Ice Shear by M. P. Cooley Page B

there?”
    â€œYes!” shouted Annie.
    â€œAnything else?” yelled a voice.
    â€œDon’t we have radios we can use?” I asked.
    Dave stood on his toes and peeked over the fence. “Radio if anything else comes up, guys. And you,” he said to me, “why don’t you go home for a few hours?”
    I looked at my watch: noon. I felt strangely energized despite going on hour thirteen. Still, it would be good to catch a nap and play with my daughter.
    â€œI’d like to see Lucy,” I said.
    â€œYeah, I’m so going to owe her after this,” Dave said. “Tell her she’s got a trip to Hoffman’s Playland coming to her when things thaw out. Roller-coaster rides and skee ball till her arm falls off.”
    I smiled. “She’ll keep you to it, you know.”
    â€œShe’s a tough one . . . just like her mom.” He waved me away. “Get lost, and be at the station at seven. We got a meeting with the chief, Jerry, and Special Agent Hale Bascom, our liaison from the FBI.”
    Hale? At the mention of his name I shivered, my guts feeling like they’d turned to ice. Hale and I hadn’t seen each other in eight years. During that time, he was off being a badass in Homeland Security, so we never crossed paths professionally, and he steadily ignored the e-mails Kevin and I sent, even as Kevin’s illness progressed and Kevin’s desire to connect with Hale became desperate. My last e-mail to him three months before Kevin died probably got me knocked off Hale’s Christmas card list: “Hale, I appreciate that you are an overgrown adolescent, but Kevin needs you right now, and there’s not a lot of time. I have no idea why you stopped talking to us—or maybe it was just me—but whatever the reason you need to get over yourself and call him. Give a dying man the peace he needs.”
    He never called.
    â€œJune? Is Hale Bascom a problem?” Dave asked, a worried look on his face.
    I waved him off, promising to be at the meeting at seven sharp.
    Inside, Ray was again playing the game, hopping up and down in the chair. Marty spoke low into a phone, plugging his other ear to muffle the sounds of the game, his face like one of the granite cliffs along the Hudson.
    â€œI know it would be good to get some help from the fellowship right now, but it’s just . . . the AA meetings aren’t the same. I just can’t connect with the people in the rooms out here.” He caught me watching. “Look, man, I appreciate you taking my call, but I gotta go. I’ll call you later.” He was silent for a moment. “Thanks for that. She was something else and”—his voice broke—“I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Listening again, he started laughing. “Fine. I’ll get my ass to a meeting.”
    â€œYou out?” Pete said, startling me. I’d been as lost in Marty as he was lost in his conversation.
    â€œI’m out,” I said, as Marty hung up the phone.
    Marty snapped his fingers in front of his brother’s face until Ray swatted him away. “We should eat.”
    â€œMarty, we need you to stay clear of the kitchen for a little while longer,” I said.
    Marty sighed. “And of course none of you could arrange to feed us.” Before I could protest he continued, “Can we leave? Go get something?”
    â€œMcDonald’s!” shouted Ray.
    â€œNo. Real food,” Marty said. “Bob’s Diner, up by the arterial.” He turned to me. “That okay with you?”
    I said yes. The two of them didn’t wait, crashing down the stairs two at a time, sending the whole porch shaking as they waved away my offer of a ride. They turned right, and I headed across the street, where Bill sat in a cruiser.
    He rolled down the window as I approached. “Ride? Dave’s taking your car.”
    â€œWhat fine collaborative police