The blizzard that had blanketed most of Ohio and western Pennsylvania the week before Christmas had been followed by ten days of frigid temperatures. During that time, the afternoon highs had peaked above freezing for only a few hours on two separate occasions. As a result, the snow that had fallen two weeks previously had had little chance to melt. Except for the sidewalks, parking lots and roadways that had been cleared by necessity, the majority of the waist-deep drifts across backyards, fields and forests remained untouched, as if the storm had occurred only the night before.
As one might imagine, this had several ramifications. Ski shops enjoyed an unprecedented surge in business, most notably in the sale of snowshoes and cross-country ski equipment. Local fire departments spent several days digging out hydrants from the mounds of snow under which they’d been buried. Sturdy backs and snow shovels were put to the test clearing driveways and reestablishing usable patches of backyards for small dogs to do their business. Emergency departments attended to a whirlwind of fractures and other injuries sustained by unsuccessful attempts to traverse icy sidewalks and parking lots. And for anyone under the age of twenty (and for many people over that age, as well) the most important derivative of the weather was the nearly unlimited sledding opportunities that presented themselves. Hundreds of thousands of children across the region, all on winter vacation, took to the hills for an exuberant, screaming, accelerating descent down snow-covered embankments on cheap plastic vessels. It was the purest joy many of them would ever know.
These were not the only recreational activities. Bret Graham had convinced his uncle to let him borrow his snowmobile for the day, and by 10:30 a.m. he was zipping across fields of untouched powder, the reverberating growl of the revving engine following in his wake like a snarling mongrel on a tattered leash. He held fast to the handlebars, turning them back and forth as he cut a random, serpentine path through the snow. Eventually, he brought the vehicle to a halt behind 403 Crawford Avenue. He let the engine idle for a moment, then killed the switch. Dismounting, he trudged a few steps across the yard to the rear patio and rapped loudly on the back door. At first there was no sound from within the house. Then he heard light footsteps approaching from the inside hallway, and Cynthia’s face suddenly appeared in a pane of glass. She looked at him inquisitively for a moment, then spun the dead bolt and opened the door.
‘What in the hell are you doing out there, Bret Graham?’ she asked with a wide grin. Her voice was melodic and feathery. Just the sound of it kicked his heart rate up a notch.
He smiled back. ‘I’m here to take you snowmobiling, darlin’.’
She looked past him at the machine parked and waiting for her. It listed a little to the left in the soft snow. ‘I don’t know, Bret Graham.’ (She liked to say his full name, as in, ‘I’m dating Bret Graham,’ or ‘Bret Graham is taking me to the movies tonight.’) ‘That thing doesn’t look safe.’
‘Doesn’t look safe?!’ he repeated with an exaggerated scowl. ‘What do you mean it doesn’t look safe?’
‘It looks sketchy,’ she replied, crossing her arms in front of her. ‘Do you even know how to drive that contraption?’
‘Do I even …’ He let the words trail off at the end. ‘Shoot! Why, you’re safer on the back of that so-called contraption with me at the wheel than you are standing right here in your own house!’
‘I doubt that,’ she said.
‘You do?’ He shook his head in mock disbelief. ‘Well, go put that snowsuit of yours on and let me show you what it’s all about.’
‘Yeah?’ She was finding it increasingly difficult to hold back the excitement in her voice.
‘’Course,’ he responded with complete confidence, as if any other course of action was beyond discussion.
‘Okay,’ she said, her face lighting up with anticipation. She leaned through the open doorway and planted a quick kiss on his unsuspecting lips. ‘Bret Graham is taking me snowmobiling!’
‘That’s right.’
‘Wheee!!’ she exclaimed, and ran back to the foyer to fetch her gear. Bret stepped cheerfully inside to wait for her, acutely aware that on the other side of the threshold the sun was shining, the snow was soft and inviting, he had an adrenaline-packed rocket ship parked at the ready and he was here to pick up his girl. When you’re sixteen, it simply doesn’t get any better than that.
When she returned, they made their way through the snow and climbed aboard. Cynthia straddled the seat behind him, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist. ‘You sure this thing is safe?’ she asked once more.
‘No, I am not,’ he told her, starting the engine. ‘But that’s why I’m bringing you along. If we crash, I want something soft to land on.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ she said. ‘Well, here’s something soft to land on!’ She scooped up a large handful of snow and jammed it into his face.
‘Oh, that was not cool,’ he advised her, wiping the slush from his eyes. He could feel some of it already winding its way down the front of his neck. ‘You’d better hold on, girl! You’re in for a wild ride!’
‘No. Drive slowly.’
‘Right,’ he said, and gunned the engine. The vehicle lurched forward, nearly throwing her off the back.
‘Whoa! Take it easy!’ she yelled into his ear above the din of the motor, the ground already becoming a blur as it sped by beneath them.
The snowmobile whooshed along, cresting small hills with enough velocity to propel the craft into the air for brief moments of time. On the last rise, they took leave of the earth for a full second and a half before setting down with a soft jolt in a spray of dove-white powder. The vehicle scampered down the decline, then hooked a right as Bret directed the handlebars toward a stretch of trees.
‘No! Not the woods!’ Cynthia yelled into his ear, but her voice was no match for the volume of the engine.
