Frozen Footprints

by Therese Heckenkamp

  “You think I’d let you do that to my brother?”

  Max jutted his jaw. “I’d like to see you try to stop me.”

  “Seriously, Clay,” I snapped, “quit trying to make excuses for Abner. This is a matter of survival; we’ve got to kill him before he kills us.”

  “He wouldn’t do that,” Clay retorted, but I saw a flicker of doubt cross his face. “He’s my brother.”

  “ ‘He’s my brother,’ ‘he’s my brother,’ ” I repeated, exasperated. “You’re like a broken record. So what if you’re related? He’s no brother to anyone. He acts more like a tyrannical father, the way he orders you around and talks down to you. He even disciplines you, for goodness’ sake. He’s always calling you ‘boy’ or ‘kid,’ and you’re how old? Twenty-one?”

  “Shut up,” Clay snarled.

  Any walls that had crumbled down between us yesterday, rebuilt themselves in an instant.

  * * *

  Minutes dragged by. With nothing else to do, I bounced numbers around in my head, figured some math problems, and counted how many hours I’d been held prisoner. And as I tallied the time, I realized something. “It’s New Year’s Eve today.”

  “Big freakin’ deal,” Max said. “What are we supposed to do about it? Throw a party? Get wasted? I wish.”

  “I wish you would, too. At least then maybe you’d fall asleep and quit being so mean.” I’m beginning to wonder why I ever went searching for you.

  I thought of Cindy from the ski hill, drinking root beer floats with her dad and watching The Three Stooges. Sounded like heaven.

  What I wouldn’t give for one more moment with my dad. I’d never even said goodbye to him when he left that tragic day. Skydiving. Why did he always have to go looking for excitement? Why couldn’t he be content with what he had? It was the same with Max. Always searching for the next crazy thrill.

  I looked at Max’s sour expression and something inside me snapped. “Why’d you ever have to go snowboarding, Max? Why couldn’t you have just stayed home for once?”

  His eyes sizzled. “Like you? A hermit? A social outcast? Don’t blame me for this. I never asked you to come looking for me.”

  I didn’t answer, but something inside me withered.

  Moments passed.

  A suspicion that had been plaguing me for days, a painful truth that I didn’t want to face, finally erupted from my lips. “You really were going to run away that night after snowboarding, weren’t you?”

  His silence confirmed it.

  “You were, and you didn’t even tell me, didn’t care that I’d be worried sick.” I tried to contain the hurt leaking from my voice. “But Wayne knew. That’s why he wasn’t worried when I told him you were missing.”

  He sighed. “I tried to tell you, Char. I would have kept trying. I didn’t plan it ahead of time, but things just lined up. I was so ticked off at Grandfather. Then when we were snowboarding and Wayne told me about a cheap rental room he’d heard about, I called the guy and he said I could move in that night. Once I decided, I tried calling you like ten times—”

  “Six,” I cut in. “You called six times, and you didn’t leave a message.”

  “You know I don’t leave messages. I wanted to tell you where I would be, and I didn’t want that recorded. Wayne didn’t want you to know anything at all, but I wouldn’t do that to you, Char. You know that.”

  I almost cursed Wayne and his hand in all this. “Why didn’t he at least go with you? Make sure you got there okay?”

  “Seriously, Char? What am I, seven?” He shook his head. “You can’t blame Wayne. We drove separately, and he had to get home. And he didn’t tell you where he thought I was because he wouldn’t have wanted to risk Grandfather finding out. Wayne’s loyal; he didn’t want to blow my cover.”

  I huffed. “So why was your top-secret magic notebook gone if you didn’t plan the whole thing ahead of time?”

  “My top-secret—how the heck do you know about that?” Indignation sputtered from his lips.

  “Come on, Max. Under the mattress? Not the best hiding place. What are you, seven?”

  He muttered something about snoopy sisters before saying, “I lent the notebook to Wayne. If we’re going to have a magic act together someday, we’ve gotta be on the same page.”

  I nodded, done with the conversation. A pitiful heaviness fell on my soul as my twin intuition told me Max and I were thinking the same thing: “Someday” was probably never going to come.

  * * *

  During a long stretch of silence, I saw that Max had actually fallen asleep. I relaxed slightly, and found myself wishing I could talk with Clay the way we had yesterday, to pass the time and turn my thoughts in some direction other than insanity.

