Cold Heart

by Chandler McGrew

  “Yeah,” said Micky. “I need it to go out with Rich today.”

  “You picking up supplies, too?”

  “Coffee, tea, milk, sugar, flour, crackers. You got any of those big boxes of potato chips in?”

  “Couldn't get them last time. But we have the large cans of mixed nuts you like.”

  “I like the chips,” Micky said.

  Clive laughed. “I'll get some in as soon as a shipment comes into Anchorage. I guess we bought them out.”

  Micky laughed too. A large order of chips for the Cabel General Store was five boxes.

  “Haven't seen you in a while,” said Clive.

  “I'll get out more now with the weather like it is. I had to finish that piece.”

  “You been up to see Aaron?”

  “No,” she said, feeling instantly guilty. “Maybe I'll go up this afternoon and see how he's doing.”

  “He's doing fine,” said Rita.

  “How do you know that?”

  “How would he be doing?” replied Rita. “The old coot's meaner than Satan and twice as ancient. He'll outlive all of us and then claim he owns the land and resell it.”

  “He's really not like that,” said Micky.

  “So you two say,” said Rita, pretending that she was way too busy with her book to continue the conversation.

  “You got a list?” asked Clive, winking at Micky.

  “What?” she said, suddenly far away. She was picturing Aaron all by himself up in his cabin and she had the strangest sensation of terrible loneliness, although she knew that the old man didn't care for visitors.

  “A list?” repeated Clive, smiling.

  Micky shook her head.

  “Here.” Clive slid a small pad of paper and a pencil toward her across the counter. “Write down everything you need. Rita will ring it up and I'll bring it by as soon as I get this carburetor back on the four-wheeler.”

  Micky looked dubiously at the piece of aluminumcolored metal in his hands. “Are you going to be able to do it today?”

  “Won't take but a minute to put this back on,” Clyde assured her. “I'll probably have it done before you're through shopping. Where's the crate, in case I beat you home? I won't have room on the wheeler for you and the supplies.”

  “Right inside the door,” said Micky, unable to get the picture of Aaron, all alone, out of her mind. She had no idea why it bothered her so. It was as though he were calling to her and she had the most overpowering instinct to go to him. “I'll write it all down. You sure you won't mind if I'm not there? It isn't that heavy.”

  “No problem.”

  Micky was suddenly unable to breathe. Her mouth dropped open and she stared stupidly at Clive.

  Why did he say that?

  Why had he used that expression?

  “Are you all right, Micky?” said Clive, cocking his head and giving her a sympathetic look.

  She managed to close her mouth and nod, trying to focus, trying to get the irrational worry over Aaron out of the front of her head and pull herself back into the warmth of the store. Into the safe here and now.

  “I don't know what came over me,” she said, shaking her head.

  But Clive had already rounded the counter. He led her to a rocker in front of the stove that he and Rita used for both heat and cooking.

  Rita quit pretending to read and came to sit on the other side of Micky. “You're white as a sheet, honey. What happened? You have a flash or something?”

  Micky let out a slow deep breath, trying to relax.

  “I don't know,” she said. “All at once I felt terribly worried about Aaron. Isn't that silly?”

  Clive and Rita exchanged glances.

  “I'll say,” said Rita. “That old goat is tougher than you and me and Clive put together.”

  “Silly,” Micky repeated.

  “The mind plays tricks on you sometimes,” Rita told her. “What you need is a nice hot cup of tea.” She hurried off into the back room. When she returned she put a platter beside the stove. She poured Micky a steaming cup and handed her a chocolate chip cookie.

  I'm being silly, Micky thought.

  The gunshots and the rabbit spooked me.

  And those damned jays.

  Warm golden rays of sun gleamed through the front glass, etching long shadows across the dark-wood interior of the store. The walls were lined with high shelves, crowded to the ceiling with cans, glass jars, and cardboard boxes. There were blankets and sleeping bags and the omnipresent rubber boots. The store sold sweaters and long johns, shovels and picks, rifles and pistols and ammo, and it smelled of lantern fuel and the fine sweet odor of dried foods, crackers and chips and flour.

