Frozen Footprints

by Therese Heckenkamp

  The lot teemed with people. The ones who couldn’t wait to get on the hill and risk their lives were suiting up out here and taking skis and snowboards off car top carriers. Stepping from my car, I felt out of place with no skis or snowboard. Not that anyone would notice me—unless there was someone here solely for that purpose, someone waiting and watching for me, with no intention of skiing either.

  Resisting the urge to study my surroundings and search every face and figure, I hoisted the backpack and headed for the lodge.

  Inside, I waited patiently in line. Do this right, I ordered myself. Don’t give him any cause to back out of the deal.

  “Locker number thirty-eight?” asked the guy at the desk. “First time we’ve ever had a request for a specific number.”

  “My lucky number,” I explained.

  Indulging me, he handed over the key.

  See? I directed my silent question at the kidnapper. I’m doing this precisely as you directed. You can have the money. You’re welcome to it. Just give Max back.

  I hoped I looked as if I were putting determination into my actions, signaling to anyone watching that I was reliable. I stuffed the pack into the rust-speckled locker littered with gum wrappers. When I glimpsed a tarnished penny stuck to the inside of the locker by a wad of gum, I thought, You can have that, too.

  The bag almost didn’t fit. I punched it into place, then closed and locked the door. Ready to proceed to the next step, I had a horrible thought, a “what if” that had not occurred to me in the car, or even earlier when it should have—the moment Grandfather had handed me the bag.

  What if the bag was not filled with money? What if Grandfather was trying to outsmart the kidnapper? I had been so intent on not tampering with anything that it hadn’t occurred to me that something might already be compromised.

  Using the key, I reopened the locker. I paused with my fingers on the bag’s zipper. Glancing over my shoulder at the throng of people, I thought, This is the worst possible place to do this. I couldn’t risk someone catching a glimpse of a bag full of money, giving them a chance to steal it before the kidnapper could. It was almost hilarious, worrying that the wrong thief might get the money.

  I’m not trying to double-cross you, not trying to swipe a few bills for myself, I wanted to explain, because I felt an uncomfortable awareness of someone watching as I took the bag with me to the ladies’ room.

  Inside the privacy of a stall, I hung the backpack by its leather handle from the hook on the door, which left my hands free to explore the bag’s contents. I made a mental note to ask Max why people found it necessary to scribble obscenities in bathroom stalls. When I see him next. Soon, I assured myself.

  Unzipping the backpack made a tremendous noise in the empty bathroom. Wait—it wasn’t empty anymore—the door squeaked open and boot-clad feet plodded into a stall—the stall beside me.

  Suddenly I recalled a horrible scene from a movie (Max’s pick) in which a guy enters a bathroom stall and someone in the neighboring stall stabs him through the flimsy divide. I forced the image from my mind, but nonetheless made sure to scoot away from my neighbor’s stall.

  Orderly stacks of bills did indeed lie in rubber-banded piles inside the backpack, and they were not counterfeit, either. I examined each and every stack, removing and holding bills up to the fluorescent light. One thing Grandfather had made sure my education had not lacked was the ability to tell the difference between real and counterfeit money. Look for blue and red fibers in the paper, not just printed on it. Find the security thread running vertically. Check the watermark.

  While rifling through a pack of hundreds, I heard a flush, making me jump, and I almost dropped the pack of bills in the toilet. Get ahold of yourself.

  Rifling through one last pack, I caught a flash of white. Just when I had been feeling admiration for Grandfather for not pulling any tricks, I tugged out a sealed white envelope. A message to the kidnapper?

  Of all the audacity. Whatever Grandfather had to say, I knew it couldn’t help our chances of getting Max back safely. Without hesitation, I ripped through the old-fashioned seal of melted wax stamped with a “P” for Perigard, and pulled out a thick sheet of gold-embossed stationery. Impressive. So suitable for a greedy kidnapper.