  But when Clay suddenly spoke up from across the room, it gave me no relief. “I wish I never came down here. But I knew you were hungry and thirsty, so I brought you food and water. Then I tried to help you, and what did you do? You attacked me.”

  “Go on,” I said, “get all your grousing out while Max is asleep.”

  “Fine. I wish I never laid eyes on you. You’ve brought me nothing but trouble. And if you hadn’t lured me yesterday with your lies about Max being sickly, I wouldn’t be stuck down here now.”

  I kept my eyes focused on the dirt wall, kept my jaw stiff, and didn’t reply. You’re not going to make me feel guilty. You’re a coward and a jerk.

  Moments later, there was a clang, and Abner opened the prison door. “Clay,” he called, his deep voice reverberating through the hole.

  I was surprised when Clay remained silent and didn’t jump up and run to his brother.

  “Clay,” Abner bellowed, “I know you heard me. Don’t make me call you again.” This time, the echo was painful. Amazingly, Max didn’t stir from his deep sleep.

  I watched Clay’s scowl turn to a grimace. He suddenly reminded me of a cornered animal. Not a fierce one, but a gentle one. Quit it, Charlene. I yanked myself back to cold reality. Don’t pity him. He chose this.

  “If you ever want to see the light of day again, boy, you’d better get up here now.”

  Clay’s hands clasped the back of his head.

  “You’ve got till the count of ten,” Abner proclaimed. “One. Two. Three.”

  Clay shifted uncomfortably, seeming to battle within himself.

  “Four. Five.”

  His eyes turned to mine, as if seeking advice.

  I slid my eyes away.

  “Six. Seven.”

  Dropping his hands, Clay stood.

  “Eight.”

  He trudged to the base of the ladder and gripped a rung.

  “Nine.”

  “I’m coming,” Clay shouted, with attitude.

  Hairs rose on the back of my neck. I couldn’t help trembling as I watched him move closer to the top, closer to Abner.

  Abner’s silence as Clay crawled out, surprised me. No barrage of angry words. And yet . . . I pictured a snake, coiled and ready to strike.

  Something made me move to the bottom of the ladder. I just caught Abner’s voice saying, with creepy calmness, “You like to test me, don’t you?”

  Hearing no response, I climbed up a rung.

  “You only get this many chances because you’re my brother.” Abner’s voice grew louder the higher I climbed. Below, I saw Max stirring.

  “You’re my brother,” Abner repeated, “yet you fail to appreciate the fact. Your ungratefulness is appalling.”

  “Char,” Max said, “what are you—”

  “Shh!” I pulled myself up another rung, my gloves slipping on the stiff ropes.

  Abner was still talking. “You can’t forget whose side you’re on. Got it?”

  My ears were strained by a long stretch of silence. Then, suddenly, I heard a wicked whack.

  “Got it?” Abner paused. “I don’t think you do.” Another pause, then his voice came ominously soft: “Close and lock the door.”

  The door clanked shut as I scrambled up to
put my ear against it. My heart pounded in my ears, but not so loudly that I couldn’t make out the sound of fists smacking flesh.

  God, let it be Clay hitting Abner. But as I pressed my forehead against the cool metal, I knew it wasn’t so. Waves of nausea swept up my throat. Abner was thrashing Clay.

  And it’s my fault.

  * * *

  I made myself listen to every blow, every thud, but not once did I hear Clay cry out. It seemed to be forever until the brutal sounds stopped. Then I heard Abner’s gruff voice, though the words were muffled.

  Numbly, I slunk down the ladder to relate the events to Max, who was waiting curiously at the base of the ladder.

  He enjoyed the story. “Serves the jerk right.” He smacked his fist into his palm. “I hope they kill each other!”

  “Max!”

  “Come on, Char. Don’t tell me you don’t want Abner dead.”

  “Of course I do—it’s just—”

  “Oh, I see,” he said darkly. “You don’t want cutesy-boy Clay to get hurt. Boy, he’s got you fooled. What a sucker I’ve got for a twin. For someone who’s supposed to be so smart, you sure—”

  “No, Max, it’s not that.” I rubbed my forehead. “I’m thinking logically. If they kill each other, we’d never get out of here. At least—no one would find us until it’s too late.”

  “Good point,” he admitted. “I take it back, then. You’re still smart.”

