Understory

by Lisa J. Lickel

  Berta started to shake.

  Taking one long, wide-eyed peek, the boy slammed his door.

  At least the kid was inside. Art would take care of him later. He watched Berta. She swung her arms as if she could rid herself of the drugs through the same wound they’d entered. She staggered.

  Art smiled. He must have hit a vein. Unfortunately.

  Gathering herself like a cat, she growled again, coming for him. He grinned at the excuse she offered and thrust his elbow into her chest. So what? She landed on her back, shaking the tiny living room. A couple of gasps and she was out.

  Hyped up on the mix of junk he’d delivered on top of what she’d already taken, she could easily take a header down the trailer steps. It was icy out there. She really should have been more careful, he’d tell the cops—later.

  He’d only arrived, Officer…but too late to save her.

  Good thing the insurance policy was a family one.

  Art took a breath, pinched his brows. Where was that syringe? He’d better not be forced to his hands and knees and root through the garbage on the floor. They’d told him it was a special recipe, their own mix, right from the—

  “Mom?” The brat stood near the living room entry, dressed for outdoors. Art frowned.

  “Your mom had an accident, boy. She fell. Now go back to your room.”

  “I tried to call 911—”

  No!

  “But the phone’s dead. Like the lights. Is she going to be okay?” Kenny stared as Art crept around the edge of the room, running his hands across the filthy carpet.

  “I told you. Go back to your room.” Sweat along his spine cooled. He dragged the back of his hand along his forehead and shook himself. Skinny kid. Barely comes up to your gut. He’s yours.

  But the syringe. Can’t leave that behind. Too bad he’d brought only one.

  “Kenny…just…let me handle this. Let the adults take care of things. Uh, please…go…”

  In a blur, the brat got past. Art flung himself after, catching the boy’s pant leg at the hem. Kenny went down. Art reared but felt the heel of the kid’s boot on the bridge of his nose and automatically cursed. He used both hands to cover his face in case the demon kicked again, but caught only the rush of wet liquid from his nose and cursed again. By the time he looked up, the outside door slammed open against the trailer, letting in biting wind and snow.

  Syringe? Brat?

  Art wasted thirty seconds using all the swear words he’d heard from work. Most of the new ones were Spanish, and he hadn’t figured out exactly what they meant.

  Syringe. Brat couldn’t run that fast in the blizzard.

  With only the furtive light between gusts of snow to help him search, Art smashed his fist on the coffee table three minutes later. Where could it have gone?

  He stood and kicked Berta, but not too hard. They’d probably do an autopsy, and he couldn’t leave suspicious evidence. He’d come back after he got the boy. No one would need to know. Lock the door on your way out, buddy. No need to call dear old Stepdad yet. Roman had too much time on his hands as it was to think up further trouble. He’d get all bent out of shape as it was when he found out about Berta. No love lost there, but it happened—once people died, they instantly became martyrs.

  Art would think of something. Besides, getting the insurance money was the main thing. Even if the rest of the scheme, the job, was fake, he’d still file on the policy.

  Berta.

  Kenny.

  Jeep.

  The directions. Keep his stepsister full of drugs. Use a new syringe from the pick-up at the turn-around the other day, before the storm. Take her to the gate off the Forest Service road where someone would meet him. Get there today before the storm shuts everything down. Limm would take care of things from there. On Monday, file for missing persons.

  The blizzard should cover up any problems.

  Art’s stepfather hadn’t said anything about his other daughter, but then, what did it matter? Art should have just gone for Berta first anyway. Her absence would be enough to get the lily-livered girl out of his house and into their sister’s place so she could play mommy. He stomped outside. Should have thought of that first. Yeah. Why didn’t he work that one out ahead of time?

  His dead mother’s tired voice echoed in his head, like every day of her life. Stop and count the cost, Arthur. You’re too impulsive, Arthur. You’ll end up just like your father, Arthur.

  Art zipped his jacket against the punch of snow and pulled the hood up. Yeah, the father who’d done things at night in his room…the one he barely remembered. He’d only been four when they went to live with Roman Masters and his daughters.