  Reading the message, however, I soon discovered it was not intended for the kidnapper at all. It was for Max. Grandfather still believed Max was behind everything. I should have known better than to believe my pitiful pleadings had gotten through to him. I should have realized he’d given in too easily. I’d thought maybe the heart attack and fortunate recovery had had something to do with it—maybe given him a change of heart—but I was wrong.

  Maxwell, Grandfather wrote:

  It’s been a good game. You won this round. Take the money as your prize. You earned it. Now it’s time you returned home to resume your responsibilities. Do this, and we won’t discuss this matter any further. With the proper training, I believe you will make an excellent businessman one day. You’ve proven you have the mind as well as the will for carrying out a daring business venture. We’ll consider this a lesson and leave it at that.

  Chapter Seven

  I wanted to scream. I wanted to kick something, so I turned and kicked the toilet. It burst to life with a gushing roar. Inspired by the noise, I tore the note to shreds and sprinkled it into the bowl, watching delightedly as the pieces whirled around and around and the gold scraps were swallowed into the depths of the sewers.

  So much for Grandfather’s attempt to sabotage Max’s return. I didn’t know how this kidnapper thought, but I was fairly sure he wouldn’t have appreciated being taken for a teenager playing a trick.

  I went through a laborious scrutiny of the remaining packs of bills until I was satisfied Grandfather had not pulled anymore underhanded stunts. Marching out of the restroom without even washing my hands—a major first for me—I squished the backpack into locker thirty-eight, locked it, and returned to the restroom.

  “I can’t manage to leave this restroom for more than a few minutes, either,” said a woman soaping her hands at the sink. “The moment I see those hills . . .” She shuddered, sprinkling water onto the cracked mirror and onto me. “I feel safer hiding out in here.”

  Smiling what I hoped was a sympathetic smile, I dove for the far stall. My hand stopped on the handle. The stall was occupied.

  “A stall over here is open,” the soap woman said.

  “I—I think I left something in this one.”

  The door swung open so suddenly it almost hit me. “No, you didn’t,” said a woman wearing ski pants of such a bright orange color they looked like a hunting costume. “Unless it’s that wad of paper on the floor.”

  Not answering, I squeezed inside and locked the door. I wrinkled my nose at the smell, like a horrible school lunch that, never having been appetizing in the first place, had been left to go cold and rotten. I tried holding my breath, but that only made each frantic breath of air harder to take.

  The things I do for you, Max.

  From my coat pocket, I pulled a short length of string and a little pair of rather blunt scissors. I took the tiny locker key from my jeans pocket and threaded the string through it, tied what I hoped was a secure knot and, squatting on the slimy floor, lowered it carefully through the grate of the round drain, then tied the end of the string onto the grate.

  Was it inconspicuous? Not really. But then who would bother untying it unless they knew its purpose? Which led me to wonder . . . Why did the kidnapper want it done this way? Wouldn’t it have been simpler to make a clean trade—the bag for Max? Perhaps, but not safe for him. This way he didn’t have to make a predictable appearance. And there are no security cameras in a bathroom, I reminded myself.

  The kidnapper wouldn’t want any of his actions to look suspicious. In which case, I realized as I turned a spray of water onto my hands, how would he get into the ladies’ room to retrieve the key? I’ve been assuming the kidnapper is a man, but maybe there’s a
woman in on this too. The thought dumbfounded me. My hands were lathered, but they didn’t feel clean, and I stayed rubbing my soapy hands under hot water for a long time.

  When I emerged, I threaded my way through the boisterous crowd and ended up in the cafeteria. I glanced at the counter, but didn’t see Cindy. Though I wasn’t hungry, I considered getting a burger so I’d have an excuse to linger. Ironically, the closer I was to the kidnapper, the closer I felt to Max. But what would I do even if I did spot the kidnapper? Tap him on the shoulder and say, “Excuse me, but I did what you directed, so now will you please let Max go?”

  As if it would be that simple.

  But isn’t that what he expected me to believe, that by simply dropping off a backpack, this nightmare would be over?

