Frozen Footprints

by Therese Heckenkamp

  I had to smile. “Something like that.”

  * * *

  “You know what would taste awesome right now?” Max didn’t wait for an answer. “Eggnog. Thick, creamy eggnog. I’d eat it in a mixing bowl full of chocolate cereal.”

  “Sounds utterly weird and disgusting,” I said from my perch at the top of the rope ladder. “I’d go for soup. Hot clam chowder in a bread bowl, like the kind we had on the pier in San Francisco.”

  “With Mom and Dad? I remember that California trip. Alcatraz was cool.”

  Trust Max to admire a prison when he was stuck in one himself.

  “I liked the old mission in Carmel. Remember the chapel?” Fuzzy scenes of colorful gardens under blue sky, a tiered fountain, and warm sand-toned stucco buildings grew clear in my memory. The sense of comfort that came with sitting in a pew with a parent on each side and feeling Someone all-powerful watching over us and loving us, had been incomparable.

  Max and I dropped off into silence . . . or perhaps prayer.

  * * *

  The next day I finally heard the long-awaited sound of the key clinking in the lock. I sprang to the ground and scurried to the far wall. My energy was surprisingly high for someone who was starving. “Get into position, Max.” I clicked on the flashlight and stood it up like a candle. Warped shadows mingled with the weak light.

  Max lay down on his blanket beside the wall farthest from the door. He stayed deathly still while the metal portal opened. I sank into the shadows beside him, putting my hand on his forehead, and watched surreptitiously as the figure climbed down.

  Relief filled me when I saw that our visitor was Clay, not Abner. So far so good. He toted a small bag, in which I assumed was food and water. When he was about a foot from the ground, he dropped the bundle and began climbing back up.

  “Clay,” I called out. “Wait, please.”

  He paused on the ladder.

  “Something’s very wrong. I’m worried about Max. Will you take a look at him, please?” I let a slight tremble enter my voice. It did the trick.

  He dropped from the ladder and walked our way. Above him, the door still stood open.

  “I hope you have time to do this,” I said worriedly. “Abner’s not timing you again, is he?”

  “No,” Clay said shortly.

  “Really? Why not?”

  “He’s out chopping wood.”

  Perfect.

  “I don’t know what good I can do,” he said, kneeling beside Max. “But you’re right, he doesn’t look good.”

  “Maybe you could listen to his breathing. It seems kind of shallow.”

  He leaned in, and right on cue, Max clamped strong arms over him.

  “What the—” Clay swore and struggled, but Max’s grip didn’t fail.

  “Give us your keys.” Max growled as he flipped with a quick roll, pinning Clay down.

  Grunting, he responded, “What keys?”

  Max struck Clay’s face—a move we hadn’t discussed—and I flinched. Nonetheless, the violence was effective.

  Clay’s expression hardened. “In my coat pocket.”

  I promptly fished out the key.

  “I said ‘keys,’ plural.” Max drew his fist back. “Where’s your car key?”

  “I don’t have it. I don’t even know where it is. Abner took it,” Clay added with something close to embarrassment. I allowed myself a twinge of pity for the way he was being roughed up by both us and Abner. But it’s his own fault.

  “You’d better not be lying.” With all his weight pinning Clay down, Max searched his other pockets, but this revealed no key, so we had no choice but to accept Clay’s explanation.

  “Get moving, Char.” Max began binding Clay’s wrists behind him with the rosary, which was long enough to double-wrap, strengthening it so it wouldn’t break. We had tested it earlier. “I’ll be waiting.”

  I shot up the ladder with the one key in hand, hoping everything else would turn out the way we’d planned. I’d go for the police and bring them back. We’d discussed, at some length, the possibility of Max fleeing with me, but ultimately decided against it. I could move stealthier and faster alone. Max’s wounded foot would be too much of a risk. So he would sit tight, guarding Clay, waiting for me to bring the police.

  I tried to close the portal without the usual clink, but it wasn’t possible. No matter that Clay had said Abner was out chopping firewood, I was still nervous that he lurked inside, close by, ready to recapture me. I snapped the padlock into place and pocketed the key. At least now Max was safe from Abner.

