Dead of Winter

back of the chair. She took her place behind the easel.

“Don’t move,” She said.

“For how long?” he asked.

“Until I get you sketched in.”

The room grew quiet. Louis sat motionless, watching her as she made swift arcing movements over the canvas. She frowned slightly in concentration as her eyes moved back and forth from the canvas to him. He could feel her eyes moving over his body but it was different than how she looked at him when they made love. He felt a surge move through his body and knew he was starting to get erect again.

She noticed it and laughed. She kept sketching.

His eyes drifted toward the windows. It had started to snow and the windows were starting to fog up from the space heater.

“You have a good face,” she said, sketching.

“Good?” he said.

She nodded. “I had forgotten how it all comes out when you draw people. Their characters, it comes out.” She wiped a strand of hair back from her face, leaving a smudge of charcoal on her cheek. “I can see things in your face,” she said. “Things that I try to put in my painting.”

“What things?” Louis asked.

“Goodness,” she said. “Grace, kindness, honor.”

He shook his head slowly, letting his arm drop from the back of the chair. She was concentrating and didn’t notice.

“Zoe…”

She looked up.

“Zoe, there’s something I have to tell you,” he said.

“What?”

He rested his arms on his knees, bowing his head.

“Louis? What is it?”

He looked up at her. “The first night, when you were talking about your father. Remember that?”

She nodded, the charcoal poised above the canvas.

Louis ran a hand over his head.

“For God’s sake,” she said with a small laugh. “What is it?”

“I lied to you. When I told you what I did for a living. I lied to you.” He let out a deep breath. “I’m a cop, Zoe.”

For a moment, she didn’t move. Then she blinked, turned her back to him and went to the table.

“Here?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Suddenly, she picked up a can of brushes and hurled it at the wall. It caught the edge of the easel and knocked it over, splashing colored water across the walls. The canvas fell to the floor. Louis reached to pick it up.

“Leave it!” she said. She was holding a hand over her eyes. It was shaking.

“Zoe,” he said, taking a step toward her.

She turned abruptly. “Get out of here,” she said.

“Zoe, let’s talk — ”

“Get out!” she yelled. She snatched his sweatshirt from the floor and threw it at him. “Get out!” She went stiffly to the windows, holding herself as she stared out at the snow.

Louis watched her for a moment then slowly went back out into the living room. He dressed quickly, stopping at the door to pull on his running shoes. He paused, his hand on the doorknob, listening. He could hear nothing from the other room. Finally, he opened the door and stepped out into the cold.

It was snowing hard. He could barely make out the lake down below and the lights of the town far beyond. He took a few steps off the cabin’s porch and down the hill then stopped. He turned to look back at the cabin. His chest, the entire inside of his body, felt hollow, as though everything had been scooped out. It burned, almost like when he had been shot.

He had fucked it up.

“Goddamn it,” he whispered. Then louder. “Goddamn it!”

He swung and slammed his hand into a tree.

CHAPTER 18

Louis pushed open the door of the emergency room and paused, holding up his right hand to examine the gauze wrapping. What an ass he was, ramming his fist into a tree. The pain had kept him up most of the night — that and the memory of Zoe’s face. Finally, at five-thirty he had gotten up, dressed and walked to the hospital. Just a sprain, the doctor had told him, don’t use it for a couple of days.

He glanced at his watch. Seven-fifteen. Now what? He pulled up the collar of his jacket and started toward the station. There was nowhere else to go.

How could he have been so stupid? He should have told her the truth that first night. He should have been different with her than he had been with other women. Different because she was different, this was different. Even though they had known each other only a few weeks he felt this relationship was special, that it had the hope of going somewhere. But not now. He had blown it big time.

He turned the corner onto Main Street. The town was just starting to come to life. A couple of shop owners were out shoveling walks. The lights were on in Moe Cohick’s bakery, the smell of fresh bread wafting out on the cold air. What day was it? He wasn’t even sure. Worse, he didn’t care.

Deep in self-pity, he didn’t hear someone calling his name. Finally, it penetrated his funk and he turned. A rusty brown Honda Civic slid up to the curb. The passenger window rolled down and a pink face peered out. “Hey, you need a lift?”

Louis stared at the guy dumbly.

“Delp,” the man said. “Doug Delp. Reporter, Argus?”

Louis turned and trudged on.

The Civic followed slowly. “Where you heading?” Delp called.

Louis didn’t turn around.

“Officer? Officer Kincaid? Hey, we should talk,”

“Nothing to talk about, man,” Louis shot back over his shoulder without stopping. The last thing he needed now was some punk reporter gnawing on his ear.

“How about Duane Lacey?”

Louis stopped and stared at Delp, who had leaned over to look out the passenger window.

“What do you know about Lacey?” Louis said.

“Just what I hear,” Delp said, nodding toward the police scanner mounted to his dashboard.

“Get lost,” Louis said, turning away.

“I heard you let him go. That true?” Delp said.

Louis came back to the car. He pointed a finger into the open window. “Stay out of my face, Delp,” he