J E Barnard - Where the Ice Falls

The Falls Mysteries

When the Flood Falls
Where the Ice Falls

Copyright J.E. Barnard, 2019

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: Where the ice falls / J.E. Barnard.
Names: Barnard, J. E., author.
Series: Barnard, J. E. Falls mysteries.
Description: Series statement: The Falls mysteries ; 2
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190117354 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190117362 | ISBN 9781459741447 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459741454 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459741461 (EPUB)
Classification: LCC PS8603.A754 W55 2019 | DDC C813/.6dc23

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Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. Lan dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de lart dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays.

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To Geoff, Phyllis, and Loreena

When I began planning this book, I worried that I might not understand what its like to face death ones own or that of loved ones especially with the choice of medically assisted dying. While I was writing the first draft, my father, Geoff W. Barnard, walked the MAID path with courage and dignity to his final breath. My early crime-writing mentor, Phyllis Smallman, healthy when I began this journey, left us too rapidly between the second and third drafts. Yet my friend Loreena Lee, who received a terminal diagnosis early on, still daily lights up the Shadow of Death with her friendship, her artistry, and her zest. Shell hold this book in her hands yet.

You three, you taught me much about living well and dying well.

Thank you.

Wind shrieked through the vent screens, sending swirls of snow against the young mans face. His eyes flew open and he raised his head. How long had he been leaning against the wall, half dreaming? He pulled himself upright, stumbled over to the plywood door, and pushed as hard as he could. It wouldnt budge. He stood back and kicked it, over and over, with the same result. He threw his shoulder against it. Still nothing. Finally, he began hammering on it with his gloved fists and yelling for someone, anyone, to let him out. The wind whistled through the drafty shed, mocking him with a howl like his own. He slumped to the floor.

Just before dawn the blizzard let up, leaving the wilderness shrouded in white, the roads snowdrifted, and the oil derricks iced over. Far out on the shoulders of the Rockies, the scattered chalets at Black Rock Bowl were hidden under the blanket of snow. No sign of life disturbed the stillness, save a lone spire of chimney smoke rising up into the lightening sky. As the sun rose, revealing this new white world, it kissed the roof of the shed, slowly melting the snow, the water dripping down to form ever-lengthening icicles.

Six more days of melting and freezing followed before the plow from Waiparous Village reached the deserted resort. It rumbled around the Black Rock Loop from the northern end, its operator keeping an eye out for a red Toyota Camry reported missing on the first day of the storm.

Day by day and week by week, the sun added more icicles to its artwork, until the front of the shed resembled a waterfall frozen mid-tumble. The diamond clarity of the ice reflected the surrounding snow, sky, and forest. November ended. December began. The icefall thickened.

Do you want to find my emaciated body in the next chinook, Mom? Lizi Gallagher pointed out the back door of the chalet, her glittery nail polish glinting in the sun. Niagara Falls froze over that woodshed. Itll be Christmas before I get the door open.

Zoe rolled her eyes. You should be in school, but you insisted on coming along to help. Now go. Two hits at the top with an axe and itll all come crashing down.

With a loud sigh, Lizi flounced out onto the porch and slammed the door. A line of slender icicles shivered on the eaves. She stomped down the steps and set out across the glade, axe on her shoulder, ostentatiously lifting each leg high before lowering it gingerly into the next drift. The woodshed was barely three car lengths away, well clear of the surrounding forest, but here she was treating it like a death march across the Columbia Icefield.

Teenagers. Ugh.

Zoe started the kettle and leaned against the granite countertop. The warm, rustic cooking space of her memory had been replaced by a sleek, modern kitchen slate-grey cupboards, brushed steel appliances, slate-tile backsplash, and a floor that appeared to be coated in concrete. Basically everything was grey apart from two rust-brown throw rugs that matched the stools along the breakfast bar. Nothing about the room said cozy ski chalet or relaxed weekend getaway more like desolate industrial wasteland. Perhaps a reflection of the owners second marriage?

The kettle let out a whine, as if it, too, was conscious of its dismal surroundings. Boiling already? She reached for it. But the appliance was cold, not even a hiss coming from its snub nose. The sound rose to a wail. It was coming from outside.

Zoe leaned toward the window and saw Lizi flailing back through the snow, her mouth wide, her pink-gloved hands waving above her head. By the time she opened the door, Lizi was halfway up the steps, gasping and screaming alternately like a broken steam whistle. She lunged inside, grabbed the door, and hurled it shut. The icicles plunged from the eaves and shattered, one after another, onto the porch.