Chill Factor

by Sandra Brown

  William shook his head as though saddened by her naïveté. “You’re so innocent about the ways of the world, Marilee. Delude yourself about Wes Hamer if you must. But as your older brother, who’s looking out for your best interest, I recommend that you find yourself another hero.”

  Taking his coffee and newspaper with him, he went into the living room. Not unlike their father, William had a routine. He expected dinner to be ready each evening when he got home from the drugstore. Following dinner, he read the newspaper while she cleaned up the kitchen and did any other housekeeping chores that needed doing. By the time she was ready to settle down in the living room to grade homework papers, he was retiring to his bedroom to watch TV until he went to bed.

  They shared a house but rarely a room.

  Without fail, she asked him about his day, but he seldom asked about hers, as though her work was insignificant.

  He expressed his thoughts, feelings, and opinions freely, but when she shared hers, they were dismissed or disparaged.

  He could go out in the evening without having to account for his time or tell her where he was going. If she went out, she had to notify him ahead of time, tell him where she was going and when he could expect her return.

  After the second local woman’s disappearance, he’d become particularly vigilant about her comings and goings. Cynically, she wondered if he was truly that concerned for her safety or if he just enjoyed exercising authority over her.

  She performed the mundane duties of a wife but didn’t have the status of one. She was an old maid, doing for her brother because she didn’t have another man to do for. No doubt that was how people regarded her, with pitying shakes of their heads and a murmured “Bless her heart.”

  William had a life. So did she. His.

  Until recently, when everything had been sweetly, marvelously changed.

  CHAPTER

  8

  TENSION AROUND THE HAMERS’ KITCHEN dining table was as thick as the blood-rare T-bone Wes was knifing into.

  He cut off a chunk of the meat, dunked it in the puddle of ketchup on his plate, and put it in his mouth. “You told me those application forms had already been mailed,” he said, talking around the bite. “I go into your room this evening, and there they are, the lot of them, scattered across your desk like birdcage liners. So on top of shirking your responsibility, you lied to me. More than once.”

  Scott was slouched in his chair, his eyes downcast. With the tines of his fork, he was making disinterested stabs at his serving of mashed potatoes. “I was studying for semester exams, Dad. Then we spent that week at Grandpa’s house over Christmas. Ever since school started again, I’ve been busy.”

  Wes washed down the steak with a swallow of beer. “Busy with everything except your future.”

  “No.”

  “Wes.”

  He shot a look at his wife. “Keep out of this, Dora. This is between Scott and me.”

  “I’ll start filling out the forms tonight.” Scott pushed back his chair and laid his napkin beside his plate.

  “I’ll start on them tonight.” Wes jabbed his knife toward Scott’s plate. “You finish your supper.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Eat it anyway. You need the protein.”

  Scott replaced his napkin in his lap and, with attitude, forked the steak and sawed his knife through it.

  “During the holidays, I let you get by with eating junk,” Wes said. “From now until spring training is over, I’m going to monitor your diet. No more desserts.”

  “I made an apple pie for tonight,” Dora said.

  The sympathetic glance she cast Scott irritated Wes more than the idea of the pie. “Half of what’s wrong with him is you. You’ve spoiled him, Dora. If you had your way, he wouldn’t even go to college. You’d keep him here and baby him for the rest of his life.”

  They finished their meal in silence. Scott kept his head down, shoveling food into his mouth until his plate was clean, then asked to be excused.

  “Tell you what,” Wes said, giving his son a magnanimous wink, “let your dinner settle, then I don’t think one slice of pie will hurt you.”

  “Thanks.” Scott tossed down his napkin and stamped from the kitchen. Seconds later they heard the door to his bedroom slam shut and loud music come on.

  “I’ll go talk to him.”

  Wes caught Dora’s arm as she tried to stand up. “Leave him alone,” he said, guiding her back into her chair. “Let him sulk. He’ll get over it.”

  “Here, lately, he sulks a lot.”

  “What teenager doesn’t have mood swings?”