  If Cabels’ didn't have it, you really didn't need it.

  Rita claimed that Clive didn't buy inventory, he bought the things he needed and now and then someone else purchased some. And they were always open. Clive joked that closing time was fifteen minutes after everyone was gone.

  “Did you hear shots a little while ago?” asked Micky. “Over by the Glorianus cabin?”

  Clive and Rita exchanged glances again, both shaking their heads.

  “I been in and out of the shed,” said Clive. “Working on that carburetor, and Rita's had her head in that trashy novel. We wouldn't have heard a shot probably. By Terry's place, you say?”

  “That's what it sounded like.”

  “Maybe it was Damon,” said Rita.

  “Damon doesn't own a gun,” Clive reminded her.

  “I thought at first it was Marty or Stan,” said Micky. “But then there was a third shot, right across the Fork, and it sounded more like a pistol. I was wondering if maybe El had run into a bear.” She thought of the high-pitched screech she'd heard. But she was certain it was just a jay or maybe her imagination. For some reason she was jumpy today. Her mind might very well be playing tricks on her.

  “I hope not,” Clive said. “Bears would do well to stay away from El Hoskins.”

  “That boy's crazier than a shithouse bear,” agreed Rita. “One of these days he'll hurt someone with that damned gun.”

  “He's just a jerk,” said Clive. “One day he'll get himself killed with that damned leg cannon of his.”

  “He's not just a jerk,” argued Rita. “You talk to Marty or Stan. They've crossed El a couple of times when he's in one of his funks. They both steer clear of him. Sooner or later he's going to be trouble.”

  “Damon says he probably isn't a danger to anyone,” said Micky, not believing it.

  “Damon's a shrink,” said Rita, making a face. “They think the devil just needs a good talking to.”

  “If El was shooting at a bear, you can bet he didn't hit it,” said Clive. “But that would be a good thing. If he did hit it, he'd only wound it, and then there'd really be hell to pay.”

  “More than likely he was just shooting, period,” said Rita. “He makes me nervous.”

  Micky didn't say that nervous wasn't near what El made her.

  She'd been terrified of him since the first time they met.

  It was early in her first summer in McRay and Micky was just becoming accustomed to the idea of actually living there. Accustomed to the new rhythms, new sounds, and new smells. Accustomed to waking when she chose. Working when she chose.

  She was heading back to her cabin after a visit with Aaron. Taking her time. Tossing stones into the creek; picking wildflowers like a schoolgirl.

  She rounded a curve in the trail and there stood El.

  Unmoving.

  Staring at her through those damn glasses.

  The part of her brain that had nothing to do with logic or reason screamed at her to run. Her subconscious kept telling her that El was the same man who had followed her through room after room of her family's shop. Hunted her like a wounded animal. The same man who had trundled on fifty pounds of Kevlar body armor and pursued her down that terrible narrow corridor.

  The same man who haunted her dreams.

  He had stalked her from
her youth, from her past, from the flatlands and burning heat of south Texas to the high passes and frigid cold of rural Alaska and now, here he was, wearing those same damned glasses.

  She wanted to scream at him to take them off.

  Instead she had bitten her lip that day and stared El down.

  “I'm Micky Ascherfeld,” she said. She stepped up to him, holding out her hand, wishing she had the Glock in it.

  “Mm,” said El, unmoving.

  “I'm your neighbor. Across the creek.”

  “Mm,” said El.

  What the hell was wrong with the man?

  They stared at each other. The day was silent as death. Micky glanced at El's hand, still resting on his gun butt. El followed her eyes.

  “I have to be going,” she said, dropping the flowers beside the trail and sidling around him.

  She could feel his eyes that day, burning into her back, all the way to the first turn in the path.

  “I hope he didn't scare Terry,” said Clive, glancing at Micky. “You know how she is.”

