Chill Factor

“For instance, I don’t think you or Wes would enjoy my telling those FBI agents, who coincidentally were at you

r house today, that he was fucking your girlfriend at the same time you were.

“They may conclude that such an unsavory situation had created ill will among the parties involved. They may think—heaven forbid—that such a primal rivalry between a father and son could lead to all sorts of mayhem, including, but not limited to, disposing of the problem, which in this case happens to be Millicent.”

“Oh, God,” Scott groaned. The toe of his boot caught in the rug as he spun around, causing him to stumble on his way to the entry. He wrestled with the doorknob in his haste to open it, then bolted through the door without even bothering to close it. The frigid air was bracing but not cold enough to stave off the nausea. He barely made it to the hedge that separated the Ritts’ house from their neighbor’s before he vomited.

The spasms were violent, forcing him onto all fours in the snow, his head hanging between his shoulders. Even after his stomach was empty, he continued to heave painfully.

Eventually the spasms subsided. He cupped a handful of snow into his mouth, let it melt, spat it out. He rubbed another handful over his feverish face. His sweat was making him chilled. He shuddered uncontrollably and clenched his teeth to keep them from clicking together.

“Scott?”

He raised his head and looked toward the sound of the voice. Marilee Ritt was standing poised on the back porch, about to pick her way down the snow-covered steps.

“Go back,” he shouted.

“You’re sick.”

His legs felt like jelly as he struggled to stand up. She was halfway down the steps now. “Go back inside.” His voice sounded hoarse and panicky. Turning his back to her, he threshed his way through the dense hedge and cut diagonally across the neighbor’s front yard, wading through snow, responding blindly to the instinct governing him—escape.

• • •

“Hey.”

Dutch, who’d been dozing in his chair, jerked awake, removed his feet from the corner of his desk, and automatically stood up. Assuming the worst, he said, “What now?”

Wes waved him back into his seat. “Nothing. That I know of.” He removed a bottle of whiskey from his coat pocket and set it on Dutch’s desk, then took off his damp outerwear and hung the garments on the wall rack near the door. He blew on his cupped hands as he sat down across the desk from Dutch.

“It’s stopped snowing,” he said. “But the windchill is still a few degrees below zero. They say it’ll get even colder when the clouds clear. Tonight will be one for the record books.”

“Want some coffee?” Dutch asked.

“No, thanks. I’ve drunk so much today, I may not sleep till June. I brought my own refreshment.” He nodded at the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “Pass me your cup.”

Dutch shoved his empty coffee cup across the desk. Wes uncapped the bottle, poured whiskey into it, pushed the cup back toward Dutch. He drank straight from the bottle. After each had taken a few belts, he gave Dutch a critical once-over. “You look like shit.”

Dutch was aware of that. His raw, swollen face looked like a pack of wild dogs had been gnawing on it. “That ointment Ritt sent over by you is worthless.”

“Those cuts are gonna get infected if you don’t have them seen to. Want me to drive you to the hospital?”

“No.”

“Ritt’s house?”

“Hell no.”

“He said he had something stronger if you needed it.”

Dutch shook his head.

“Have you had anything to eat?”

“Snacks here and there.”

“Dora could put together—”

“I’m not really hungry.”