Ice Shear Read online

  DEDICATION

  For my mother and father

  EPIGRAPH

  Some time when the river is ice ask me

  mistakes I have made. Ask me whether

  what I have done is my life. Others

  have come in their slow way into

  my thought, and some have tried to help

  or to hurt: ask me what difference

  their strongest love or hate has made.

  I will listen to what you say.

  You and I can turn and look

  at the silent river and wait. We know

  the current is there, hidden; and there

  are comings and goings from miles away

  that hold the stillness exactly before us.

  What the river says, that is what I say.

  WILLIAM STAFFORD, “ASK ME”

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER 1

  MY OPTIONS WERE LIMITED.

  On the one hand, Ned wasn’t driving drunk. And he seemed so peaceful curled up in the backseat of the Ford Escort. Under the gentle glow of the streetlights he looked like an apple-cheeked toddler instead of a forty-five-year-old with gin blossoms.

  On the other hand—the frostbit one—I’d be shirking my duty as an officer of the law if I let Ned sleep off a drunk in the back of an unheated vehicle. He’d pulled his Buffalo Bills pom-pom cap low over his eyes, but his threadbare army jacket wasn’t going to cut it. Overhead, the Hopewell Falls Saving Bank digital clock blinked: 17 degrees. Several bars on the display were broken, so the real temperature could be as low as 10 or as high as 19. All were too cold.

  Of course, the deciding factor was that, well, it wasn’t his vehicle. Our one and only bus driver, Janelle DuMaurier, owned it. After his numerous license suspensions Ned spent quite a bit of time on her bus, so I’m sure they were great friends, but Janelle had a bus driver’s value for schedules and wouldn’t appreciate it if Ned made her late for work. If I didn’t roust him now I would have to move him in an hour when Janelle came downstairs and found an uninvited guest. Plus, I’d have to do paperwork.

  I rapped on the window. The pom-pom didn’t move.

  The door handle was iced over, and I pulled three times before it gave. The hinges’ screech bounced off the empty predawn streets. Ned slept through it. Ned slept even as I opened the door, his head sliding down the blue vinyl, leaving a trail of saliva. Before he ran out of door and spittle, I squatted, made a basket of my arms, and caught him. He jerked awake.

  “Shit, man,” Ned said. He pulled the knit cap up over his brow, rumpling the red, white, and blue bison, and blinked up at me owlishly. “S’cold.”

  “That it is, Ned.” The smell of beer—fresh Genny Cream Ale on his breath, stale Genny Cream Ale dried into his clothes—came off him in waves. He grinned toothily at me, and I found myself grinning back. Ned had a good heart, although not paired with the sharpest mind. Resting one hand on my holster, the other on my radio, I said, “You can’t sleep here, Ned.”

  “C’mon! S’not fair. You told me not to drunk drive! Drunk driving’s bad.”

  “On that”—I took a step back out of range of the beer smell and his spittle—“we are in agreement.”

  “I know! I’m so not drunk driving. And last time, you told me not to sleep on the street or you’d put me in perspective, protective . . .”

  “Protective custody.”

  “Yes!” Ned looked at me like I was a genius. “And I’m not. And hey! This’s my car! My private property! And it’s not American to tell me not to sleep in my own property—”

  I put on my stern face. “Not your property, Ned. It’s Janelle DuMaurier’s Ford Escort. Your Honda is the next vehicle up.”

  Ned took in the Ford, its full ashtray, its PROGRESS, NOT PERFECTION air freshener, its Kleenex box hidden under a doll’s pink crocheted skirt.

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said.

  Ned clambered out of the car, fished out his keys, and, holding them an inch from his face, flipped through them to find the one that would open his Honda. He missed it twice. I snatched the ring out of his hands.

  “C’mon, June. Gimme!” he yelled. “I wasn’t gonna drive. Just gonna sleep.”

