Cold Wind

by Paige Shelton

  I walked into the dining area on one side and then glanced in the bedroom on the other. I peered inside a full bathroom as I made my way down the short hallway and into the living room. It took up the whole back half of the house and was decorated with so many animal pelts, I couldn’t count them quickly. I lifted the brown rug at my feet, searching for a tag that would tell me it was fake. No tags. How many dead animals were in this place?

  It didn’t turn my stomach, but I didn’t like it. I would never use animal pelts to decorate my living spaces. But I also knew my attitude was hypocritical. I had my share of leather shoes, coats, and handbags, though never a fur coat.

  A long couch sat in the middle of the room, facing a large fireplace with a big-screen television above. If there was a satellite on the roof, I’d missed it, but that was probably the only way to watch anything other than DVDs, and even satellite feeds might not reach through some of the thicker clouds. Two chairs at angles flanked the couch, and more moose lamps sat on end tables.

  A sleek black modern stereo system, the likes of which I had never seen, had been placed on a shelf on the wall opposite the television.

  I stepped farther into the room and looked around. I didn’t touch anything, and I hoped I wouldn’t see something more bothersome than a bunch of animal pelts. But I didn’t notice anything strange at all. Even on a small desk in the corner, where Randy kept some pieces of mail—I didn’t look closely at any of the mail—nothing was unusual. It all seemed very Spartan.

  A loft took up the front part of the house, the space above the kitchen and front bedroom. The loft area on Annie’s sketch had been where she pointed when asked where her and Mary’s bedroom was. The only way to get up there was via a ladder that had been nailed to the wall. I didn’t see a stairway.

  I’d come this far. I climbed the ladder.

  The loft was less neat than the rest of the house, seemingly lived in—maybe.

  There were three beds, all twins, all messy and unmade. A few piles of clothes were sprinkled throughout, and two pine dressers had clothes peeking out of the tops of closed drawers.

  Without going all the way up the ladder and into the space, I searched for girls’ clothing, anything feminine or childlike, but nothing stood out. All the clothing seemed like it could be worn by anyone.

  But that was the nature of the gear at the mercantile, wasn’t it? Unisex, to a point, generic, utilitarian. The rest of the house seemed designer, but the loft was all about the necessities. There were even two electric heaters, one at each end, though they weren’t turned on.

  It struck me as a space where people might sleep, or maybe it was just a place where extra stuff was stored. There were no knickknacks, nothing personal, nothing that told me about the age or sex of the person or persons who might spend time there.

  I really wanted to look closely at everything, but something told me not to. That same something told me that if Randy was guilty of things I couldn’t quite define but that bothered me nonetheless, this was the place that would contain the evidence.

  I had a hard time believing he’d ever done anything wrong, but some of the best bad guys knew how to hide behind good-guy disguises.

  I should never have let myself in for a personal tour. I didn’t regret it quite yet, but I knew without a doubt that I should not go into that loft.

  I lifted a foot and started to move it down a rung. I’d turned my head to look down when something moved in my peripheral vision. I gasped and turned more fully to look out the windowed back doors. Amid the trees, I was sure I caught sight of a dark spot moving away from the house.

  It could have been an animal, but I remembered what Gril had said about the dark shadow behind Lane’s house—that it didn’t quite move like an animal. This dark spot was moving quickly.

  I was probably six or seven rungs up. I twisted a little more, keeping my eyes aimed outside, and took a quick step—too quick.

  I went down, landing hard on my back on the floor. I hit my head.

  Dr. Genero had told me I would be able to live a normal life but that I should stay away from contact sports like football and hockey, and to wear a helmet if I ever rode a bike. She made it clear that hitting my head was a very bad idea.

  At the very least this time I’d knocked myself silly—at the most, knocked myself out. Whatever it was, the result was a scene playing out in my mind’s eye.

