Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright 2016 Lisa J. Lickel
ENDORSMENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
ACKNOWLEGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Thank you
Understory
Lisa J. Lickel
Copyright 2016 Lisa J. Lickel
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Cover Art by Joan Alley
Edited by Susan M. Baganz
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are the product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
The poem “The First Snowfall” by James Russell Lowell is in the public domain.
Published by Prism Book Group
ISBN-13:978-1943104505
ISBN-10:1943104506
First Edition, 2016
Published in the United States of America
Contact info: [email protected]
http://www.prismbookgroup.com
ENDORSMENTS
“Several paragraphs into chapter one, the tension grabs you.” —Nike Chillemi, author of inspirational crime fiction and historical mystery
“Lisa Lickel weaves together a masterful tale of intrigue and romance, and the multilayers of complexity will leave the reader turning the pages. The characters are well-developed, and overarching themes involving racism and prejudice will resonate with the reader. The story takes place in the Midwest—in a small town that harbors a big secret—perhaps more common than anyone dares to imagine. UnderStory is one of those rare books that’s not only a great read but makes a statement about what’s most important—in the midst of depravity, unfairness, and greed.” —Lorilyn Roberts, award-winning author and founder of the John 3:16 Marketing Network
“Drugs, human trafficking, and corruption all play their part in Lisa Lickel’s atmospheric thriller, UnderStory, but it’s the characters and the love story you’ll remember most. In some ways, the book reminded me of the movie, Fargo—quirky locals, investigators facing not only ruthless criminals but also a frozen winter landscape of snow and ice in an isolated far north town. The blizzard is the catalyst that brings together two emotionally damaged strangers when Cam finds the mysterious Lily unconscious near his isolated cabin. When he brings her inside, he becomes involved in both love and dangers he never expected when he hid himself away in the woods.” —Robin Johns Grant, author of Summer’s Winter
ONE
Friday, December 15
She wrestled with the wheel, white-knuckled as the view beyond the windshield deserved. Power steering locked as the engine coughed one last time and died. Her teeth rattled as they skidded over a county snowplow’s leftover chunks at the edge of the road and bumped into a ditch.
When she stopped quivering, she smacked the dashboard and snarled. Six miles out of town—one short of her goal. Wrenching the door aside enough to squeeze out and survey the situation did not enhance her mood.
Fresh powder mounded tufts of leaves. Rodent nests peeked through fairy rings. The forest was quiet this dark morning, too cold, too early even for birds. Couldn’t be much after four and the snowfall was getting serious. She cocked her head. Hot metal clicked as it cooled. A dead poplar just inside the forest was close enough to drag and camouflage the too-green paint of Art’s vehicle where it peeked above the ditch.
After she arranged the screen around the car, she dusted her hands and rummaged for tools. The front license plate was plowed into the snow and brush, but a few flicks of a pocket screwdriver unlatched the back plate. She’d bury it a few yards in. Little things, maybe, but it still gave her a sense of control.
A short time later, she wrapped herself in a ragged red and black checked wool blanket and hiked across the forest floor, picking up bits of dead, fallen things that once lived high. A shush of snow blowing along dried leaves across crusted ice orchestrated a strange lullaby for the nap she longed to take.
This state of compromised freedom came as a result of a flaw in her natural programming. Running out of gas was something her brother would do, not her. But she had failed to check the tank. Idiot. Crazy thing was, it fit right into his scheme.
Kingston’s cabin was maybe half a mile away through the woods, if she got the direction right. He’d hide her for a while, help her figure out what to do. She had to be close to the turn-off toward the tiny crossroads community of Spruce. She could make it. If she alerted the authorities before Art found her, she might stay alive.
If she wanted to. Brisk air reinvigorated her brain cells, forcing them to work overtime, remembering the bad parts about growing up, and now, trying to do more than run on instinct. A woman like her, born defective, was useless, her father said. She shouldn’t bother trying to get a boyfriend, her mother told her.
But she wasn’t useless and had done well…until lately.
She would figure this out and live.
She had to. For Kenny.
Art would be mad when he realized she’d taken his new Jeep. He didn’t really think she was that stupid, did he? To believe she’d hide out until he could have her declared dead? That he would turn over part of the insurance money so she could start over somewhere else at the age of twenty-eight?
Her breath glittered in the rusty morning light through the swirling powdery flakes. Honeysuckle grabbed her jeans. Hawthorn tore her cheek, tugged back her hood and tangled in her hair, pulling it from the loose bun she’d tied before huddling into her mother’s old coat. She didn’t even pause. The coming storm had been forecast for the past three days, with each prediction adding inches to the snow total.