  “Terry needs to live in a gated community,” said Rita, shaking her head.

  “Maybe I'll run over there after I bring back your crate,” Clive said. “Make sure everything's all right.”

  “Take your rifle,” said Rita.

  12:55

  DAWN'S ENTIRE BODY ACHED. She couldn't remain in the same position much longer. But she was afraid that any tiny movement would rustle the alders and El would see them moving from his perch in her backyard. The damp ground was icy and the cold pierced her shirt and jeans like needles.

  If I stay here, I'll freeze to death.

  With a shaking hand she reached out and gripped the branch directly in front of her eyes. The alders rustled in the freshening wind. Though it was getting colder, at least the breeze would camouflage her escape.

  It occurred to Dawn that El might have been lying.

  He might not be waiting at their cabin at all.

  He might have gone on down the trail and only said he was going to wait so that she would stay where she was and not go for help.

  Or, then again, he might be sitting right up on the bank, just waiting for her to stick her head out.

  She prayed for the wind to pick up.

  The rush of the water, bouncing around the rocky bottom of the North Fork, sounded like angry voices as she strained to catch any hint of El's presence. Her mind was cluttered with grief and fear and disbelief. She had to pull herself together and get to help.

  She thought of Micky Ascherfeld. Micky was closest. Just across the shallow creek a fork in the trail ran up the hill to her cabin.

  But Micky was a woman. At that moment Dawn wanted a man. A big man. Her best bet was to cross the stream, then head down the trail directly to Cabels’ Store. Clive had guns and there was the phone. They could call the State Troopers and get real help.

  But she had to get out of these alders before she could cross the Fork.

  She crawled, one fearful inch at a time, expecting a shot to ring out, wondering if she would hear it or if she would be dead before the sound reached her ears. The ground was rough and frigid. Her fingernails were torn from her crashing slide down the slope and her hands were raw. Her clothes kept getting snagged in the branches and she had to feel out each impediment, dislodge herself before edging forward again, glancing upward in case an opening in the branches appeared and suddenly left her vulnerable.

  When she emerged at the spot at which El had first trod upon her handkerchief, she caught her breath. Her eyes locked on the lip of the trail, where it disappeared over the top of the creek bank. The stream was closer here and there was no intervening brush to deaden the sound of rushing water. She would never hear El approaching now. Her only hope was to slip across the stream to the far bank before he came back.

  If he was coming.

  Why would he wait for me up by our cabin when he knows I'm in the alders?

  Wouldn't he just move farther downstream and wait for me to cross?

  He'd have a perfect shot up and down the straight run of the Fork.

  She lay there for a moment, undecided.

  But she had to do something.

  Her mother was dead.

  And El was going to kill someone else soon. She was certain of it.

  She wriggled out of the last of the protecting branches into the center of the trail. She had never felt so exposed, so alone and vulnerable, in her entire life. She lay flattened down against the path, waiting, listening, watching, her heart thudding in her ears.

  She couldn't cross the creek without knowing where El was. She had to see over the lip of that bank. But her body refused to obey her commands to crawl upward. She pictured El, just over the top, tall as a spruce tree. With that deadly gun in one hand and the bloody knife in the other. Leering down at her.

  How long can I wait here like this?

  She shivered so hard her jaw ached.

  El's call sounded over the chatter of the creek like the dull droning of a giant bee.

  “Come on out, Dawn. You can't stay down there forever. You're hurt. You must be cold. Come on out.”

  His voice made her want to throw up.

  But, at the same time, it reassured her.

  He wasn't just over the lip of the bank. His voice was coming from up near their cabin.

  She began to slide backwards on her stomach, down toward the water, pushing off with her hands, trying to keep the gravel from making noise as it created tiny avalanches beside and beneath her. When she felt the icy stream pushing her feet and slippery rocks crunching beneath the toes of her boots, she stopped.

  My feet'll be soaked in seconds.

  Like that matters.

