Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 6, June 1999

But where would he have ended up?

The slope rose and then crested. From here I could not see what was beyond it. Quelling one more urge to turn around and get back into the nice warm Mustang, I tramped uphill through the knee-deep snow. It packed its way up under my pants cuffs and down into my shoes, causing my feet and lower legs to dampen and then numb. Hugging myself, I forced myself ahead, eyes on the prize, the crest of the slope. Beyond was a whole lot more white nothing. But this was a downslope, with several intermediate mounds, leading to what looked like a gully and another hill beyond. Amazing that this vast open area could exist here in the heart of a cloverleaf. Invisible to anyone passing by, especially with those walls of plowed snow alongside the roads.

Following the path of least resistance, I marched down the slope, aiming for the halfway point between two of the intermediate mounds. My legs were now numb from the knees down. The wind had picked up and was waging a serious attack on my coat. I hunched as I tromped along, hands fisted in the coat pockets. My chin was buried in the collar, mouth muttering monotonous oaths on the general theme of the things I do, the things I do. The snow fell thicker and dusk did, too. I did not realize how bad my vision was getting until I was barely twenty feet from the thing.

It was the first manmade object I’d encountered. It was a large, slanted rectangle, white, of course, being covered with snow except for just a black tip up high, the right angle of what appeared to be a rear fender.

My breath caught in my throat. Incipient hypothermia forgotten, I spread my arms and ran, high-stepping. The vehicle was nose-down, thrust like a blunt spear into what had to have been a sharp depression in the ground. Of course I could not tell that for sure, given the drifts of snow. As I drew nearer, I could see the whitish feint outlines of a rear wheel and a roof line. The ghostly silhouette of an urban assault vehicle, perhaps of the Ford Expedition variety.

Panting, I thrashed to a stop at the vehicle and brushed at the window. Peering in, I squinted long and hard. As my vision adjusted to the deeper dimness, I could just barely make out the interior white fuzzy dice hanging crazily from the sideways rear view mirror and, on the passenger side, the feint, crumpled outline of a body.

“So, it’s true then,” Shyla murmured, eyes downcast. “He did do all those things Virginia said.”

“ ’Fraid so,” I replied.

We stood in a hallway of the emergency room at Metro Detroit General. Around us bustled orderlies and nurses and people pushing gurneys bearing bodies, not all of them animate. The closed door in front of us said EXAM ROOM 2. NO ADMITTANCE. I was finally starting to thaw out and was leaving little puddles of melted snow on the linoleum floor around me.

Shyla shivered in her coat and hugged herself, half turned from me. “But why?” she asked softly.

I shrugged. “He’s just a man. People do bad things sometimes. It’s what happens.” I could relate. I thought, but did not say, that Randy Ryan had shown all the signs of a man who had gotten just so sick of himself. I could relate to that, too.

“What’s important,” I added, “is he was turning things around, trying to make things right.”

The young woman’s pale face crumpled, and she tottered to me, engulfing herself in a big hug. “It’s just so unfair!” she murmured into my neck through sobs. “Now he won’t get the chance to finish the job.”

I patted her back. “Don’t be too sure of that, kid. Doc says he’s got a fighting chance of—”

“Is this the room?” came a voice from behind me. We turned to see Virginia Ryan approaching, hatless, wearing a dark winter coat, short dark hair askew, lipless face pale, eyes icy as the outside. “Where is he?”

“What are you doing here, Virginia?” Shyla asked, disengaging from me.

“Your detective friend called me,” the mom said. “Which is only right, since I’m still your father’s wife, Jennifer. Surprised?”

Shyla’s eyebrows arched. “Not that Ben called you,” she said. “Surprised you’d care enough to show.”

Virginia stepped closer to us and glanced at the door.

“How is he?”

“He’s in a coma,” I answered. “Way dehydrated. Core temp is low. But in a way the freezing cold actually helped him. Retarded the bleeding from his crash injuries.”

“Will he live?” Virginia asked evenly.

“They won’t say for sure, naturally,” I answered. “Even if he does, he might lose some—”

The exam room door opened, and a nurse looked out at us. “Ms. Ryan?” Both women stepped forward. “Only one at a time,” the nurse commanded.

Shyla shot her mom a look. “Can I go first, Mother?” she asked.

“Very well, Shyla.”