In the Woods

by Nancy Gideon

  "It'd never work," Alex muttered as he buttoned up his coat, twice, the first time running out of button holes when he got to the top.

  Helen. What was he going to tell her? That while he sat swilling booze with his buddies well knowing he should be home or suffer the consequences, he couldn't bring himself to break from the muffling camaraderie of the bar to face the grim realities that came with the first cold slap of night air? Yeah, like she'd buy into that any better than Al's story about the groceries. Over the years, especially in the early ones, he'd told Helen some whoppers. In her own defense, she'd developed a fairly fool-proof shit detector that was hard to beat on his soberest day. And he was a far cry from daisy fresh at the moment.

  Ah, well. Time to face the music like a man. He'd rather avoid it like a mouse . . . or was that a hamster?

  "Hey!" Chet Patterson shouted. He surged out of his chair, knocking it over with a startling crash. He was pointing at the television which angled down toward the barstool clientele. "Turn it up!"

  All eyes focused on the screen and widened at the significance of a Special Bulletin reporter standing next to an abandoned car.They didn't need to hear the words to know what was being said. A gut-sick feeling of helplessness spread through the suddenly grim and silent group as Julie crossed to the breaker box at the end of the bar and purposefully flipped the switch. Suddenly, the band found themselves playing air guitars.

  "What the—"

  "Shut up!" Julie snapped at the irate bass player. She was already back peddling so she could see the overhead screen. Her lovely features were pinched and pale as she announced what they all knew."It looks like they found another one."

  The reporter, a young woman just as pinched and pale, was circling an empty car. Police bubble lights strobed in the background as she spoke tensely into her hand mike.

  ". . . of the evidence. Another person has fallen victim to the spree of this madman. The tell-tale sign of a severed finger was reportedly present at the scene. Police won't say if it belongs to the owner of the vehicle or if there were any other signs of forcible struggle. As yet, there is no confirmation that authorities are treating these cases as the work of a serial killer. None of the victims has been found to date. Families of the missing have been going on the air nightly to plea with the individual or individuals responsible, but no mention of ransom demands has been made public."

  "That's because they're all dead," Stan said, putting all of the bar patrons' feelings into that one flat summation.

  The reporter continued. She seemed to noticeably avoid glancing at the car and seemed nervous. Hell, the whole community had been jumpy since the first one, five weeks ago. A wife and mother of three. After that, a young male college student who bagged groceries at night to pay for his tuition. Then a female convenience store clerk on her way to her car. Each disappearing without a trace.Each leaving the grisly digit pointing toward some unknown freak who'd most likely planted them someplace only his sick mind was privy to while he held a city at ransom by their own terror.

  "There's been discussion by members of the mayor's staff of a citywide curfew but again, no confirmations. City law enforcement officials are being unusually closed-lipped about the entire situation, refusing to comment for the record, on or off camera."

  "What're they gonna say?" Chet growled. He'd known the female clerk, had even dated her a time or two. She’d been fun and full of life and expectations for the future. A future torn from her in a cruel instant. And it made Chet mad as hell. "That they don't know Jack about anything while this nut goes around picking people off the street like he's at some frigging murderer's buffet table?"

  Al looked at Alex. His face was bleached of color. Something awful was at work behind his stare.

  "I know that car."

  The camera panned in for a close up. A high school graduation tassel dangled forlornly from the rearview mirror along with a St. Christopher's medal.

  "Whose is it?"

  Al closed his eyes, moaning, "I hope I'm wrong."

  "Al," Jodie urged in a thin voice. "Tell us!"

  The seasoned fire-fighter swallowed hard, the sound audible within the strained company. "That looks just like the car Pete bought his daughter a few months back."

