And now he said he wanted children. She wished she could talk to Lettie again, or Snag. But talking about this meant crying and she did not want anyone to see her weakness.
Leo followed her outside into the lingering twilight. A lone sandhill crane took a few steps on its long delicate legs, bent its long delicate neck to stab its beak at a worm.
“Is it you?” she asked. “Where is your love?” With so many predators to worry about—even bald eagles, and certainly dogs—this crane held itself on the land in a confident familiarity. It shared a long look with her, its yellow eyes behind the red mask took inventory of Leo, who would not leave her side that evening even to scare off a bird, then went back to its worm. Nadia walked over to the single birch tree that stood alone and pressed her forehead to it asking it to share some of its strength. She went to the barn and ran her hands over the sheep and remaining goats, patted the cow, clucked at the chickens in their coop. “I am not alone,” she said aloud.
When the darkness forced the last light away it was almost 10 p.m. No sign of Kache. She sat at the kitchen table, checking to see how many more views her video had received from strangers. Kache had asked to see it for weeks, but she’d told him she still wasn’t finished, when in fact she’d posted it on YouTube and sent it to film school. She’d wanted to wait and surprise him for his birthday. Something crackled outside, but she hadn’t heard Kache’s truck pull up. It was the very pregnant cow moose or the sandhill crane that half-considered themselves seasonal pets, showing up through summer. Or perhaps a bear or another wolf. She hoped not; she would have to shoot whatever started threatening the barn animals.
The house creaked and settled. Outside the wind picked up, cried and whistled, scraping tree branches against the upstairs windows. In the city, there would be many more sounds. Sirens and neighbors’ laughter and yelling. People running down stairs and doorbells and music and even, sometimes, maybe someone screaming, like in the movies.
She wrapped Lettie’s afghan around her and buried her nose in the fur of Leo’s neck.
She didn’t know what to do.
And then she did.
She grabbed her video camera. She pulled the car keys out of the drawer. Yes it was crazy, but Kache said you never really forgot how. If she hurried she could catch the very end of the show.
SIXTY-SIX
Kache sang his butchered heart out. He sang every song he could think of other than “The Nadia Song”. He had the band, the crowd—they were all with him, upturned faces, raised hands clapping, and he never wanted to stop singing.
He took out the crumpled envelope he’d written the lyrics on, smoothed it out and stuck it on a music stand, pulled the stand in front of him, and said, “You heard it here first, folks. This song’s a virgin; have never once sung it. So bear with me. Still don’t have a chorus, so let me know if you think it needs one.” He took a sip of water, checked the tuning on his guitar, and began:
“I believe in our old window panes
and how they catch light like the water.
I believe in the dimpled cheeks
of our future son and daughter.
And I believe in the first time
I held your hand on that water bus.
But I can’t believe this is happening to us.
“I believe in the wildflowers
we arranged in that crooked vase.
I believe in the soft, sweet smell
of your kind and pretty face.
And I believe in you and me
growing old and gray together.
But I can’t believe you’re changing with the weather.
“I believe in strength and frailty
of the body, mind and spirit.
I believe love fades sometimes
to a whisper, but I still hear it.
And I believe in honesty
and wearing my heart on my sleeve.
But I can’t believe you said you have to leave.
No, I don’t want to believe you said you have to leave.”
Marion tucked her long hair behind both ears, placed her hands on her hips, waited for the applause to die down. “I think we all need to take a break after that one.”
Kache went to the bar and Rex slid him a beer.
Before long, the Russian guy, Tol, greeted him and said, “You are quite a good singer and writer of songs, my friend.” Kache thanked him. “My friend, Kachemak Winkel.” Tol drank, looking straight ahead. He had a strong jaw line. He turned his eyes directly on Kache. The warmth had drained from his face and in its place was a glacier-fed stare.
A thin layer of goosebumps ran down Kache’s arms.
