Read Online The Wind Chill Factor by Thomas Gifford - Free Book Online
Authors: Thomas Gifford
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said.
“All right.” As I helped her into her coat I said: “What about the documents, Paula? Peterson’s going to have to know, I imagine, sooner or later.”
“I don’t know why,” she said, buttoning up, collecting her leather patch bag and gloves. “What have those things got to do with Peterson?”
“Nothing, if Cyril died a natural death. But the way Bradlee reacted to the condition of the body, and then the way Peterson nosed around … well, I don’t know, Paula, but if there was anything funny about Cyril’s death—then Peterson’s going to want a lot of answers to a lot of questions. And one of the questions is going to be, why did Cyril decide to come all the way home from Buenos Aires?” We were standing in the foyer looking at each other. I kept thinking that she was a very attractive woman, that Cyril had known a good thing when he’d seen it. She seemed so self-sufficient.
“Well, we can talk about it in the morning. Arthur would know what we should do.”
We went out to start her car. It was deep under snow and I tried to brush it off with my arm. It was dry, soft like dust, incredibly cold. Paula slid in behind the wheel and turned the key, producing that aggravating grinding noise, again and again. I went behind the car to sweep the back window. The grinding got fainter and fainter. I went back to her and she looked up, smiling vaguely. “Well, surprise.”
“It’s too cold,” I said. “It’s not going to start, so forget it.”
“I’ll have to stay the night.” Our breath hung in the air before us. Wind chewed at the naked branches of the trees overhead, blew snow in my face. Shaking her head in a spasm, she said: “I can’t stay in the same house with Cyril, please, John, I can’t.”
“We’ll go down to the cottage.”
The way to the cottage was completely drifted. It was the sort of night you read about people losing their way twenty yards from the safety of their homes and freezing to death in the snow. We sank almost to our knees in it, slogged onward, Paula trying to follow in my tracks. There was almost no moon, no light at all, but finally we staggered onto the small porch. “God,” she gasped. “Are we here?” Everything was becoming increasingly unreal. It was as if we’d entered another life, full of cold and death and menace, and we were very tired.
Immediately I laid fresh fires in the living room and the bedroom, poured us brandy, made sure the doors were locked. “You can sleep in the bedroom.” I got the fires going. “I’ll take the couch out here.”
“All right,” she said slowly. “I can feel those tranquilizers. They’re just creeping right up my spine, or down it.” She giggled. “You’ve got to excuse me. I’m getting punchy.” She paused. “We just found Cyril a few hours ago.” Tears streaked her cheeks. We were standing in the doorway to the bedroom and I put my arms around her and held her against me.
“It’s going to be all right,” I said. “We’re going to get it all straightened out tomorrow. It’ll stop snowing and we’ll go to town and get everything straightened out.”
“I hope so.” She turned her face to me and I kissed her softly on the mouth. Her lips were dry and she clung to me like a child. I stroked her hair. Then I told her to go to bed and I went back into the living room. The couch faced the fireplace and the room was getting pleasantly warm. I found a blanket in a closet and threw it across the couch. I went to the front door, unlocked it, peered outside at the thermometer. The reading was twenty-eight below zero and with the wind God only knew what the wind chill factor must have been. Sixty, seventy below.
I came back in, locked the door again, and went back to the bedroom door. Paula was in bed, smiling at me, covers pulled up to her chin.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She nodded slowly, slipping under the tranquilizer. “I’m all right. And thank you for being so nice to
“All right.” As I helped her into her coat I said: “What about the documents, Paula? Peterson’s going to have to know, I imagine, sooner or later.”
“I don’t know why,” she said, buttoning up, collecting her leather patch bag and gloves. “What have those things got to do with Peterson?”
“Nothing, if Cyril died a natural death. But the way Bradlee reacted to the condition of the body, and then the way Peterson nosed around … well, I don’t know, Paula, but if there was anything funny about Cyril’s death—then Peterson’s going to want a lot of answers to a lot of questions. And one of the questions is going to be, why did Cyril decide to come all the way home from Buenos Aires?” We were standing in the foyer looking at each other. I kept thinking that she was a very attractive woman, that Cyril had known a good thing when he’d seen it. She seemed so self-sufficient.
“Well, we can talk about it in the morning. Arthur would know what we should do.”
We went out to start her car. It was deep under snow and I tried to brush it off with my arm. It was dry, soft like dust, incredibly cold. Paula slid in behind the wheel and turned the key, producing that aggravating grinding noise, again and again. I went behind the car to sweep the back window. The grinding got fainter and fainter. I went back to her and she looked up, smiling vaguely. “Well, surprise.”
“It’s too cold,” I said. “It’s not going to start, so forget it.”
“I’ll have to stay the night.” Our breath hung in the air before us. Wind chewed at the naked branches of the trees overhead, blew snow in my face. Shaking her head in a spasm, she said: “I can’t stay in the same house with Cyril, please, John, I can’t.”
“We’ll go down to the cottage.”
The way to the cottage was completely drifted. It was the sort of night you read about people losing their way twenty yards from the safety of their homes and freezing to death in the snow. We sank almost to our knees in it, slogged onward, Paula trying to follow in my tracks. There was almost no moon, no light at all, but finally we staggered onto the small porch. “God,” she gasped. “Are we here?” Everything was becoming increasingly unreal. It was as if we’d entered another life, full of cold and death and menace, and we were very tired.
Immediately I laid fresh fires in the living room and the bedroom, poured us brandy, made sure the doors were locked. “You can sleep in the bedroom.” I got the fires going. “I’ll take the couch out here.”
“All right,” she said slowly. “I can feel those tranquilizers. They’re just creeping right up my spine, or down it.” She giggled. “You’ve got to excuse me. I’m getting punchy.” She paused. “We just found Cyril a few hours ago.” Tears streaked her cheeks. We were standing in the doorway to the bedroom and I put my arms around her and held her against me.
“It’s going to be all right,” I said. “We’re going to get it all straightened out tomorrow. It’ll stop snowing and we’ll go to town and get everything straightened out.”
“I hope so.” She turned her face to me and I kissed her softly on the mouth. Her lips were dry and she clung to me like a child. I stroked her hair. Then I told her to go to bed and I went back into the living room. The couch faced the fireplace and the room was getting pleasantly warm. I found a blanket in a closet and threw it across the couch. I went to the front door, unlocked it, peered outside at the thermometer. The reading was twenty-eight below zero and with the wind God only knew what the wind chill factor must have been. Sixty, seventy below.
I came back in, locked the door again, and went back to the bedroom door. Paula was in bed, smiling at me, covers pulled up to her chin.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She nodded slowly, slipping under the tranquilizer. “I’m all right. And thank you for being so nice to
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