  Shock was immediate, followed by the disbelief that came when horror knocked so personally on the door of someone well-known and liked. Pete Walshank was a twelve year veteran who'd ridden with them, joked with them, had cooked lousy macaroni casserole for them. They’d all been invited to Laurie’s graduation open house and had managed to get the police called in as if they were a bunch of reckless teenagers after they’d run through the first keg of beer. Pete took it all in good-natured stride. That was the kind of guy he was. He never started his shift without placing a gold framed picture of his family on the night table beside his narrow bed, of wife, son and daughter, a beautiful, loving portrait, now, if Al's suspicions were correct, forever distorted.

  "Oh, my God," Julie whispered, near tears. She'd babysat for Laurie Walshank. "You're wrong, Al. You've got to be wrong. Laurie was—is such a sweet kid. Why would anyone want to hurt her? Why?"

  None of them had an answer. She'd might as well have asked why there was disease or hunger or AIDS. They had no answers for those tragedies, either.

  And none would be found at Double-Vision in the bottom of a glass.

  Alex rubbed a hand across his mouth, tasting bile, tasting fear. "Where's Pete?"

  "At the station," Al told him.

  "Somebody should call . . . just in case."

  Al nodded slightly, but didn't move.

  No one moved.

  Finally, Alex reached into the pocket of his jeans for his cellphone.

  ӜӜӜ

  Fire Chief Wayne Higley set the receiver gently in its cradle then spent some minutes staring at the telephone as if hoping it would ring again and he'd hear that it had all been some sick joke.

  But he knew it wouldn't because he'd been watching the same news program.

  He'd been at his desk burning the midnight oil to finish up some paper work. Two pots of coffee later and his work space still looked like the training ground for a puppy. He'd begun to wonder if the forms were reproducing while he went to the bathroom to off load that last ten-cup carafe of java. The TV was on as white noise, providing him with companionship while the night shift were tucked all snug in their beds. He'd been frowning over some infomercial toting the wonders of hair replacement while covertly surveying the increased surface mass of his forehead, which seemed to have doubled in the last year, thinking he was getting old, feeling old, when the special bulletin interrupted his hedonistic fantasies about a new head of hair.

  And then the phonecall.

  He was a man in his fifties going gracefully bald, with five years left on his mortgage, one kid in college, an adorable granddaughter, a wife that could still rev his motor with a sassy smile, a cushy bank account, a fishing boat on the big lake for his retirement years and a job that managed to keep the adrenaline high.He had it all, and he was damned grateful for it every day of his life.

  But sometimes it sucked to be him.

  Like now.

  He rolled back in his chair and dragged up out of it, the weight hanging on his heart making it hard for him to stand. He switched off the TV and the surrounding silence mocked him. Why did bad news always become his problem? This wasn't supposed to be how it happened.He was supposed to bear grim tidings to the family of his fire fighters regarding their fate, not the other way around. Somehow, this terrible reversal seemed so much more personal, more painfully intrusive.

  How he hated it.

  He walked through the darkened lounge, thinking he should probably take a minute to rehearse what to say. But he didn't. It was best just to get it over with, quick and clean. Like an emotional amputation.

  Damn.

  He opened the door next to the kitchen. The sonorous sound of men at sleep reached him. After taking a deep breath, he walked down
the row of bunks to the one in the far corner, reaching down to grasp a blanketed shoulder. A grumble wafted out from the mounded pillows.

  "Pete." He gave another shake.

  Pete Walshank opened his eyes, then instantly sat up straight in bed. An old pro, he was instantly awake and ready to race out into the night, sirens wailing. But this wasn’t about a fire. He glanced about to notice everyone else still sawing lumber. His gaze, turning to his chief, was full of questions.

  "What's going on? Another drill?"

  Wayne took a minute to compose his words and in that time, worry set in, scoring deep lines in Pete's brow. Wayne was a direct, get right to the point kind of guy, and his hesitation was prophetic.

  Something was deeply, deeply wrong.

  "Get up, Pete," Wayne said at last, his voice quiet but penetrating right to Pete's marrow."We need to talk."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Alex turned into the driveway of his modest home in the middle of a neighborhood full of modest homes and cut the engine of his Jeep. A small import car was already sitting in the drive, confirming what the kitchen light told him.