  I was sitting in the back of the van, on top of piles of clothes. They stank. I could smell them. I’d been with him just over a day, but I smelled, too—like fear and sweat. A bandanna had been stuck into my mouth to gag me. I couldn’t talk, but I could make noise. He’d turned and looked at me from the driver’s seat.

  “I’m going to get something to eat. If you so much as whimper, I’ll kill you dead.”

  I was crying as he talked to me, tears fogging my vision, making my nose run. My ankles were zip-tied together, my wrists zip-tied behind my back. He left the van. I started rocking and mewling, sounding so much like the noise the girls had made outside the Petition’s door.

  He came back only a few minutes later. He got into the van, into the driver’s seat, smelling like greasy food. My stomach lurched. He turned and sent me a smile.

  “Want some?” he said as he extended a burger my direction, then pulled it back. “Psych. No food for you.”

  I came to, or the stars stopped spinning, or something. The vision cleared and I was on the floor in Randy’s cabin, flat on my back, watching the beamed ceiling waver before coming into focus.

  I’d just seen something I hadn’t remembered before, something that had happened in the van, but while that memory was something that might take me down under other circumstances, it was currently the least of my worries.

  I’d hit my head. That was not good, worse even than the terrifying scene from the van.

  I had to get out of there.

  I had to get help.

  I hoped there was time.

  Twenty

  I took inventory. My head seared with pain and my eyes watered.

  What time was it? How long had I been out?

  I looked around. The light outside wasn’t much different than when I’d arrived—still gray. There was no dark figure out there anymore, so far as I could see. Maybe there hadn’t ever been one.

  My eyes landed on a clock on one of the end tables. I did some silent calculations and decided I’d only been out for a few minutes. My hand went to my head. I’d hit the side opposite the scar. I blinked and checked my vision. It was fine; well, not too bad. I focused on the pain. Yes, it hurt, but did it hurt bad enough that I really did need to see a doctor? My pupils, I need to look at my pupils. I didn’t know why that idea came to me—no one had told me to do such a thing if I hit my head—but I made my way to the bathroom and looked in the mirror over the medicine cabinet door.

  My pupils looked fine, and they reacted to the light appropriately. I opened the medicine cabinet door, but didn’t see anything inside that might help me; in fact, I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for.

  Did I have a concussion? I needed to find Dr. Powder.

  I hurried out of the house, pulling the front door shut behind me.

  As I reached the truck, I looked back toward the house again, and then up at the loft window.

  I hadn’t noticed it before, but there, attached to the glass, was what looked like a small, green piece of paper. Even with my throbbing head, I couldn’t leave before I understood what I was seeing.

  Following the footsteps I’d made the first time, I walked back toward the house again and looked up. Yes, there was something taped to the glass, like green construction paper. I couldn’t make it out exactly, but I thought I knew what the material was.

  I debated going back inside and climbing the ladder again, but I knew I still couldn’t go into that loft, and I didn’t want to risk another misstep. I didn’t have a camera on my burner phone, so I had no way to take a picture.

  I would remembe
r it. For now, I just needed to find Dr. Powder.

  I stopped at the Petition to try to see if I could figure out how to find the doctor. Two notes had been stuck under the door. One was a winter ferry schedule. That note had been written on some stationery emblazoned with the Alaska Marine Highway logo along the top of the page.

  The other note was from Orin. “Come see me” was all it said.

  I was torn. I wanted to talk to Orin, find out what information he’d uncovered, but Dr. Powder came first.

  He sometimes met patients in a back room at the bar, but I thought I’d heard that people sometimes saw him at his home. I tried to call Viola, and then Gril and Donner, but no one answered. Not uncommon. None of us hung out around the landlines much. I even tried Orin, but he didn’t answer, either. I thought I’d seen a possible address once in some files of back issues of the Petition. I opened a drawer and started looking. Yes, there it was—a notice from Dr. Powder, listing a change in his office hours. His address was listed, too—west side of the West Coordinate, State Road 63. A Benedict address that I could find.