  She clawed at the frozen dirt like a frightened animal.

  I'll be dead in a few minutes.

  Decide.

  1:00

  HOWARD REACHED THE EDGE of the Glorianus property, where the alders ended and the trail cut across the open grass that led up to Terry and Dawn's stoop. The cabin seemed dark and, although smoke was rising from the stovepipe, he didn't see any movement through the windows.

  It was more than possible, knowing Terry, that she had grabbed young Dawn at the first sound of gunfire and was holed up inside. Howard didn't want to frighten the woman by showing up at her door with a loaded shotgun and, there was no reason to. If El was shooting at a bear, it sure wasn't going to be inside Terry's house.

  The climb from the bridge had winded him again. He set the shotgun on its stock and gripped the short barrel for support. If this expedition turned out to have been for nothing, he was going to hit Terry up for a cup of coffee and a piece of one of the cakes she was always baking.

  The wind gusted and he tugged at the collar of his shirt, thankful that he was wearing his goose-down vest. When his wind had come back a little, he hefted the gun over his elbow, but tucked his left hand in the vest pocket to warm it. He was making his way toward the cabin when he heard El, calling to Dawn.

  Now, why had Dawn run off?

  She was always arguing with her mother, of course. The girl was at that age and Howard knew that she hated living in the bush.

  But why was El here looking for Dawn and what had the shots been about?

  Did he fire them to get the girl's attention?

  Where's Terry?

  It occurred to Howard that Terry, being the way she was, might have panicked and gone to El for help if Dawn had run off. Or, maybe something far worse had happened. Maybe the girl had run afoul of a bear and now El and Terry were trying to find her.

  Howard picked up his pace.

  He rounded the cabin and the sun hit him directly in the eyes. He could barely make out El's silhouette. He did see the gun hanging in El's right hand and a slight quiver of doubt rose in his heart. But, at that instant, Howard was far more worried about Dawn.

  “What's the matter, Eldred?” he said, in as conversational a tone as he could muster, still winded. “Where's Dawn?”
<
br />   El turned to face him.

  Howard pulled his left hand out of his vest and tried to shield his eyes from the blinding sunlight.

  El raised the pistol and Howard's mouth dropped open as he realized the terrible mistake he had made.

  The boom of the pistol wasn't nearly as much of a shock as the powerful ripping sensation of the heavy-gauge bullet tearing through his breastbone. The ground came up fast, driving the wind from his lungs, knocking the glasses from his face.

  Howard's mind functioned at lightning speed.

  Have to get the shotgun up.

  Got to shoot the bastard.

  He's like a wounded grizzly. But cold and calculating. Not mad with rage.

  El had cracked.

  It happened to people in the bush.

  Howard had seen it before.

  Folks got cabin fever during the impossibly long dark winters. Went completely batty.

  Howard struggled to lift the heavy shotgun with just his right arm but all he could do was scrape it along the ground. He heard another blast and dirt blinded him where the bullet cratered the gravel inches from his right eye. He jerked and the shotgun fired into the ground beside his feet.

  That was his only shot.

  He didn't have the strength to pump another round into the cylinder now and it didn't matter anyway.

  El straddled him and Howard stared up into sunglasses that masked the face of a demon. He watched the pistol rising to point directly into his eyes and knew that he would do no more fishing along Sgagamash Creek.

  “Go to hell,” Howard said.

  The big gun bucked again.

  1:05

  RITA TOTALED THE BILL and Micky paid cash for it.

  “Carburetor's almost in,” said Clive. He leaned out of the door to his workshop, wiping his hands on a rag. “I'll be right behind you. I need to catch Damon about his last order. Some of the stuff he needs isn't coming in for a couple of weeks.”

  “I think he's up the valley with Stan or Marty today. But you never know with Damon; he could be off prospecting.”

  “I'll catch him later then.”

  “If I see him I'll tell him you're looking for him. I picked up a couple of things for Aaron. I'm going to hike up and see him.”