Deep Freeze

by Lisa Jackson

  Everyone was asleep.

  Back in her room, she reached for her cell phone and flipped it on.

  A new text message read:

  I luv you.

  Her tears started in earnest. Josh was the only person in this godforsaken town who even had an inkling about who she was, the only one who cared. Swallowing back more tears, she quickly typed a reply:

  I’ll be at the gate in 20 min. Luv U 2.

  “I’m sooo outta here,” Sonja announced, whipping off her apron and tossing it into the hamper in the back room as country-western music pulsed through the speakers.

  Lou, the cook, grunted his approval as he scraped off the grill. The only other person in the back area of the diner was the busboy, a useless, lazy kid who was perennially petulant and usually high on some unknown substance. He was wearing earphones, listening to God-knew-what, making his usual statement against his Uncle Lou’s choice in music. Now, he managed to look up and sent Sonja a “so what?” glance as he swabbed a mop inefficiently over the tile floor.

  Tonight she didn’t care. She just wanted to get home to her husband and three kids. The last customer had left fifteen minutes earlier, and Sonja had wanted to pry him off his bar stool and physically toss him out the door. Who in his right mind would be out on a night like this?

  Only the regulars at Lou’s, she decided, not for the first time, and made a mental note to find herself a better job.

  She bundled into a ski jacket, wool hat, and gloves, then grabbed her beat-up backpack.

  “I’ll see ya tomorrow, if the roads are passable,” she said, and elicited another grunt from Lou the Silent. Which was probably better than Lou the Chatterbox, or Lou the Know-It-All. Or Lou the Lech, she thought, as she fished through her purse, found her keys, then braced herself against the cold as she walked outside. “A damned Ice Age, that’s what it is,” she muttered.

  The wind hit hard, slapped at her bare cheeks, and brought with it snow filled with hard little ice crystals.

  To think she’d let Lester Hatchell convince her to move from Palm Desert to come up here. Palm-friggin’-Desert, where tonight it was probably seventy degrees—make that seventy degrees above zero. Unlike here on the shores of the Columbia Gorge. Beautiful? Yes. Even in winter. Livable? Hell, no! At least not in the middle of winter. Lord, please, give me palm trees, hot sand, and a piña colada any day of the week. Make that a bucket of piña coladas! It beats the hell out of pine trees, drifting snow, and hot-damned-toddies. Winter wonderland, my ass!

  The subfreezing wind cut through her heavy coat, and even the Christmas lights glimmering on the eaves of the diner looked weak and pathetic. Why had she ever let Lester sweet-talk her into moving to this god-awful, freeze-your-butt-off spot? Why?

  God, what a night!

  She trudged across the parking lot to her little hatchback, a four-wheel-drive Honda encrusted in ice. Even the lock that she thought she’d covered carefully with an insulated piece of cardboard was frozen solid.

  Fortunately, she had one of those battery-operated keys that heated the locks when inserted; she forced her key into the lock and smiled to herself less than a minute later when the door opened. She was glad to be going home to Lester’s incessant snoring and the kids sleeping all willy-nilly in their bunk beds. She’d had a bad feeling about this night from the beginning, that something wasn’t right. The intensity of this cold front seemed unnatural, and the conversations she’d overheard in the diner over the past couple of days were all laced with talk that this particular winter would be the coldest in over a hundred years.

  Great! Just what we need, she thought. The local kids were already out of their minds at the prospect of no school for days. Her boy, Cliff, had been bouncing off the walls when she’d left for her shift around five.

  With the cold slicing through her coat, she slid inside her little car and closed the door, then shoved the key into the ignition and flicked her wrist.

  Nothing happened.

  “No,” she whispered, trying again. “Don’t do this to me.”

  Nothing. Not even a click.

  She pumped the gas and felt a niggle of fear. That same dark premonition she’d had earlier.

  Which was just plain silly.

