The Ice Sings Back, page 20
Ros couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge him. She lapped the cabin, adrenaline and agony and exhaustion pumping through her body. Stopped in front of her desk. Looked down, saw the stacks of notebooks and paperwork. Her paperwork. She was a goddamned scientist.
“Tensions are high right now, Miss Fisher. We’ve got something like ten different departments, jurisdictions, and organizations all out here trying to find a little girl. We discovered something in addition to the search. Could you calm down enough to come back outside and speak with us?”
Stacked neatly on her desk were eight or nine nondescript field notebooks with black covers. She’d been using them for over a decade. Fill one up, start a new one. All her science, all her data, all her developments from student to serious researcher—she could chart that entire progress in such notebooks. She could probably even flip fifteen notebooks back and find the one where she first started sketching out the big questions that puzzled scientists in her field. She could list many of the great geology questions in her sleep, the topics her colleagues argued over endlessly in polite, passive language-laden peer reviewed papers. How did the Earth get formed? What triggered plate tectonics? What occurred at the K-T boundary? Is the planet really in a new geological epoch called the Anthropocene? How do climatic changes translate quantitatively into sea level rise? How deep is Kraken Mare? All questions that required method and observation and time and stacks of data sets. Questions that Ros could muse over with colleagues, could download the latest papers on, could chip away at with her own work.
Answerable questions.
Staring at the notebooks, Ros knew that for her, in science, it wasn’t answers that drove her. It was questions.
But Ros knew that some questions were unanswerable. And for over a decade, she’d chosen to not dwell in dark places of unknowing, wondering unanswerable questions about what happened to her mother and sister.
“Miss Fisher?”
“Dr. Fisher,” she corrected, reaching, equalizing what little power she had left.
“Ah,” Thomas responded, shifted in the doorway.
She swung her head at the chief, assessed his wide, brown eyes. Didn’t know if he respected a doctorate degree more than a marriage certificate. She looked down at his hands, saw he held a folder of paper. He waved it slightly, gave her a somewhat pleading look. More questions.
Ros swallowed, dry throat pounding. Stepped firmly into her power. “Only if he never speaks again.” Time to make demands.
“Bradford?”
“I don’t know his name,” Ros lied. Refused the satisfaction of answering his name.
“Okay.”
Ros shrugged one shoulder and maneuvered around the center table, slid past Tove, then by the fire chief, back out to the porch edge. She watched the chief nod briefly at Tove, then step back, whisper to Bradford. The officer backed up a few paces, sighed. Ros didn’t deign to look in his direction but did keep him in the crosshairs of her peripheral vision. Jonas also stood a few feet back, kept looking around the station like he’d never been there before, like it was a crime scene.
“Let’s start over,” Thomas said in a soothing voice. “We’re looking for Amelia Kane, a nine-year-old little girl last seen in the Three Sisters Wilderness wearing a purple shirt, green jeans. We realize that two days ago, Jonas here, and another of our team, May Young, checked in with you and took a statement, is that correct?”
Ros nodded a single confirmation, stared upward. The morning sky showed a uniform gray, a low blanket of Stratus clouds that looked like an incomplete fog. She closed her eyes, registered the temperature, wind, humidity. Recognized that there was a fine day unfolding, that the Stratus clouds would likely lift in an hour or so, reveal a solid blue afternoon. She felt a surge of happiness for Tove. It would be a good recording day for her.
“In the statements May Young recorded, it appears two hikers were also interviewed here. And none of you knew anything about the child’s disappearance, or had seen her at any point? Is that still true for you?”
“Yes,” Ros said quietly, wrath flaring in her throat like acid. She kept her face still, refused to give them a show of her insides. “I’ve never seen Amelia Kane.”
Bradford snorted. The fire chief jerked a hand at him, twisted his body so it angled towards Ros. “As you’ve been doing your work out here, have you ever been out to the Collier Glacier?”
“Of course.” Clipped. She wasn’t going to give anything if they didn’t.
“You ever explored the edge of it? What they call the moraine area?”
Ros nodded, then paused. She hated the feeling that they were leading her to something. This was not what people did to each other, not in the face of trauma and tragedy and the unknown. There was something they were building to, something they thought they knew, or she knew, and if they were humane or kind or decent, they would have come right out and said it. Instead, there was this performance that justified these men’s jobs and their assumed power over her.
Ros felt sick watching them. She sucked a breath in, released it quickly. Time again to make demands. Get her own questions going. She wasn’t a terrified seven-year-old. She was a fucking adult, a scientist. “What’s going on?” she demanded. “What is this about?”
Thomas fell silent for a moment, then made eye contact with the other two. “Well, Miss Fisher.”
“Dr. Fisher,” she repeated, refusing to concede anything.
“My apologies,” the chief said, then moved on. “When our search crews were looking for Amelia, they found a shoe in the snow near the Collier Glacier.”
Puzzlement swarmed up from Ros’s belly. “A shoe?” Her abdomen spasmed. She met the chief’s eyes. Realized he was staring at her. Watching her. Assessing.
“A shoe?” she prodded again.
“Do you remember what shoes your mother or Herring were wearing the day they disappeared?”
