The klunker seemed farther away than it had looked from the road. He heard a loud crack from the south of the lake, like a stick breaking, followed by the sound of something huge thrumming, as if a bass string the size of a lake were vibrating. Massively, the ice creaked and groaned, like an old door protesting being opened. Shadow kept walking, as steadily as he could.
This is suicide, whispered a sane voice in the back of his mind. Can’t you just let it go?
“No,” he said, aloud. “I have to know.” And he kept right on walking.
He arrived at the klunker, and even before he reached it he knew that he had been right. There was a miasma that hung about the car, something that was at the same time a faint, foul smell and was also a bad taste in the back of his throat. He walked around the car, looking inside. The seats were stained, and ripped. The car was obviously empty. He tried the doors. They were locked. He tried the trunk. Also locked.
He wished that he had brought a crowbar.
He made a fist of his hand, inside his glove. He counted to three, then smashed his hand, hard, against the driver’s-side window glass.
His hand hurt, but the side window was undamaged.
He thought about running at it—he could kick the window in, he was certain, if he didn’t skid and fall on the wet ice. But the last thing he wanted to do was to disturb the klunker enough that the ice beneath it would crack.
He looked at the car. Then he reached for the radio antenna—it was the kind that was supposed to go up and down, but that had stuck in the up position a decade ago—and, with a little waggling, he broke it off at the base. He took the thin end of the antenna—it had once had a metal button on the end, but that was lost in time, and, with strong fingers, he bent it back up into a makeshift hook.
Then he rammed the extended metal antenna down between the rubber and the glass of the front window, deep into the mechanism of the door. He fished in the mechanism, twisting, moving, pushing the metal antenna about until it caught: and then he pulled up.
He felt the improvised hook sliding from the lock, uselessly.
He sighed. Fished again, slower, more carefully. He could imagine the ice grumbling beneath his feet as he shifted his weight. And slow . . . and . . .
He had it. He pulled up on the aerial and the front-door locking mechanism popped up. Shadow reached down one gloved hand and took the door handle, pressed the button, and pulled. The door did not open.
It’s stuck, he thought, iced up. That’s all.
He tugged, sliding on the ice, and suddenly the door of the klunker flew open, ice scattering everywhere.
The miasma was worse inside the car, a stench of rot and illness. Shadow felt sick.
He reached under the dashboard, found the black plastic handle that opened the trunk, and tugged on it, hard.
There was a thunk from behind him as the trunk door released.
Shadow walked out onto the ice, slipped and splashed around the car, holding on to the side of it as he went.
It’s in the trunk, he thought.
The trunk was open an inch. He reached down and opened it the rest of the way, pulling it up.
The smell was bad, but it could have been much worse: the bottom of the trunk was filled with an inch or so of half-melted ice. There was a girl in the trunk. She wore a scarlet snowsuit, now stained, and her mousy hair was long and her mouth was closed, so Shadow could not see the blue rubber-band braces, but that they were there. The cold had preserved her, kept her as fresh as if she had been in a freezer.
Her eyes were wide open, and she looked as if she had been crying when she died, and the tears that had frozen on her cheeks had still not melted.
“You were here all the time,” said Shadow to Alison McGovern’s corpse. “Every single person who drove over that bridge saw you. Everyone who drove through the town saw you. The ice fishermen walked past you every day. And nobody knew.”
And then he realized how foolish that was.
Somebody knew. Somebody had put her here.
He reached into the trunk—to see if he could pull her out. He put his weight on the car, as he leaned in. Maybe that was what did it.
The ice beneath the front wheels went at that moment, perhaps from his movements, perhaps not. The front of the car lurched downward several feet into the dark water of the lake. Water began to pour into the car through the open driver’s door. Lake water splashed about Shadow’s ankles, although the ice he stood on was still solid. He looked around urgently, wondering how to get away—and then it was too late, and the ice tipped precipitously, throwing him against the car and the dead girl in the trunk; and the back of the car went down, and Shadow went down with it, into the cold waters of the lake. It was ten past nine in the morning on March the twenty-third.
He took a deep breath before he went under, closing his eyes, but the cold of the lake water hit him like a wall, knocking the breath from his body.
He tumbled downward, into the murky ice water, pulled down by the car.