Ice Shear Read Online Free PDF Page A

upstate New York. One of several hundred hastily thrown up in the last century for garment workers, Danielle’s house was without adornment, reflecting the grudging spirit in which it was built. Block upon block of the brick boxes listed to the left, as if trying, and failing, to escape the shadow of the mill. The random tacked-on wooden porch added to the haphazard quality of the neighborhood, and made me feel disoriented.
    I balanced on Danielle’s bowed porch. Dave knocked three times, and with each rap the whole structure shook. I grabbed a post, but my glove slipped, picking up a coating of paint chips. The sounds of a video game rose from inside.
    â€œWhere’ve you been?” a male voice called. “You forget your key?”
    The door swung open. My first thought when I saw the young man in the doorway with his slate-blue shirt buttoned tight at his neck and wrists was “prison,” but a security guard patch was stitched to the arm, and a tie was tucked in the breast pocket. His blunt-cut blond hair was short, almost military.
    â€œMartin Jelickson?” Dave asked.
    â€œYeah?” Marty crossed his arms, and the fabric pulled tight across his chest and arms. Behind him, Ray sprawled on the couch, game controller forgotten on his lap, ignoring the sound of people dying on-screen. The boy had straight hair, a bit long, sun bleached at the tips but growing in brown. He wore a wifebeater under a too-big leather vest, which made him look even smaller.
    â€œMartin, we’re the police. I’m Detective Batko and this is Officer Lyons.” I nodded at him. “May we come in—”
    Marty widened his stance, filling the doorway, blocking his brother from view. “Have a warrant?”
    Dave dropped his voice into a low rumble, private tones that the husband of the deceased deserved. “Martin, we are unhappy to inform you that your wife was found dead this morning.”
    Marty stumbled back. Dave reached out to steady him, but Marty whirled out of Dave’s grasp, ready to swing. I grabbed my baton. He saw me and paused, panting as if he had run a race. His expression hardened, and he stalked over to the couch, collapsing on it.
    Ray twisted toward Marty. Unsure where to put his spider-thin legs and arms, he touched the sleeve of his brother’s shirt. Marty pulled away.
    â€œMarty, man—”
    â€œDon’t.” Marty clamped his mouth tight, blue eyes flashing silver.
    â€œAre you Raymond?” I asked the boy.
    He jutted out his chin. “Yeah, whatta you—” His voice broke high, childish, and a blush spread over his face and neck. “What the fuck do you want?”
    â€œLet me get you both some water,” Dave said, crossing through to the far door. With a few more inches free, I edged forward into the room. The space had too-big furniture and heat so high sweat popped on my brow. There was a veiled scent of cigarettes, as if someone had smoked outside but left the door wide open, or had quit recently, leaving years of the smell soaked into the walls and floorboards. A sagging brown couch dominated the whole far wall and encroached several inches into the kitchen doorway. Remote controls were lined up on the water-ringed table, and two books, their corners squared, sat next to them: Alcoholics Anonymous and AA’s Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions. The GED for Dummies was wedged between the couch and the recliner, and Friday the 13th and Halloween were alphabetized on the DVD stand.
    Ray propped the water Dave gave him on his knee, his legs thrust wide, staring into space. Marty drank three huge gulps, pulled a coaster out of a box on the table, and put the glass down on it before speaking.
    â€œAccident?” Marty said.
    Ray jumped in. “Or some serial killer? Like Freddy Krueger?”
    â€œRay, we’d like to talk to your brother first,” Dave said.
    â€œC’mon, Ray.” I waved to the bedroom.