Blood and Ice Read Free Page B

her blond hair blowing in the wind from the open window.
     
The doorbell rang again, a series of short bursts. Whoever it was wasn't going away.
     
Michael lifted his head from the pillow�why was there an empty bag of Doritos next to his face?�and glanced at the lighted numerals on the clock�11:59. And then, even as he rubbed his eyes, it flicked over to noon.
     
The doorbell, again.
     
Michael threw the blanket back, dropped his feet onto the floor. �Yeah, yeah, hold your horses,� he mumbled. He grabbed a bathrobe off the back of the door and shuffled out of the bedroom. Through the opaque glass in the front door, he could see a shape�somebody in a hooded parka�standing on the stoop. Michael moved closer.
     
�I can see you, too, Michael. Now open the door�it's freezing out here.�
     
It was Joe Gillespie, his editor at Eco-Travel Magazine.
     
Michael turned the bolt and opened the door. A cold rain spattered against his bare legs as his visitor hustled in. �Remind me to get a job on the Miami Herald next time,� Gillespie said, stamping his feet.
     
Michael picked a sodden copy of the Tacoma News Tribune from the stoop, then gazed off at the shrouded peaks of the Cascade range in the distance. That was why he'd originally bought the house�for the view. Now it was just an awful reminder. He gave the paper a shake and closed the door.
     
Gillespie was standing on the threadbare hook rug�the one Kristin had made�with water dripping from his parka. He brushed the hood back, and what was left of his hair fuzzed out around his head.
     
�You ever check your e-mails anymore?� Gillespie asked. �Or maybe your answering machine?�
     
�Not if I can help it.�
     
Gillespie blew out a frustrated sigh and looked around the messy living room. �Jesus, Michael, do you own stock in Domino's? You ought to.�
     
Michael did note a couple of pizza boxes, and some empty beer bottles, scattered around the coffee table and stone hearth.
     
�Get dressed,� Gillespie said. �We're going to lunch.�
     
Michael, still barely conscious, just stood there with the wet paper in his hand.
     
�Come on, I'm paying.�
     
Michael said, �Give me five,� tossed the paper to Gillespie, and went to get started.
     
�Take ten,� Gillespie shouted after him. �Throw in a shave and shower.�
     
Michael took him at his word. In the bathroom, he switched on the space heater�the house was always cold and drafty and though he often swore to himself that one day he'd do some insulating and basic maintenance, that day never came�and turned on the hot water. It would take a minute or two to get warm. The medicinechest above the sink was open, and half a dozen orange prescription bottles sat on the shelves. He grabbed the one on the bottom shelf� the latest antidepressant the therapist had prescribed�and downed a tablet with a handful of the now-tepid water.
     
Then, much as he dreaded the prospect, he closed the cabinet and looked at himself in the mirror. His shaggy black hair was even more unruly than ever this morning, curling off his head on one side and mashed down flat on the other. His dark eyes were red-rimmed and cloudy. He hadn't shaved in a couple of days and he could swear�was this possible?�that even though he had just turned thirty, a couple of the chin whiskers were coming in gray. Time's winged chariot � damn. He slapped a fresh blade into the razor and made a few hasty swipes at his stubble.
     
After a lukewarm shower, he put on some jeans, a denim work shirt, and the cleanest, driest pair of boots he could find by the front door. Gillespie was sprawled in his worn leather armchair, carefully peeling the pages of the newspaper away from each other. �I took the liberty of raising your blinds and letting in some light. You might try it sometime.�
     
They drove in Gillespie's car�a Prius, of course�and went to the same diner they always did. Though there wasn't