  “Too cold.” I unlocked his trunk, facing a sea of empty beer cans. Ned would make a killing at the recycling center if he ever remembered to go. I dropped the keys in, watching them bounce off Rolling Rock bottles before settling in a nest of crushed Pabst cans. I slammed the trunk closed.

  “You can pick them up in the morning when the locksmiths are awake.” I held out my hand. He grabbed his hat. I struggled to keep from laughing. “Give me your phone, Ned.”

  “C’mon, June. Gordon’d give me a break.”

  “You know he wouldn’t.” When Gordon—my dad—trained me after I’d joined the Hopewell Falls PD, he’d used the time we cruised around to explain the city. With the exception of two summers spent with my mother in Florida after my parents’ divorce, I’d spent all of my first eighteen years in Hopewell Falls, so I knew most of the residents. He’d skipped the statistics because I’d already read up: On average we had one murder per year, but plenty of domestic assaults that stopped just short. Seven rapes in the last year. A higher-than-average number of burglaries committed by people out of a job and out of options, or people so high they couldn’t think of any.

  Instead, Dad focused on the personalities. He explained that Ned was mostly harmless, ID’ing him as a fall-down drunk rather than one of the nasty, belligerent ones. By the time Dad retired, aka had the massive heart attack, I knew which people were loitering for loitering’s sake and which people were loitering with intent.

  “Phone,” I repeated. Ned pulled the cell out, bobbled it, and then dropped it, sending it skidding across the sidewalk. I told him to stay put. I weighed 120 and Ned probably twice that, and lifting a drunk off an icy sidewalk would take the rest of my shift.

  I knelt and fished the phone out of the remains of a snowbank, gently brushing black ice off with a gloved finger.

  “Your wife?” I asked.

  “Nah. She gets pissed when I drink. C’mon, June.”

  “Call someone to give you a lift now, or we’ll have to call someone in several hours for bail. Who’s your best friend?”

  “C’mon. He’s asleep. Don’t bother him.”

  “How courteous.” Drunks always have strange ideas regarding politeness: they can throw up on my shoes but don’t want to put a friend out. I flipped through the names. Ned had his mother listed three times, but I tabbed past. Her funeral had been last May.

  “I’m cold,” I said, which was true, but Ned dithered, which made me cranky. “Pick.”

  “Fine. Pat. But he’s not going to like me waking him up.”

  Pat’s number rang three, four times, and I resigned
myself to spending the rest of the morning doing paperwork instead of pulling an early go. On the fifth ring, a scratchy voice answered.

  “Pat!” I said loudly, calling over Ned’s shouted apologies. I shushed him to keep the neighbors from calling in noise complaints, not that I needed to worry. Except for a few stalwarts like Janelle, most of the apartments were empty, little demand for converted Victorian rooming houses in a town with no jobs. “Pat, it’s June Lyons. Sorry for disturbing you, but I’ve got your friend Ned down here, outside of Smitty’s Pub. He’s impaired by drink, I’m sorry to report, and I might have to PC him. Yeah, again. Unless you’re willing to pick him up at the Dunkin’ Donuts in the next twenty minutes. Work for you?”

  A grunt sounded in my ear and the line went dead. I handed the phone back to Ned, who was still whispering, “Sorry.” His life must be one long apology.

  “C’mon, Ned.” I gave him a smile. “I’ll buy you a doughnut.”

  We scuttled down the icy sidewalks past his car and my cruiser to the Dunkin’ Donuts, where Susie had my usual waiting for me: coffee and cruller.

  “June,” Susie said, her smile faltering as she spotted Ned trailing behind me.

  “Susie,” I said, “Ned here will take a large coffee and a”—Ned pointed to the top of the display—“and a chocolate with sprinkles.”

  Susie reached to the upper row, the seams on her salmon-colored uniform straining. I remembered her wearing that uniform when I was in high school, twenty years ago. These days, the capped cuffs cut into her biceps, and snag marks creased the fake crinoline apron where the cash register opened against her abdomen again and again. Susie placed the coffees and doughnuts on the counter.