  Huh. A puff of breath clouded his vision. Which way did the kid go? No tracks to follow. Art turned. No lights anywhere with the power outage. Where would the brat have gone? He studied the other trailers in the court. No doors open. No movement. Flickering candles or flashlights blinked weakly in windows. He waited a little longer then headed for the car.

  Art could be patient, he really could. Not like dear old Mom, who’d driven off the bridge after her dear old third husband had been sentenced for felony theft. From a national church financial lender. Talk about impulsive.

  He shook his head and drove home to resupply his pockets with fresh syringes. Just in case.

  THREE

  The autonomic adrenalin rush flung Cam backward, as if a huge paw swiped him out of the way. He’d never admit it to anyone, but he screamed like a little girl. He dropped to his knees and breathed shallow while mini snow crystals crusted in his nostrils. Lear nosed his side.

  Cam crawled back to the body, his first fright ebbed. Poor kid. Must have gotten lost. How long had he been here? He leaned over and tapped the cheek, lightly. “Hey! Come on, let me get you out of here. Wake up. Hey!”

  Eyelids fluttered. Fine lines crinkled out from the edges. Hmm…not a child. A young man? Anyone under twenty was still a kid. The body hunched, making Iago leap to his feet.

  “Are you hurt?”

  The eyes stared.

  “Please, relax,” Cam said and cleared his throat. “I’m going to help you.” He wrapped the scarf around his face again, tugged on gloves, and shouted, “I’m going to take you to my place. Take it easy. Don’t struggle.” He slid his right arm under the shoulders and tucked his left arm around the knees. Fireman style would be the easiest carry. Carefully he inched the body away from the tent of fir so he could get a better idea of size. Once clear, another howl of wind took his breath.

  He left his snowshoes under the tree. It would be hard enough making it back without the weight of an extra body pressing them into the fluff.

  Cam couldn’t be the only one having trouble breathing in the biting wind. He wrapped the plaid blanket about the kid’s head. In one fluid lift, he hauled the body over his shoulder and set off, keeping low to the ground.

  Cam put down his burden on the front porch in order to open the door. He wasn’t sure if the groan came from the person, the dogs, or the wind whipping the eaves.

  “Sorry, sorry. I’ll get you warm soon. Hang in there.”

  Wedging a boot so the door wouldn’t slam shut, Cam leaned far over and tugged gently, loosening the blanket. He tried to protect the bare, too-white fingers on the trip back but figured they were already lost. The kid wore good boots. Even so, Cam hoped he hated sports. A lack of toes would make it hard to run. If he survived.

  Lowering the figure to the floor in front of the woodstove in the living room, Cam let the dogs in, shooing them through to the kitchen. After he closed and locked the front door, he heaved a few breaths to gather himself. Without turning, he began to shuck his outdoor clothes. Where had he stashed the emergency med kit? He hadn’t needed it all summer, not since he’d stitched up his ankle where he’d slashed it with the chainsaw last spring.

  Eight years since he’d left the Middle East, where flies settled on wounds, the sand got in everywhere…blinding sun. He’d tried to deal with
the amputations from IEDs. Medic training…

  He just hadn’t been prepared. No matter what they taught, the pictures they showed. A guy couldn’t ever practice for something like that. He winced and squeezed his eyes shut and took more deep breaths, focused on summer, pine sap, and Wendell Berry poems. A tree falls…

  Cam rubbed his thigh, clenched his fists to force away the shakes. He faced the limp bundle on the floor. Kneeling, he put his hand against the side of the throat. Still pulsing.

  “Okay, then. Looks like you’re unconscious, which is probably a good thing.”

  Lear whined from the kitchen.

  “I’m all right, boys. Just being polite. You guys go to sleep. Over there. Back off, now.” He pulled the blanket all the way back and noticed long strands of blond hair slipped around the hood of the white fur coat. His hands trembled when he unzipped it. Not really something a guy would wear. The lack of prominent Adam’s apple proved a point.

