“Here,” Jerry said. “Turn here.”
They turned down something that was barely a road—it was a dirt path cut into the woods, pocked and pitted, full of ice and snow. The car sputtered and at one point almost slid off the road and into a tree. At the end of the road was a house, rough, made of logs and clapboard, with a collapsed-in porch with several deer antlers scattered around. An anemic finger of smoke came from the chimney.
“This is it?” George said.
“This is it. This is the house. These are the people. Nice people.”
“So here’s what we’re going to do,” George said. “I untie you. You walk up to the door in front of me, in case these are the kind of people who say hello with a shotgun. I’m behind you with my gun. Remember, I want to shoot you. You do anything funny, I give in to my impulse.”
“Nothing funny, nothing funny.”
George tugged the ropes loose so that Jerry could get out. The cuffs he left on, covered once again with George’s coat. Jerry stumbled ahead as the front door of the house opened and a man walked out. He may have been George’s age, or even younger, but time ravaged here. His hair was thinning and greasily patched to his head. He had a gray complexion, the look of someone who hadn’t seen the sun or a decent meal in some time. He wore loose overalls and a flannel shirt, but no coat. He did not seem happy to have visitors.
“Morning!” Jerry said with a queasy fake cheerfulness. His New York accent sounded like snapping twigs in the cold morning. “You remember me? With the kid?”
The man regarded them both for a long moment, and George rested his hand on the butt of his handgun tucked into the back of his trousers, just in case. This man had keen eyes and seemed to read the situation well—he took in Jerry, supplicant and bundled, and George, who always looked like a cop, no matter what he did.
“Took you long enough to come back for her,” the man said, sounding annoyed. “You said a week. Lot more than a week.”
“I know,” Jerry said. “I’m sorry. But we’re here now.”
“Only paid us for the week.”
“You’ll be paid,” George cut in before Jerry could say anything else. “Take this for a starter.”
He reached into his pocket and grabbed a handful of bills. He had no idea how many. Could have been two hundred bucks or two thousand. He held them out, and the man stepped down from the porch and took them. His hands were rough and worn from work, but clean. This lightened George’s heart somehow. This was a poor house in a rough terrain, but there was nothing wrong with being poor, and people knew how to live here, how to keep warm and fed, even during the depths of an endless winter.
“Thought so,” the man said, looking at the fistful of cash. “It’s that kid from the papers, isn’t it? Has to be. The Ellingham girl.”
George tilted his head noncommittally.
“Bet there’s more where this came from,” the man said, holding up the crumpled notes.
“You’ll be paid well.”
The man grunted. “You should have come sooner. Been a long time. You said a week or two.”
“We’re here now,” George said.
“She’s in the back.”
George went to walk up the stone steps, but the man shook his head.
“No, not in the house. She’s outside, out back. Come on.”
George looked out at the snowy field that stretched behind the house. A good place for a kid. A kid could build a good snowman out there. He could almost see her already, thumping through the snow, laughing. Maybe this had all been for the best. Maybe Alice had had a normal life here, a simple life. Maybe she had swum in a lake in the summer, picked apples in the fall.
“Bess liked having a kid around,” the man said, trapping through a half foot of snow.
George looked around at the smooth, pure snow. There were, he noted, no footprints.
“Where?” he said, scanning the area.
“Over there,” the man said somewhat impatiently. “By them trees.”
George began to walk faster, forgetting Jerry, who stumbled along with his hands bound behind his back, the coat slipping from his shoulders. Alice. Alive. Alice. Alive. Those words were so alike. She was here, playing. She was here, in the snow. She was . . .
There was no one by the tree.
George felt the rise of the panic and his reflexes kicked in. He pulled the gun from his waistband and spun in one move, hampered a bit by the snow packed around his ankles. How had he been so stupid? He had walked into a trap. This was a conspiracy, and George was about to be taken down.
And yet, when he faced the stranger and Jerry, there was no gun pointed at him.
“What’s going on?” he yelled. “Where is she?”
“I just told you,” the man said. “She’s here.”
“There is no one here.”
“Look down,” the man said.
George looked down at snow.
“It happened not two weeks ago,” the man said. “She got the measles. Marked her there, where the stone is.”
George saw it now—a stone. Not a headstone. Not even a marked stone. Just a rock, covered in snow.
“I told you, you shoulda come sooner,” he said. “Can’t do nothing with the measles. Kept her in the back. She was never gonna make it, kid like that. Kid was weak.”
George stared at the rock that marked his daughter’s grave.
“Did you get her a doctor?” he rasped.
“Couldn’t get a doctor out for that kid,” the man said dismissively. “Once we knew who she was.”
Once we knew who she was. George breathed in the freezing air evenly. He felt no cold.
“Get a shovel,” he said.
George sent the man back to the house and stood guard as Jerry did the digging. The first layer was quick—all snow. Alice was not buried deep, barely a foot underground, and not even in a coffin. The body had been wrapped up in some sacking.
“Oh God,” Jerry said, looking down at the bundle. “I never . . .”
“Put the shovel down and move away from her.”
Jerry stumbled back, dropping the shovel. He held up his hands in surrender.
“I’m not going to shoot you, Jerry,” George said, tucking his gun into his waistband.
Jerry half collapsed, breathing heavily, heaving, praising George and God in equal measure. He did not see George pick up the shovel, and was shocked by the first blow, which knocked him to his knees. They came fast, a flurry mixed with cries and gulps. The snow splattered with blood.
When it was over, George tossed the shovel down and panted. There was no movement from the direction of the house. They were far enough that nothing may have been seen or heard. The stranger would have been listening for shots, most likely, and there had been none.
Gathering himself, he walked over to the grave. He lifted the little parcel from the hole. It had frozen stiff. He set Alice down carefully on the fresh snow, then used the shovel to enlarge and deepen the hole. He deposited Jerry, facedown.
He carried Alice to the car and put her gently on the back seat, carefully arranging the car rug over her as if warmth could revive her.
After taking a moment to consider what he had done, he removed his gun from his waistband, confirmed that it was loaded, and began the walk back to the house.