  I locked up and made my way back to the truck. Snow had started to fall again.

  I was still confident in my truck and its tires, but I didn’t feel quite as invincible anymore. My head hurt enough that I slowed as I made my way toward the West Coordinate.

  Not for the first time since I’d moved to Benedict, I wondered if maybe I shouldn’t have chosen a place with more modern technology. The closest hospital was either a plane or ferry ride away. Never mind the spotty cell phone coverage. I was currently experiencing Benedict’s “emergency services,” glad that at least I still wasn’t unconscious on Randy’s living room floor.

  I traveled past downtown, past Tochco’s, and turned onto what I thought was the West Coordinate’s main “road.” It was covered in new snow and, just like so many of the roads around town, framed by tall spruces. I hadn’t seen one other vehicle on the roads. I hoped I’d picked the right turn. I passed a couple of small cabins, but didn’t think they were lived in during the winter months. I counted the state roads aloud as I passed them: 61, 62, and then, finally, 63.

  If the trip had taken much longer, the amount of snow coming down might have scared me away from turning, but I plowed forward.

  For a few more long minutes, I saw no houses or cabins along the narrow lane. I wondered how I would manage turning around if I had to.

  If Donner knew I’d ventured out in a snowstorm without anyone else knowing—though I’d tried!—he would be angry. I would probably agree with him this time, but the pain in my head hadn’t lessened—though it hadn’t worsened, either—and I’d become hyperfocused on finding the doctor.

  Relief washed through me when I finally came upon a house. It was most definitely a house, not a cabin. Made of brick, it reminded me of a smaller version of a southern plantation. It didn’t fit with much of anything else I’d seen in Benedict, but the only thing that mattered was the sign that hung from the front porch overhang: “Dr. Powder.”

  Two trucks and one car were parked on a circular drive in front of the house. I found a place behind the car and made a space that would keep my truck out of everyone else’s way.

  As I walked inside, someone was coming out. A woman I’d seen at the restaurant, whose name I didn’t know. She had a tissue to her nose.

  “Who says cold weather doesn’t make you sick?” she said as we passed on the porch.

  “I know,” I said. “I hope you feel better.”

  “You too.” She stepped carefully toward one of the trucks.

  I opened the front door to find a comfortable but undecorated waiting room. One person not looking well sat in a chair against the wall. A woman sat behind a desk.

  “Can I help you?” she said, her southern drawl thick.

  There would be no privacy. I walked to her, took off my hat, and spoke as quietly as I could. “I hit my head.”

  Her eyes flicked over my scar as she frowned and stood. “Well, then, come with me now.”

  She led me down a short hallway and opened a door to what must have once been a home office or a small bedroom, but was now an exam room. Dr. Powder was inside with a patient. Fortunately, the patient’s most exposed body part was her mouth. It was open wide as the doctor peered inside with a tongue depressor.

  “Excuse me?” the doctor said.

  “Hun, this gal’s hit her head. Not for the first time, apparently.”

  Dr. Powder peered at us over the glasses perched on the tip of his nose. “All right. Let me have a look.”

  He cleared out everyone else and had me sit up on the exam table. He looked at my eyes, made the pupils do what they were supposed to do, and then we talked about the pain I felt. I told him I just slipped outside and hit my head on the ground. That seemed to be good enough for him. He asked other specific questions and I gave specific answers, my nerves calming and the pain lessening as we spoke, his slow, confident tone a salve.

  Finally, he said, “I think you’re fine, but do you want me to call the Harvingtons to get a plane ready? If you were in Juneau, they’d probably do a CT scan.”

  “I don’t really want to do that unless you think it’s absolutely necessary.”

  He looked at me a long time. I didn’t know how good a doctor he was, but I hoped for the best.

  He finally said, “I don’t think it is. You are showing no signs of a concussion.” He sat down on an old folding chair that had been next to the wall. “What happened that you needed the surgery? Did you really fall off a horse?”