  Helen was home and awake, and she was waiting for him to dazzle her with excuses.

  He continued to sit there as minutes ticked by, trying to shake off the effects of one too many while his mind turned sluggishly over the events of the day. How much was he going to tell his wife?She knew the Walshank family, had commiserated at many a fireman's function with Lucy Walshank over the hardships of being married to the station house. Bad enough would be bringing home news of another disappearance. Helen, like any other sensitive member of the community, was devastated by the whole scenario and more than a little nervous. Worse was bringing her news that it was someone they knew.Helen loved kids, having emotionally adopted the younger members of all his co-workers's families. It was the same nurturing instinct that had her working with small furries at the pet store.

  They'd talked about starting a family of their own, just talk so far, since he was in many ways, still a kid himself. They'd survived some tenuous years where it seemed a sudden breeze could blow over their marital house. It hadn't been a good idea to start increasing tax deductions then, not when nearly every night culminated in an argument. But things were better now, more stable, more secure, and Helen had been making subtle noises about her biological clock tick tocking away. And, thinking about what a great mom she'd be, he'd begun to resist the notion less and less . . . until Terry's death rocked his world. And now this, about Pete's little girl. Maybe it was better to limit the scope of pain he could suffer.

  Finally, before Helen got to wondering what was keeping him out there in the drive, Alex headed for the front door that led into their modest living room, pausing to spruce himself up before stepping inside.

  The interior of the Kerwood home was like its exterior, small, new and immaculate, with no children to cause a clutter, and a second bedroom serving single duty as his den until called to become a nursery. So far, a big lazy tabby cat filled in as their baby.

  And thinking of kids got him thinking again of Pete and what he must be going through. How were he and his wife going to survive such a blow? Would he and Helen if the roles were somehow reversed?

  Maybe kids weren't such a great idea.

  Alex let the glow of the kitchen light lead him into the warmly decorated hub of their household. Helen was there, seated at the table, papers strewn out in front of her, a nearly empty cup of coffee in her hand. He paused, a wad of emotion rising up unexpectedly to clog like a massive hairball at the base of his throat.

  God, she was gorgeous.

  After seven years of putting up with him, she was still the petite beauty he'd struggled to win over during their high school years. Her parents had been the real obstacle. They'd been sure he'd amount to nothing but aggravation and disappointment. A wry smile twisted his lips. He'd done his share of proving them right.

  She looked up distractedly to give him a welcoming smile. Blunt cut dark hair fell away from pixie-like features to sweep along her shoulders. Big brown eyes touched upon him briefly, heating like the caress of sunlight.

  How had he gotten so lucky?

  "Hi, sweetie," he murmured through that liquid-drain- cleaner-needed size clog, and headed for the refrigerator before she could guess anything was wrong. Thankfully, she was too absorbed in whatever commandeered their table top to give him much immediate notice. He grabbed out a can of soda and took a big swig, swishing it about in his mouth to serve as a pinch-hit rinse. The sweetness curdled around the bite of alcohol remaining on his tongue. Nasty.

  Leaning against the fridge, he watched his wife for a long moment then tapped on the wall to get her attention. Those big, dark, doe eyes canted up at him, and again, she smiled, more fully this time.As she herded all her paper work into a big pile, Alex came to join her at the table, taking an opposite seat.

  "Did you get it worked out?"

  "What?"

  "The gerbils."

  "You mean the hamsters?"

  Alex let out an easier smile and shrugged in half-hearted apology.

  "Someday, you'll learn the difference," she chided, but her gaze was warm and a sense of answering heat was beginning to mass inside him. "And, yes, I did get it worked out. They're going to replace them all."

  "Great," Alex gushed, as if the Hamster Disaster had been preying darkly upon his mind. "I hope you didn't sell any. I'd hate to have some little girl come in and say you sold her a devil gerbil."He grinned, waiting. Helen didn't disappoint him.

  "Hamster! I'll tell you what. You call them gerbils one more time and I'll throw one in your underwear!"

  His eyes widened. "Oooooh!"