  “Come on, come on.” Again she tried, and again. She couldn’t see out of the snow-covered windshield, couldn’t imagine how long she’d have to wait for a tow truck. She could call Lester, but he’d have to leave the kids alone or bundle up eight-year-old Cliff to come and get her…maybe Lou would give her a ride. She tried one more time and finally gave up. It was no use. The car was dead.

  Perfect, she thought sarcastically as she threw open the door and stepped outside.

  Then she saw him.

  Striding purposefully up to her.

  She felt a second’s fear before she recognized his build and the way he walked. A regular at the diner. As he neared, even in the dim light she noticed the blue of his eyes beneath his ski cap and caught his smile. A familiar face! One of the regulars. Someone she could trust in this isolated lot. “Hey!” she said, climbing from the interior. “Thank God you’re here.”

  “Got a problem?”

  So he wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. But he’d do. He’d have to.

  “Yeah. My car won’t start. Deader’n a doornail.”

  “Why don’t you let me try?”

  As if she was too stupid or clumsy or feminine to know how to turn on her own car. Men! But she pasted a smile onto her face as she stepped into the crunchy, ankle-deep snow again. “Be my guest,” she invited, sweeping her hand wide toward the open door as the force of the storm took her breath away. “If you can get it started, I’ll see that Lou gives you the ten-percent-good-guy discount for the rest of your life.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said, leaning close to her and placing something hard against her jacket. Before she could say a word, a white-hot blast jolted through her body. Pain shot through her system. Panic exploded in her brain. She tried to scream, but his gloved hand was over her mouth. She smelled something sickeningly sweet and cloying and she coughed, unable to breathe…What was he doing? And why? Oh God, she thought crazily, he’s going to rape me…or worse…No, oh God, no, she silently screamed, trying to kick and fight, though her limbs wouldn’t react, her legs and arms disjointed and weak. No! No! No!

  But she couldn’t fend him off. Couldn’t scream. Muscles, hard as steel, wrapped around her and she sagged against him, flailing uselessly. Her body seemed to be melting and was unresponsive. Fear cut through her and she thought disjointedly of her children. This couldn’t be happening. Couldn’t!

  “Don’t fight it, Faye. There’s nothing you can do,” he whispered.

  Faye? I’m not Faye! He’s got the wrong woman…oh, please. She tried to tell him that he was making a horrible mistake, but the rag over her nose and mouth made her woozy, her tongue wouldn’t work, the words forming in her throat came out as mewling pleas. I’m not Faye! Don’t you understand? Please look at me! I’M NOT WHO YOU THINK I AM!

  Her head lolled back. She tried to focus on him, to will him to read her mind, but it was too late. Through the pelting beads of ice and snow, the world spun eerily. Huge, looming, ice-covered eighteen-wheelers, tall street lamps, and the Christmas lights strung on the eaves of the diner blended and blurred in her vision. Her weak, impotent thrashing stopped and her legs finally gave out completely. Blackness pulled at the edges of her vision, taking her under.

  As she let go of consciousness, Sonja Hatchell knew she was doomed.

  CHAPTER 13

  The bedside phone blasted at 4:15.

  Carter, dragged from sleep, reached over and knocked the hand-held from its base. “Damn,” he muttered as he grabbed the receiver and jammed it to his ear. Whoever was on the other end didn’t have good news. Not at four in the morning. “Carter.”

  “Hey, Sheriff, it’s Palmer with Dispatch.”

  “What’s up, Dorie?” Carter said as he ran his free han
d over his face and tried to wake up.

  “Just got a call from Lester Hatchell, and I thought you’d want to know about it. Sonja didn’t show up after her shift. He just called in. Really upset. Her car isn’t at the diner; he already checked. He also drove her usual route and didn’t find her anywhere. I sent Hixx out to the diner to check, but it’s not like her.”

  “Any accidents reported on surrounding roads?” Carter was suddenly wide awake. Lester Hatchell was a friend of his.

  “Yeah. One since midnight. Single-car, one driver, a male taken to a hospital. The accident was ten miles north of Falls Crossing.”