  I’d staked all my hope on the fact that the kidnapper would release Max once he got the money. Now I saw my naiveté with glaring clarity. Why should a criminal keep a promise? It would be easier to kill Max and flee. I’m not leaving, I decided. I’m watching the locker. I’ll call the police the moment I see the kidnapper, then I’ll follow—

  A finger on my shoulder startled me, and I whirled around.

  “Hi! What’re you up to?” Cindy grinned from ear to ear and looked past me hopefully. “Is Max here, too?”

  “No, he’s not. Sorry.” I noticed a ketchup stain on her shirt. Like yesterday, she was in uniform, and I studied it thoughtfully. Her forest green shirt and cap featured a rugged Whitecap Mountain logo, and she wore black pants and an apron like a dozen other workers. If I could change into an outfit like that, I’d have a better chance of watching for the kidnapper without him—or her—recognizing me or giving me a second glance. Even if I could just get a cap, it would help shield my hair and face.

  “Say, Cindy, do you think you could do me a favor?”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “I need to hang out here today, but I kind of need to keep a low profile, blend in, so to speak. What are the chances of your being able to find a uniform for me to wear? One like you’ve got on.”

  She glanced down at herself. “I might be able to,” she said, a bit dubiously. “I think there are some extras in a back closet, but I’m not sure of the sizes.”

  “Even if you just get me an apron and cap, that would be a big help.”

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.” She zipped off, her ponytail flying, and I turned back around to face the locker room.

  I shouldn’t have taken my eyes off the lockers, I realized. Though my exchange with Cindy had been brief, I was suddenly worried that I might have missed the kidnapper. Scanning the room’s occupants, I observed a mom and a dad helping two kids tug on their boots, a loud group of teenagers, and several other people suiting up or un-suiting. The only person without any ski clothes or equipment was a guy striding from the direction of locker thirty-eight, heading for the exit. Of average build, he wore khaki pants and a bulky black coat with the hood up.

  My instincts said to follow him, so I hurried through the locker room, almost tripping over a pair of skis. I pushed open the door and peered in all directions, just catching sight of the man as he entered the parking lot. I broke into a sporadic sprint, attempting to spy on him without getting too close. My hand dove into my pocket and grasped my phone, ready to call the police with a description and license plate number if necessary.

  The hooded man glanced over his shoulder, and I ducked behind a car. A shapely woman exiting the car next to me avoided my eyes and trotted away with a nervous quiver. Slowly, I stood back up. The man was opening a car door, and I took a step closer. The car, a sleek black Mercedes, looked familiar.

  I immediately knew why. I’d seen it lined up with several other luxury cars, all belonging to Grandfather. My hand released my phone and my lips pinched together angrily. I stalked forward, no longer afraid of being seen. I caught a glimpse of a tan face, and it was enough. “Rob!” I shouted. His head almost turned to look at me, but then ducked as he hopped into the car.

  “Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me!” I reached the car and planted my booted foot inside so he couldn’t close the door as he was about to. I pulled his hood back. “What are you doing here? Grandfather sent you, didn’t he? Why?”

  Rob faced me with no hint of shame. “Sheesh, quit freaking. So what if your grandfather sent me? We’re all on the same side.”

  “Oh yeah?” I narrowed my eyes. “Then why didn’t I know about this? Why the sneakiness? Was Grandfather afraid I’d take off with the money myself, or that I was going to join up with Max or something?” Another thought hit me. “Did you come here to steal the money back? That would be just like Grandfather.”

  While I scanned the interior of the car for the backpack, Rob lifted empty hands and shook his head. “You’ve got some imagination, Char.”

  “I asked you before, please don’t call me that.”

  He ran a finger through a film of window vapor. “All your anger’s steaming up the car.”

  I watched in disbelief as he proceeded to draw stick figures in the moisture. “Just answer me straight: Why are you here?”

  He traced a cloud of angry steam billowing from the head of a curly-haired stick figure, and I knew very well who his picture depicted. I fought the urge to react.

  “Why am I here?” He looked up and smiled. “Simple. This is an important operation. My job’s to make sure you did everything you were supposed to.”

