Cold Snow: A Legal Thriller (2 page)

He unfolded the airplane and crumpled it instead into a tight ball. He then reached his hand under the canopy of scratched wooden desks, into the forest of metal legs below, and slid the paper along the tiled floor toward Alex's seat.

Alex turned his head quickly when he heard the infintesimal sound of the paper hitting the steel. Without looking at the crumpled ball, he scooped it up with his left hand.

"Alexander!"

He cursed when he heard Mr. Dubois's voice. He'd forgotten not to call attention to himself.

"What are you doing?" Dubois asked, glaring at him.

"Nothing, sir," he replied, careful to keep his voice under control. Feeling the eyes of the entire room on him, he went through the list of signs revealing a lie—lack of eye contact, fidgeting, covering the face—and made sure he wasn't doing any of them. "Just picking up some trash."

"Well, throw it away and stop distracting us, you're holding up the lesson!" Alex was about to retort—as he had wanted to do so many times—that if Mr. Dubois didn't make such a big deal out of every transgression, the lesson wouldn't be held up so often. He decided, however, that he should seize the chance he had been given, and ducked into the hallway to use one of the outdoor trash cans. The moment he was out of the class's line of sight, he uncrumpled the note and read.

NEED TIME AND LOCATION

ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THIS

Alex removed a ballpoint pen from his pocket, clicked it open, and, using the rough plaster wall as a surface, hastily wrote a return message.

"Mr. Orson! Throw away your paper and get back in the classroom before I give you detention!"

Crumpling the paper in his left hand, Alex walked purposefully back into the room and slid into his chair, letting his hand hang down behind the desk. He planned to swing his hand and slide the paper back to Jake, but he would have to do it blind—

"Orson!"

"Yes, sir?" Alex swore under his breath, and those who heard him laughed.

"I want you to show me your trash," Dubois said, with the evident pleasure that some authority figures feel in finding wrongdoing. Some of the students laughed at this; the phrase, coming from the pompous and generally disliked teacher, seemed inherently funny. To Alex, however, there was nothing at all humorous about the situation. As he grudgingly uncrumpled the note and held it out, his only consolation would be that Dubois would be unable to understand it.

Gleefully, the teacher began to read it aloud.

YOU THINK I'D SPEND SIX MONTHS PLANNING AND THEN GIVE UP NOW

TONIGHT 1 AM YOU KNOW WHERE

I WANT TO BE FREE FROM THEM

The class lit up with speculative discussion; wondering if Orson and Harwell were talking in some invented code, or planning to hold up a store.

"I was under the impression," Dubois said, slamming the unfolded paper onto Alex's desk, "that the act of note-passing died with the fifth grade, but you have proved my wrong. You," he grinned evilly, "are getting detention for so long you will forget your name."

It's a damn good thing I'm leaving tonight, Alex thought, as his face reddened.

Another knock, louder and more solid this time, three distinct raps. Catherine Orson groaned and resigned herself to the fact that she had been forced to get up.

"Kate, get the door," her husband yelled, working his fingers in a typically complex necktie knot.

"Roland, Lauren is crying—"

"She can wait. She's always crying. Get the damn door."

Catherine pulled herself out of her chair, fervently wishing that Roland had not decided that he needed an entire day to stay at home and "prepare" for a meeting she saw littile meaning in. To her it was another of his very feebly disguised attempts to make her miserable, as evidenced by the fact that he treated her like his personal maid whenever they were alone in the house after 10:00. I'm just lucky, she thought, that for most of the morning and evening he has the boy to take it out on.

Arriving at the front door, a wooden slab with six glass rectangles set into it to form two large squares, she flipped the bronze catch and turned the knob. Standing on her uncovered front porch was a small man, wearing pants and a buttoned shirt that had evidently once been part of a suit. His hair was a burnt, reddish-orange shade, carefully combed into line, and he was of small stature—Catherine's first impression was that he had probably lost a lost of fights in his youth. In her mental lineup of friends, acquaintances and necessary contacts, she found nothing matching this man, which could only mean a few things, none good.

"We're not interested," she said, preparing to slam the door.

"I'm not selling anything," the man replied.

"I already know who I'm voting for in the council elections."

"No, it's not about that either. I'm here about a very important matter—"

"I'm already a Jehovah's Witness."

"With all due respect," the man said, with a certain annoyed tone, "you're not and neither am I. May I come in?"

"Not until you tell me who you're with."

In lieu of an answer, the man fumbled in his wallet for a moment, bringing out a business card. Catherine, who hadn't bothered with her contact lenses that morning, had to squint to read the letters: SPCC.

"Am I supposed to know what those letters mean?" she asked.

"Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children."

"You're a social worker, Mr…however you pronounce it?"

The man nodded. "Henry Machry. That's Mack-ree. Most people get it wrong."

Catherine sighed, and decided she'd better open the door. "Why are you here?" she said bluntly.

"I'm sorry to tell you we received some reports about you," Machry replied, entering and looking around the living room. "Anonymous calls reporting some incidents of abuse. It's most likely nothing, but we have to make sure."

"Just a minute. I think it's my husband you want to talk to."

Catherine vanished into a hallway branching off to the right of the living room, which, Machry had to admit, was quite tasteful—painted in dark green, with hardwood floors and large windows across the left wall. She eventually returned, trailing her husband. His business suit helped him cut an imposing figure, but though he was tall, he was not large. His hair was dark, the same color as his wife's, but flecked with more gray. Machry knew, the instant he caught sight of him, that there was much more to this man than the typical deadbeat dads he was used to dealing with.

