In the Bleak Midwinter

Clare leaned her cheek against the rigid vinyl of the car seat. She shut her eyes very tightly, trying to put the sight of that white hand, that dark hair somewhere she could bear it. Did something drive that woman out here to end her own life? Something inside her so dark and cold that the moonless night and the icy water seemed preferable? Merciful God. That was the start of the collect she would pray tomorrow, looking at the comfortable, satisfied faces of her congregation. Merciful God, who sent your messengers the prophets to preach repentance and prepare the way for our salvation: Give us grace . . . Give us Grace . . . she felt hot tears behind her eyelids. Give us grace to heed their warnings and forsake our sins . . .

She was exhausted, numb and sleepy when the squad car and ambulance pulled into the lot. The flare of red lights against her closed eyes jerked her into alertness and prodded her out of the car before her mind had caught up with her body. She shuffled through the snow, waving to a uniformed man who must have been Officer Flynn levering himself from his squad car. Next to the car, two paramedics in bulky snowsuits jumped from the ambulance. Clare slogged over to the officer.

“Ma’am,” Flynn greeted her. “I’m awful sorry you had to see something like this.” She echoed the sentiment silently. The doors to the ambulance clanged open. The EMTs hauled a rescue pallet off the van bed.

“If you follow me, I can take you to the chief,” she said. Her voice seemed unnaturally loud in the still, cold air. Flynn opened the trunk of his car and hefted a canvas bag over his shoulder. As they began their slippery processional, he fished into the bag and retrieved a self-starting flare. He yanked the tab and the clearing lit up with a harsh chemical glare. Flynn stuck the flare butt-end into the snow beside the trail.

The EMTs balanced the pallet between them, picking their way through snow as they pushed on toward the water. Every few yards Flynn lit another flare. The trail resembled a nightmare version of a garden walkway illuminated by torches for the benefit of evening strollers. Clare kept her eyes on the tracks as they walked, tire marks crisscrossing at the edges of the trail, two sets of boot prints leading downward, small, deep holes left by deer hooves, and blurry disturbances where she had fallen in her headlong rush to get back to the cruiser.

“There,” she said, pointing down the steep slope where a single flashlight beam appeared and disappeared through the pines.

“Chief?” yelled Officer Flynn. Clare pointed her flashlight toward the water.

“Yeah!”

She shifted her light toward his voice and nailed him straight on with the light. Russ threw his hand in front of his face. “I’ll come up! Don’t anybody climb down until we’ve gotten some photographs of the tracks.”

Flynn pulled the tab on another flare. The trail sprang into high relief. The trees cast hard, dark shadows downslope, concealing and revealing glimpses of Russ’s brown parka as he clambered back up the hill. Clare could hear him grunting with effort. By the time he reached them, he was breathing hard.

“Are you all right?” she asked, peering up into his face.

He leaned against a birch tree, panting. “Been up and down this damn stretch of ground about six times already,” he said. “Jesus, I’m getting too old for this kind of thing. Sorry, Clare.” He sketched a wave to the two paramedics. “Guys, you can retrieve the body just as soon as the state crime lab gets here.”

Flynn stared down at the water’s edge, craning his neck for a better view. “What’s it look like, Chief? Not a jumper moved downstream?”

Russ tilted his head toward Clare. “Every once in a while somebody decides to check out by jumping off the old railroad bridge,” he explained. He turned away from the officer and shone his flashlight a couple of yards up the trail. Clare could see where the tire tracks they had been following came to an end. “Somebody drove in to this point and then backed up again.” He shifted the light to the edge of the trail closest to the water.

“What’s that?” Clare asked. The snow was heavily churned.

“That is where the girl slid all the way down the slope.” Russ sounded worn down. “I followed the trail she left back up to the car tracks. Looks just like when little kids roll themselves down a hill.”

Flynn whistled, a high, excited sound. Russ glared at him. “Sorry, Chief,” the young officer replied. “Just . . . I haven’t done a homicide yet.”

“Homicide?” Clare looked down toward the water. “Someone killed her?”

“Looks that way,” Russ said.

Clare touched Russ’s arm, heavy glove over thick parka. “Any clear tracks from whoever drove the car away?” she said.

He shook his head. “Nope. Could be whoever it was threw her body down the hill, hoping she’d land in the kill and disappear for a while. Or it could be she and the driver got into a fight while they were standing here, he hauls off and clips her one, and she falls down the hill. He panics and drives away.”