Tol regained his smile, leaned over, placing his hand on the back of Kache’s neck like they were co-conspirators, and said into Kache’s ear, “I wish for you to play that song you played the last time you were here, what is the name of it? ‘Nadia’?”
Someone else elbowed their way in next to him. “Hi there, Nephew.” It was Snag, who leaned over and patted him on the back. “You made me cry. Gilly too. Hey, you again?” She was talking to Tol. Snag knew Tol? “Saw you at the gas station, and before that on the mountain, and what is it, three times here now? Weird that I never once ran into you and now you’re everywhere.”
“It must be destiny, eh?” he said, raising his hands. “Actually, I come and go. A nomad.”
At that point, Marion said into the mic, “Let’s get the star of the show up here, and we’ll be ready to sing a few for you before you have to head out in that wind. Kache?”
Tol yanked hard on Kache’s sleeve and held on. “That Nadia song it is not finished, I think. Too much happy. It needs a sadder ending. A tragedy.”
His face was unnervingly close. Asshole. Kache jerked his arm away, took his beer and his place back on stage. They started in with that old Tom Waites song, “Grapefruit Moon”, but Tol called out, “Hey, play song called ‘Poor White Goat’,” and Kache stopped singing and looked for Vladimir—because at that moment, he knew, every blood cell pummeling through his body knew, that Tol was Vladimir—the man who was no longer seated at the bar.
Panic squeezed Kache while he scanned the room, where is he, where is he, said, “Gotta run,” and grabbed his coat. “Marion, take it from here.”
Pushing his way through the crowd, ignoring everyone who tried talking to him. In the center of the parking lot he spun around, scanned for taillights or exhaust, but there were none. He ran to his truck, peeled out of the lot and onto the spit and drove as fast as he could but saw no taillights in front of him either. He hit the steering wheel, kept hitting it, and tried to call Nadia on his cell but it went straight to voice mail. He thought, That woman could not keep her phone charged if her life depended on it, and then regretted the thought immediately.
Leaning forward, he pressed down on the gas pedal and tried to think. Who could he call? No one. Should he call the police? And say what? There was a guy with a Russian accent who requested a song about a goat and it spooked me? By the time the Caboose police found their friendly way to the homestead—No. Kache reached across to the glove compartment and popped it open. Nadia had talked him into keeping the handgun in there. “Even what you call the hippies in Alaska have their rifles on a rack. You can at least hide a gun in your glove compartment, yes?” And so he had. And there it was.
He knew he was not overreacting. He knew it. Everything merged together in his mind, how Tol—Vladimir, Vladimir Tolov—kept running into Snag, how he probably trailed her to see her turn down the road to the homestead. Or maybe he’d been trailing Kache. Shit. The asshole was at the Spit Tune the night Kache and Nadia were there. How long had he been following them around? Had he been lurking around the homestead, waiting for an opportunity?
Kache had given her a false sense of security, insisting he was long gone, all the while drinking beer and chatting it up with the psychopath. And then all the horrible things Kache had said to her earlier started shooting through his head, but he stopp
ed himself. He needed to think clearly. To be smart and do everything exactly right. He needed to not fuck this up.
“Nadia Nadia Nadia.” He wasn’t singing, he was pleading. “Don’t open the door. Wait for me.”
Almost there. But the truck lagged as he approached the turn, off the main road. Another lag, and then it died. No. He turned the ignition. No, no, no. Shit. His head had been so far up his ass he’d forgotten to get gas that day. Stupid and dangerous, even on a normal day.
Wait, he kept a full gas can in the back.
At an unbearably slow speed the gasoline meandered its way through the long spout into the tank, Kache urging and cursing it.
Denny’s Landcruiser sat parked in the middle of the road, where it turned into the driveway, blocking Kache’s truck. A motorcycle lay on the ground next to the driver’s side. Kache grabbed the gun and jumped out: Nadia’s uncharged cellphone on the seat, keys gone. He took off running toward the house. Had she tried to drive the Landcruiser? Had it died?
