything that had happened, it was finally time for my own little showdown with the Grant family.

When I opened the door, I saw Michael Grant, the other brother, working on a car. I didn’t see Marty anywhere. Michael looked up from his job—it looked like he was doing a full cutout, scraping all the old adhesive out of a windshield bed before putting in the new glass—just in time to see me come through the doorway.

“McKnight?” he said. “What the hell is going on?”

“Where is he?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Tell me where he is.”

“Where who is?”

“Your brother Marty,” I said. “I saw him in Batchawana Bay.”

“What?”

“He was up there. I just followed him back.”

“What was he doing up there?”

“That’s what I wanna know.”

“Look, McKnight…” He stepped away from the car and approached me. He still had the scraper in his right hand. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Tell me where to find your brother and I’ll leave.”

He shook his head slowly. “Ain’t gonna happen,” he said. “You need to turn around and get out of here right now.”

“What happens if I don’t?”

He looked at me for a long moment. His eyes were steady until he was about to make his move—the oldest “tell” in the book, the eyes getting wider just before your man pulls the trigger. Apparently, it works for glue scrapers, too. I ducked as he swung it at me and put my elbow into his ribs. That knocked the wind out of him just long enough for me to grab something myself.

There, a crowbar leaning against the garage wall. This will do nicely, Alex.

I picked it up just in time for him to come at me again. He took one look at it and dropped his scraper. “All right,” he said. He raised both hands. “All right. Just take it easy.”

I didn’t feel like taking it easy. Not yet. A new windshield was sitting on a special felt-padded stand, waiting to be fitted onto the car. I swung the crowbar and hit it dead center, sending a spray of glass pebbles all over the floor. What was left collapsed together into a heap, like some sort of folded-up modern sculpture.

He took that in stride. I had to give him credit. “Okay, that’s enough,” he said. “Put that thing down.”

“Where is he?”

“I said put it down.”

There was a box leaning against the wall, just the right shape and size. I was pretty sure I knew what was inside. I swung the crowbar and heard the muffled sound of more glass breaking.

“Shit!” he said. “What are you doing?”

“What does one of these babies cost?” I said. “Four hundred dollars? Five hundred?”

I swung at another box and heard more glass breaking.

“I’m calling the police,” he said. “You’re insane.”

“I think you’re right. I get that way when people gang up and beat the shit out of me.”

I hit another box. It was utterly and completely the most stupid thing I had ever done. I was committing a felony myself and probably screwing up the whole assault case against the three men who had attacked me. I was throwing everything right out the window. Grant made another move, but stopped himself short when I raised the crowbar at him.

“You’re a real tough guy with a club in your hand,” he said.

“That’s good coming from you,” I said. “Why don’t you call your brother and your brother-in-law over here so we can have an even fight again.”

He kept his hands up as he backed away from me. “You’re making a big mistake, McKnight.”

“I’m sure I am,” I said, dropping the crowbar on the floor with a loud clang. “Now it’s your turn. Let’s see what you’ve got, Grant.”

He took one look at my empty hands and came right at me. I gave him a side step and slipped a punch into his midsection. I followed that with an overhand left that sent him bouncing off the wall. He tried to wrap me up on the rebound, backing me up hard against the car. I got an elbow under his chin and pushed him away, just far enough to hit him again. He started punching back, but I didn’t care anymore. I had been carrying this rage around inside me for days, a secret even to myself, subconsciously nursing it and promising it that I’d give it some release. That time had come.

He hit me in the face a few times, hard enough to tear out some of my stitches. I could feel the blood running down the bridge of my nose. But I stayed close to him. I kept driving my fists into his stomach. I could feel him weakening.

He pushed me away and grabbed something off the workbench. A screwdriver. I backed up as he swung it at me. Once, then twice. A man with any sense would have checked out right then, but instead I timed the third swing and locked up his arm. I bent his elbow back, my face just inches from his.

“Drop it,” I hissed in his face. “Or I’ll break your arm in two.”

The screwdriver fell to the ground. When I let go of him, he tried to take one more swing at me. His last. I caught him right under the ribs with everything I had left. That sent him onto his hands and knees. He stayed that way for a long time, trying to breathe.

I stood over him, watching. I wiped the blood off my nose. He kept sucking air, trying to get something into his lungs. He sat down on the cement floor. Finally, he was able to speak.

“Enough,” he said. “God damn, enough.”

“Just stay right there,” I said. “Or I’ll kick your head in.”

“What the fuck. God damn.”