She hitched the nubby wool higher around her ears, dragging the red plaid fringed blanket into the understory.
* * *
Cam Taylor listened to ice crystals pinging his kitchen window pane. Too cold to make decent snowflakes.<
br />
He’d let his dogs inside last night—early morning—when they made a ruckus. After filling a water bowl and offering treats, he let them stay near the woodstove. The mercury plunged way below the fat red zero on the ancient Wisconsin Bank of the Great North Woods outdoor thermometer. It was really cold out there in the driving blizzard…not counting wind chill.
He gulped the last of his coffee while he watched the two animals pace between the kitchen stove and the front door, restless. They were as mixed up a breed as he. Lear was mostly retriever, the shelter said, and Iago, part Shepherd with the usual dark markings, but shorthaired.
“So, you want to show me what you found? Hmm? Maybe some deer hide we can salvage?” Fatally cold out there, yeah, but a brisk walk through lashing snow might shake the vapors of the ghosts that clung after his dreams.
While he dressed for outdoors, he continued to talk to them. “Better be more exciting than a rabbit, guys.” The white stuff already heaped six inches deep in places, and he couldn’t tell exactly where his driveway started. The dogs shot out the door as soon as he opened it. Lear and Iago howled and acted stupid, pouncing and prancing in the blowing fluff. Cam lashed his snowshoes to his boots, grabbed his poles, and took off from the porch steps after them. One deep breath sent him sputtering and rasping. He tied his scarf across his face and muttered, “Twenty-four below, one gangsta ready to roll…”
Almost ready. Cam went back for the spool of twine he kept for times like this. A man didn’t want to get lost on the way back from the outhouse, much less miss the cabin by a couple of yards when he was just out for an aching breath of fresh air.
He checked his watch. It was later than he thought, going on nine. They’d not stay out very long.
“Hi-yar, come!” Lear mock-charged him. Iago bounded four heartbeats behind, tongue sloppy. Iago’s jaw was misaligned, leaving him to drool, which froze to his muzzle. “Here, boys.” He managed to rough up both their necks.
A branch cracked close range. He cringed, both at the sound and his reaction. Between the memories of his last mission as an army medic and the trial that had ruined his life, he turned into a jumpy mess of nerves more often than he preferred.
“Not guilty!” Judge Otterly’s crashing gavel woke Cam at least three nights a week over the past two years. The nightmares continued, crystal clear and accompanied by a musty smell when he opened his eyes, exhausted, not like when he used to get by just fine on five hours of sleep.
A couple of football fields later, Lear paused to sniff at something under the great broken fir that refused to die after last summer’s lightning strike. He didn’t bay, so it was probably something dead. Maybe a deer, wounded in the recent hunting season, wandered off and bled out. Shame to waste meat.
“What you find, boy?” Cam studied the snowy pile of raggedy blanket from a few yards off. Red and black plaid wool looked like velvet under blowing ice crystals. He blinked stinging snow from his eyelashes.
“I do not recall leaving anything out here, do you?”
Iago joined the action, pawing at the heap Cam no longer suspected was a deer carcass.
“Wait up, there, now.”
Cam poled closer. Crashing gusts through the understory created a roaring wave that ebbed and flowed. Iago grabbed a corner of the blanket and tugged. His other dog barked once, a sharp note that wailed on the wind. Cam shook his head against the thought he was about to experience a Stephen King moment.
And when Iago exposed a person-shape huddled fetal position, Cam was not as surprised as he should have been. Nauseated, yeah. A little shaky in the fingers. He ducked under the dubious shelter of branches, all the while telling himself that no good was going to come of this. Iago lay next to the…body. Setting his maw on it tenderly, he gave Cam the “do something” sad eye.
Nope, nothing good.
Lear paced in a circle swinging his head, acting like a secret service agent. But for whom?
“What’s there, Iago? What do you know, boy?”
Cam assessed the situation, checking for weapons, tracks, movement, before he unclipped his snowshoes and squatted. In slo-mo, he pulled down the scarf covering his nose and mouth and sniffed. Even slower, he reached out as Iago whined.
He steeled himself before pulling off the glove of his right hand to scratch Iago’s ears before running his forefinger along the jaw of the person in the snow. Of course the skin was cold. He let out a steamy breath, took in another, and studied the cheek. No beard. Young man? He checked for a pulse.
The dogs keened. Had they heard anything else? Cam swallowed. Steady. Don’t let your pets freak you out. Remember the boy behind the rock that last tour in Kandahar? His uncle knifed him to keep him quiet. Just like that. It’s only a body. Can’t leave it for the animals. No matter the trouble dumped on his shoulders if he pretended he’d never seen the frozen lump in the first place. He closed his eyes. So much easier to walk away.