He heard Leo going crazy in the house, like he had that very first night. Trying to catch his breath, Kache kept the gun down close to his side and ran up the steps. Leo stood behind the front door, scratching, barking even at Kache. He turned the knob and pushed open the door and Leo bolted out, ran down the porch steps sniffing then back to Kache, then out the gate toward the beach trail, nose to the ground, fur standing up in its own path on his back. Kache grabbed the flashlight that they kept on a hook in the kitchen and followed Leo. “Good boy, good boy, where is she, Leo? Where is Nadia?”
He wanted to scream her name, but he didn’t want Vladimir to know he was there. How far could he have taken her, through the patches of snow and ice and mud? The moon hung fully ripe, casting silver light on the land, and he saw clearly enough, even without the flashlight. Wind whipped and roared so loudly it sounded like the ocean crashing through the trees. Why the beach? But Kache knew.
Nadia. Wait.
Leo zigzagged ahead of him, sniffing the mud and snow. He never lifted his head, just kept in a staggering, frantic line while Kache followed. “Where is she, Leo? Find Nadia.”
“Kache!” Nadia screamed. “Here!” He rounded the bend to see her kicking and twisting while Vladimir dragged her by the waist off the path that crested the ridge, toward the cliff.
There they stayed, on the precipice, the moon spotlighting them. Vladimir held his knife to her throat and Nadia had stopped fighting. She clung onto his arm that gripped the knife but she did not flinch. Her eyes wide with terror and locked on Kache. Leo crouched, growling. Kache raised the gun.
“Hello, my friend,” Vladimir shouted over the wind. “Took you a long while, eh?”
“Let her go and I won’t shoot.”
“You will hit her instead, pussy boy.”
“Put the knife down. Put the knife down and leave and no one gets shot.” His voice shook, his hands shook and he fought to keep them steady. He sounded like he’d watched too many cop shows as a kid. Trying to be the tough guy he so obviously wasn’t. He wished he had the .22 rifle instead of the handgun.
“I must look like fool,” Vladimir shouted. “I am fool. I thought she was dead.” Now he spit words in Nadia’s face. “You think you can just leave again? You trick me. Why not drown yourself for real? Leave me the dirty work. It’s always left to Vlad.”
Leo crouched, growling.
“No. Just put the knife down.” I cannot let her die. I cannot let her die.
“Say goodbye to Nadia. This makes good song. At least she told you she has to leave. Me, she just tricked.” He continued talking, most of it gibberish. Kache remembered that Nadia called Vladimir a patient trapper, and Kache wondered if that’s what this was, him feigning insanity while waiting for his moment. While Kache waited for his.
“Let her go. She hasn’t hurt you. Just let her go, and I’ll let you go.”
“You will let me? How kind.” Vladimir laughed—a disturbingly amiable laugh, as if they were all close friends.
As if he didn’t hold his hunting knife to Nadia’s throat.
SIXTY-SEVEN
Now she locked eyes with Leo, not Kache. She didn’t want Kache to look at her because it would be the death of them. Yes, she told him without speaking, keep your eyes on Vladimir’s knife.
The knife glinted moonlight in her eyes. She knew why he had a knife instead of the easier gun, knew that Kache had interrupted his long thought-out plan. He had told her as much. He did not want to only kill her—the killing would be the last act of a meandering story, and that is why he hadn’t yet cut her throat. Now he muttered about sacrificial lambs and how the bear must always be fed.
For an instant she imagined the red thin line and how it would spread. She closed her eyes, opened them. There were special effects. The silver light on the trees could be turned up so that it too had a sinister glint.
Slow motion set in. Frame by frame. Kache holding the gun in place, Leo crouched, silent now. Close up to his eyes on her, waiting.
There are different ways to tell a story. One second can be slowed down, dissected for all its worth: life, death, retribution. But whose?
What has been unclear for a decade comes into a single, focused frame.
You. Me. A knife.
Again.
But I said never again and I meant it.
I built my life around “never again”.
And yet here we are.
