Understory

by Lisa J. Lickel

  He made for the door, only to stop at the framed saying next to it. “One tin soldier rides away.”

  Cam slapped the door frame. “It’s a conspiracy. Uncle Wally’s in on it with you and God, Grandma. Him and Joni.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ll ask her. That’s all I’m promising.”

  Once in the kitchen, he took out the pancake mix and griddle while Rosalind’s eyes burned holes in his back.

  “I haven’t thanked you yet for saving me, Cameron,” she said.

  He tried hard to ignore her, drawing out the moment when he’d have to do what he told his dead relatives he would. “I’m just glad I don’t need to report your rotting body next spring,” he muttered back.

  “That would probably mean more trouble for you.”

  She sounded like she was laughing at him.

  “More?” He let his glance drift across her as he set the cast iron griddle to warm on the top plate of the stove.

  “I meant, after what you’ve been through,” she said.

  Dredging up the last three years would solve nothing. “Probably. Thick or thin?”

  “What?”

  “Pancakes. How do you like them?”

  “Thin. And thank you. For everything. Maybe I could ask you one more thing?”

  “Maybe.” Cam poured the batter into six rounds, where they sizzled and bubbled.

  “Could I borrow your phone?”

  He flipped the pancakes. “It doesn’t work very well, remember? Spotty reception. And I have to recharge it.”

  “Oh.”

  “Where’s yours?”

  “I dropped my service.”

  Cam decided not to delve into that. “How many?” he asked instead.

  “Many? Oh. Two, thank you.” She played along with his change of subject. “Your syrup smells good. It’s the real thing?”

  Cam set a plate in front of her with two pancakes. “You’re welcome. That’s the last of Uncle Wally’s syrup. I helped him cook it.”

  They ate, Cam quiet while he tried out ways to frame his question, Rosalind acting like all her wheels were spinning different directions. She dropped the fork twice but waved off his help.

  He took their plates to the sink. With a deep breath while his back was turned, he whirled and said in a rush before he could change his mind, “I’d like to help you.”

  He’d shocked her, judging by her open-mouthed, wide-eyed blink. He grabbed the edge of the table and leaned over it, shocking himself next with his depth of emotion. “And what is wrong with you people! Why are you all horrified at the thought of someone like me helping someone like you?”

  A rosy flush washed her cheeks. “I-I’m not horrified, Cameron.” She huddled her arms against her chest. “I can’t let you do that. You don’t understand.”

  “You could tell me what else is going on.”

  She shook her head. “You wouldn’t believe me. Could you call Kingston like you called the hospital from your driveway? Or drive over to his place? Tell him I need him?”

  Cam backed up, disgusted with himself. “Yeah. I can do that. I planned to go into town anyway. I need some supplies. Maybe you should come along. Or do you want me to call someone while I’m there?”

  She brought her hands together. “Please don’t tell anyone where I am.”

  “Okay.” He accepted her decision for now and nodded toward the dishes. “Not like I’m going to go around spouting about having a hurt woman alone out at my place. Named Rosalind. I’ll clean up later, after I take the dogs out and check things around the house. I’m about out of gauze. Try not to hurt your hands or feet any more. Just—take it easy. Please.”

  He left her sitting there with Iago’s head on her lap under the table while he dressed for outdoors. He’d covered his truck even inside the garage, in hopes it would start. He might need to jump the battery, though. For the hundredth time, the thought of electricity to the cabin flickered. He could get a heater for his engine for days like this. Though the service out here in the sticks was iffy.

  Maybe he’d get a fancy generator instead.

  He trudged outside in the dark to the detached double-duty shed, remembering to breathe the fifteen-below air shallowly. Snow whipped in the wind. More lines from the last poem he’d been teaching, Lowell’s, rose unbidden.

  From sheds new-roofed with Carrara

  Came Chanticleer’s muffled crow…

  Wally’s garage door needed convincing to part with the ground and raised with groans and squeals. His flashlight caught a strange reflection.

  Guess he shouldn’t have wasted time worrying about whether the engine would start. He couldn’t get anywhere with the steel of the rims showing through rubber ribbons.