  Outside the dryer, I looked up at the key rack and, as expected, saw no keys.

  But they’ve got to be somewhere. Listening, I heard a distant rhythmic thud. Assured that Abner was still chopping wood, I decided I could devote a moment to searching his room for car keys. Maybe I’d even find a gun.

  I pushed open the wreathed door and stepped onto an ugly gray carpet which was stained darkly in multiple spots. A double bed filled most of the room, and a camouflage sleeping bag lay on the floor. I opened a closet door and searched inside a pair of mud-caked hiking boots, cracked sneakers, and stinky slippers. No keys. I rifled through the few shirts and pants on hangers, checking the pockets. No keys.

  Moving to the bed, I felt under the pillow and inside the pillowcase. Still nothing. An alarm clock sat on a bedside table, but that was all.

  Wood chopping sounds still rang out reassuringly, so I turned my attention to the small walnut dresser. This would be the most logical place, I told myself, but grimaced at the thought of pawing through Abner’s underwear drawer.

  I started with the top drawer, pushing aside socks and t-shirts and boxer shorts. How does he even do laundry, with no washer and no working dryer? Better not think about it. The brute probably never washes his clothes. My fingers wanted to recoil, but I forced myself to continue searching. I reached to the very back of the drawer and found a long black taper candle. Weird, but not useful.

  In the second drawer, I rifled through shirts. How many checkered flannels does he need? And they all look the same. Something clunked against the side of the drawer, and I pulled out a silver-framed photo of a raven-haired beauty in a lacy wedding dress. She reminded me of Audrey Hepburn. Finding the lovely picture creeped me out. Who was she? Another victim Abner had kidnapped, or was currently stalking?

  Finally, I hurried through the contents of the last drawer, a hodgepodge assortment of nails, rubber bands, duct tape, bullets, and a large wad of tissue paper. Poking the tissue, I realized it surrounded something hard and metallic. A gun?

  I unrolled it carefully and was left holding a gold chalice flecked with red, ruby-like stones. Were they real? And what in the world was someone like Abner doing with such a beautiful treasure? He probably stole it. Frowning, I re-wrapped it, closed the drawer, and hurried from the room, afraid for a moment that the chopping had stopped. But no, it started up again.

  I couldn’t waste any more time in here. If it came down to it, I’d rather face Abner outside than in the confines of the cabin.

  On my way through the kitchen, I grabbed a butcher knife. Just in case.

  Turning my attention to the importance of the moment, I crept out the front door and down the steps, scanning carefully for Abner. The resonating thwacking of an ax on wood made me stiffen as I realized it came from the direction of the parked truck and car.

  Why couldn’t he have gone deep into the woods to do his wood cutting? That’s how it’s done in Hansel and Gretel. Why was real life never like a fairy tale? Except for the bad parts. The evil, torture parts.

  As I approached the corner of the cabin, and the vehicles, I spotted Abner among the trees. His back was to me, at least. The way he swung the ax, so fiercely, did not so much make him look strong, as ruthless. The sound of splintering wood suddenly reminded me of splintering bone.

  I slunk toward Clay’s car with the slim hope that maybe the keys were inside. I prayed for it to be so, but of course it w
as not. So I moved stealthily to Abner’s truck and mounted the step to peer through the window. No keys in the ignition or on the seat.

  Suddenly, the chopping stopped, and I shrank down, ducking, then crawling beneath the truck, gripping my knife. I looked at the snowy ground, then up at the belly of the truck. And there, stuck magnetically to the metal above, sat a black plastic key case. My mind registered the sound of ax blows once more, and I triumphantly slid a key from the container. Yes! It has to be a spare for the truck.

  Now, of course, I still had to get into the truck without Abner spotting me, and drive away before he could reach me. There was no way I could stop him from being alerted the moment I turned the key. At least by then, however, I’d be safely locked inside.

  My hand shook as I struggled to fit the key in the door, but somehow I did it. Then I hoisted myself into the seat. I brushed away a pack of cigarettes, a Budweiser can, and a popcorn bag. The smell of melted butter mingled wretchedly with smoke and beer.