You. Me. A knife.
But there is more now.
There is them.
Cut to them.
Look in their eyes and admit you see that I have found love despite you.
That alone is my revenge.
But what will be yours?
Killing me?
Or forcing me to kill you?
You think this choice belongs to you.
It does not.
It is mine.
She silently said Now to Leo with a nod. He snarled, leapt onto Vladimir, going for his throat. The man reeled back, trying to regain his balance. Leo released his hold but Vladimir stumbled back, twisted around, hung onto Nadia.
Leo attacked again and her feet went out from under her. Was this it? Her face covered by his open jacket, falling. But then, ground, not a freefall over the edge. She lay on top of him. Scrambled up. Vladimir jumped to his feet, but before he could regain his balance, Leo pounced. Nadia thought but didn’t say, Kache, don’t shoot now. Don’t shoot Leo.
With all the strength Vladimir had given her—for his wickedness had given birth to her courage as well as her fear, she knew that—Nadia reached out and placed her hands on his back, the heft of him crashing against her but then came another pounce from Leo, a final heave from Nadia, and Vladimir became weightless. He plummeted off the edge, into the canyon.
His howls joined the wind. His screams, “MY GOD … my god … my god …” faded into the pitch-black sea of trees.
SIXTY-EIGHT
Kache ran to her, gathering her up in his arms, asking Are you okay? Are you okay? and she insisted she was while Leo jumped on both of them.
“Good boy, Leo, good boy,” Kache said, rubbing his head. They took small careful steps nearer to the edge of the canyon, but not all the way. They held back, looking down. Nothing but the black, pointed shapes of the tops of trees. Kache took out his flashlight but it provided a pinprick of light in the vastness.
Nadia said, “We should call the police.” She heard the tremble in her own voice.
They started back, but about halfway, Kache stopped. “Nadia. I don’t think we should call.”
“What if he’s not dead?”
“Exactly. Listen to me. If we call the police, there will be a huge media frenzy. It will become all about you—the hermit woman who fled her backwoods village. The Old Believer who faked her own death. They will put some strange spin on it and you’ll be hounded by every talk show host and news agency in the country. And I know you did the bravest possible thing—but you may still be charged wit
h murder.”
She understood. He was right about that. “What is it that we do?”
Kache stopped then began walking in fast circles around her, lost in thought. “I should go. I’ll go and find him.”
“And then what?”
“I just want to make sure he’s dead. No one could survive that fall. But just in case …”
“And if he isn’t dead?”
“I’ll decide what to do then. It depends …”
“On what? What if he kills you?”
“He won’t. He’s going to already be dead. I just want to make sure. I want to know, to see him with my own eyes so we both know.”
“How will you ever make it down there? It’s way too steep.”
“My dad did it. I can do it. I’ll take it slow.”
She didn’t want him to go, but she saw a determination cross his face that she understood. He would go anyway. It would do no good to fight him. It would undermine his confidence when he needed all of it. And she too wanted to know that Vladimir was dead for certain.
“Only if you take Leo with you.”
“Then I’ll have to worry about him falling. I’ve already lost one dog to this canyon.”
“But that was because Walter chased the butterfly, dreaming and distracted. Leo is good on his feet. He will show you the way. And he will protect you if Vladimir …” But she couldn’t finish. She watched Kache while he considered her proposal.
“Okay,” he finally said. “Let me get some supplies and one of the smaller packs. And rope in case I need it. Call Snag and have her come out to stay with you. Hurry.”
She could not keep her hands and words from quivering. “He was taking me to the beach, Kache. He said if I want to drown so badly, I should have asked him for help the first time.” She left out all the other things he’d promised he would do to her.
“I’m so sorry—I should have never left you. But it’s over now, Nadia, it’s almost over.”
She knew how wretched that canyon descent was, and that they were still a long way from “almost over”. The adrenaline kept her legs moving forward as they raced their way up the hill toward the house.
The House of Frozen Dreams Page 29