  “But Scott didn’t have them until recently. He hasn’t been himself. Something’s wrong.”

  With exaggerated politeness, Wes said, “I’ll take my pie now, please.”

  She kept her back to him as she sliced the pie that had been cooling on the counter. “He loves you, Wes. He works hard to please you, but you rarely give him credit for anything. He would respond better to praise than to criticism.”

  He groaned. “Can’t we get through one conversation without you slinging some Oprah-inspired bullshit on me?”

  She served him his pie. “Want ice cream?”

  “Don’t I always?”

  She brought the carton to the table and spooned a scoop onto his pie, then returned the carton to the freezer and began to stack the dishes. “You’re going to drive Scott away. Is that what you want?”

  “What I want is to eat my dessert in peace.”

  When she turned to him, he was surprised to see a flicker of Dora the coed, whom he’d first seen sashaying across campus in a tennis skirt, racquet bag slung over her shoulder, T-shirt damp with sweat, fresh from a match that he learned later she’d handily won.

  That afternoon her eyes were flashing with anger because she’d seen him toss a candy wrapper onto the carefully cultivated lawn in front of the athletic dorm where he and several buddies were lounging on the wide verandah.

  “Dumb, dirty jock.” She said it like he’d crapped in a water fountain or something. Then she walked over to the wrapper, picked it up, and carried it with her to the nearest trash can. She continued on her way without ever looking back.

  His cronies, including Dutch Burton, whistled and catcalled after her, making lewd remarks and propositions when she bent over to pick up the wrapper. But Wes stared after her thoughtfully. He’d liked her pert tits and firm ass, sure. They’d heated up his loins. But he’d been blown away by her “and the horse you rode in on” attitude.

  Most coeds swooned when he walked into a room. Girls notched their bedposts same as guys, and sleeping with a star athlete ranked high. At that time, he and Dutch were the football team standouts. He quarterbacked. Dutch carried and caught. Girls withheld nothing from them, and usually they were given even more than they asked for. It was easy to get laid or blown, to the point where easy had lost its allure. He’d liked this girl for showing him some sass.

  He wondered what had happened to Dora’s sassiness. Since they’d married, it had all but disappeared, although there was a trace of it in her expression now.

  “Is apple pie more important to you than your son?”

  “For chrissake, Dora, I only meant—”

  “One day you’ll push him too hard. He’ll leave us, and we’ll never seen him again.”

  “You know what your problem is?” he asked angrily. “You don’t have enough to do, that’s what. You sit around all day, watching those male-bashing talk shows on TV and applying every flaw they discuss to me. Then you dream up these crazy scenarios that are never going to happen to our family. My daddy was hard on me, and I turned out all right.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “Who?”

  “Your daddy.”

  “I respect him.”

  “You fear him. You’re scared shitless of that mean old man.”

  Wes tossed down his spoon and stood up suddenly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. The
y faced off across the table for several tense moments. Then he smiled. “Gee, Dora, I love it when you talk dirty.”

  Giving him her back, she faced the sink and turned on the faucets.

  Wes moved up behind her, reached around her, and turned them off. “The dishes can wait.” Placing his hands on her hips, he drew her back against him. “You’ve given me a hard-on that can’t.”

  “Take it somewhere else, Wes.”

  He snickered with contempt and dropped his hands. “I do.”

  “I know.” She turned the water taps back on.

  • • •

  Dutch knocked several times on the Hamers’ back door. Through the window he could see into the kitchen, where all the lights were on, but there was no sign of anyone.

  Stamping his feet with impatience and cold, he knocked once more, then opened the door and shouted, “Wes, it’s me, Dutch.”

  He stepped inside, frigid air sweeping in along with him. He closed the door, crossed the kitchen, and peered into the living room. “Wes?” he called in a voice that he hoped could be heard above the bass thrum of rock music issuing from somewhere toward the back of the house, presumably Scott’s bedroom.