  A woman. Of course. Wearing a ridiculous short white, furry coat—seriously, rabbit?—that made her invisible in the blizzard. It was a wonder the dogs found her.

  “Sorry about this, ma’am. You are going to be one bundle of pain when you start thawing. And I have no way of making it better. I’d take you to the nearest hospital if I could get out.” The snow turned his driveway into a slalom course and had no indication of letting up. He wouldn’t be able to snow blow it away fast enough to get his truck out.

  He continued to remove layers of her clothing. She was smaller than he’d thought under the jeans. Two pairs of long underwear he left alone. She wore heavy wool socks, but underneath, her toes were as white as her fingers.

  The more of the woman he revealed, the more he relied on basic medic training to keep from really seeing her. Stay objective. Take it easy. He stayed as gentle as possible, trying not to rub the cold skin. There’d been a page on frostbite in the medic training manual, though he hadn’t thought about it much.

  The woman was in decent shape, even a little on the skinny side. Maybe late twenties, a few years younger than he was, but he’d never been that good at guessing ages. He might not be a total stranger to unclad women, but it had been a long time since he’d wanted to be around one again. Not since Laura died, and definitely not since that terrible, terrible day he’d been arrested on the whim of a deranged co-ed.

  He settled an afghan from the back of the sofa along her length. Frostbite needed to be thawed quickly. He had to find a couple more blankets and heat water. The dogs… He snapped his fingers at them, hoping they wouldn’t be confused with his change of heart. “Guys! I have a job for you.” He pushed them out to the living room. “There.” He pointed to the woman. “Down. Sit. Lay.” With Iago and Lear lending their warmth, he didn’t feel quite so anxious leaving her to gather supplies, while going over the protocols in his mind. His service in the desert was the opposite problem of cold injuries—rehydration, energy snacks…

  Ah, yes. The med kit was in the pantry.

  Cam went back to the kitchen to fill pans with water to warm on the stove. Who was she? And what was she doing wandering in the woods during a blizzard? Probably ran out of gas on the road and thought she’d walk for help. Despite the ridiculous coat, the rest of her clothes did not mark her as someone unprepared for the outdoors. Hopefully, no one waited in a car or other place while she went for help.

  Setting the med kit on the table, he realized he had no heavy-duty painkillers he’d been allowed to administer as an army medic, morphine being the most useful. Hopefully, the storm would wear itself out faster than predicted and he could get her to the hospital before the frostbitten digits got nasty. He wouldn’t be able to do much if infection set in, and nobody would appreciate home amputation. Getting out might take days, depending on how much snow they got and how fast he could remove it.

  FOUR

  Roman Masters endured the search. Two years of it, meant to demean, meant to break a man, and he’d learned not to react. He growled when Gruden, the guard they’d dubbed Gruesome, got a little too personal down there, but withheld the rest of his temper.

  “Visual only,” Halman, the other guard in the private chamber, said in a neutral voice.

  Roman’s visitor prompted the search, but it was worth it. Roman had made Level Five in the system, the second level that allowed him face-to-face visitors, like his financial genius and fishing boat buddy who specialized in offshore loopholes. Syl Slent came to code talk about the new documents Roman would need upon his leave-taking from this fine institution, a sadder but much wiser man. Certainly sorry for what he’d done.

  “Clean,” Gruden said.

  “Dress.” Halman hadn’t been here long at the Wisconsin Secure Prison Facility, just a couple of months. He wasn’t much of a chatterbox. A strict, by-the-book newbie, no one was able to figure out yet. There was a rumor he was a kind of cyborg, testing the waters to figure out if human guards could be replaced. Ha. Wild stories and rumors of the incarcerated. Yet there was something about his straight black hair and expression that resembled one of those Easter Island faces. Roman gave himself a mental shake.

  In seven weeks and two days when he was released, he’d still be sorry about his crimes, but only for the part about getting caught. Knowing there was a little something waiting for him allowed him to stay calm, even if he’d bargained with the devil’s family. The fifty-thousand-dollar fine on his Class E felony conviction had blown his liquid assets. Attorneys and feds helped themselves to the rest.

