Ice Jam

1.  Ice jam



Canaan Vermont, Friday morning, mid-January, 1983 



    “One, two . . . bang! bang!  That’s one way to shut up a bitch!” Monty spoke to himself as his ears continued to ring from the screaming and gunshots.  Set against his height and muscular upper body, the 20 gauge double barrel shotgun in his gloved hands looked like a giant’s toy. He hesitated before re-racking the gun below the other two and let his gray eyes adjust to the snow enhanced sunlight splashing into the east-facing window.  He surveyed the furniture and blue paisley wallpaper.  There were clues to this bedroom’s other uses in its filing cabinet, bookshelves, and fly-tying ensemble complete with table, vice, glue, black twine and menagerie of feathers.  But Monty could care less.  He glanced back at the warm living room and listened nervously for any change in pattern.  Other than his inward ringing, the house was reassuringly still.  Monty felt his shoulder and neck muscles loosen slightly.  The most odious task was complete.  There would be hard physical work ahead and many tracks to cover, but now there would be no rush, no resistance.  He knew it was time to return to the numbers…the old man’s step-by-step plan could work, but his next moves needed to be exceedingly careful or this killing would be for nothing.  Well, maybe not for nothing.  Apart from the old man’s schemes, Monty did see some personal advantage to this murder. Either way, the tedious task ahead would result in a completely convincing pattern of clues.  He could smell the acrid gun smoke that his insulated white coveralls helped carry upward from the basement.  Its aroma had trailed him through the kitchen and living room into the smaller corner bedroom where the gun was normally stored.  The smell intensified after he thumbed the gun’s toplever, opened the action, and removed and pocketed the spent yellow cartridges.  He chuckled as he gently closed the action and mounted the gun in its rack.  “And where there’s smoke . . .” he let the phrase dangle in his mind for a satisfying moment.  With the old man’s plan he knew the fire that was certain to follow would be the gun owner’s problem and not his own.



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The following morning



    The fur ruff on Reilly Bostwick’s parka tickled his neck as he scraped frost from the bedroom window.  The outdoor thermometer read fifteen below.  “Could be worse,” he thought. Just before leaving the room, he carefully lifted the large brown barrel shotgun from its rack and pocketed six cartridges.  His felt-lined boots echoed his walk across the living room and kitchen then beat a different tune on his frigid back porch.  Reilly strapped on his snowshoes and awkwardly walked the shoveled path to his driveway before climbing the snowbank ready for his morning hike.

He stepped into the deep snow and paused while he studied the gentle hillside ahead with meditating eyes.  He stooped slightly to scoop a sample of the loose powder.  As he put the snow in his mouth, he slowly closed his eyes.  He liked to begin each solo hunt or hike with a unique rite of season.  He paused to take stock of his senses and more fully appreciate the patterns within nature’s tapestry.  The Vermont woods had gradually become his chapel of choice.  Although he sometimes described himself as a “Home Baptist” to any townsfolk who probed, this was a ruse.  He couldn’t put his deeper thoughts into words even for his friends.  These ceremonies remained his secret.  Lately, Reilly found a measure of wholeness within nature’s unfeeling beauty.  He stood with anticipation waiting for the last errant thought to scamper from his mind.  When he felt centered he opened his eyes, stepped forward and let his sensory world blossom.



    Reilly's eyes sketched in blue, brown, green, gray and white . . . mostly white.  His mind's canvas framed the geometric lines of shadows amidst the asymmetry of glacial boulders and the echoing shapes of balsam needles, branches, and trees.  These sensations expanded with the smell of cedar, the song of chickadees, and the taste of snow.



    He preferred to make his own path edging parallel to his and Amy’s toboggan trail.  He welcomed the physical challenge of deep snow.  As he walked, his snowshoes squeaked at the bottom of each uncertain step. In the deep fluff, no surface was firm and the clues to stability were confused:  more like balancing on a loose wire than walking a trail.  With each step, Reilly sunk a foot or more.  He had to raise his legs high to move forward and higher yet to cross drifts and adjust to the up-slope of the hill.  Without his wood and leather Tubbs, he would have been leg bound and hip high in three feet of loosely-packed powder.  The sky was sliding to overcast, but it was still bright enough to print his eyes with the after-image of boulders and trees just passed.  Occasionally he would misstep, list to one side and fall in a twisted lurch.  This is authentic North Country fun, he mused.  Reilly liked metaphors and moving ahead in this border village was a snowshoeing experience.  It entailed much energy and more than a little thrashing.  He smiled as he trudged slowly into the shadows of spruce trees at the edge of the woods.