  The door connecting the kitchen to the garage came open behind him. He turned in time to see Wes clump through it. Seeing Dutch standing in his kitchen, Wes laughed. “So you came after all. Figured you would once you’d had time to think about those X-rated videos. I’ve been putting antifreeze in Dora’s car. Cold as it is—” Then his smile dimmed. “Something the matter?”

  “Lilly had an accident.”

  “Jesus. Is she hurt?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m not sure.”

  Wes wrapped his hand around Dutch’s biceps, guided him into the living room, and pushed him down onto the sofa. Dutch removed his hat and gloves. His boots had tracked a sludge of melting ice and mud onto the rug, but neither noticed. Wes poured a shot of Jack Daniel’s into a glass and carried it over to him.

  “Take a slug of that, then tell me what’s happened.”

  Dutch tossed back the shot of whiskey, grimaced, then sucked in a deep breath as a chaser. “She left a message on my cell phone. I was talking to the Gunns and didn’t answer the call. Goddammit! Anyhow, there was some kind of accident as she was coming down the mountain. Hell, man, when I left the cabin I thought she was right behind me. I should never have left ahead of her. The road was already getting icy. I guess she spun out, something, I don’t know. Anyway, she said she’d made it back to the cabin, and that Ben Tierney—”

  “Tierney? The—” Wes pantomimed typing.

  “Yeah, that guy. That adventure writer or whatever the hell he is. Lilly said he’s hurt.”

  “Did their cars collide, you think?”

  “All she said, all I could understand because the cell reception was for shit, was that they were in the cabin, that Tierney was hurt, and to send help.”

  “What’s happened?” Dora appeared, wearing a high-necked robe belted tightly around her waist. Her expression always reminded Dutch of a tightrope walker who’s just realized she’s made a misstep.

  Wes gave her an abbreviated account of the situation. She expressed her concern, then asked, “Did Lilly tell you anything about Mr. Tierney’s injury or how bad it is?”

  Dutch shook his head. He extended his empty glass to Wes, who refilled it. This time Dutch took a more prudent sip. “I don’t know if he’s got a scratch, or if he’s in critical condition and barely clinging to life. Frankly, I don’t care. It’s Lilly I’m worried about. I’ve got to get up there. Tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Dora echoed.

  Wes took a glance out the living room window. “That stuff is still coming down, Dutch. Thicker than before.”

  “No need to tell me. I’ve been driving in it.” Every outdoor surface was now coated with ice. There was no sign of letup in the precipitation, and the temperature continued to drop.

  “How do you propose getting up there, Dutch? You can’t drive on that road up to your place. Even your four-wheel is useless on solid ice.”

  “I know,” he said with anger and chagrin. “I already tried it.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Yeah, I am. Was, anyway. When I heard that message on my phone, I reacted without thinking. Got in my truck, started up the road, but . . .” He ended by draining the second drink. “I spun out, barely managed to regain control.”

  “I’ll get coffee.” Dora retreated into the kitchen.

  “You could’ve killed yourself,” Wes said. “Doing a damn fool thing like that.”

  Dutch came off the sofa and began to pace. “Then what am I supposed to do, Wes? Sit here with my thumb up my ass till the roads are clear? That could take days. I can’t just wait it out. What if Lilly is hurt, too? It would be like her not to tell me.”

  “I understand your concern. But it’s not like you’re responsible for her anymore.”

  Dutch rounded on him, balled his hands into fists, and came very close to decking his friend. Although technically Wes spoke the truth, he didn’t want to hear it. He especially didn’t want to hear it from Wes. Superior in every way Wes. Wes, who’d never known a day of defeat or suffered a moment of self-doubt in his whole life. Wes kept everything well under control.

  “I’m the chief of police. If for no other reason than that, Lilly is my responsibility.”

  Wes patted the air between them. “Okay, okay, settle down. Getting riled at me won’t solve anything.”

  Dutch accepted one of the mugs of coffee that Dora carried in on a tray. He took several sips, which he needed after two belts of neat whiskey. The sour mash had been like nectar to his system. The aroma, the taste, the warmth it had spread through his belly, the pleasurable buzz, the tingle in his bloodstream, had made him realize just how much he’d missed his hourly shots of it.