Ros closed her eyes, breathed in memory. Cigarette smoke in the car, Herring in something maybe red. She tried to summon a memory of her mother from that day she’d long tucked away, but all she got were flashes, Flower’s eyes, the click of the lid coming off a tube of lipstick, beads clacking, her mother with all her long hair swished over one shoulder.
“No,” she whispered.
“Do you know what shoe size your mother or Herring might have been?”
Amusement rose as bile in her throat. Ros didn’t know the size of her mother’s feet, had never thought to ask when she was a child, and such information, while perhaps written down somewhere—what would it tell them now? That Flower’s feet might fit into a found shoe and prove her existence, like Cinderella? Her lips tightened at the thought. “Is it glass?” she murmured, too late, couldn’t take it back.
“What?” Thomas asked, leaning forward.
Ros shook her head, dismissed herself, forced her hands to stay by her sides and not fly up to her mouth, to keep in the giggle that threatened to burst forth. She could imagine the headline: Hysterical Woman Giggles to Death.
“Is this familiar to you, Miss Fisher?” he asked, reaching into the folder, handing a photograph to her. “We think it’s too big for what we estimate your sister’s feet to have been at the time of her disappearance.”
The image showed a single shoe resting on snow, a white piece of paper with the number eighteen written in black marker next to it. The shoe looked like a canvas slip-on, had no laces, and was once white. It had begun decaying and there were chunks of fabric missing around the toe. The sole was stained brown.
Ros felt no hint of recognition looking at the image, no hint that it had perhaps once belonged to Flower nor Herring. She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Take your time,” he responded.
“I really don’t know, Chief Thomas.” Ros was firm. She handed the image back, looked up, eyed the Stratus clouds. On second thought, it might drizzle slightly before it cleared up.
“What about this one?” Thomas pulled another image from the folder in his hands, passed it to her. A photograph of a faded red running shoe with blue piping. It looked like the type of shoe Ros herself sometimes wore.
“Or this one?” He passed her a third image, this time of a black dress shoe missing a heel. “Do you recognize any of these?”
Ros stared at the images, closed down quickly the memory of looking at other photos, of trying so hard to see something, anything that would tell them what happened. She tried to summon memory of feet or shoes or Flower. Nothing. Again, she shook her head. “The only thing I remember about my mother in relation to shoes is the sound of heels clattering on sidewalks. She wore heels, that bit I at least remember. But I don’t recognize any of these.”
“Okay,” the chief said, sighing. He took the images back and stepped back from the porch. “We’re not going to take up any more of your time, Miss Fisher.”
“That’s it?” Ros was incredulous. They’d hiked all the way to the station for shoes? Came on so strong just to leave? She narrowed her eyes at the chief, nearly missed Bradford’s second audible snort.
“Chief,” the police officer muttered.
“That’s it,” Thomas said determinedly, final, squaring off not against Ros, but Bradford. She couldn’t see the man’s face, but she saw Bradford raise his arms, cross them over his chest, shake his head. She watched Jonas step toward the pair.
Ros didn’t care what was happening between them, but she did care about how she was involved. She moved from the porch edge, toed the damp ground with her bare foot, gingerly stepped towards them, drew herself tall. Took in a deep breath, pulled her courage from a decade of working successfully on her own merit. “What’s this about?” she demanded, inserted as much strength as she could into her question.
They ignored her.
“Let’s go,” the chief said to Bradford, who was glaring with an expression Ros recognized as disgust.
Bradford twisted then, scowled at Ros. She knew before he opened his mouth that something ugly was coming. She waited.
“You know what they teach us at the academy?” Bradford called, even as the chief reached and put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Hurt people hurt people. Those who see violence, enact violence.”
Bewilderment stung her. Whatever she expected, it wasn’t this. She analyzed his words, puzzled them for a brief moment. “What kind of simplistic pseudo-science junk is that?”
Bradford stepped swiftly around the two other men and charged up to Ros. Stood so close she could feel his breath as he glared down at her. “Me, I think it’s even more clear than that. When we’re looking for a suspect, I don’t think we should look at the normal people. Instead, we should look for people like you, Rosmarinus. Broken people.”
“That’s enough, officer. Stop.” The chief was suddenly there, putting his hand on Bradford’s shoulder.
Bradford kept talking. “What are you really doing out here, working where your family disappeared? Why do people keep disappearing around you? Isn’t that sick?”
“Officer Bradford, I’m ordering you to step away from Miss Fisher.” Thomas’s voice boomed, full command.
“You strike me as a liar, Rosmarinus.”
The cabin porch squeaked, and then Tove was moving across the deck, down the steps, sliding her body between Bradford and Ros, hands on her hips, immovable.
Bradford was forced to step back as Tove took up the space between them. “Who are you?” he exclaimed, eyes raking Tove.
“None of your business, you amped up shit. Fuck off, get away from us.”
Bradford didn’t move. He glared at Tove and Ros. “Who are you?” he repeated. “Answer now.”
The anger in his eyes flashed cold like diamonds on royalty. Ros realized that the man might hit either of them. She was unsure what was happening but refused to bow. She took a breath, held her ground.