  Another thing I hadn’t counted on: I couldn’t see out the front window, which was a frosty pane of ice. This isn’t happening. I closed my eyes briefly. How was I ever going to scrape the windshield without Abner discovering me? For that matter, what was I going to scrape it with?

  I glanced back at Abner, the pile of split wood growing around his chopping block. He seemed totally absorbed. I was just going to have to trust that he was.

  I found a scraper under the passenger seat, set my knife down, then eased open the door and slipped to the ground. Standing on tiptoe—hard to do in boots—I scratched at the front window, clearing flakes of ice till my muscles ached.

  Good enough. But I couldn’t resist quickly scraping the side mirror. Throwing one final glance at Abner, I jumped back into the truck, locked the doors, and turned the key.

  The truck roared to life with a wrath that suited the moment. I pressed the gas. The truck rumbled, then shuddered and bounced as I steered it down through the steep pine-bordered path which served as the driveway.

  I’d never driven anything so enormous. I felt like I was on an over-sized, out-of-control sled. Trying to stay inside the narrow path between trees was terrifying, but my ride didn’t last long. My eyes flew to the rearview mirror just in time to see Abner leap into the truck bed. Brandishing his ax, he charged, smashing through the rear window. I threw my hands up to shield my head and neck from flying glass, but it didn’t work. Shards pierced my right cheek.

  The truck pitched forward and rammed into a snow bank. I tried to scramble from the truck, but Abner dove into the front seat beside me, making it impossible to reach my knife. He no longer held the ax, but I was still horrified. His hands were weapons enough. With one beefy palm, he jammed me against the seat. With the other, he drew back and struck my face.

  My teeth rattled and I was afraid they’d fall out. My cheek stung as if attacked by a million bees. Intense pain radiated through my head, and I wondered if it was possible to become brain-damaged from a slap.

  Like a fierce giant with eyes flashing, Abner snarled in my face, and I tried not to breathe. I was barely in control of my senses, and for some reason, my foot pressed the pedal, but the truck’s tires only spun while the motor sputtered and growled feebly.

  He grabbed me by my hair, ignoring my cries, and yanked me from the truck. I almost called out for help. Jesus Christ, protect me!

  I knew there was so much more I should pray, but the alarm of the situation choked me. Abner dragged me up the cabin steps while I stumbled and tripped, each move creating searing pain at my scalp.

  Even inside, he didn’t loosen his hold. He shook me a few times, causing an instant, deep headache, before ramming me against the dryer, knocking all breath out of me.

  “Where’s Clay?”

  My eyes widened, confronted by such a close, repelling view of Abner’s face and mouth. It looked like someone had used their fingers to push his eyes deep into his head. Maybe he’d done it himself. He was capable of anything.

  I realized I was stuttering, and I drew a deep breath to start over. “He—he’s in the hole.”

  The sharp tug on my hair told me he wanted more of an explanation. I wet my lips. “He came down to give us some food, and—and we tricked him. Max pinned him down. I escaped.”

  “Escaped?” Abner raised a tangled eyebrow. “No. The one thing you most definitely did not do—and will never do—is escape. Where’s the key?”

  I didn’t answer immediately, and it cost me another hair-ripping pull.

  “Don’t play ignorant. I know you’ve got it. Unlock the prison door, or I’ll search you for it.”

  I hastily extracted the key from my coat pocket. He finally released my hair, but replaced the pain with new torment as he shoved me into the dryer, smashing my limbs and creating what felt like fifty bruises. I couldn’t unlock the portal fast enough or reach the ladder quick enough. The hole suddenly seemed like a safe-haven. As long as Abner didn’t follow me in. God, no. Please, not that.

  In darkness, I tumbled from the ladder, falling the last couple of feet and landing on what felt like cold concrete. I remained there, sinking into a defeated, pitiful heap. Max snapped on the flashlight and I was vaguely aware of his sharp intake of breath.

  “Listen up!” Abner bellowed down. “You’re making me angry, and believe me, that’s a serious mistake. There are many things worse than death, and I won’t hesitate to use ’em all. Got it?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “Clay? You’re as stupid as they come. You climbed in there alone, unarmed? What did you expect? And I did not give you permission to unlock that door. So since you wanted to visit them so badly, you can stay with them.”