    He climbed onto the toboggan trail and looked ahead to the three slopes he and his eight-year-old daughter  loved to slide.  He remembered the fresh smell of Amy’s blond hair and how it blew in his face as they careened down the steepest slope.  He recalled her scream as they rolled off the toboggan at the twist in the trail that would have sent them airborne through the trees.  How they laughed at each other’s snow covered faces.  Any excuse to regress to childhood was good enough for Reilly, particularly if it cheered up Amy.  Trained in biology, he had read that humans are the only primate that plays as adults.  Reilly thought this droll and took any opportunity to reaffirm his species identity.  Life had been too serious lately for them both.  Amy was struggling with a difficult year cut off from her mother and unhappy at school.  Sledding was one activity that had not lost its thrill.  Reilly pledged himself to find more shared times to delight her.  Her recent friendship with that wild red-head Lottie Clayton was a superb bonus to his newly discovered love for her mother Adele.  Reilly turned slowly and surveyed the hill ahead.  The toboggan trail was a series of connected up-slopes and plateaus that ascend the hillside like a giant set of steps.  The surrounding fir trees dominated the winter hill now that the hardwoods had relinquished their autumnal glory.



    The north wind puffed fine snow against Reilly’s face.  As the slope grew steeper, he became breathless and stopped just short of the high trail.  Reilly’s heart calmed while he looked back to the wood smoke rising from his home below.  Pivoting his snowshoes slightly, he could see the valley of Canaan.  To the north the southernmost edge of Canada was a few miles distant. He tightened his parka collar to the wind and rubbed his gloved hands.  He knew the day was far too cold for a January rabbit hunt, but aside from his ritual, he needed exercise to dispel the stress of job and home.  He agreed with Jefferson: you see more on a walk when you carry a gun.  His rabbit gun was an antique hammer double by Thomas Newton.  He wondered if Jefferson ever applied this idea to snowshoes and three feet of fluff.



    Reilly felt the body heat slowly rise and flow through the hood of his parka. The moist updraft fogged his sunglasses but protected his alert Scottish face and clear green eyes from the stinging cold.  He touched glove to face as the frost on his reddish brown beard begin to melt.  Does facial hair actually insulate?  Well, he thought, even if it doesn’t, it pleases Adele and serves as my own funky cultural signature….besides, it solves the other problem.



    Reilly was thin, yet his 5’11” frame was surprisingly strong and quick for someone with a sedentary job like teaching.  This too led people to underestimating his age.  As he rested and cooled he thought about his appearance and the protection a beard offered.  He alternately winced and smiled at a quick succession of memories:  being mistaken for a student his first day of high school teaching, the years of repeating challenges for every six-pack purchased, and then the worst embarrassment: the crappy luck of being carded at Brattleboro’s first X-rated movie just after three of his high school students had entered without ID’s.  He was twenty nine at the time and his friends were merciless.  Even now, he knew that without his beard he would be pegged as twenty five or younger.



    Soon his eyes could again feel the heavy frigid air.  The sweat on his forehead was gone and his sunglasses had cleared.  He turned slowly toward the briar bushes next to a small stand of cedars.  It was time to observe the morning news written in snow.  The tracks near the top of the hill told a story of coyotes, snowshoe hare, and a partridge.  The partridge had left a snow angel with fine feathers marking the exultation of its rise that morning.  The bunny tracks were diffuse and playful, the coyote tracks few but purposeful.  There appeared to be 100 rabbits and one eastern coyote, but that was an illusion. Reilly loved to question Amy "How many tracks does a rabbit make?" or "How many moos are there in a cow?"  It had been six months since he recovered Amy in England where her mother abducted her.  Now he remained deeply concerned about her happiness and safety.  Do I know where she is?  How do I know for sure?  This weekend Amy was assuredly safe; her only risk was being spoiled by her grandmother in Richmond, Vermont. This fact and the exercise of the hunt helped lessen his anxiety and fear of loss.



    The rabbits needed no life insurance that day.  He passed up two shots as the wind started filling in tracks.  The sky darkened as snow clouds moved overhead.  As Reilly reached the crest of the hill, he halted suddenly.  The toboggan trail which should have started there at the top of the steepest run now ran on to the plateau ahead.  Where he expected to see a snowy furrow from previous hunts, there extended a fresh ribbon-like trail.  Reilly was surprised to see someone fifty yards ahead sitting on a log facing away.  That log with its embedded cant-dog hook was Reilly’s favorite resting spot.  It was parallel to the trail next to an enormous stump.  Reilly was puzzled; he never found others on the back hill even in summer.  He yelled a greeting, but the figure didn’t move.  As he trudged closer he could see a woman’s blond hair.  She wore neither hat nor gloves. His curiosity gave way to dread when he saw the pale parchment color of her extended left hand.  She was frozen on the snow covered log.  The snow was disturbed in front of her, but no tracks were visible.  Reilly moaned as he recognized the familiar body form and the snowflake pattern on the powder blue ski parka he had given Klarissa years before.  Reilly moved around her and was horrified to see that close range shotgun blasts had transformed her face into a congealed bloody pulp.  He muttered, “Oh my God…...”