  “He’s not going to throw up again, is he?”

  “Nah,” I said. “He wouldn’t do that to you, would you, Ned?” Ned grabbed his food and parked himself at the table closest to the bathroom. “And if he does, he’ll come back and do floors for a month. How much do I owe you?”

  “No charge for you on night shift. You know that.”

  “But you do charge for drunks waiting for a ride.” I appreciated that Susie would like me to come around more, not less, during these long nights, but I don’t think she hoped that Ned would, too.

  “Well, if you insist . . . that’ll be a dollar fifty-five.”

  Counting out my change, I found only a dollar forty-five. I searched my pockets for another dime, digging out a paper clip and a seashell Lucy had given me before my shift, but no change. I pulled out my wallet. “Since I’m using my card, gimme a dozen to bring back to the station. I can be the big hero today.”

  A rush of static crackled from my radio, and the night dispatcher’s voice rang through the room: “C-12, what is your 10-20?”

  “Dunkin’ Donuts, Lorraine, picking up a homicide kit”—using the radio code for the doughnuts. “Anything called in?”

  “Channel seven, June.” I switched over to the unrecorded channel. “Nothing called in. Will you be bringing jelly?”

  “Affirmative,” I said, as Susie dropped a raspberry filled in the box. “See you in thirty. I’m out.”

  While the cruiser warmed up, I took a bite out of my doughnut, swallowed it, and held the rest in my mouth while I backed out of the parking lot onto Mohawk Street. The car was dirty enough that I wasn’t eating anything that touched its seat.

  My cell rang. I rummaged through the side pocket of the cruiser’s door, jabbing my wrist on a pencil as I retrieved the phone, and I parked and spoke without checking the display, knowing it could only be one person.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  I heard him swallow his coffee. “Busy night?” he said finally.

  “Quiet night, actually. Doing one last lap. Lucy up?”

  “The kid’s been sleeping since you kissed her good night. She’s over that damn cold.” As he spoke, a light three houses down flicked on and a woman drifted to her sink, coffeepot in hand.

  “She ready to go back to school?” I asked.

  “Yeah. She misses those friends of hers, and if I have to spend another day with a six-year-old who’s not sick enough to nap, I’ll lose my ever-lovin’ mind. Want Luce to call you before school?”

  “No.” I felt small and a little mean, but I wanted more than a phone call. “I’m doing one last pass. I’ll be home around seven thirty or so and can walk her over to the bus. And hey, if she’s up to it maybe we can ice-skate after school.” I had taken Lucy to the rink the previous week. She had never been on the ice, and it was my first time since college. I fell as often as she did, her ankles arched in on rented skates. “I think she liked it.”

  “Hmm,” Dad grumped. He never liked me on skates, convinced I went too fast and would crack my head open. He liked his granddaughter on them even less. “I’ll pick up helmets for you two speed demons.”

  “Dad, I spent the whole time skidding across the ice on my ass, and Lucy was primarily interested in the concession stand. We don’t need helmets.”

  My father sighed. “Want me to hold breakfast?”

  “Nah.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. But thanks.” Dad had been amazing since Kevin died, but sometimes he acted like I couldn’t raise a child, let alone make my own breakfast. Kevin, Lucy, and I had moved back to my hometown three years ago after Kevin’s cancer had lasted (and lasted and lasted) long past his disability and my ability to take care of a sick husband, a daughter, and a job. Dad had offered me a spot on his force: “Jeez, June. You’re an FBI agent. Seriously, you think you’re going to fail the Hopewell Falls civil service exam?” The job paid the bills and kept me sane through Kevin’s death.

  I decided to make a peace offering in the fight Dad didn’t know we were having. “Hey, we need anything? I’ll stop at Price Chopper.”

  “Nah, we’re good. Stay safe, and get yourself home.”

