A Colder Kind of Death Read Free Page A

kids the story of a man named Jack who was so mischievous that the devil wouldn’t let him into hell because he was afraid Jack would trick him.
    Hilda’s voice was sombre as she finished. “And so, when Jack learned he’d have to roam the earth forever, he stole a burning coal from the underworld and placed it inside a turnip to light his way.”
    Jess looked puzzled. “Why didn’t Jack use a pumpkin?” he asked.
    “Because this was long ago, in Ireland, and they didn’t have pumpkins,” Hilda said.
    Taylor shook her head. “Poor Jack. Carving that turnip must have taken him about twenty hours.”
    I touched Taylor’s shoulder. “I’m going to go upstairs and check on your brother. You and Jess go in and have one last pee, and then we’ll hit the streets. Okay?”
    “Yeah,” she said, “that’ll be okay.” She dropped to her knees and leaned forward so that her eyes were looking intothe bright triangular eyes of the jack-o’-lantern. “How did Jack keep the coal lit?” she asked.
    I went inside, glad it was Hilda who had to come up with an answer.
    Angus was standing in the middle of his room. There were clothes thrown everywhere, but he wasn’t wearing anything except a pair of boxer shorts with pigs on them.
    When he saw me, he exploded. “The guys are coming by in twenty minutes and I haven’t figured out a costume. Everything I try makes me look totally stupid.”
    “I guess this isn’t the time for me to suggest that you should have started planning your costume sooner,” I said.
    He looked exasperated. “Mum, just give me a little help here … Please.”
    At fifteen, Angus had Ian’s dark good looks. He had grown about a foot in the last six months. I looked at him and remembered.
    “I have an idea,” I said.
    I went down into the basement and pulled out a trunk in which, against all the advice in the books for widows, I had kept some of Ian’s things. I’d filled the trunk a month to the day after Ian died, but until that Hallowe’en night I hadn’t had the heart to open it.
    Under a pile of sweaters, I found what I was looking for: an old herringbone cape with a matching Sherlock Holmes hat and a walking stick. I took them back upstairs and handed them to my son.
    “Do you remember this outfit?” I asked. “Daddy wore it every Hallowe’en.”
    Angus had put on a pair of jeans and a turtleneck. He threw the cape around his shoulders and pulled the cap over his dark hair. He looked so much like Ian I could feel my throat close.
    “Well?” I said.
    He looked at himself in the full-length mirror on his cupboard door.
    “Pretty good,” he said. Then his reflection in the mirror grinned at me. “Actually, Mum, the cape really rocks hard. Thanks.” He started for the door.
    “Hey,” I said. “Aren’t you going to clean up this mess?”
    “Later,” he said. “Chill out, Mum. It’s a night to party.”
    When he left, the smell of the cape lingered, potent as memory. I swallowed hard and went downstairs to get my daughter and her friend.
    It was a great night for Hallowe’ening. There was a three-quarter moon, and, for Taylor and Jess, every street held a surprise: doors opened by snaggle-toothed vampires and mummies swathed in white; stepladders with glowing pumpkins on every step; and on the corner of McCallum and Albert, a witch cackling in front of the cauldron that had smoked with dry ice every Hallowe’en since Angus was a baby.
    When we turned onto Regina Avenue, Gary Stephens was pulling up in front of our house.
    “Perfect timing,” I said, as he got out of the car.
    “Right,” he said absently.
    And then Jess ran to him, holding out his pillowcase. “Dad, look at all the stuff I got.”
    As he knelt beside his son, Gary’s face was transformed. His charm with women might have been as false as the proverbial harlot’s oath, but Gary Stephens’s love for his son was the real thing. It wasn’t hard to get warmth in my voice when I said