  “Hell.” He threw off the covers, his bare feet hitting the cold wood floor.

  “I thought you’d want to know.”

  “I do, Dorie. Thanks.” He slammed the receiver down, walked to the small bathroom off his bedroom, and turned on the hot water in his shower. By the time he’d stripped out of his boxers and run a toothbrush over his teeth, the water was hot enough and he walked through the shower. Ten minutes later, he’d shaved and dressed and was hurrying down the stairs from his sleeping loft.

  The woodstove had burned to nothing and he let the fire die. No telling when he’d get back, and the furnace would keep the place from freezing. The remains of last night’s dinner—the crust of a frozen pizza and two empty beer cans—mocked him, but he didn’t have time to clean up.

  By the back door of the small cabin he clipped his Glock into his holster, threw on his jacket and hat, then let himself into the garage, where he pulled on his gloves and felt the first bite of the raw morning. He’d heard the weather report last night. More of the same. No sign of a break in the cold front. Snow, snow, and more snow had been predicted and the meteorologists were gleefully talking about ever-lowering temperatures, enough that the falls and river might freeze.

  More bad news.

  He slid into his Blazer and frowned as he thought again of the last time the falls had frozen solid. He’d been sixteen at the time. Sixteen and a teenaged idiot.

  His jaw clenched as he backed out of the garage, his tires crunching on the fresh snow, the windshield fogging. In his mind’s eye, he was looking up at Pious Falls, the cascading water having frozen in thick, icy plumes that tumbled over a hundred feet to the frozen river below.

  “Let’s do it,” his best friend, David Landis, had said eagerly. David’s face was red from the cold, his eyes bright with the challenge as he’d squinted up to the top of the cliff, the spot where the frozen creek started its free fall.

  David and Shane had been friends from the first day of elementary school.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?” David had already been putting on his crampons, his ice pick was tucked into his belt—ropes, harness, and carabiners attached to his jacket. “It’ll be fun.” He’d cast an amused look over his shoulder. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid. Shane Carter, ace downhill racer, extreme rock climber, and what? Ultimate chickenshit? Pussy-to-the-max?”

  “I just don’t think it’s a good idea.” As if to add emphasis to his words, the wind had screamed down the gorge, rustling the dead leaves and rattling the brittle branches of the surrounding trees. Thick ice coated everything, glistening in a clear, cruel glaze.

  David had been undaunted. Fearless. As ever. He’d adjusted his ski mask. “You never think it’s a good idea,” he’d taunted as his breath fogged the air. “I’m tellin’ ya, man, this is a chance of a lifetime. When does it ever get cold enough to freeze the falls? By tomorrow this place and Multnomah Falls will be crawling with climbers. Today, we climb alone.” With that, he’d tightened the strap on his helmet and slid goggles onto his face. Once again he’d looked up at the tumble of ice columns that rose to the cliffs high above, so high that they were lost in the low-lying clouds. David’s smile had stretched wider, his enthusiasm palpable. “I’m going with or without you, Carter, so make up your mind…”

  Now, twenty-odd years later, Carter squinted through the windshield as the wipers slapped snow from the frozen glass. The Blazer slid and whined until he reached the highway, where the road had been plowed and sanded, but new snow was already piling over the older icy mounds.

  Where was Sonja Hatchell?

  He feared the worst. From the diner to the Hatchell place, the road wound up the foothills, crossing three or four bridges over swift-moving creeks. He only hoped she hadn’t hit a patch of ice, swerved off the road, and ended up trapped in her little car while icy water flooded the interior.

  Don’t even think that way.

  Sonja’s probably fine.

  Maybe she and Les just had a fight and she decided not to go home…

  Carter didn’t believe it for a second, but he didn’t want to think about the unknown. Not yet. Because it scared the hell out of him.

  At 9:30 Jenna pushed open the door of the theater with her hip as she balanced two cups of steaming coffee drinks she’d picked up from the local espresso bar. She made her way to Rinda’s office and announced, “One large, sugar-free caramel latte with extra foam and sprinkles for you.” Placing one of the cups on the corner of Rinda’s desk, she added, “And a skinny double mocha grande with whipped cream for moi.”