    Reilly felt crushed by this unearthly tableau.  Here was his dead ex-wife displayed with her left hand on the stump and her right hand around the rusted cant-dog projecting from within the log.  Reilly used to consider that hook a bookmark to the time when it embedded in the growing tree.  It once inspired his informal name for the hill, but now this relic tool was merely a bizarre detail in a surreal scene.



    In shock, Reilly staggered backward from the body.  His snowshoes tangled.  As he fell, the snow engulfed him.  He landed sitting low looking at Klarissa’s body.  Suddenly he was sweating and his breath was shallow.  Beyond he could see the placid valley which a few moments before had been his reality.  It was as if he couldn't muster the will to move.  He averted his eyes, groping for something living and familiar.  He knew there was personal menace in this death beyond the raw severed affections it evoked.  This was a lucid view of evil.  He felt like the sole keeper of the world's worst secret.  What should he do?  Klarissa was beyond earthly help.  It was time to divulge, to share the grief, to start an unstoppable process.  He knew this was a death intended to spin other lives beyond control.  And Amy…. what of Amy?  How would she be able to stand this misery beyond misery?  While drawing a deep breath Reilly used a sapling to regain his footing and face away from the body.  He staggered to the trail’s downslope and compulsively looked back.  He was shaking uncontrollably as he turned to trudge down the stormy hill.



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      A dirty pathway in the snow marked the prints of the town constable, outpost Vermont state trooper, and the state medical examiner's staff.  In the background, Reilly could hear the police snowmobile make another trip.  The snow was picking up and the body remained on the hill.  The detective's flood of questions had stopped for now.  Reilly’s cavernous snow-walled driveway held several police vehicles.  Until a few minutes ago, the traffic seemed endless in and out of his basement entrance way and up and down the wooden stairs to the kitchen.  He felt thankful that Amy was far away.  Just the day before, his greatest fear was that Klarissa would try to kidnap her again. Now he didn’t know what to feel beyond a sincere horror and sadness at Klarissa’s death.  He knew Amy was about to experience another emotional cyclone.  Ironically, this one too involved her mother.  Behind it all was his knowledge, shared with the gathered constabulary, that he had the motive, the weapon, and the opportunity for this murder and that these suspicions wouldn’t depart with Klarissa’s body.

 

    Reilly sat with his head down on the kitchen table for close to an hour.  His wandering mind recalled his last glance of Klarissa alive in England after he regained custody of Amy.  He had just left the London court and had taken the train to Winchester.  Amy was climbing into the cab with her haphazardly packed suitcase.  From the time of her abduction until ten minutes earlier, she didn’t know which parent she would live with or which country she would call home.  Klarissa stood at the door in a lattice arch of flowers surrounding the entrance of the stately brick town house and waved goodbye to her daughter with tear-stained cheeks.  Beyond those tears Reilly thought he could still see arrogance, determination, and anger that meant Amy’s future was still not settled.



    Reilly’s temporary clarity slowly gave way to stunned nausea. His face was white with fear and he shuddered.  He felt an immense internal ice jam blocking the flow of his life with no dynamite or hope of spring . . . wild, random in effect, yet caused, and somehow intended.  He felt the water rise as the frigid air made ice and a yet larger dam.  Reilly wondered if he could regain the courage that helped save him in London.  With his and Klarissa’s well-known confrontations, Reilly was vulnerable to his most dreaded fears.  Caught in this perfect trap, could he again save Amy?



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    Adele Clayton had no idea why she needed to be cold . . . maybe to numb sadness.  Her wide set blue eyes revisited the deserted Rhode Island beach as her tears dried.  She shivered as the sea breeze ruffled her soft chestnut hair.  Perhaps she had chosen the light jeans and old chamois shirt for this discomfort, if she had chosen at all.  The sugary pretense of the family gathering had started to smother her.  Despite her dad and Uncle Josh’s easy authenticity, she knew her uncle’s cancer battle was almost over.  The other adult’s sensitivity to the children glazed the conversation with a cloying optimism Adele felt compelled to escape.  The penetrating cold allowed her to cry alone.  She slowly turned and climbed the sand-scoured front steps of her parents’ beach house and slipped inside as the phone in the near bedroom started to ring.



