by Maggie Pill
Our food was almost gone. Rory had expected our stay to be short, but that changed when Darrow’s enemies—our enemies now—put Rory in the hospital. My mind kept returning to him, wondering how he was doing. Each time, I pushed the thoughts away. I couldn’t change anything. I couldn’t even get an update, since my phone’s battery was dying fast.
Dinner was a Hershey bar each and as much water as we cared to drink. When we’d finished (Darrow licked his wrapper), I took up a battered deck of cards and a cribbage board I’d spotted atop a rafter. “Do you play?” I riffled the deck like a professional, but its age ruined the effect.
“I haven’t for years,” he replied, “but my dad taught me when I was a kid.”
It wasn’t my best idea. Darrow couldn’t concentrate, and I ended up keeping score for both of us. Time after time he tossed points into my crib, and I ended up skunking him. I started a new game, which ended the same way. When I won a third time, I stubbornly dealt again. At least while we played he had to pretend to consider his hand, add cards to the count, and deal every other round.
Around eight o’clock, when he passed me a king and a five and kept no points whatsoever for himself, I gave up. Darrow retreated to the window, now a black square, while I slumped in my chair, staring into the fire.
I’d left my phone on the table, so this time I heard the tone and hurried to see the message. TOMORROW A.M.
“Retta’s coming in the morning,” I told Darrow. He opened his mouth as if to ask for more information but didn’t, accepting that was all I knew.
“Then I’ll eat that last candy bar,” he said. “Unless you want some.”
As a matter of principle, I took half. While we nibbled I asked, “Now that you know more about Stacy, do things make sense that didn’t before?”
He spent a few seconds chewing. “Sometimes she said things about her childhood that didn’t fit with growing up in the east. Like she said she took a fall as a kid when her pony shied at an armadillo. I said, ‘Armadillo?’ and she laughed. ‘I meant porcupine. I get those two mixed up.’ Who confuses an armadillo with a porcupine?”
“Did she ever talk about former relationships? Husbands or lovers?”
Darrow’s lips pressed into a tight line. “When I got upset, even at a baseball game on TV, she’d get this scared look, you know?” He laid a hand on his chest in dramatic fashion. “I never hurt her, but somewhere in her past, somebody did.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Faye
I woke Retta early the next morning so she’d have time to fuel the machines and get ready for the ride out to the cabin with Agent Johannsen. I suggested she take Styx and leave him inside the house. “He’ll bark if someone comes around, and his size is intimidating if you don’t know what a cream puff he is.”
Balancing on one leg to put on a boot, she glanced out the kitchen window. Styx was playing in the snow while Dale swept tiny V-shaped drifts off the porch with a broom. The dog rolled in the freshly-fallen snow in the yard, digging his nose into it, flipping it into the air, and then biting at it as it fell back to earth. It was a game only a dog could love.
“But what if those men come back?”
I thought of Buddy, locked in a cage in my bedroom. “If they’d wanted to break in, they’d have done it already.”
When we stepped onto the porch, Styx came running as if we’d been apart for decades. “He is a teddy bear,” Retta said, ruffling the dog’s fur, “but if someone tried to hurt me, I bet he’d have them for brunch. It’s too bad you had to lock your little guy up.”
Buddy’s imprisonment in the dog carrier was due to his animosity toward Styx and the fact that he’d figured out how to open the bedroom door. The house was old, and the latch didn’t catch securely. Buddy, begin smart, had figured out that he could simply bump at it until it jiggled open. Twice the night before and twice that morning, I’d refereed between him and Styx until Dale had taken Styx outside to give me a break. In order to let Retta have her breakfast in peace, I’d put Buddy in the carrier, promising him that our company would only be around for a little while longer.
“You can’t ride on the sled, Sweetie,” Retta was saying to Styx when I returned my focus to her. “Momma’s going to have a passenger on the way back. Is that okay?”
Styx seemed agreeable, but he always agreed with anything Retta said. As she drove off, Styx made good-bye nose prints on the passenger side window.
