Page 137 of The Frozen River

“There isn’t much to tell.” Jonathan settles back in his chair, takes another sip. I note that his eyes go to the fire and stay there. He does not look at me again. “We set off from Sam’s wharf well after midnight.”

“That’s a late start.”

“We’d originally planned on leaving the next morning. But the river was closing, so we decided to leave after the Frolic. But we were late getting out. And a good thing too. If we’d left earlier, we’d have been two hours farther downriver when he fell through. No way I could have gotten him here in time. He’d be dead.”

“Instead, you found a dead man.”

He works his jaw back and forth, like a cow chewing its cud. “None of us were happy about that. Particularly Sam. But it makes sense if you think about it.”

“How?”

“Everything gets caught at Bumberhook Point. The peninsula reaches out into the water. Ice or no ice, that’s where logjams happen.”

“How long do you think Burgess had been there?”

“Couple hours. Probably. It was his hair—all frozen in the ice—that stopped him from sinking into the current.”

I am careful, so careful with my next question. “You said Sam was upset to find him?”

“I reckon anyone would be. But Sam cursed more ’n I ever heard ’im.”

There. Finally. Jonathan’s enunciation slips. Just a bit, but it’s enough to convince me that I can press harder.

“Did they know each other?”

He shrugs, a sloppy lift and fall of the shoulders. “They wasn’t friendly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sam’s never liked the man. But after what he did at the Frolic…” Jonathan’s voice fades off and is replaced by a scowl that he directs at the hearth.

“What happened after you got Sam out of the water?”

“The shock hit him. All that cold, all at once.” Jonathan runs the glass along his lower lip—back and forth—before tilting the liquor into his mouth again. He empties it with a single swallow. “Sam’s lucky he had that rope. ’E would’ve been swept away otherwise.”

Click. There it is. Another piece of the puzzle snaps into place.

“You told me before that the rope was looped at Sam’s waist?”

“Yes.” Jonathan leans his head back against the chair, eyes closed, fingers loose around his glass.

My final question is asked with the voice I used when reading him to sleep as a child. Soft and deep. Comforting. It’s not a benign question, but I do everything in my power to make it seem so.

“Was it bloody?” I ask.

It takes him so long to answer that I think he’s fallen asleep. The glass tumbles from his hand, and I reach out to catch it as a single word slips out in the form of a whisper.

“Yes.”

I reach out to shake Jonathan’s shoulder, to wake him up, when I am startled by a soft knocking at the door, followed by a voice calling my name.

“Martha.” The voice is female and heavily accented in French.

Doctor.

I’m up and at the door. When I pull it back, I see that she hasn’t even bothered to dismount Goliath, but has ridden him through the garden gate and right up to the door. She sits on his back, regal. Impatient.

“You must hurry,” she says. “Rebecca Foster is in labor.”