The colored lights danced over the white tile, turning the shards of glass into gaudy jewels. Snowflakes swirled in through the gaping hole in the door, dying as they hit the warm blood. A Christmas wreath lay across his legs, its sound-activated battery pack sending out a tinny rendition of “Silent Night.”
A scream came from upstairs.
The man holding the shotgun looked up the staircase and then reached into his jacket and withdrew a blue-backed playing card. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it through the hole in the glass. It spun to the floor, settling on the white tile near the body.
“Merry fucking Christmas, Officer Pryce,” he said.
It was a lousy day for drive. Smog-stained sleet left dirty streaks on the windshield. Slick patches of ice sent the tires spinning for grip. It seemed to take forever for the gray Detroit skyline to disappear in the rearview mirror.
The bad weather followed him as he drove up I-75, past the sooty factories in Flint and the sodden cornfields outside Saginaw. Somewhere north of a town called Standish, the temperature dropped and the sleet turned to snow. Now it was coming down hard, flakes so big he could make out their lacy patterns on the windshield before the wipers slapped them away.
Louis Kincaid followed a snowplow into Rose City and pulled into a gas station. As he waited for the old man to fill the tank, he unfolded the wrinkled map. It couldn’t be far now, maybe twenty-five miles.
“That’s eleven-fifty,” the old man said, holding out a mittened hand. “Check your oil?”
Louis nodded. “Yeah, guess you better. Got a small leak.”
The old man eyed the scarred white ’65 Mustang. “That ain’t your only problem,” he said. “that back right tire’s bald.”
Louis nodded grimly and man trudged to the front of the car and popped the hood. As he watched the man pull the dipstick, he thought of Phillip Lawrence’s warning that morning.
“It took a quart but you’re gonna need another soon.”
“Thanks.” He handed the old man some bills. “How far to Loon Lake?”
“About thirty miles.” His snow-encrusted browed knitted. “You going up there for some ice fishing?”
“Nope. A job.”
The man nodded and handed back the change. “Well, good luck to you. Pretty place, Loon Lake.”
“So I’ve heard.”
As he pulled back onto the highway, Louis shook his head and smiled. It was obvious that the old man had been trying his damndest to figure out what business a young black man in a beat-up convertible had in Loon Lake. Phillip had warned him it would be like that.
Louis reached down and turned up the heater to its highest setting. It answered with a cough and a blast of cold air. He banged a fist on the dash then switched the dead heater off.
A place to get away. That didn’t sound so bad. It wasn’t like he had such a great life back in Detroit. A roach-filled efficiency. And no job.
He shook his head, thinking back over the events of the last couple months. Stupid. Had he really expected to walk into the station and get his old job back after being gone for year? It had been official, his leave of absence, but by the time he got back to Ann Arbor there were cutbacks on the force. Last one in, first one out. Jesus, tough luck, Louis, you’re a good cop but you know how these budget things are, but if you need a recommendation…
The next day the letter had come. He could still see the envelope sticking out of his mail slot with the royal-blue seal that made his heart stop.
He saw the classified ad in the
Police Officer. Loon Lake, Mich.
Must be MLEOTC. $22,000.
Physical/drug test required.
Application deadline Dec. 18, 5 p.m.