I worried about Retta a little, but that’s because I worry about everything. Between the dog and the DEA agent, I told myself, she’s as safe as any of us right now.
A while after she left, the office door opened and Rory Neuencamp came in, his torso tilted forward like a man on his way to somewhere. He slammed the door, looking over my shoulder into Barb’s empty office.
“Chief!”
He looked rougher than I’d ever seen him: unshaven, with his hair mashed down in the back where a pillow had squashed it. There was a bald patch above his right ear with at least four neat, black stitches across it. He wore no coat, and the collar of his tan shirt had a rusty brown stain.
“What’s going on at the cabin, Faye? Tom doesn’t know anything.”
“Are you supposed to be out of the hospital?”
“I stayed twenty-four hours, as ordered, and they did every test they could think of.”
“And I bet they told you to go home and rest.”
His shoulders rose and fell. “I don’t remember hearing that part.” He glanced past me, and I turned to see Buddy limping into the office. I’d released him as soon as Retta and Styx were gone, but he’d pouted a little, his shiny black eyes accusing me of colluding with the enemy.
The chief knelt to a crouch. “Who’s this, and what happened to him?”
“That’s Buddy. He was hit by a car.” As he reached out I cautioned, “Be careful. He’s a one-person dog.”
The chief put out a hand for him to sniff, but Buddy responded with a growl. “I see what you mean.” He surprised me with a smile. “You’re his one person?”
“He’s begun to tolerate my husband, but just barely.”
“I had a dog like that once.” There was no disapproval in his tone. “Some people don’t get it, but it’s kind of comforting to know there’s one being on earth who loves you and nobody else.” Standing again, he said to Buddy, “You’re okay, mutt.”
That’s when I began thinking of Chief Neuencamp as Rory.
“So tell me,” he said. “Where are Barb and Retta?”
Knowing it was hopeless to repeat the doctors’ advice, I filled him in on what he’d missed. When I finished he asked, “How far am I behind Retta and the agent?”
Glancing at the clock I replied, “Thirty minutes.”
“Any chance you’d give me a ride out to her house? My truck’s out there.”
If I said no he’d just get someone else to take him. If I said yes, I could be in on whatever he had in mind. “I’ll get us each a coat. You’re about my husband’s size.”
“Thanks. Nobody could find the one I was wearing, and I didn’t wait around.”
Once we were in the Escape, Rory took out his phone and made a call. “It’s Chief Neuencamp. Is Wade there?” … “Will you ask him to call me? Thanks.”
We were just out of town when the sheriff returned the call. “Wade? What’s going on?” Rory waved a hand impatiently. “I’m fine. The news people made it sound a lot worse than it was. So what have you got for me?”
He listened, asked a couple of questions, and thanked the sheriff. Putting the phone in the pocket of Dale’s coat, he said, “They found out who’s been helping the wrong side. Apparently the janitor at the county building spends too much time at the casino, so he accepted some extra cash when George approached him. He claims nobody was supposed to get hurt.”
“Have they got any leads on Santiago and the others?”
“No one’s seen them lately.” He touched his wound gingerly and winced. “Nobody but me, I g
uess.”
“Maybe they gave up and went back to New Mexico.”
He frowned. “Even if they gave up on getting the money back, they need that book. I’d bet it represents a life sentence for all of them.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Retta
My sisters complain that I’m often late, but I was ready for the snowmobile trip by seven fifty-five. Faye had practically shoved me out the door, babbling about not keeping Lars Johannsen waiting. It’s been my experience that making men wait a little keeps them interested, but since this was important, I did as ordered.
The morning was brutally cold, but the sky was clear, so the sun would soon take some of the chill away. The snow was crisp, and it crunched underfoot like Styrofoam packing. Already light reflected harshly, but my helmet had a tinted second visor I pulled into place behind the clear one. I’d dug out a pair of wraparound sunglasses in case the helmet Agent Johannsen brought didn’t have something similar. Riding trails with all that light on white can do real eye damage.