  I gauged if he was suspecting me of being the liar I was or just wanted to be able to treat me appropriately.

  “I fell off a horse onto some gravel. I had road rash on the side of my face, as well as my arm. It wasn’t pretty.”

  “You were helped quickly,” he stated.

  “I was. I was in surgery within two hours of the fall.”

  “Lucky girl,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  He crossed his legs, folded his fingers together, and placed them on his knee. “Anything else you want to talk about? Despite my wife’s interruption because she thought we had an emergency—and she was correct, it was best to check—doctor-patient privilege applies here. Are you okay?”

  I got no sense that he was in any hurry to see his other patients. Dr. Genero had never seemed in a rush, either, but I couldn’t imagine her or any of the doctors I’d met in St. Louis asking me questions as they relaxed on a chair, their folded hands over a knee.

  Everyone kept telling me I needed someone to talk to. I wouldn’t mind having someone I could trust completely.

  I came close to spilling the story, but ultimately, I didn’t, not really.

  “I’m still having some headaches, but they aren’t as frequent. I have flashback memories from when I was a child. My father disappeared when I was young, and though I thought about him all the time before I hurt myself, I don’t remember ever remembering the things I have lately.”

  Dr. Powder nodded. “Are the memories scary? Did you have bad times with your dad?”

  “No, not at all. They were great times. After he left, my mother fell apart. For the most part, my grandfather raised me, but he died when I was sixteen.”

  “That had to be tough.”

  “It was.” It still was sometimes.

  “I’m sorry.” He paused. “I think your memories are the product of the recent trauma. If I were you, I would look at them as your get-well gifts.”

  I lifted my eyebrows.

  “You said they were good memories. You wouldn’t have them if you hadn’t hit your head the first time, I bet. They are there to help you get well.” He tapped the side of his head with a finger. “Some of us think this is where God lives. If you’re religious, maybe just think of your good memories as angels. You are fine, as far as I can tell. Enjoy the good memories. If you have some bad ones, too, just file those away, tell them they can’t hurt you.”

  I’d
heard some version of what he was saying from a few people, but he spoke with a little more awe of the divine than any of the others had. He was an interesting man. I wouldn’t tell him I wasn’t religious.

  “Thank you, Dr. Powder,” I said.

  “You’re welcome. Come back anytime. I do full physicals for everyone during April, but you don’t have to wait until then if you have any concerns. And, of course, I see everything from colds to STDs, so don’t be shy.”

  I blinked, but then smiled. “Good to know.”

  “Winter does strange things around this place. Keep that in mind.”

  “Will do.”

  He escorted me out to the waiting room, where three patients and his wife were sitting patiently, then walked me outside and instructed me on the best way to get out of the driveway as I hopped into the truck.

  Something occurred to me, and I stopped. The original mission I’d had after talking to Mill, after I’d seen the address on Viola’s desk.

  “Brayn Village? Am I far from there?” I had to open the door to ask the question because I didn’t want to risk the window crank in temperatures this cold.

  “Way west. You really can’t miss it if you’re out on the main road, but if you get to the ocean, turn around. It’s an old village along a river.” He looked up at the cloudy sky. It had stopped snowing. “Who are you looking for?”

  I hesitated. “Well, I thought I’d check on those two girls.”

  Seemingly unsurprised by my answer, Dr. Powder put his hands in his jeans pockets and looked at me a long time again. He was not a man in a hurry. A gust of wind blew his hair sideways, but he didn’t seem bothered in the least. I thought he might ask me why or tell me I shouldn’t try the trip on my own. He surprised me.

  “Turn left out on the main road. I think you’ll need to travel about twenty minutes, but you should find it. Be careful. And, Beth, report back to me if you feel concerned, about yourself or the girls.”

  “I will. Thanks again.” I shut the truck door.

  Dr. Powder watched me leave. I saw him in my rearview mirror until the trees hid him from view.