  “So you were checking up on me.”

  “No, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m here as your protector, your guardian angel, so to speak. Like a bodyguard.” He flexed an arm, but any muscle was hidden by the heavy coat.

  “A guardian-angel-bodyguard?” I rolled my eyes. “You’ve got religion crossed with superheroes.”

  “My kind of religion.”

  I shook my head. “I still don’t see why this had to be a secret, but it doesn’t surprise me. I should have seen it coming.” A car door slammed across the way, and I suddenly realized I’d been gone from my post much too long. I wanted to dart back to it, but I didn’t want Rob following me. I was glad that he appeared to be leaving, but I had to make sure. “So if your reason for coming here was to protect me, why are you leaving?”

  “Who said I’m leaving? I’m just grabbing a smoke.” He produced a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. “Want one?”

  “No way.” My frown deepened. “If your reason for coming here was to protect me, leaving for a smoke is a pretty irresponsible thing to do. I’m glad I’m not depending on you.”

  “Oh, come on.” He tapped a cigarette into his palm. “You were just talking to that worker chick. No threat there.”

  Worried about the time I was wasting, I removed my foot from the car. “You can leave now.”

  He flicked his lighter and touched the flame to his cigarette. “Thanks, but I’m in no hurry.” He spoke around the cigarette. “I think I’ll stick around till you leave.”

  I crossed my arms. “Why do you think I came outside? The ransom’s delivered, so what reason do I have to stay? I’m heading to my car right now.” I gestured vaguely. “But suit yourself.”

  He let out a puff of smoke, and it found my face instantly. “Guess there’s no reason for me to stay then. See you back at the big house, Char.” He gave me something of a salute before closing the door.

  I walked slowly in the direction I’d indicated, making my way toward my car so that my words weren’t technically a lie, though they were misleading. Yes, I’m going to my car, but then I’m racing back inside. And I better not have missed the kidnapper because of you, Rob.

  My ears tuned into the sound of an engine as Rob pulled out. I turned slightly and saw him exit the lot.

  The moment he was gone, I darted inside. No one stood near locker thirty-eight, and I backed up to keep watch without being too close. Glancing briefly toward the cafeteria, I didn’t see Cindy, but figured she’d find me when she got a chance. An offensive odor made its way to my nostrils, and
I took a step away from the garbage can on my left.

  It made no difference. Perhaps the smell was coming from the restrooms. I glanced in that direction and noticed a hulk of a man with his back to me, hauling a black garbage bag down the hall. His dull clothing looked like a janitor’s. Good, maybe he’ll change this garbage can next.

  Only . . . he was walking away, toward an exit. I looked back at locker thirty-eight, then at the rapidly retreating janitor. Something wasn’t right. He was only carrying the one garbage bag, and it didn’t look as if it contained a full load of trash.

  Suddenly, two threads of memory meshed in my mind, two recent conversations regarding janitors at Whitecap Mountain. First, Wayne had told me how he had commented on the smelly garbage to a janitor who did nothing about it. That happened Friday, the day Max was kidnapped. Then yesterday, Saturday, Cindy informed me that there was no day janitor on duty this week.

  She could be wrong, of course, or maybe a new janitor had just been hired. But wouldn’t the rest of the place be in a cleaner state by now? All the garbage cans I’d seen had been practically overflowing. And why was this guy leaving the building with only one small garbage bag?

  It’s just the right size to hold a backpack. Blood surged through my veins, and I left the lockers behind to follow the janitor, suddenly convinced he’d just picked up the ransom.

  He shouldered the door open and disappeared outside. I shot down the hall, then peeked through the grimy window before slipping on my leather gloves and exiting the same door.

  Walking neither too close nor too far away was tricky, much harder than when I’d been shadowing Rob. For one thing, this guy walked faster, and for all his bulk, he was a challenge to keep in sight. He rounded vehicles with no hesitation, plowing across the lot with no care for traffic or pedestrians. As I attempted the same, a van honked at me.