Do the right thing, son, Grandma’s voice whispered.
I will, I will, I will. Give me a second.
He straightened his shoulders, leaned in, grasped the head, and turned it toward him. Iago licked the cheek.
“Stop it,” Cam muttered.
Moss-colored irises stared at him. Cam blinked convulsively and reached his other gloved hand around to close the lids. An unexpected puff of air brushed his knuckles.
The eyes shut on their own. Then opened again.
TWO
Art Townsend howled into the fury of spiraling wind straight from the North Pole. Ice crystals sharp enough to draw blood cudgeled his bare face. He blinked, hoping he wouldn’t go blind.
Where was that girl? Stupid freak. How hard was it to go four point three miles to the pullover? And what was with taking his new Jeep? That wasn’t the plan.
He kicked the tire of her green Escort and got back behind the wheel. Worn tread wouldn’t take him far in this storm. How could she do this to him? Her dad would have him murdered if he lost her for real. He’d been specific about that. Art fingered the capped syringe in his pocket. He’d get half again as much if he turned her over undamaged. Of course, they didn’t know everything about her and he wasn’t going to tell. They’d find out his dear stepsister wasn’t quite the present she appeared to be when they unwrapped her.
Probably wouldn’t matter much anyway. Maybe the pervs would think she was something special. He turned his head and spit in the passenger seat.
Art didn’t exactly believe the old man cooked up the scam on his own. He’d heard about the phony job interview sting from other guys in prison and added it up. Revving the engine, he did a three-point turn on the fire road that cut through the forest off the main highway. If that cow damaged his new Jeep, he’d make her very sorry. With only one payment on it so far, he needed cash. It would be a few months before his stepfather’s lawyer declared her dead and he got the fat insurance check. Some exchange for her getting a cushy but hush-hush new job with Securities Unlimited and a whole new life. The Benelli and the monster screen TV were expensive, but he deserved nice things after babysitting criminals all day at the pen. The plans were smooth. Shoulda been plenty easy. Except for that freak stepsister.
Like she thought she could move back in to the house without asking when she lost her job in the cities. If she paid more rent, he might have dealt with her always being…there, always wherever he wanted to be, hogging the bathroom, at the coffee pot, in his face.
Art glared through the squealing windshield wipers all the way home to the far side of Barter Valley, rage climbing higher the slower he was forced to drive in the whirling whiteout.
If he lost the one sister, he’d take not only Berta’s brat, but loser Berta as a replacement. At least she wasn’t born a mutant. He drove straight to her place.
Not bothering to knock, he crashed Berta’s cheap, hollow door into the flimsy wall of the single-wide. She jumped but only scowled from her slovenly sprawl on the beat-up sofa. Her brat stared up at him with dark eyes u
nder ragged black bangs from his spot on the floor.
“Shut the freakin’ door. Cold enough already,” Berta growled.
Whatever show on the television pixilated and the power went down.
“Great. Just great. What do you want?” Berta cast a dusky shadow against the scuffed wall as she stubbed her smoke and rose unsteadily. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and squinted at the window where the blizzard almost blocked what there was of the morning light.
Art hadn’t been able to choke out a word, though when the couch tater said, “Speak!” he began to shake. What was she doing, already high? Or starting on the way down?
Her kid cowered next to her legs. “Mom?”
“Shut up, Kenny.”
“I’m scared.”
“Just ’cuz school got canceled doesn’t mean you get to pester me. Go to your room. Art, so help me—”
“She stole my Jeep.” Art opened his lips far enough to let the words slide out. Not that he intended to sound like a wuss, but man alive, he was frosted.
“Mom, I’m hungry.”
Berta swung around so fast Art was impressed. A raised fist sent the boy scurrying down the dark hall. “And stay there until I say!”
Art backed away when she approached, same claws held face high. “You come here to tell me that? You sleazeball. So what? What do I care?”
He fingered the syringe in his pocket. Man up. Do it.
“I am so sick and tired of you…”
Tuning her out, he studied her like the coon he’d cornered under the crawlspace last fall. All hiss and snarl. Berta came closer, spit starting to fly, eyes wild. Art uncapped the needle. His stepsister’s straw-colored hair was stringy, a mess around her narrow washed-out irises. The sisters resembled each other only in coloring and shape of face. Berta’s skin was coarse, pitted.
Closer…
She raised her hand higher as if she might hit him.
He stuck her wrist.
Berta shrieked. “What’re you doing?” She backed off, pulled out hypo and threw it. She looked at him, feral. “I’ll kill you.”
A movement in the hall, sudden paleness appeared and caught his eye. The brat!
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