Dead Winter Read Free

incompetent not to have been available enough to her that she could talk to me about it. I never had a clue, Brady. One day we are loving husband and wife. The next day she’s gone. Forever, it now seems.”
    “In her note she said she’d be back.”
    He made a throwaway gesture with one hand. “So I wouldn’t go looking for her, right?”
    I shrugged.
    He hitched himself forward in his seat and removed his wallet from his hip pocket. He opened it and slid out a photograph. He held it to me. It showed a somewhat younger Desmond Winter, his hair thicker, still black, smiling self-consciously. Standing in front of him, her head resting on his shoulder and tilted back to look up at him, was a freckle-faced woman grinning with apparent affection. She wore her hair long and loose in the manner of one who had not quite outgrown hippiedom. I imagined her playing a guitar. Joan Baez songs. Smoking pot. Flowers in her hair. Bare feet. Sleeping with all the longhaired young men. Protesting war and segregation and nuclear weapons. She appeared to be ten or fifteen years younger than Des, a slim, vivacious woman.
    “I know what you’re thinking,” said Winter to me as I examined the photo.
    He arched his eyebrows, asking for my response. I handed the photo back to him. “People aren’t necessarily how they appear in photographs.”
    He nodded. “Exactly. If Connie was that way, she surely hid it well. I never suspected. But,” he said, shaking his head, “evidently I was naive in my own case.”
    “Your daughter. What did she tell you?”
    “Not much. Nothing, really. Kat seemed traumatized by the experience, to tell you the truth. She didn’t want to talk about it. She cried easily for over a year after she got back. Wouldn’t even talk to her brother. I assumed she was missing her mother. They were very close. That’s why Connie took Kat with her, I guess. Anyhow, I didn’t push her. It really doesn’t matter where they went. What matters is that Connie chose not to come back to me. And”—he spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness—“she still hasn’t.”
    “It must have occurred to you that something has happened to your wife.”
    He nodded slowly. “Sure. Of course. What can I do about that? I assume that if Connie got into trouble, got injured, or—or died or something—I would be notified.” He looked at me, imploring me to agree with him.
    I cooperated. “Of course. Makes sense.”
    “Since I haven’t heard anything, I assume…”
    “That she has chosen not to return.”
    He nodded. “Yes.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Thank you. Anyway, that’s the background, Brady.”
    I tilted up my empty glass and looked in at the yellow dregs. “Maybe we should order some food.”
    “I’m sorry. Of course.” He lifted his head and looked around, which brought our waiter instantly.
    “Gentlemen,” he said. He was swarthy and somber and spoke with a Middle Eastern accent I couldn’t place.
    “I’ll have the scrod and Bibb lettuce salad,” said Winter.
    The waiter nodded his approval and looked at me. I shrugged. “Sounds good. Me too.”
    The waiter bobbed his head and slipped discreetly away.
    “This way I can say I got scrod today,” said Winter. He tried a smile to let me know he had made a joke. He seemed uncertain about how I would take it.
    I gave him a grin. “Let me see if I understand,” I said. “Your wife has been missing for six and a half years. Now you want to track her down.”
    He shook his head. “No, no. That’s not it. You misunderstand. It’s painfully clear to me she’s decided to make it permanent. If so, I must accept and respect her decision, as much as it hurts. If she should by some miracle decide to come back to me sometime in the future, I will welcome her with open arms, no questions asked. No, it’s nothing like that. Last month, Brady, I received a communication from the Boss.” He hesitated. “God, that is.”
    “I figured that’s who you