  The stiff rails softened to swan’s-down

  And still fluttered down the snow.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  There was nothing at Kenny’s house that looked like—what was that word? Oh, yeah, evidence. So Kenny marched Thomas on the road. For the first fifteen minutes, Thomas complained about how his pack kept sliding off and the snow made him trip and how cold his eyelashes were. He even fake-fell a couple of times, rolling in the snow, but he wouldn’t let Kenny take the pack.

  Snowsuits were good, but they weren’t totally waterproof all the time. Even though it was so cold, the snow was a little mushy from being mixed with road salt and sand. Gross. Kenny kept going. He wished Thomas’s lips were too numb to talk. They weren’t going to make good time if Thomas kept acting like a baby. He’d even unzipped the suit, saying he was sweating.

  “How do you know this is the right way? I don’t see any big cities.”

  “I told you.” Kenny stopped and tried not to take too deep of breaths. The air was so cold it hurt his lungs. After what he’d seen with the miniflash on his living room floor, he wanted to kill Uncle Art. Art. Arthur Townsend. Stop thinking of him as family, ’cuz he wasn’t. Poor Tiny. Why’d a guy have to go and stomp a helpless little mouse?

  The sun was starting to come up, making the road and the woods look like a scary movie, the part where the bad guys got chased into the forest and the forest ate them. At least the plow had shoved most of the snow off the edge or he didn’t think they’d be able to make it very far. It was so windy. He shivered. “We have to walk a long time. We’ll have to make a fire and camp out tonight. Then we cross the Mississippi River. Then we get there.”

  “But how do you know? You’re just a little kid.”

  “I’m only six weeks younger’n you. This is the way my aunt always went in the car. Shut up!”

  Weak headlights of a rumbling truck showed behind them. “Duck!” Kenny said. An idea grabbed him. “It’s going slow enough. When I say ‘now,’ run like crazy and grab on the back, but don’t let ’em see us.”

  “Are you nuts!”

  Kenny pulled Thomas back down into a crouch as it came closer. “Now!”

  They were on the passenger side and hopefully the driver wouldn’t look out the side view mirror. If Thomas didn’t make too much noise or holler, this might work. It was the newspaper truck. Must have been in Barter Valley already. There were handles along the sides of the back door and a wide running board to stand on. He’d seen some of the older boys ride around town until they dropped off. “Hold on! Like this,” Kenny said, looping his elbow through the silvery bar. Thomas nodded and copied him.

  When Kenny thought his elbow was going to fall off, the truck started to slow down. “Oh, no.” He pointed to the intersection. The sun was up, tired-like, but light enough to tell the truck was going to turn. The big red blinker came on right by Thomas, who yelped like a puppy and let go. Kenny followed. “Roll!” They flopped toward the side of the road.

  “My pack!” Thomas’s backpack loop had somehow gotten torn off.

  “How did you let that happen?” Kenny stood and brushed snow from his face. “Dummy! Now we have no phone, no food, and no matches.”

  Thomas sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve, leaving a shiny snot trail t
hat froze right away. “I’m not a dummy! It musta caught on something! We kin find it. It’s not on the truck, we’d a seen it.”

  Kenny’s aunt would have said, “No use crying over spilled milk,” but he wasn’t going to tell Thomas that. “All right, let’s look. C’mon. Hey, where’s your hat?”

  “Dunno.” Thomas covered his ears with his gloves while they stumbled beyond the ditch and into the woods, swishing through the blowing snow.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Cam returned to the sight of Rosalind tilting her head, letting the blond hair slip away from the cords of her neck as she held a pen over what appeared to be his manuscript. Again.

  Pleasure and anticipation of what she thought of it warred with the anger and disgust over the vandalism of his tires.

  He pushed the door to the back hallway shut and leaned on it.

  “Car won’t start?” she asked.

  Pulling off his hat and gloves, he held his hands to the heat of the stove. “I didn’t try it. Someone slashed the tires.”

  At her silence, he took in her alabaster cheeks. Watched her swallow. “Who would do that? Why? When?”

