Dead of Winter

They could easily break it open, but he couldn’t do that here in her home. They could take the whole damn cabinet back to Loon Lake but he wasn’t sure how she would take that suggestion.

Although she seemed detached, he knew better. She was hurting and her indifference was her only defense. If she had hated her husband’s job before he had been killed she surely had little interest in their motivation now, even if it was to find his killer.

Jesse was the one who asked, “Mrs. Pryce, would it be possible for us to take the cabinet with us? We will return it to you later.”

Stephanie sighed and brushed back her hair. “I don’t know.”

“Mrs. Pryce, I understand what you’re feeling,” Louis said. “I understand that some stranger took away everything, changing your life in second. I understand how you want to try to forget it and get on with things. And now we come into your home, bringing it all back again. I’m sorry for that.”

Her chin quivered.

“Please, let us try to help you by finding the man who killed your husband.”

Stephanie wiped a tear away. The small room was silent and warm. Louis pulled at the fur collar of his jacket.

Finally, she looked up at Louis. “All right, take it. But please mail my papers back to me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Louis said.

CHAPTER 6

Louis knelt before the fire, prodding the logs with a stick to renew the blaze. The cabin was cold and there was no heat other than what the fireplace supplied. The rustic charm that had so captivated him when he first saw the place was dissipating as fast as the pile of logs on the hearth.

He stared balefully at the last two logs. There were only a few more left outside. He would either have to go into town and buy some wood or venture outside and cut down a damn tree. Tomorrow, he vowed, he would go to the Sears catalog center in town and order a space heater.

He rose, grabbed the afghan from the back of the worn sofa and wrapped it around his shoulders. He stared at the small television set, knowing there was no sense in even trying. There were only two stations and the last time he tried, all he got was “Hogan’s Heroes” reruns and a curling tournament out of Canada.

A book, maybe a book. He went to the box in the corner and started sifting through the volumes, mainly college books and a bunch of paperbacks he had already read. He picked up The Golden Apples. He ran his fingers across the gold letters, thinking about Grace Lillihouse, the woman who had given him Eudora Welty’s book. Now don’t forget to return it to me. He felt bad that he would probably not make good on his promise. Hell would freeze over before he returned to Mississippi – or he would.

He went back to the sofa, tried to find a comfortable place amid the broken springs and opened the book. He read a paragraph and read it again. Finally, he put it aside. It was no use. His mind was spinning too fast.

His thoughts drifted to Thomas Pryce’s filing cabinet. After returning from Flint, he and Jesse had spent two hours going through its contents, but they had found nothing useful in the paper-crammed drawers. Thomas Pryce had been a pack rat, keeping every bank statement and phone bill he’d ever been issued. But there was nothing about work, and finally, Louis and Jesse had given up, too tired to continue. It seemed like the only thing left to do now was pack up the cabinet’s contents and ship them back to Stephanie Pryce.

Louis stared in to the dying fire. Stephanie Pryce’s face had stayed with him all day. Her expression when she first saw him, as though she had seen a ghost. And the other look, that look of defeat. He had seen it before at the cop’s funeral back in Ann Arbor, on the face of the widow. I give up. You win. I lost. He’s yours.

He wondered sometimes what kind of women married cops, what kind of women could put up with the life. Sometimes, in locker rooms or in bars after shift, he would listen to the married men talk about their wives. The words were often wrapped in dark humor but he could sense in them the chasm the job created between a man and woman. He remembered one guy telling about the time he took his wife out for their twentieth anniversary dinner. He spotted a weirdo at the 7-Eleven and jumped out of the car, drawing his gun. She started to cry, yelling that she was tired of being married to John Wayne.

And he had heard the divorced cops talk. It was always the same, about how no one could really understand what it was like. About wives who finally gave up trying to dance in a world of positives when their husbands walked in a world of negatives.

He himself was only twenty-five and had never been with one woman longer than weeks. The women he had dated had no idea what his job was like and he felt no compulsion to share it with them.

Cop’s wife. For the first time, he had a picture of what that meant. The picture was Stephanie Pryce’s sad face.