Dead of Winter

Gibralter, Jesse, Ollie and Lovejoy had arrived soon after. Even after tear gas was fired into the cabin, the kids refused to come out. At this point Gibralter was in front with Pryce, Jesse in the back, with Lovejoy and Ollie positioned on either side of the cabin.

According to the report, Johnny Lacey ran out the back door, took off toward the woods and was tackled by Jesse about twenty yards from the cabin. “Officer Harrison’s shotgun discharged, hitting suspect in the left front facial area. Suspect died at the scene.”

Louis turned and looked at the woods. He could almost picture the way it went down. He could see Johnny Lacey bolting out the back. He could see Jesse chasing him, the way he had chased Duane Lacey in the snowy field outside Jo-Jo’s. He could see Jesse losing it, the way he had with the hippie. He could see Jesse going into a rage and bludgeoning Johnny’s head.

What had happened after that? Was it Ollie or Lovejoy who had pulled Jesse off Johnny Lacey? And who had been the one to pick up the shotgun and blast off Johnny’s face to cover up the beating?

Louis let out a deep breath. Jesse, Gibralter, Lovejoy, Ollie…he tried to picture them standing over the body. He tried to imagine one of them pulling the trigger of the shotgun. He could almost hear the echo of the shot in the trees and smell the powder burn in the clean air. But he couldn’t see who had done it.

He lowered his head. He didn’t want to see any of this.

When he looked up, his eyes picked up a flash in an upstairs window. He brought his hand up to shield his eyes. Someone was standing there. He pulled out his sunglasses and slipped them on.

It was a teenage girl, about fourteen. She was wearing a red sweatshirt and a bunch of silver bangle bracelets that she twisted nervously as she watched him. He guessed she was the Edens’s kid and wondered briefly if she knew about the deaths at her vacation home.

Louis stared at her. Angela and Cole. Had they seen what happened in the backyard?

He went back to Gibralter’s report. Cole had been found hiding in an upstairs closet, armed with a shotgun. He could have seen something and then hid. But Angela had appeared at the back door after Johnny was killed.

At this time, suspect #3 exited the premises through the rear door, armed with a small-caliber handgun. She positioned herself on the deck and announced she intended to shoot the officers unless they allowed her to leave the scene. Officers Wickshaw and Lovejoy ordered the suspect to drop her weapon. Suspect refused. Suspect then raised her weapon and fired at officers. Officer Wickshaw discharged his weapon, fatally wounding suspect in chest.

Louis shook his head. It didn’t make sense. Angela Lacey had no prior record involving guns; none of the kids was on drugs, according to toxicology reports. Why did she overreact? Why didn’t she just surrender?

He knew there was no point in reading the other reports, they were duplicates of Gibralter’s. But maybe there was something different in Pryce’s. He fished it out, scanning it:

I heard Officer Harrison request assistance in a foot pursuit. I heard a female screaming and a shotgun discharged. I offered assistance, but was directed to remain in my position. At exactly 16:35, I heard a handgun discharged. Exactly five seconds later, I heard a second shot.

Because Pryce had been ordered to stay out front, his perspective was limited, but he had heard Angela scream. Louis looked back at the Eden girl in the window upstairs. He couldn’t prove it but he was certain now that Gibralter had lied about Angela in his report. She had been standing at the door when her brother was killed and she had fired that gun because she was afraid they would kill her too.

Why had they let her get out of the cabin in the first place? And why hadn’t they shot to wound not kill? He stared at the sliding glass door, trying to imagine Angela standing there, pointing the gun. He tried to imagine what was running through her head.

Nothing. No feelings, no vibrations. It had been five years, and the trail was cold. It wasn’t like the Pryce house. No one spoke to him here. No one was alive.

Reluctantly, he opened the raid file again, looking for something, anything, that would trigger his brain. He stopped on the photograph of Angela’s body. He held it up, comparing it to the cabin itself. The photo showed Angela slumped near the right side of the sliding glass door. He could tell her exact position because part of an electrical box was visible in the upper corner of the photograph. Nothing…

He pulled out a second photograph, this one the close-up of Angela’s hand. He stared at the odd, scythe- shaped bruise across the back of her hand. What the hell had caused it?

Something made him look up.

It was the girl at the window. She was still standing there, watching him, twisting her silver bracelets.

Bracelets…

His hand crept back under his parka to the small of his back. He pulled out his handcuffs.

He stared at them for a moment then his eyes went back to the cabin, scanning the back and finally finding what he was looking for. The conduit snaked up, out of the electrical box, just a few feet from the sliding glass door.

They had handcuffed her. She could not have fired the gun. They had handcuffed her to the conduit.

Something in his memory stirred and he quickly pulled out Pryce’s report. It hadn’t registered a moment ago but he knew the way Pryce’s mercurial mind worked, knew the kind of details it recorded. He drew in a breath. There it was.

At exactly 16:35, I heard a handgun discharged. Exactly five seconds later, I heard a second shot.

Pryce heard two shots in five seconds. Not one shot and what should have been the instantaneous return fire of an officer acting in self-defense. But five full seconds. That was the way Pryce’s mind worked, not in “approximately” or “about” but “exactly.” If Thomas Pryce said five seconds, it was the truth.

Five seconds…

Nothing in the normal duration of everyday life. But it was everything in the split-second time span of a crime.

Five seconds…

Just long enough for someone to react, to plan, to create a new reality.

Louis stared at the electrical conduit, seeing Angela Lacey, seeing everything, with a horrible clarity. Closing the folder, he went up onto the deck. There was a gap between the cabin and the conduit large enough to slip a cuff through.

Angela was about five feet tall, which meant they had to raise her arm over her head to cuff her. The bruise on her wrist, he knew now, would not have been made from the cuff alone. It was caused by an extreme restriction of blood flow.

Louis stared at the conduit. He could see her now. He could see her, hanging there by one arm, the weight of her body pulling her down, constricting her wrist against the metal cuff. Weight…dead weight.

Angela Lacey had appeared at the back door, just as the reports said. She saw Jesse beat her brother and saw them blow off his face. They used the cuffs to control her while they dealt with Jesse’s mess. She never had a gun.

Someone, one of the four, shot her. It was Ollie, if the report was to be believed. She fell, still chained to the conduit. Five seconds later, a second gun was fired. It was a “throw-down,” one of the oldest tricks in the book. They had fired it into the air to simulate returned fire then they planted it in Angela’s hand to make it look as though she shot first.

They had erased her, just as they had erased the evidence of her brother’s bludgeoned face.

Louis pulled in a deep breath. There was no way to prove any of it. It was still just a theory, and he could be wrong, his imagination running wild. Ollie and Lovejoy couldn’t talk; they were dead. Gibralter would never admit to anything. And Jesse…

Louis felt his stomach turn. Ollie and Lovejoy were conspirators, each guilty in his own way. But Jesse was