  It wasn’t that she was stupid, he thought. “I have a feeling if I had an alarm and surveillance camera, or a crystal ball, the perps would know how to get around them. Hopefully just kids.”

  “Oh. Kids with knives?” She shifted on the chair and glanced at the door. “The dogs went crazy for a while last night. I thought maybe they just saw a deer or wolf. I calmed them down.”

  So they had barked. He shook it off.

  “Maybe I should have let them out. Did the creeps leave any tracks?” she asked. “I realize it was windy and all. Besides the snow blowing.”

  Cam sighed and unzipped his coat. He needed his arms free to crank the dynamo to give his phone enough charge to make an emergency call. Hopefully, Sven or Ole could come out and haul the car back to town. Him along with it. “I looked out the back door to the shed. It’s been nearly a week since I drove, although I was out there since. I think there might have been tracks that weren’t mine. I wasn’t trained as a tracker.”

  “Could a wild animal…okay, okay.”

  “Excuse me. I’ll go charge my phone then try to call for a tow.”

  “There’s something I didn’t tell you,” she said.

  Cam stopped at the kitchen door. “Lady, there are a lot of things you haven’t told me. Let me take care of my phone.”

  “Okay.” He listened to her push back the chair with a grating scrape. “Afterward, come back and let me tell you about the Jeep.”

  * * *

  The single bulb over the cot woke Art. For a moment, he wondered if he’d fallen asleep in one of the cells at work. Blinking heavily, he pushed the blanket away and rolled onto the cold cement floor. He rubbed his hand across his scalp and checked the time. Six fifteen. No sun yet.

  Power back up was a good thing. He opened the pipes when he went downstairs and hoped the newspaper was there this morning. Reading up on the scores would give him something to do while the water heated in the tank so he could shower.

  By the time he’d shaved and dressed his plan gelled. Lots to do before clocking in at work this afternoon. He’d have to involve Deegan, but that could be controlled. The cop already knew of his concerns about the boy and had been to the trailer. First, he’d make sure Berta’s place was still empty then he’d file a missing persons report on them both. Or maybe just the boy. He’d decide on the way. Second, plant a sob story about his lost nephew at the gas mart and Lou’s. Third, make sure the lost nephew story included enough juicy neglect, bruises, and crack pipes that would raise the ire of the good folks of Barter Valley. If Berta’s body showed up, he’d get custody of the boy.

  Fourth, get to the bank. Not something he was looking forward to. All that paperwork and giving up his check. Must get some cash. Must get some cash. Must get some cash.

  Fifth…the other missing stepsister. Where could she be? Just to be thorough, he’d better drive around for a while now that the roads were plowed. If she had an accident, would the county plow see it? Check the accident reports. Better yet, if he also reported his Jeep was stolen, the state police would get on it. Wait. He didn’t want that, did he? What would Roman do?

  The coffee maker gurgled and blew a cloud of steam. Art poured and took a gulp. And spit. Eyes watering, he reached for a glass, cussing that all of them were dirty, and guzzled water to cool his tongue and rinse some of the acid taste. She always made the coffee. There was enough gas in her car to get to the diner first. If the lines weren’t froze up. Just to irk her, he let the tank get too low. Yeah, yeah. So he’d start at the gas station instead. Wallet—check the wallet for the gas card. Paycheck. Next, the diner. Then decide what to say on the way to the cop shop. Aw, man, the snow cranked up again.

  * * *

  Instead of working up a sweat by hand charging the phone, Cam spent twenty minutes slogging down his mostly still-cleared driveway but for the ferocious wind making snow dunes across it wherever there was an opening in the trees. Once on the main road, which ran with the wind, Cam went right, eyes peeled on the ditch as he hiked, lugging a two-gallon jug of fuel, trying to gauge the distance and direction she would have come in order for him to find her under the fir on his property.

  Almost a mile later, not far from the intersection with the Forest Service road, he spotted something dark. She’d gotten closer than she thought—just around the corner from Findley’s place. He stopped to study the situation before he waded into the ditch. The county snow plow drove through again apparently this morning, probably before dawn, although he thought the big truck’s lights would have picked up the stranded vehicle. He looked back the way he’d come. Maybe not. There were some branches that might have blocked the reflection from the rear reflectors.

