Dead of Winter

He turned back to the rest of his mail, sifting through the junk flyers and bills. His eyes locked on a small envelope with a Flint return address. It was from Stephanie Pryce. He ripped it open.

The note was short, poignant, an acknowledgment for unraveling the truth about her husband’s death. She had added a postscript, the Churchill quote from Pryce’s funeral plaque. Louis read it, a hand rubbing his brow.

The only guide to a man is his conscience. With this shield, however fates may play, we march always in the ranks of honor.

He put the letter back in its envelope. Rising stiffly, he went to the living room. He stood for a moment, his lassitude threatening to overtake him. He felt something rub his leg and looked down. It was the black cat again.

“Don’t you have someplace to go?” he asked.

It was getting cold. The fire was burning down; he needed to go outside and get more logs. Slipping on an old pair of loafers and a University of Michigan jacket he stepped out onto the porch.

The bright sunlight made his eyes water, the cold air made his chest ache. He stared toward the log pile then paused, his eyes going out to the lake.

It glistened in the sun, its white blanket broken only by the ripple of a lone snowmobile. The sound of its motor drifted in to him, fading as it headed away toward the north shore. He walked down to the shoreline and stood looking out over the flat white expanse, his hands thrust in his pockets.

His fingers closed around something small and hard in his pocket. He pulled it out. It was a black stone, the snowflake obsidian Ollie had given him. He held it up to the sun. It is the stone of purity, that balances the mind, body and spirit.

More of Ollie’s words trickled into his mind, something he had said about finding his place, where he needed to be, something about water. What had he said?

But then, Frances Lawrence was in his head, too, whispering. People have places on earth where their souls feel comfortable, Louis, places where they feel at home.

His fingers closed around Ollie’s snowflake stone, and he remembered: The water is where you need to settle, Kincaid. It doesn’t have to be here. There’s lots of water in the world.

He stared out at the frozen lake. This was not the place. He had thought it would be but it wasn’t. Right now, he wasn’t sure where he did belong.

The only thing he knew for sure was that he had to go on trying to find it. Gripping the hard black stone, he turned and started back.