When I heard a car pull in, the sleds were idling behind the house and Styx was secure inside. Johannsen parked behind Rory’s truck as I came out to meet him. He’d called the hospital, he reported, and learned that Rory had been discharged. At least I could give Barbara Ann some good news when we reached the cabin.
Johannsen had been lucky in getting outfitted. They’d even found snowmobile boots big enough for him. He wore bibbed pants with thin but effective insulation and a jacket with more zippered pockets than a ’90s rapper. “Not sure how my expense voucher will go over back home,” he said drolly. “This isn’t the usual Albuquerque DEA look I’m sporting today.”
Leading the way to the back of the house, I showed him the basics of operating a snowmobile. I shut the machine down and had him start it again. Then he took it around the house a few times to get the feel of steering, turning, and stopping. He did well, and when he came roaring back the second time he wore a kid-like grin. “This is awesome!”
“Then let’s get going. Keep me in sight but don’t follow too close. If we meet other riders on the trail, stay to the right.” I showed him the hand gestures I’d use to indicate changes in direction, which are about the same as the ones used before cars had turn signals and brake lights. He listened and nodded understanding. “I’m ready.”
We took off, following the road until we reached the place where the snowmobile trail crossed it. Snow was banked high along the roadway, and I gunned the machine up one side, bumped down the other side, and stopped a few yards in to see if Johannsen could manage it. He did, raising a mittened thumb in a gesture of accomplishment when he joined me on the trail. Giving him a wave in return, I turned forward, heading west.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Faye
When Rory and I arrived at Retta’s house, exhaust fumes still hung in the air. “We just missed them,” he muttered.
Dialing Retta’s number for the third time, I waited for several seconds then gave up. It was unlikely she’d hear her phone over the roar of the engine.
“You might as well go back to town,” Rory said. “I’ll stay here and wait for them.”
“I’ll let you into the house,” I offered. “It’s warmer.”
When we approached, I heard anguished whines from inside. Styx made it difficult to open the door, as usual, and I had to coax him into backing away. His feet drummed on the floor, and he groaned and cried as if the world was ending.
“Calm down, Sweetie,” I ordered, but he was more agitated than I’d ever seen him. As soon as there was enough space for him to get by, Styx bolted past, knocking me out of the way. Rory made a startled sound as the dog flew by him, bounded across the yard, made a hard left turn, and disappeared down the road. “Styx!” I called after him. “Styx, come back here!”
It was out of character for Retta’s dog to leave the yard, even more out of character for him to ignore a command to return. It was clear he intended to follow Retta’s trail.
I ran to the end of the drive, calling to the dog with no result. Rory joined me, looking concerned. “We passed a truck with a four-sled trailer up near the trailhead,” he said. “I noticed because the driveway where it was parked hadn’t been plowed. Those guys saw me come in on a sled. What if they followed the agent yesterday, saw him buy snowmobile gear, and figured out that Retta was going to take him to Darrow?”
“Where would they get snowmobiles?”
“From one of the locals who set up trail rides for fudgies. Some provide sleds, gear, guidance, and can even make simple repairs if a sled breaks down on the trail.”
Recalling ads I’d seen in pamphlets on the wonders of northern Michigan, I agreed that tourists (“fudgies” to the locals) were wise to make such arrangements.
Styx had stopped and was looking back at us as if to ask why we weren’t following his lead. Nodding in that direction, I said, “Retta’s dog wants to take us to her.”
Rory grimaced. “Maybe he can follow them on foot, but there’s no way we can.”
We paused, at a loss for what to do next. “I need a sled,” Rory said. “Tom has one.”
There were several things wrong with that idea. It would take time. He wasn’t dressed for riding. He’d just been released from the hospital. None of those would convince Rory not to go. “Do what you need to,” I said. “I’ll get Styx and take him home with me.”