She felt Tove stretch her hand back, reach, and then her fingers entwined around Ros’s. Ros wasn’t sure which one of them was shaking, but she felt safer clutching Tove’s hand. She couldn’t see Tove’s face, but she saw the knot of hair bob, lift, angle, and she knew Tove was glaring up at Bradford. Admiration waved over her.
“No,” she said.
Bradford closed his mouth, shook his head, stepped back. He looked at both women, took in their held hands. He swung about, glowered at the fire chief. “Fine,” he said, raising his hands. “I’m so tired of everyone shoveling all this shit on me when all I’m doing is my fucking job. Trying to protect people from scumbags.”
Warmth radiated through Ros as Tove’s back and thighs pressed against the front of her body. The woman clicked her throat, gripped Ros’s hand tighter. Ros stood still, looked over Tove’s shoulder, watched currents detonating between the three men, did not understand what was happening beyond the solidity of Tove.
“Officer, you need to step away.” The chief’s voice was steel.
“Haven’t you read the case profile?” Bradford spat. “Her own mother and sister disappear. And she comes back here—for what? We’ve had reports of at least nine women missing in this area. And now, an hour from this very fucking station, what do we find? Come on, Chief, this is a no brainer. Copycat? Replicating her own tragedies?”
“And what have you ever done about all those missing women?” Ros hissed, Tove’s fingers clenching hers.
“Jonas, escort Officer Bradford to the trailhead immediately. Immediately.” The chief’s command was forceful.
Ros watched Jonas step forward, reach to place a hand on Bradford’s shoulder. But the officer shrugged away, turned, looked at Ros one more time, shook his head, then walked searingly back to the forest edge. Jonas glanced at Thomas, then trailed Bradford.
As the two moved away, Bradford’s words sunk in slow to Ros. Her, a killer? She suppressed an inappropriate urge to laugh. Her fingers twisted tighter in Tove’s. What did he mean, something found an hour from her? Ros turned, stared at the fire chief. His face was like grated stone.
“I apologize unreservedly for Officer Bradford’s behavior. No excuses. I can provide you all the necessary information if you want to file a complaint.”
“Thank you,” Ros said softly. “But tell me what he meant. Now.”
Tove squeezed her hand, three pulses.
Thomas cleared his throat. “You understand that this is an ongoing investigation. I can’t disclose any details.”
He drew a deep breath, shifted in his stance, looked down at his large hands. Sighed, looked back up and Ros caught his eye. She saw pity there alongside something else. “But. I’d be breaking protocol, but after Officer Bradford, I think you deserve to know a few details.”
Ros nodded, mute.
Thomas waved the pictures in his hands. “Two days ago, near the side of Collier Glacier, we found these shoes in the snow.”
He paused, seemed to be trying to collect his words. Ros waited.
“They were on or near the feet of at least three, but possibly more, individual bodies. We’ve not yet been able to identify the remains because, even though they’ve been preserved in the ice and snow, they are, well, incomplete. Some are quite far gone. We suspect there may be more.”
Ros felt her legs weaken, but then Tove’s arms were on either side of her, holding, keeping her upright.
The fire chief released his breath into the clear mountain air, finished it. “The bodies are all female.”
12
THE
DAUGHTER
It rained hard for the third day in a row. Donna leaned on the porch banister and watched water slap the earth.
She was restless.
When she’d made her decision to come to the cabin, when she and her therapist had talked through what that would look like, what tools she’d need, it hadn’t occurred to her that Ray would take so long dying. The hospital had been pretty clear about the expanding growths in his stomach, lungs, brain, and bowels. It was going to be quick, and it was going to be painful.
Donna’s therapist had suggested Donna take this chance to forgive the man, to let go of her anger as she sat with dying Ray, to use this opportunity to get closure and work towards being a better person. Reconciliation, she’d said. Family reunification. Forgiveness.
Donna had agreed while her mind spun data layers, while she’d connected points and lines and polygons and visualized exactly what she could do. She most certainly could tend Ray through his last hours, but she could also use the moment to complete some of the files in her cabinet. She could understand the timeline of events.
But the weeks at the cabin had stretched into months and Donna was still no closer to finding the truth about had happened to Julene.
And she needed to know. It was the single most important question she had.
She worried that the answer was right in front of her, but that she had a cognitive filter permitting her to only see specific details and ignore everything else. It wouldn’t surprise her—filtering, ignoring, denying were all survival mechanisms the mind activated in stressful circumstances. God knew she experienced stress every moment she waited at the cabin for Ray to die. Or talk.
She needed a reward. To release the stress. Plus, rewards were motivational. Kept a person going.
Donna mentally browsed her options. Would she prefer a tangible reward like new, warm socks? Or, a self-care reward, like a hot coffee and a walk? Maybe a guilty treat reward? Donna smiled at the thought, saw her therapists smiling too.
She walked to her car, opened the trunk. A plastic bin labeled “Rewards” was half buried under blankets and clothes. Donna opened the lid, pulled out the smaller bag labeled “Sweet Rewards.” She took a milk chocolate bar from the box, put everything back, then wandered back up to the porch, munching.