They shot through the trees, which stood a sufficient distance apart for Bret to negotiate a wild, careening slalom around their broad trunks. Cynthia dared to look over his shoulder once and, immediately regretting it, buried her face between his shoulder blades for the remainder of the journey. The motorized vessel yawed to the left and right with each turn. Seventy yards ahead of them, the woods gave way to another vast, open field of untouched snow. At the edge of the woods, Bret could see that the ground fell away slightly, and his plan was to accelerate to a speed that would enable them to enter the field in mid-air. He pressed down on the accelerator with his right thumb, gunning the vehicle in that direction.
‘Whoooo-hoooooo!!!!’ he bellowed to no one in particular other than the silent trees whizzing by.
The vehicle never quite made it. Five yards from the point where the woods met the field, they struck something large buried beneath the snow. The nose of the snowmobile dipped sharply, and in an instant both occupants were tossed over the handlebars and into the air. Cynthia’s arms remained clasped tightly around Bret’s waist, and as a result the two of them flew through the air in perfect unison. It took less than two seconds for them to reconnect with the earth, but during that span of time each had an opportunity to wonder just how badly they were about to be injured. Their bodies made a three-quarter turn, head over heels, as if performing a somersault for a gymnastics competition. Both of them were athletes – Bret wrestled and ran cross-country, Cynthia had played soccer since she was five – and neither of them made the mistake of sticking out an arm or a leg to try to break their fall. They stayed tucked – chin down, body loose – and went with the roll. When they struck the earth, they met with a cushion of soft snow in an open field. They rolled twice, the snow crunching quietly beneath them, then came to rest.
The snowmobile sat idling at the outskirts of the woods, nose pitched forward and partly buried in the snow. For ten seconds neither of them spoke.
Taking stock of his physical condition and finding nothing alarmingly out of place, Bret was the first to break the silence. ‘Cynthia,’ he said, rolling over to get a better look at her. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Ugh,’ she responded, her face buried in the snow.
He rolled her onto her side. ‘Is anything broken? Are you able to move your arms and legs?’
‘I think … I can move everything but my right arm,’ she replied slowly.
‘Does it feel broken?’ he asked, the guilt already flooding through him in great, rolling waves. ‘I’m sorry,’ he added. ‘That was really stupid of me.’
‘I think … I might be able … to move it a little.’ She winced.
‘Wait! Don’t try to move it! It’s probably broken.’
‘No, hold on a second,’ she said. ‘It was just sort of numb for a second there. I think I can move it. Let me see … if I can …’
Her right hand shot up and smashed an ice-cold fistful of snow into his face for the second time that day. At least half of it found its way into his gaping mouth. Bret sputtered in shock and surprise, falling backward.
‘There’s a little present for you!’ she squealed. ‘Bon appétit!’
‘Wha –?’ Brett spit out a mouthful of snow. ‘I … I can’t believe you just did that!’
‘Believe it, sucker!’ she taunted him. ‘You deserved it. You could’ve gotten us both killed.’ She looked back at their downed craft. ‘What in the hell did we hit, anyway?’
‘Hell if I know,’ he said. The rear end of the snowmobile was pointing at a 45-degree angle toward the sky. ‘Hey,’ he said, giving her a serious look. ‘Thanks for not being mad. Most girls would—’
‘First of all,’ she said, interrupting him, ‘who says I’m not mad? You’re going to have to make it up to me, you know.’
‘And second?’
‘Second of all, I’m not “most girls”. Just keep that in mind.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he replied smartly. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah,’ she said, leaning over and giving him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here … that is, if that death-mobile of yours isn’t destroyed.’ She was already making her way in the direction of their maimed vehicle.
Bret pushed himself up into a standing position. His legs held. Nothing seemed to be broken. They’d made it through unscathed. That was good. Still, he felt guilty. He shouldn’t have been going that fast. If she’d been injured, he didn’t know wha –
That was when Cynthia screamed. The stark sound of her cry pierced the silent midday air. It leapt into the woods and came scampering out again like a spooked creature trying to escape. He was so stunned that for a moment he could only stand there, gaping at her. Then his feet were moving, seemingly of their own volition, and he was running toward her as fast as he could through snow cresting his knees.
‘What is it?!’ he called to her, closing the distance. She neither answered nor screamed again – only stood there, body rigid, looking down at the wounded snowmobile. Making his way through the deep drifts was maddeningly slow, and Bret had time to think that he wished she would scream again, just so he would know that she was mentally still with him. A single scream and silence; somehow, that was worse.
‘What is it?’ he asked again, but by the time he’d completed the sentence he was standing beside her, and he was able to see quite clearly for himself. His girlfriend stared at the snow, at the spot where the nose of the vehicle disappeared beneath the powder, at the thing they had struck that had sent them hurtling through the air in the first place. Thankfully, most of it was still hidden below the surface. The part that was sticking out was enough, though – enough to know what they had found. From beneath the snow, as if awoken suddenly from a deep slumber, a single forearm jutted accusingly toward the sky. The skin was bluish white, only a few shades darker than the surrounding snow, and the appendage ended abruptly at the wrist in a macerated curl of muscle and bone.
They had discovered the third victim.