  “Abner, I—”

  “Stupid kid, pleading will only get you locked up longer, so shut it.” The malice in Abner’s voice intensified. “You all just enjoy your time together. And if you feel like knocking each other around, have at it.” The door slammed shut, leaving behind remnants of an angry echo and three very disturbed prisoners.

  * * *

  Max came to my side and laid a hand on my shoulder while I shuddered and sobbed. At last, I contained myself. I mustered the strength to lift my head, rub my nose, and relate in halting phrases what had happened. I wondered if he blamed me for botching the job, but I was too weary and beaten to care. I pressed my still stinging cheek to the frigid dirt wall, and it began to numb the pain.

  Clay sat quietly against the opposite wall, which seemed very far away, almost like I was looking down a tunnel. He was obviously bound with his wrists behind him, because his arms were drawn back and his shoulders pulled awkwardly—quite an uncomfortable way to sit.

  Perhaps he saw me looking at him and hoped to gain sympathy. His eyes met mine wearily. “You really think this is necessary?” He strained against his bonds. “What’s this rosary made of, anyway? Iron? Come on, untie me. I’m not going to fight anyone.”

  “That’s for sure,” Max scoffed. “You are definitely not a fighter. I bet you’ve never stood up to anyone in your life.”

  Clay’s tone bristled. “Don’t talk to me about my life. You know nothing about it.”

  Max hooted. “Lucky me. I’m sure it’s a real sob story.”

  Sensing this tense sparring of words could continue for hours—something I was not up to, particularly with a pounding headache—I put in, “Maybe we should all just shut up.”

  Max and Clay glared at each other but, surprisingly, said no more. I wondered if we should turn off the flashlight, but couldn’t bear the thought of being submerged into blackness.

  The silence lasted about one minute. I was the one who broke it. Noticing the bag from Clay still lay where he had dropped it, about a foot from where I sat, I pulled it toward me. The bag crinkled, and I saw two peanut butter sandwiches and two bottles of water inside. My stomach growled loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Max and I each took a sandwich and claimed a bottle of water. I chewed hungrily and trie
d to forget Clay. He hasn’t been parched and starving since yesterday. Still, it seemed rather rude to eat and drink in front of him, offering him nothing, particularly when he was the one who had brought us the stuff.

  My sandwich didn’t taste nearly as good as I thought it would. When it was gone, I began to yawn.

  Max turned to me. “Why don’t you go ahead and lie down, get some sleep. You’ve been through a lot. I’ll stay awake and guard him.” Max indicated Clay with a thrust of his stubbly chin. “I don’t want us both falling asleep.”

  “Yeah, I might come over there and breathe on you,” Clay muttered. “What a lot of damage that would do.”

  “Your brother’s right about one thing,” Max said evenly. “You’re a stupid kid, and you should keep your mouth shut.”

  “I’m older than you, kid.”

  “You sure don’t act it. You probably still cry for your mommy every night.”

  A look of fury swept over Clay’s face. In the strange shadows, he looked frightening. He jumped to his feet and charged across the room at Max.

  Max leapt up and met him with a blow aimed at Clay’s head, but Clay dodged it. Then Clay kicked Max and nearly knocked him off his feet. For a moment, it seemed the fight could go either way, until Max landed a fist to Clay’s stomach, and he fell to the ground.

  Max dusted his hands triumphantly and turned to join me, when Clay sprang up unexpectedly and rammed Max to the dirt.

  “Stop it!” I cried.

  They ignored me, scuffling and kicking until finally Max slammed Clay against the wall. Clay slid down to a sitting position and stayed there, breathing heavily.

  “That’ll teach you to mess with me,” Max said.

  “Real fair fight,” Clay countered as Max walked away. “Let’s try it evenly matched—without my hands tied—and see how far you get.”

  Max swung back to face Clay, but I dashed over and tugged Max’s arm. “No, please stop. Both of you. Why make this situation more horrible than it already is? That’s what Abner wants—us to torture each other. Don’t you see? We’ll never get out of this if all we do is fight.”