  During the conversation, the rest of the world awoke. More houses lit up, the cops on the day shift sounded over the radio, and traffic picked up. I half slid and half drove down the Manor Avenue hill toward the Mohawk River, the sun rising over the Taconic Mountains in Vermont. The greenish gold spread warming the horizon. I couldn’t remember a time when it wasn’t winter. Just the idea of sunshine was wonderful.

  Turning left, I could see Harmony Mills in the distance. The buildings were long empty, no longer needing the waterfall’s energy to power the industrial looms or the Erie Canal to ship gloves, shirts, and collars to such exotic places as Rochester and Cleveland. The inactive mills continued to dominate the city: they took up a huge chunk of downtown real estate, and people were always gossiping about who might move in and restore Hopewell Falls to its former glory. The “former glory” mostly consisted of being named an All-American City in 1947, when Harmony Mills last operated at full steam. Everyone talked about how if we gave a tax break to a high-tech company, built a new park, or attracted an Internet café, young people would come back and renew downtown and draw congregants to keep the churches from closing. That seemed unlikely: We lived in an area our former governor called “like Appalachia,” a comparison that was unfair to Appalachia. West Virginia had job growth seven times our measly 0.2 percent, and our population had dropped as the jobs disappeared. New York City, only three hours away, might as well have been on another planet.

  A jolt of excitement rushed through me as my tires rumbled over cobblestones. The pavement had worn away, exposing the roads from the last century—or the century before?—and the vibrations that shook the cruiser were my signal that my shift was almost done.

  I’d almost reached downtown when I saw Jackie DeGroot. The teenager was currently caught, her silver jacket snarled in the chain-link fence that kept people away from the river. She twisted left and right, like a cigarette wrapper blowing in the wind. I couldn’t tell if she wanted in or out.

  I slowed and rolled down my window, the cold hitting my face like a slap. The microphone on the cruiser didn’t work, so I yelled to her. “Jack
ie!” She didn’t respond. I turned off the car and repeated myself. “Jackie! Shouldn’t you be getting ready for school?”

  Still no reaction. I parked and approached her cautiously. She appeared healthy. The puffy coat, big jeans, and Timberland boots that were popular right now kept her warm, but unfortunately were ideal for concealing drugs or a weapon. I was pretty sure this wouldn’t be more than a talking-to and a ride to school, and I’d still be home in time to walk Lucy to the bus.

  I touched Jackie’s arm. She jumped like she hadn’t seen me coming. I cataloged her responses. Her eyes weren’t dilated, but she was disoriented. Drugs? Shock? Injury?

  “Jackie.” I kept my voice low and soothing. “Let’s get you someplace warm. You okay? What’re you doing here?”

  Jackie’s face was red with tears and streaked with heavy black eyeliner. Her earrings bobbed as she pointed wildly, the chained hearts snagging in the fleece of her hood. I reached over and unhooked the hearts before Jackie tore her earlobe. I searched where she pointed, toward the waterfalls. The Hopewell Falls weren’t visible from here, hidden beyond the cliff that rose above the river. I struggled to maintain my composure even as Jackie pointed again and again, pulling until her jacket ripped away from the fence.

  “Well, that solved our problem,” I said and smiled, trying to make eye contact with her, but she stared through me, back toward the falls.

  I guided her over to the cruiser. “Okay, Jackie, you’re not tracking right now. Did you take any drugs? You’re not in trouble, but I want to help you.” Jackie started crying again. I kept my voice firm. “How about I get you settled and go investigate whatever’s on the other side of this fence. Okay?”

  Jackie nodded, her chin trembling, taking great gulping breaths. I called for backup, and continued to try to coax answers out of Jackie, but she was disturbingly silent. Pete arrived in two minutes, having just started his shift. He contemplated the snowdrifts that led to the river.

  “I don’t want to do my whole shift in wet pants,” he said apologetically.

  I would’ve given him shit about that if Jackie hadn’t been there. “You take Jackie. I bet getting her fixed up will take more time than it’ll take me to walk over, evaluate the scene at the river, walk back, and write up a report.”