Rory waited while I backed out of Retta’s drive then followed me down the road. Styx still waited at the spot where the snowmobile trail crossed, his tail wagging anxiously. I stopped beside him, got out, and opened the hatch. Rory slowed as he passed, probably wondering if he should help me with the dog. “I can handle him,” I said.
As I took hold of Styx’ collar, I looked in the direction he was looking, down the trail. There were no snowmobiles, but I did see something slow, large, and as noisy as a train engine. The groomer.
“Rory!” I shouted. He’d just started pulling away, but he stopped and turned to look where I was pointing. “Gabe drives the groomer! He could take you to the cabin.”
“Gabe?” It took him a tick to remember. “Oh, the guy with the bad decision-making skills.”
“He claims he’s gone straight.” I wobbled a little as Styx struggled to get free and investigate the approaching stranger. “Stop him and explain the situation. I’ll go back to Retta’s and get you warm clothing, so you don’t freeze to death.”
He thought about it. “Hurry. When I get your buddy turned around, I’ll be on my way.”
“Come on, Styx,” I ordered, but the dog broke away, heading up the trail toward the groomer.
“Let him come along,” Rory said. “He might scare the bad guys away just by his size.”
Styx danced atop the snow, twenty yards from me. There was no way I could catch him, so I turned my car around and headed back to Retta’s.
The closet was pretty much stripped of winter wear after the initial trek to the cabin. Rory wore the boots she’d given him originally, so his feet would be warm enough. The rest of what would fit him came from the back of the closet, which amounted to the bottom of the proverbial barrel. I found a blaze-orange Carhartt coverall Don had worn for changing the oil in his vehicles and other messy jobs. It had a tear at the crotch, a missing snap on one cuff, and lots of stains. With it and the accessories I could find that were big enough for Rory, I hurried back to where I’d left him.
Rory stood at the trailhead. Gabe had turned his equipment around and was unhooking the trailing piece that flattened the snow. Better to leave it behind, since speed was a necessity. Taking the clothes from me, Rory held them to his chest as he climbed onto the track vehicle. He patted the seat beside him, and Styx climbed aboard as if he’d done it a thousand times.
“Call the sheriff and tell him what’s going on,” he ordered. “He should take Ponzer Road out to the turn-off for the state forest campground and then watch for a signpost that says WILD ACRE. From there they’ll have to sn
owmobile in. They should be able to see where I left the trail and follow my tracks to the cabin.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to take Styx?”
Patting the excited dog, Rory smiled. “I doubt either of us could make him go home with Retta out there.” He gestured to Gabe, who waved once then put the vehicle into gear. I stepped out of the way, and they rumbled off, focused on their goal.
Stomping the cold from my feet, I watched the vehicle disappear from sight. It sank into a dip on the trail, and the last thing I saw was Rory’s head, now encased in the red plaid hat with ear-flaps that had been the only one left in Retta’s closet.
When I reached Sheriff Idalski, he didn’t fuss about Rory’s decision but promised to send help as soon as possible. “We’ll have to do some organizing,” he told me. “A guy who knows the country out there real well guides us in cases like this. Don’t worry,” he said in a confident tone. “Your sisters will be all right.”
With Rory and Styx on the way, a DEA agent for backup, and the sheriff alerted, I prayed he was correct.
As I drove back to town, things Winston had told us echoed through my mind. We knew almost all of it now, and I felt another stab of pity for Stacy. It was her mess, but she must have been so scared, hiding out with her books and her horses—
The horses! We’d focused on the humans involved, but was anyone caring for the beasts? Shut up in a barn, the poor things couldn’t feed themselves. Had anyone thought of them? Their situation bothered me, in spite of—maybe because of—my inability to help Barb and Retta. If I couldn’t get my sisters home from the cabin in the woods, I could at least tend to a couple of neglected animals.
“There’s been a lot of snow since Friday,” Dale objected when I got home and told him my intention. “There’s probably no path to the barn.”
I knew what was bothering him. His physical therapist was on her way, so he couldn’t go with me.
“I’m looking for my big boots,” I replied, my voice muffled because my head was buried in the coat closet.
