Private Ice

Jefferson frowned out the window. Fat, fluffy snowflakes fell from the sky. A thick white blanket covered the uneven ground.

He blinked a few times in quick succession and turned to look around the cabin. It was a small one room building with two cots, a wood stove, a small table with two chairs, and a tiny kitchen area. The beds were neatly made. A bowl of canned fruit salad sat half eaten on the table. The wood stove was cold and unused.

Outside the snow fell fast.

Jefferson looked down at his grey Hall and Oates t-shirt and jean shorts.

“It’s July for god’s sake,” he muttered.

He’d come to the cabin to get away. Work had become difficult, and he would have pushed through, but they’d put him on leave. Two weeks, minimum.

The cabin was on an island just off the coast. It had been in the family for years, and he didn’t make it here often enough. He’d taken the little motor boat out with some supplies and planned to spend a few days here. He’d only arrived last night and the isolation seemed to be getting to him already.

Jefferson opened the cabin door. A blast of cold washed over him and a flurry of snowflakes landed inside the cabin. Goosebumps formed on his arms, and he shivered involuntarily.

It was snow. In July.

Jefferson wondered what messed up experiments the eggheads at the Link were up to now. He attributed half the problems of the town to the experimental research centre.

He stepped back inside and pushed the door closed. There wouldn’t be any fishing today.

Jefferson sat back down at the table, then got up again and moved to the wood stove. He set about lighting a small fire with the dried wood stacked neatly next to it, then sat down and resumed his breakfast.

He could see the body again. He’d seen a lot of bodies working in homicide, but this one was different. He’d known her once.

They were kids then, and over the years they’d drifted. She’d married a bad news kind of guy and Jefferson suspected his dealings were the cause of her death, and so he’d done some creative investigating.

Jefferson suspected a few cops at the station were dirty, but he hadn’t been able to prove it. Somehow they got away with it, and yet he’d been put on leave for looking into a hunch.  He’d talked his way out of a suspension, but that didn’t bring her back or prove who her killer was.

He remembered riding bikes with her when they were ten or so. They’d bike up to Rutledge’s corner store, or out to the beach where they’d find shells or throw rocks in the water. Sometimes they’d bike nowhere in particular, but hours would go by until they were called in for dinner. 

The cabin was becoming chilly now, and the fire wasn’t growing fast enough to warm it up. He set his fork down and put another log into the wood stove.

“Worst cold snap I’ve ever seen,” he muttered to himself as he rubbed his hands together.

Jefferson wished he had the ingredients for soup as he finished the cold fruit salad. The cured meats and crackers he’d brought for his evening meals were unappealing with the shift in weather. He stood by the fire and stared out the window transfixed by the snow.

He wanted to resume his investigation. He had to make it right. He needed to, but he wasn’t going to be put back on the case. That much he knew.  

He could see his breath now. The room was growing colder by the minute. Jefferson put two more logs into the wood stove, then rubbed his hands together again. He walked to his rucksack and took out a sweatshirt, which he pulled over his head. He fished around in the bag and cursed himself for not bringing any pants.

Jefferson couldn’t see anything but snow out the window now. The island wasn’t too far out, and from the window he normally had an alright view of the mainland and the edge of town. It was just white now.

He shivered and thought of his food supply. He looked at the pile of logs by the wood stove. He didn’t have a good feeling.

Jefferson took his sweatshirt off, put on a second t-shirt, and pulled the sweatshirt back on. Then he checked the fire, kicked off his running shoes, and climbed into one of the cots and pulled the blanket over him. From the cot he could still see outside the window and he watched the flurry.

He pictured the body again. He sifted through all the clues he’d found, all of the reports and statements. There wasn’t much to go on, but he knew he could do it if they’d just get out of his way. He thought about trying to convince his superior. Or working on his off time with a colleague, handing off anything he found out and hoping they’d see it through. He couldn’t let it go. And neither of those options would amount to much. He was on his own.

He heard a faint cry. A girl’s voice. At first Jefferson thought he’d drifted off, but then he heard it again. He climbed out of bed, his breath visible in the cold air of the cabin, and walked to the window. The snow was still falling fast. He squinted and looked out.

He couldn’t see past the falling snow.   

He pulled his running shoes back on, and opened the cabin door. If he’d thought it was cold inside, it was nothing like outside. There was not a breath of wind, but cold burned his nose and cheeks. He shivered as he squinted into the falling snow.

A vast field of white lay before him and Jefferson realized for the first time the gentle waves that licked the edges of the island were frozen.

“Christ, what have those fools done now?” he muttered.

He sensed her before he saw her. A dark shape in the distance.

He frowned while he squinted, and he imagined his face was screwed up like a shrivelled raisin. It wasn’t possible to be where the figure was. Not unless they were in a boat.

“Hello?” he called out. His voice was muffled, the snowflakes and thick blanket catching his words and hanging onto them.

He was alone, but he could sense her out there. He knew it was her, even if that was impossible.

It was impossible for it to snow in July.

He stepped forward, through the deep snow, and squinted harder. He could sense her calling him, urging him off the island.

Jefferson looked down at the shore. Snow dusted the uneven ice that should have been water. He shivered and glanced back at the cabin.

When he looked back, she was still there. His dear friend, but at only ten years of age. He remembered them riding bikes and throwing rocks in the water. He remembered when she’d told him they could do it themselves. He didn’t even remember was it was anymore, just that she’d been so sure.

Everything was quiet, the snow collecting slowly on the ground. Still, she called out, urging him off the island.

The police force was filthy. He was sure of it. No one would solve her murder if he didn’t. And if it was the last thing he did, he’d solve it.

Jefferson turned and drudged back up to the cabin. He threw what remained of his food in his rucksack, wrapped a blanket around him like a cloak, and stepped back out into the snow. He secured the cabin door, and walked down to the shore.

“I’ll figure it out, Penny. I’ll figure it out myself.”

Jefferson tapped one foot on the ice. It was solid. He looked out and saw she was still there, waiting. He shifted his weight, and it held firm.

The cold air assaulted Jefferson’s lungs as he took a deep breath and moved out onto the ice.