"Welcome!" he said, with a surprising show of hospitality. "Machry, is it? Nice to meet you. I'm Roland Orson." He clenched Machry's hand and shook it firmly. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you. I'd rather we get down to business. I am, technically, at work."

"I understand," Roland replied, "but you are a guest in my house. I'll be back in a minute." He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Machry to sit down gingerly in the chair Catherine had recently occupied. If he saw her shooting daggers at him, he either didn't care or had borne enough of the hatred of strangers to become numb to it.

Roland returned a few minutes later with three mugs of lukewarm coffee on a tray. "Do you take sugar, Mr. Machry?"

"No thank you. I take it black."

Roland shrugged and handed him a cup.

Dispense with the pleasantries, Machry almost shouted. It's not my job to sit in living rooms and drink coffee. If someone thinks you're hurting your kid, you are, and if you are abusing a child, you hardly deserve to have this crappy brown water spat out in your face.

Roland took the second cup and Catherine took the last one, still glaring at Machry. They both took spots on the couch.

"All right." Roland said, in the businesslike manner he communicated with vendors in. "Tell us why you are here. From my wife, I understand that you are with the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children."

"Yes. I am."

"And you are here on whose report?"

"The one who requested I pay a visit to your home prefers to remain secret." Machry coughed and went on. "I'm sorry, but when somebody requests anonymity, we have to give it to them. It's society policy."

The kid, thought Roland, annoying as ever.

"Now, to business," Machry said, taking a small sip from his cup to avoid the inevitable questions about the coffee and why he wasn't drinking it. "I'm going to assume that you're innocent until proven guilty, but the party who called me here accused you two of overwork, undernourishment and certain physical harms. Is any of that true?"

"Hell, it's not true!" Machry was almost impressed at how quickly Roland managed to shed his exterior of faux hospitality. He stood up violently, nearly upending his coffee cup. "We provide food for the little wretch. We put clothes on his back. We pay his expenses, we work for him, we entertain him, and we're going to put him through college, through an Ivy League school, and all we ask in return is a little work—"

"Mr. Orson! Please restrain yourself!" In his work, Machry had seen it all, but was still unprepared for parents blowing up in his face. He never understood it, no matter how many times it happened—his job was to help people.

At last, Roland seemed to have ranted himself dry, and lowered himself onto the sofa beside his wife.

Machry exhaled deeply. "I'm going to ask you a few questions. Please remain calm, I'm not here to arrest you."

This served only to infuriate Roland more deeply; he was enraged, and wondered if this man even knew who he was condescending. He forced himself, though, to remain calm.

"What is the name of your son?"

"Alexander Matthew." Roland said.

"How old is he?"

"Thirteen since September."

"Do you have any children besides the one in question?"

Catherine answered, "One daughter."

"Her name?"

"Lauren."

"Is Alexander your first-born?"

"Yes. Lauren's only one year old."

Machry, as usual, regretted the end of the easy questions. "What have you done that the caller could have interpreted as child abuse?"

"We make him do a few chores."

"Are you sure that's all?"

"Yes," Roland said, raising his voice.

"You don't think your idea of housework might be a little more extreme that somebody else's?"

"No," Roland almost shouted. He exchanged a nervous glance with Catherine. "Are we finished?"

Machry shifted in his chair. "That's enough for me to go on, yes. May I have your permission to speak to Alex?"

"He's at school."

"When he returns?"

"You have my permission. But…" Roland glowered, "Outside. I'd like you to leave my house."

Woodsbrook in winter, to Alex, was a nice enough town for the minority who enjoyed cold weather; to the rest of the population, it was only months to wait through before summer appeared again. Summer was Alex's least favorite season and Woodsbrook in summer his least favorite place in the world. Temperatures, forgetting that they were supposed to ease gradually through the seasons, swung wildly from freezing to the eighties and nineties in the course of a few weeks in April or May, leaving the citizens who had waited for this to retreat into their homes and wait for winter again. That was Woodsbrook, Alex knew—perpetually waiting for the time when they could finally wait for something else.

It was winter now, though, and Alex was enjoying February as much as he could. He would escape the house as often as possible, through his bedroom window if necessary, to see the fields of snow and the frozen rivers, and wander the streets of the town for hours. He knew that every minute he spent away from home was maximizing the punishment he would receive when he returned; but to him, it hardly mattered. Snow—some pristine, more often dirty—was piled by the sidewalks and buildings, and Alex Orson's life, though far from good, was about as close as it could get.

On that day, he and Jake were walking along one of the streets that led between the city center and residential Woodsbrook, Alex navigating by the sliver of ground he could see below the world section of the Woodsbrook Courier.

"You're going to kill yourself," Jake told him.

"What am I gonna do, step on a land mine?"

"I don't know. There's a million ways to kill yourself on the average sidewalk."

Alex laughed. "Are you trying to scare me?"

Jake pretended to be overcome with frustration, ruining the illusion by smiling. "It's always going so well until you figure out what I'm doing."

"I'll play along next time."

"Hey, what are you reading that's so interesting anyway?"

Alex dropped the newspaper and folded it along the center crease, carrying it in his right hand. "Have you ever noticed how there's only six or seven different news stories?" He counted on his fingers. "Guy dies, something blows up, somebody loses money, everybody loses money, government screws up, lots of people die…" he paused to think. "I'll think of number seven later. Anyway," he went on, unfolding the paper again, "every once in a while you get one that breaks the mold." He stopped and angled the paper so Jake could see it. "Bottom of page four, right corner."