  “You’re a lifesaver.” Rinda picked up the solitary chocolate-covered espresso bean balanced on the lid of her cup and plopped it into her mouth. “I needed this. It’s freezing in here, the furnace is threatening to give out, and the copier is on the fritz. And that’s just for starters.” She touched the rim of her paper cup to Jenna’s. “Here’s to things improving.”

  “Amen,” Jenna said and settled into the faded, overstuffed chair in the corner that was often used in productions.

  The door to the theater banged open and a few seconds later, Wes Allen ambled into the room. Despite the near-zero temperatures, he was wearing jeans and a fleece pullover with a hood. No jacket, coat, or hat. “What is this—the theater’s new coffee klatch?” he asked, parking one hip on the side of Rinda’s desk.

  “That’s the espresso klatch,” Rinda said, brightening at the sight of her brother.

  “Froufrou drinks.” He snorted. “Give me the real stuff anytime. Black coffee—nothing added.”

  Rinda laughed. “A real he-man’s drink.”

  “If you say so.” He winked at Jenna and she forced a smile she didn’t feel. What was it about him that bothered her so much? He was Rinda’s brother, for crying out loud! But he always seemed to stand an inch or so too close, was quick to touch her shoulder, or, like now, wink at her conspiratorially, as if the two of them were in on some private joke.

  Chill out, she told herself. She was still a case of nerves, that was all.

  “So—what are the dire circumstances that made you insist I get out of bed at the crack this morning?”

  “The furnace and copier, to begin with. Also, Scott said one bank of lights keeps shorting out—he was fussing with them last night and couldn’t fix them.”

  “That’s because he’s just a kid. I, on the other hand, am a pro.” He rotated his hands skyward as if expecting applause.

  “Yeah, right. I seem to recall you were trying to fix that short just the other day.”

  “Point taken. Now, what about your problem?” he asked, swiveling on the corner of the desk to stare Jenna straight in the face. “Your pump?”

  “All fixed. Harrison Brennan and a friend of his, Seth Whitaker, came by yesterday.”

  Wes pretended to be crestfallen. “You could have called me.”

  “Next time,” she promised and took a sip from her mocha.

  Footsteps sounded in the staging area. “That’s probably Blanche. She wanted to go over some changes in the sheet music,” Rinda said, just as the woman in question poked her head into the room.

  “Am I interrupting?” Blanche asked, eyebrows lifting above narrow, black-rimmed glasses. Though, according to Rinda, Blanche was over sixty, she appeared much younger. Short, spiky hair that was more orange than red framed her roun
d face. When she smiled, the thin lines beside her eyes and lips became more pronounced. Single now, there were rumors that she’d been married several times and possibly had children, but Jenna wasn’t certain as the older woman rarely spoke of her personal life. In the theater, Blanche was already shaking off the cold and unwinding a fuzzy scarf from around her neck.

  “Not at all. Come on in and join the party. I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

  “About time,” Wes said as he pushed away from the desk. “While it’s heating, I’ll look at the furnace.”

  “About time,” Rinda threw back at him, then turned her attention to Blanche and the changes she wanted to make in the sheet music. Twenty minutes later, the coffee had brewed and Blanche had downed a cup before checking her watch, gasping, and muttering that she was late for an appointment as she flew out the door. Wes was still banging on the furnace before Rinda and Jenna were alone in the office again.

  “I want to show you something,” Jenna said as she reached into her purse.

  “What?”

  “Something I got in the mail yesterday.”

  “A fan letter?”

  “You might call it that…if fan means fanatic.” She handed Rinda a Ziploc bag with the note and envelope inside. “Don’t open it. You can read it through the plastic.”

  “Okay.” Rinda peered at the envelope and as she did, the color drained from her face. “Jesus, Jenna, what the hell is this?”