  She snorted in exasperation. "Figures . . . you'd like that."

  "It's always funny until someone get hurt . . ."

  She didn't miss a beat. ". . . and then it's just hilarious."

  God, he loved her.

  In answer to his smirk, Helen circled the table to plant a big wet one on his obliging lips.

  Then she pulled away, the sun going under a cloud.

  "You son-of-a-bitch." It came out low and angry, a weary accusation. "You went out drinking again."

  Feeling her disappointment as keenly as a knee to the groin, Alex shoved out of his chair and moved to embrace her, wanting to get beyond the unpleasantness as quickly as possible because of how much he needed her support. But Helen put her back to him, a cold, cold wall, and she thrust her arms up to deny the intimacy of his surrounding gesture.

  "I give up."

  He hated the heavy pang of resignation in her tone, beating himself up the way he used to when he'd come home from almost nightly binges. I'm a shit. I'm a creep. I'm lower than snail turds. I don't deserve her. I don't deserve another chance. What'll I do if she won't give me one? Why didn't I think of that before sucking through that first mug of suds? Those words made a punishing tattoo.

  His placating response was rote, too often repeated to sound like anything but a well-practiced lie. That he recognized it as one was an improvement, he thought . . . he hoped.

  "I was just going to stop in for a minute." God, that sounded like a needle stuck in the same record grove. He tried to bump it into another nitch. "I had to call Wayne."

  She didn't turn and her stiff posture didn't slacken. "Is he your new drinking buddy? Did you and Al Fargo have a falling out?"

  He could have shaved with the cut of her words.

  Angry now, himself, because he was close to whimpering in his weak defense, because he was letting her down again, because he didn't want to go down the same rutted road their marriage had taken in the first few years, Alex all but shouted, "Helen, I stopped in there to have a drink. Yes, I admit it. And I don't care. We had a shitty day. We lost someone."

  The snag in his voice brought her around when all the tired apologies in the world couldn't.A look of distressed sympathy softened her face. She searched his expression for a long minute, reading volumes in the pa
in-etched lines.

  "Who?" she whispered at last. "I didn't hear anything about it."

  "A woman . . . and her baby. They were just poor people, not the type to make front page news." But his anguished tone said they were as important to him as family. And one protected one’s family.

  Her arms formed a consoling cocoon about him and the effect was immediate comfort. Alex held to her, the agony of the day ebbing within her tender circle of care. It was magic.

  "I'm sorry," she was saying. "Why didn't you call me? Why didn't you come home first?"

  There was an edge of accusation behind that veil of understanding, and Alex's balance was precarious at best. He needed some thinking distance. Letting go of her, he walked back to the table to take a big drink of his soda. It curled unpleasantly in his belly, sweet, thick and gagging. He plopped into his chair and stared hard at the table top.

  "I don't know," he answered at last.

  "What do you mean, you don't know?"

  Here it comes, he thought morosely. No matter what he said, she had him cold. So he blundered onward. "The guys wanted to . . ."

  Her reaction was harsh and abruptly final. "I don't care about the guys!"

  He waited, and then she came over to stand next to him. He could feel her fury, her pain, and he shriveled inside knowing himself to be the cause.

  "Tell me something."

  He glanced up at her beautiful face, seeing the strain of futility and anguish there, a dull patina aged after years of living with his lame promises.

  "Is this the way it’s always going to be? You limping to a watering hole because you had a bad day? I know . . .Okay, maybe I don't know what it's like for you. Losing a cage full of hamsters can't compare to a human life. But, I'm here for you, Alex. If you would rather kiss a Corona than me, you just go for it! I can spend all night at the store talking with a lizard . . ."

  "Goddammit!" His hands slapped the table, momentarily startling them both. "It's not the same thing! Running into a burning house and feeding the stinking fish. Don't even compare them."

  Helen's shock wore off to a duller rage. She struck at the stack of papers, sending them in a cascade to the tiled floor. Breathing hard, she took an akimbo stance, fists knuckling her hips, tears swelling.