    It was late that afternoon when Reilly’s call sounded an alarm from the opposite edge of New England.  Adele took the phone from her mother.  She braced herself reading fear in Reilly's voice.  As he explained his discovery, Reilly’s leadened words spoke crisis.  Somehow this man and his child who had so recently found an unexpected place in her heart were caught in a whirlpool of ice water and knives.  Despite her sadness, she quickly understood the risk and urgency.  Yet she also knew that this call to action would give relief, or at least escape from her uncle’s unsolvable problem. 

Reilly believed that Adele’s beauty made people underestimate her other talent.  He had seen her fair face and shapely body put confident males in fits of approach/avoidance, but her other effect on people was more mysterious.  Hers was the face that both women and men saw first in a group.  There was some recognized spark of life… an attractiveness that went beyond sexuality into her deeper female nature.  Adele was the person they wanted to meet, to talk to…the one they wanted as a friend.  He believed Adele was remembered by all who met her.  Some for her bouncy walk, her offbeat humor, or her helping hands, but all for those big blue eyes and enchanting smile.  She had a special grace that left friends and acquaintances with an afterglow of betterment.



    He also knew that she was brilliant and uniquely capable of calm and focus, even as a maelstrom raged.  As they talked, Adele felt strengthened by his absolute trust.  This in turn, allowed her to think quickly and clearly.  She understood that Reilly was asking her to sort through the rubble pile of his personal history and to rally his talented band of friends.  This was a cry for help would test all their gifts to the extreme. 



    "Oh honey!  That’s awful!  You must be horribly upset.”  Adele immediately understood the implications of his discovery.



    With the pulse in his neck throbbing, Reilly exclaimed, "Adele, I don't know what this means!  It’s too crazy! What can I possibly tell Amy?  This might destroy her!"



    Hearing panic, Adele changed tack.  "Reilly, stay calm.  Tell me exactly what’s going on.  Lottie and I will come home tonight….I’ll be there to help you in the morning."  Adele searched frantically around her mom’s desk and found a pen and pad of paper.



    Reilly reluctantly described the morbid scene and how he was being offered up as the prime suspect by some macabre sleight of hand.



    “Reilly, this has to be a terrible shock . . . but you can’t be sure it’s Klarissa.  If it is you’ll mourn her . . . and then maybe we’ll want to find an attorney and start our own investigation,”….for the moment, however, you only need to protect yourself and Amy.”



    Adele scribbled notes as she talked.  “You don't want Amy to believe her mother has been killed and then find she hasn't.”



    “No, that would be….unthinkable . . . Could you help me protect Amy for a few days . . . She needs to be away from anyone who might talk about this murder.”



    “Of course, but remember, if this isn’t Klarissa, everything could be fine again for Amy.  The whole crisis could blow over before she learns about it.”



    “Look, I pray that Klarissa isn’t dead, but I know what I saw.  The detective already acts like I’m a suspect.  And what about our custody battles and the kidnapping?  Wait ‘till he learns about them.  The police could say I hated Klarissa and killed her for revenge or maybe to stop another abduction.  Damn it!  Someone plans to put me in jail where I won’t be able to help Amy.

 

    “Maybe,” said Adele, “but don’t jump to conclusions.  Police usually suspect the person who finds the body.  If it isn’t Klarissa, they’ll move on.”



      “We can wish, but shouldn’t we prepare for the worst.  At least if we hide Amy with friends, we’ll have time to make plans.”



    "Listen, I agree we need a temporary shelter for Amy . . . which means she can’t be in school for a few days.  What if you asked your mother to drive back with her?  Our friends will know the right place.  Even better . . . I could pull Lottie from school to keep her company.  Maybe you mother can stay and look after both of them.  We’d have to make up a good cover story, but I think that’ll work.”

Adele’s rapid fire suggestions helped Reilly focus.  “Yes . . . that would buy time.  I’ll call my mom.  Maybe you could call Nancy to find the place for them to stay.”



    Nancy Watkins was a lean and sophisticated thirty-five-year-old blonde who taught French at the high school.  Adele knew that Nancy was an excellent choice and felt encouraged that Reilly was recovering his ability to plan and act.



    “We’ll be home late tonight if the weather doesn’t delay us.  I’ll call Nancy when we arrive.”

Deep in the background Adele could hear the sound of boots climbing Reilly’s cellar stairs, then a brief pause and a sharp knock.



    "I've got to go.  The detective is back.  Please remember how much I love you." 



    Adele whispered her love in reply and said goodbye.  As Adele turned to her family to explain her sudden need to drive north, Reilly’s internal ice jam returned and started to expand.