  A fifty-three-year-old former auditor wouldn’t be trusted with a job anywhere in the US. When the opportunity for cash in return for leads on finding women to go on exotic job locations buzzed in his ear, Roman jumped on it. His oldest daughter was a perfect candidate, wanting to start a new life and all. Simple to make her disappear and let Art take the insurance payout while he’d get a sweet recompense upon release. Details…well, he’d never been too good at reading the fine print.

  Mexico would welcome him and his talents, and he could live there cheap, too. Adios to Wisconsin winters. Good riddance to thankless children who didn’t even visit the old man when he was down. The father who’d given them life and provided for them. Girls were worthless, especially the younger one who utilized no self-control, begetting a child with some drifter. The spawn was no grandchild of his.

  Roman followed the guard along the corridor, Gruden occasionally stepping on his heels with steel-toed boots. Back on his block, Roman tried to blot out the click of the closing cell door. He might be numb to all else, but that solid click, the one that screamed “immured,” was nothing less than another shovel full on the top of his casket. Every time.

  He forced himself to unclench stiff muscles a limb at a time. When supper came, he’d remind Art, his late wife’s child, the meaning of loyalty and the rewards loyalty could bring. Roman raised the boy the best he could after marrying Marge—even helped Art get a guard job at the pen.

  Providential.

  It was Art’s duty to make that girl follow directions. She wouldn’t be missed. No man friends, no child like her careless sister, no tight girlfriends, according to Art. While the younger was dark-haired and large-pore-complexioned, like him, the older resembled her mother, blond and rosy fresh, like the company preferred its “hires.” Her little anomaly should only make her more interesting.

  Tell her about the job interview, tell her she gets that chance everyone wants at one time or another—to start over. Make her “disappear,” Art, there’s a good son. He’d tell her she could have plastic surgery and find a man. Do things right for once.

  Art would do what he was told. He’d file the insurance report and set up a new account at the bank where they’d send the payment.

  FIVE

  At home, a square, pink Masonite-sided house, Art changed into his snowmobile suit. Taking the sled to hunt for the kid might be noisy, but it’d be able to go places a car wouldn’t, especially in this weather. He could drive faster than a kid could
run. After the boy was found and muscled into keeping quiet, he’d call the cops and let them deal with the mess at Berta’s. Easy. Plant a nearly empty needle with her usual choice for them to find.

  A cup of coffee with a little nip for antifreeze later, Art headed outside again. Good thing he was familiar with the trails. Goggles secured, he turned the key on the snowmobile. He had to clock in at work by three thirty. This shouldn’t take long.

  Even if he didn’t find the kid soon, the brat would freeze to death. Not quite as good for Art, what with explanations and all, but either option worked.

  Which way? He revved the engine. A memory…last summer, before school, the kid broke an arm falling out of a treehouse…where was it? After she’d moved back, his oldest stepsister had been putting the kid in her car while Berta screamed about money. In the woods, obviously…across the creek. There—a little further toward a likely tree; a big oak with a knotted rope swinging from it. He killed the engine.

  What color was the kid’s coat? Something red. Black stripes on the sleeves. Should stand out pretty well in the snow. Art kicked the oak again, ducking from the showers of snowflakes that sifted down from cupped brown curls of leaves still clinging to its branches. “Come down from there, or I’m coming up!”

  He glanced back the way he’d come at the tracks disappearing in the whipped-up stinging pellets of icy snow. Wouldn’t do to lose his way back. With or without the little brat.

  “Kid! C’mon, let’s get back to your mom’s, or we’ll get stuck out here and die!” Shaking the flimsy ladder, he muttered a few epithets as he realized he’d have to actually use the thing. There were a few damp spots on the rungs, maybe from footprints, maybe just from the storm. He’d never consider climbing up there if it weren’t for what looked like a coat sleeve hanging near the edge of the platform. Red.

  “All right! I’m coming up there, and when I find you, you’ll be sorry!”

  Heights were not in Art’s catalog of happy places. Even at work, on the metal stairs between levels, he whistled to cover up the tremor.