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Authors: Laura Disilverio
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is, as in hot tub. Get your suit.”
8
Parked outside the Ice Hall Friday morning, I cursed the makers of Scotch and my own stupidity. Relaxing with Dan in the hot tub, I’d drunk more than I intended to. That happened more often than it should when I drank with Dan because the man could put away more alcohol than the Scottish national rugby team. A headache pounded behind my eyes despite the handful of aspirin I’d swallowed with my first Pepsi of the day at four thirty. That’s A.M. Even the birds knew there was no point to being up this early, especially in the winter. I’d left the air force mostly because they overdo the whole teamwork thing—rugged individualism was good enough for the pioneers and it’s good enough for me—but also because the emphasis on starting the day BCOD (before the crack of dawn) went against nature—mine at any rate. When I stepped out of my car, the bitter cold made it seem even darker. I plunged my hands into my coat pockets, grateful for the black cowl-necked sweater that swathed my neck. My wool ski cap kept my head warm, even though I’d have hat-head later in the day. I wore an old pair of soccer cleats on my feet in anticipation of having to meet Bobrova on her home turf: ice. There was only one other vehicle in the lot, a late-model Volvo I assumed was Bobrova’s.
I made my way to the side door Dara had assured me would be open. It was. The only illumination came from the EXIT sign over my head that shed a reddish glow. I started down the hall, calling softly, “Coach Bobrova?”
No answer. I tried a couple of doors, but they were locked. Okay, this was a little spooky. If it hadn’t been for the van in the lot and the open door, I’d’ve assumed the place was deserted. It was quieter than a high school on Sunday with thin carpet muffling my footsteps. Some light would improve the atmosphere tremendously, I decided, running my hand along the wall in search of a switch. No dice. I almost wished Gigi were here; she’d have a flashlight in the saddlebag she called a purse.
A hiss of sound I couldn’t identify came from in front of me, from the rink, if I wasn’t mistaken. I walked more purposefully toward the double doors and pushed them open. It seemed lighter in here, with the flat sheet of ice reflecting the ambient light from windows set high in the walls and a dim glow coming from a vending machine in the corner, but it was still a dark twilight. As I listened, trying to orient myself, a door clicked closed on the far side of the rink.
“Coach Bobrova?” I was getting pissed. Okay, I didn’t have an appointment, but Dara had said Bobrova was here by five every morning. She must have heard me calling her name. If the door closing was her ducking out to avoid me, I was going to haunt her until she talked to me about her putative nephew. Maybe I’d even take a skating class so I could follow her around on the ice. Hah! I looked at my illuminated watch dial. Five ten. Her first students would be here in five minutes and I’d lose the opportunity to speak with her.
“Help…”
The throaty whisper drifted from the middle of the ice. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I could barely make out a darker shape on the ice. Bobrova had fallen—she was hurt. The woman had to be seventy, after all, and probably had osteoporosis. Maybe she’d broken her hip. “Just a sec,” I called to her, feeling my way to the gate.
My tailbone twitched as I shuffle-stepped across the ice in my cleats, reminding me of yesterday’s fall. Reaching the still figure, I crouched beside her, feeling for her hand. I brushed the hem of her cape and let my hand travel up it until I encountered her hip and then her shoulder. My hand was damp, and I wondered how long she’d been lying here, unable to summon help. She was probably soaked to the skin and freezing.
“Where does it hurt?” I asked, reaching for my cell phone.
“Dmitri—” she croaked.
“Why’s it so dark?” a
8
Parked outside the Ice Hall Friday morning, I cursed the makers of Scotch and my own stupidity. Relaxing with Dan in the hot tub, I’d drunk more than I intended to. That happened more often than it should when I drank with Dan because the man could put away more alcohol than the Scottish national rugby team. A headache pounded behind my eyes despite the handful of aspirin I’d swallowed with my first Pepsi of the day at four thirty. That’s A.M. Even the birds knew there was no point to being up this early, especially in the winter. I’d left the air force mostly because they overdo the whole teamwork thing—rugged individualism was good enough for the pioneers and it’s good enough for me—but also because the emphasis on starting the day BCOD (before the crack of dawn) went against nature—mine at any rate. When I stepped out of my car, the bitter cold made it seem even darker. I plunged my hands into my coat pockets, grateful for the black cowl-necked sweater that swathed my neck. My wool ski cap kept my head warm, even though I’d have hat-head later in the day. I wore an old pair of soccer cleats on my feet in anticipation of having to meet Bobrova on her home turf: ice. There was only one other vehicle in the lot, a late-model Volvo I assumed was Bobrova’s.
I made my way to the side door Dara had assured me would be open. It was. The only illumination came from the EXIT sign over my head that shed a reddish glow. I started down the hall, calling softly, “Coach Bobrova?”
No answer. I tried a couple of doors, but they were locked. Okay, this was a little spooky. If it hadn’t been for the van in the lot and the open door, I’d’ve assumed the place was deserted. It was quieter than a high school on Sunday with thin carpet muffling my footsteps. Some light would improve the atmosphere tremendously, I decided, running my hand along the wall in search of a switch. No dice. I almost wished Gigi were here; she’d have a flashlight in the saddlebag she called a purse.
A hiss of sound I couldn’t identify came from in front of me, from the rink, if I wasn’t mistaken. I walked more purposefully toward the double doors and pushed them open. It seemed lighter in here, with the flat sheet of ice reflecting the ambient light from windows set high in the walls and a dim glow coming from a vending machine in the corner, but it was still a dark twilight. As I listened, trying to orient myself, a door clicked closed on the far side of the rink.
“Coach Bobrova?” I was getting pissed. Okay, I didn’t have an appointment, but Dara had said Bobrova was here by five every morning. She must have heard me calling her name. If the door closing was her ducking out to avoid me, I was going to haunt her until she talked to me about her putative nephew. Maybe I’d even take a skating class so I could follow her around on the ice. Hah! I looked at my illuminated watch dial. Five ten. Her first students would be here in five minutes and I’d lose the opportunity to speak with her.
“Help…”
The throaty whisper drifted from the middle of the ice. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I could barely make out a darker shape on the ice. Bobrova had fallen—she was hurt. The woman had to be seventy, after all, and probably had osteoporosis. Maybe she’d broken her hip. “Just a sec,” I called to her, feeling my way to the gate.
My tailbone twitched as I shuffle-stepped across the ice in my cleats, reminding me of yesterday’s fall. Reaching the still figure, I crouched beside her, feeling for her hand. I brushed the hem of her cape and let my hand travel up it until I encountered her hip and then her shoulder. My hand was damp, and I wondered how long she’d been lying here, unable to summon help. She was probably soaked to the skin and freezing.
“Where does it hurt?” I asked, reaching for my cell phone.
“Dmitri—” she croaked.
“Why’s it so dark?” a
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