lantern glow. Behind them, a crack at the closed door let in a pencil-thin band of sunlight, but it was getting narrower, weaker. The hand-hewn stone and mortar walls disappeared. Bedrock cold as frozen February surrounded them as they left the stairs and entered a subterranean room.
"Granddad might've cut the stairs, but for the most part, the dimensions of this icehouse are God's work," Calder said with a flourish. The room's ceiling hardly allowed for Cooper to stand upright. Henry's lamp illuminated the room. Rows of rough wooden shelves held boxes and crates. The floor was bare and nearly as smooth as a man-made surface.
"How come it's so cold down here?" Cooper's teeth verged on clattering.
Henry limped down an aisle and appeared to be taking note of the stock levels of certain perishables. Without looking, he ducked a low stretch of ceiling. "I don't know all the particulars, but Granddad was on his way from Ohio to California to make himself rich. Somehow, when he stopped here to re-supply and rest his horses, he discovered the shaft leading to this room. No one's figured out the reasoning behind the cold. I'd rather not open it up for world discussion, neither. This land's allowed my family to live comfortable for three generations now. I'm not going to let nothing spoil that."
"I don't blame you."
Calder continued his tour. Large ice blocks filled nooks in the stone walls. Ice hooks as long as Cooper's arm hung on nails driven below one of the wooden shelves. He also noticed work gloves and thick-toothed ice saws.
"Usually right after New Years, we harvest the ice from the Illinois River. I hire on local boys, mostly. They work hard, the older ones, and you don't need to pay them much. But then again, they aren't the most responsible people on the planet."
"I know what you mean."
"Ice doesn't melt a bit once we lug it down here, only shrinks some from evaporation," Calder said, then paused. His voice dropped in pitch as he continued, "Now don't get me wrong, I can understand Sheriff Bergman thinking it was a good idea to bring George's body down here last night, but I want him buried soon as possible. This is an icehouse, not a morgue."
Cooper followed Henry down the last aisle into a small open area beyond the last wooden shelf. A waist-high workbench lined the wall. Burlap sacks covered an oblong mound the length of the table. Cooper didn't need to ask what lay hidden beneath.
"What do you say?"
After letting the words sink in, Cooper responded. "Oh, the work, the ice cutting and stocking. Sure, I'm up for it," he said, not sure if he meant it.
"Great. Can you start tomorrow?"
"Sure. Whenever you want."
"It's a deal then." Henry Calder seemed relieved Cooper had accepted his offer. He clamped him on the shoulder with a gloved hand and let out a short laugh. "Let's get our asses out of here before we freeze them off."
They walked back the way they had come, faster now with the cold setting in. Tomorrow, when Cooper started his new job, he would be sharing his work space with a dead body. He imagined using one of the thick-toothed saws to cut a block of ice, working hard enough to break a sweat in the icehouse's frigid depths, only to glance at the back wall, at the workbench and the burlap sacks. The coarse brown burlap shifting, the dead boy silently sitting up at the waist, his eyes opening, staring at Cooper.
"Shee-ite, it's cold as hell down here. Don't know how I ever managed to do all this work myself."
Cooper checked the workbench before it was out of view. He was fairly certain the burlap didn't move.
17.
Sitting in front of her vanity mirror, Thea Calder ran a soft-bristled brush through her brown locks. As a child she would count the strokes, reaching one hundred on each side as well as the back. While still fretful over her hair's luster, something else concerned her more, something that would lead to her inevitable ruin. She placed the brush next to its matching comb and leaned
"Granddad might've cut the stairs, but for the most part, the dimensions of this icehouse are God's work," Calder said with a flourish. The room's ceiling hardly allowed for Cooper to stand upright. Henry's lamp illuminated the room. Rows of rough wooden shelves held boxes and crates. The floor was bare and nearly as smooth as a man-made surface.
"How come it's so cold down here?" Cooper's teeth verged on clattering.
Henry limped down an aisle and appeared to be taking note of the stock levels of certain perishables. Without looking, he ducked a low stretch of ceiling. "I don't know all the particulars, but Granddad was on his way from Ohio to California to make himself rich. Somehow, when he stopped here to re-supply and rest his horses, he discovered the shaft leading to this room. No one's figured out the reasoning behind the cold. I'd rather not open it up for world discussion, neither. This land's allowed my family to live comfortable for three generations now. I'm not going to let nothing spoil that."
"I don't blame you."
Calder continued his tour. Large ice blocks filled nooks in the stone walls. Ice hooks as long as Cooper's arm hung on nails driven below one of the wooden shelves. He also noticed work gloves and thick-toothed ice saws.
"Usually right after New Years, we harvest the ice from the Illinois River. I hire on local boys, mostly. They work hard, the older ones, and you don't need to pay them much. But then again, they aren't the most responsible people on the planet."
"I know what you mean."
"Ice doesn't melt a bit once we lug it down here, only shrinks some from evaporation," Calder said, then paused. His voice dropped in pitch as he continued, "Now don't get me wrong, I can understand Sheriff Bergman thinking it was a good idea to bring George's body down here last night, but I want him buried soon as possible. This is an icehouse, not a morgue."
Cooper followed Henry down the last aisle into a small open area beyond the last wooden shelf. A waist-high workbench lined the wall. Burlap sacks covered an oblong mound the length of the table. Cooper didn't need to ask what lay hidden beneath.
"What do you say?"
After letting the words sink in, Cooper responded. "Oh, the work, the ice cutting and stocking. Sure, I'm up for it," he said, not sure if he meant it.
"Great. Can you start tomorrow?"
"Sure. Whenever you want."
"It's a deal then." Henry Calder seemed relieved Cooper had accepted his offer. He clamped him on the shoulder with a gloved hand and let out a short laugh. "Let's get our asses out of here before we freeze them off."
They walked back the way they had come, faster now with the cold setting in. Tomorrow, when Cooper started his new job, he would be sharing his work space with a dead body. He imagined using one of the thick-toothed saws to cut a block of ice, working hard enough to break a sweat in the icehouse's frigid depths, only to glance at the back wall, at the workbench and the burlap sacks. The coarse brown burlap shifting, the dead boy silently sitting up at the waist, his eyes opening, staring at Cooper.
"Shee-ite, it's cold as hell down here. Don't know how I ever managed to do all this work myself."
Cooper checked the workbench before it was out of view. He was fairly certain the burlap didn't move.
17.
Sitting in front of her vanity mirror, Thea Calder ran a soft-bristled brush through her brown locks. As a child she would count the strokes, reaching one hundred on each side as well as the back. While still fretful over her hair's luster, something else concerned her more, something that would lead to her inevitable ruin. She placed the brush next to its matching comb and leaned
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