  Rosalind said she’d steered into the ditch on purpose when she ran out of gas. How hard would it be to get it out?

  In a strangely fortuitous pattern of wind play, gusts scoured a sort of eddy around the left side of the vehicle. It didn’t bare the car but with some digging Cam thought he could open enough space to free the front tires. With the driver’s side open, he might be able to steer the Jeep up to the road. Maybe. Cars were lighter these days. At least the gas tank was on the driver’s side.

  He dragged away the biggest branch, thought again, and wedged it behind the back tires. Maybe it was a good thing she hadn’t tried to stay with the car. If she was out of gas, she couldn’t start it to warm up since the snow up the tailpipe would have led to carbon monoxide poisoning and killed her anyway. Water supplies, if she’d had any, would have frozen.

  He glanced up and down the road again, hearing nothing but the wind, seeing nothing but the snow devils. What would he tell a cop who stopped him? It wasn’t his car, nor even Rosalind’s. He’d just have to take a chance, maybe abandon it in town, find Sven and Ole and say he’d hitched into town and needed a ride back to pick up his truck.

  By the time a half hour passed, he’d freed the wheels, driver’s side door, and the gas cap. He added fuel, slipped inside, and put the key in the ignition.

  * * *

  Kenny called, “Duck!” whenever a car passed. Finally, he said, “We should move on. If we hike fast enough, we’ll be okay. Maybe the cops can come back and help us find the pack.”

  They continued to walk away from the direction of the brightening sky, through the trees and bramble bushes that grabbed their pants and mittens. The big highway wasn’t too far, Kenny thought. A flash of headlights gleamed.

  * * *

  Cam piled armloads of dry pine needles under the tires. Eventually, the Jeep’s tires found traction and he chugged out onto the main road. Since he was facing the intersection, he decided to drive to Findley’s first, even though the sun caressed the horizon. Errand of mercy.

  He adjusted the rearview mirror and saw headlights gaining, coming too fast for conditions. He sunk in the seat. What if it was the county
sheriff who already knew this wasn’t his car? Cam groaned and lay over the stick onto the next seat.

  Snow crunched as a heavy vehicle rushed past.

  He risked a glance. A dark, tinted-window SUV made the corner in front of him. It didn’t look like something Findley would use. He sat up again and turned the key. The engine hesitated, cranky and coughing, blowing out black smoke.

  Cam took it slow and chugged into the long drive to the log house. Someone cleared Findley’s drive, thankfully. His yard light must have a motion sensor and came on as soon as he reached the main complex.

  As before, the pony-tailed master of all he surveyed came out to meet his visitor.

  “Hey, new wheels?” Findley smacked the hood of the Jeep, eyes crinkled.

  “Morning. Just borrowing it,” Cam said. “How you holding up?”

  “Doing fine. What’s up? You’re out early. Need more ’shrooms for your woman?”

  Cam studied him before turning to look down the drive and back again. “Nah. Actually, she wanted me to give you a message.”

  “Yeah?”

  “She was on her way to you when she got stranded the other day in the blizzard. Lucky I found her.”

  The hippy-happy expression didn’t change.

  “She wanted me to tell you she’d like to see you.”

  One eyebrow went up.

  “In fact, she said to tell you she needs you.”

  Findley folded his arms across his black-and-tan quilted shirt and guffawed. “Now there’s an offer a guy can’t pass up, eh?”

  Cam struggled to maintain a straight face. “Guess not. Anyhow, she’s at my place. She’s not walking too well, yet, and since my phone is dead, I said I’d pass on the message before I went into town.” He opened the door of the Jeep.

  “Hmm.” Findley studied the car and nodded his head. “Thanks, man.”

  Making a tight circle next to Findley, who hadn’t moved a muscle, Cam headed for Barter Valley. Had his neighbor recognized the vehicle?

  Maybe he should wait before…nah, don’t get scared now. Just go in quiet, find an unused driveway and ditch it. No one’d be the wiser.