  He said, “Cal Hawkins still has the sanding truck monopoly, doesn’t he?”

  “The city renewed his contract last year,” Wes replied. “But only because the worthless son of a bitch owns the rig.”

  “I’ve had men trying to chase him down. I went to his house myself. It’s dark and locked up. Nobody answers his phone. If he’s not out sanding the roads, where the hell is he?”

  “A bar would be my guess,” Wes replied. “That’s why he likes his job so well. Only has to work a few days a year. The rest of them, he’s free to drink himself into a stupor.”

  “We’ve already checked the bars.”

  “Where they serve taxed liquor out of bottles with labels?” Scoffing, Wes arched his eyebrow. “That’s not where you’ll find Cal.” He went to the entryway closet, got his coat, hat, and gloves. “You drive. I’ll tell you where to go.”

  “Thanks for the coffee, Dora,” Dutch said as he walked past her.

  “Please be careful.”

  All Wes said to her was “Don’t wait up.”

  As they stepped out into the worst winter storm in recent history, Wes walloped Dutch between the shoulder blades. “Don’t worry, my man. By hook or crook, we’ll rescue your lady.”

  • • •

  The windows of Scott’s bedroom overlooked the backyard. He watched his dad and Dutch Burton practically skate out to the black Bronco with the light bar across the roof and a stenciled seal on the doors. Dutch had kept the motor running while he was inside. The exhaust formed a dancing white ghost behind the truck. As they backed out of the driveway, the wheels spun, seeking traction.

  Scott was still staring after the diminishing taillights when his mom knocked on his bedroom door. “Scott?”

  “Come in.” He turned down the volume on his sound system.

  “Would you like your pie now?”

  “Can I save it for breakfast? I ate too much steak. I saw Dad leaving with Mr. Burton.”

  She told him what had happened. “I guess Lilly didn’t start down in time and got trapped by the weather. At least she had a good reason for being up there. For the life of me, I can�
��t imagine what Mr. Tierney was doing on the peak today.”

  “He’s a hiker.”

  “But shouldn’t he have known better than to go hiking with a storm moving in?”

  Scott wondered about that, too. He was an experienced hiker as well and had read Tierney’s articles on the regional trails. He’d grown up exploring and camping in the mountain forests, first with the Boy Scouts, then alone. As much as he enjoyed exploring Cleary Peak, which could be hostile terrain even on a good day, he certainly wouldn’t have wanted to be on it this afternoon when the weather turned bad.

  “Even if they find Cal Hawkins, I don’t think anybody can drive up Mountain Laurel Road tonight,” he remarked.

  “Neither do I, but they wouldn’t have listened to me. If anyone is more stubborn than your father, it’s Dutch Burton. Can I get you anything? A cup of hot chocolate?”

  “No thanks, Mom. I’m going to work awhile on those applications like I promised Dad. Then I’m turning in.”

  “Okay. Good night. Sleep tight.”

  “Don’t forget to lock up and set the alarm before you go to bed,” he told her on her way out.

  She smiled at him. “I won’t forget. Wes has reminded me often enough to keep the doors and windows locked, especially since Millicent disappeared. But I don’t worry about a break-in.”

  Why would you? thought Scott. A loaded pistol was kept in the nightstand drawer beside her bed. He wasn’t supposed to know about it, but he did. He’d discovered it when he was in sixth grade and had sneaked into his parents’ bedroom looking for rubbers with which to impress his friends. He’d been much more awed by the revolver in the drawer than he had been by the tube of spermicidal lubricant.

  “It doesn’t look like Millicent or the others were taken by force,” she continued. “Whoever the culprit is, he’s someone the women know, or at least recognize and consider harmless. They seem to go with him willingly.”

  “Well, anyway, be careful, Mom.”

  She blew him a kiss. “I promise.”

  Once the door was shut, Scott turned the volume back up on his sound system and set the built-in sleep timer to turn it off twenty minutes later. Then he bundled up in outerwear for his covert excursion.