  “Thanks,” I said in a small voice, feeling no better.

  “And Char? I’m sorry for the things I said earlier . . .” He looked uncomfortable. “You know, about you being a hermit and all . . .”

  “I know. I’m sorry, too.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  As my bare fingers clawed against the earthen wall, the dirt flaked easier under my nails, and a tremor of hope and excitement rippled through me. “Max. Max, wake up.” Of course, I had to shove him around for a full minute before I succeeded in forcing him awake. He was obviously catching up on the shut-eye he’d missed when Clay was with us.

  “Whatcha want?” he mumbled.

  “Max, listen. You’re going to be glad I was talking to Clay yesterday, because it turns out he gave me a valuable piece of information. I didn’t realize its importance till now, but it just might help us escape.”

  He sat up on his blanket, blinking. “Yeah?”

  I pointed at the long wall across from us. “Behind that wall is a cellar. All we need to do is dig through. Judging from where I remember the cellar door being located, compared to the dryer, this wall can’t be more than two or three feet thick.”

  “Wonderful, won’t take us more than a couple years to scrape through.” He began to slump back down. “I thought we covered this already. The walls are practically frozen.”

  “The outside walls are,” I corrected him, “the walls that don’t connect to a room. We tried those and assumed they were all the same, but they’re not.”

  “Really?” Max stood and followed me to the wall against the cellar. He removed his glove and scraped at the dirt. “I don’t know,” he said dubiously. “Feels just as hard to me.”

  “It’s not,” I insisted. “The dirt yields a little easier. I know it’s only a slight difference, but it is a difference.”

  Max let out his breath, his hope clearly deflating. “We still can’t dig through that with our bare hands.”

  “True. But if we could get something—something like a spoon, or a metal bowl—I don’t think the job would take us more than a few days.”

  He crossed his arms. “Okay. What then? Say we dig through? What’s to say we can get out of the cellar?”

  “I remember seeing the door, and it’s wood. I’m sure we could break through it, even if it is locked, which I doubt.”

  He nodded slowly. “That still leaves us with the problem of a digging tool. Even if they bring us more food, you know they won’t let us keep any spoons.”

  “I know.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “That’s the one glitch. But maybe an opportunity will come up. It doesn’t have to be a spoon, just something hard and durable . . .” Saying this, I strode over to our flashlight and picked it up. I brought it to the wall and tried scraping the dirt with it.

  “Don’t break it,” Max said.

  I stopped. “This won’t work anyway. It’s too blunt.”

  “What about that rosary you’ve got? You’re always scraping marks into the wall with the crucifix. That’s metal.”

  “Yes, but that’s to make one little mark, not to dig with.” Still, it was a valid suggestion. I gave it a shot, but in the end, it was simply too small to be effective. I groaned. “I wish I wore big, heavy earrings like Gwen. She has a pair that look like metal disks. I bet those would work like shovels, and we’d each have one.”

  “Like you said, maybe an opportunity will come up.”

  I knew Max didn’t think one would, but I appreciated his effort to comfort me, all the same.

  * * *

  About an hour later, Abner summoned me upstairs. As I climbed out of the dryer, I wasn’t surprised to see he had a handgun trained on me. I blinked in the unnaturally bright overhead light and wondered uneasily where Clay was.

  “I’m running out of patience,” Abner began. “I went to check for the ransom earlier today, and it’s still not there.”

  I felt blood drain from my face. He’s going to hack off my toe.

  “Now, now, no need to jump to conclusions. What I’m asking is very reasonable: I want a New Year’s Eve feast.” He smacked his lips disgustingly. “So you better be able to cook a decent lasagna, because if I like it, you get to keep all your fingers. Don’t, I let you choose which one you lose.” He grinned. “Think you can handle that?”

  You don’t cook lasagna, you bake it, my mind quibbled while I curled my fingers into my palms protectively. “Sure I can handle that,” I tried to keep my voice from shaking, “as long as you’ve got the ingredients.”

  The expression on his face gave me a sinking feeling.

  “Come now, I’m sure a smart Perigard like you can figure something out.”

  “I can’t create something out of nothing.”

  Abner merely responded, “The kitchen is yours.” He prodded me forward with the gun, and as we passed the closed bedroom door, I wondered about the floral wreath. It had to be Lydia’s. I could understand the old photo stuffed away in a drawer, but if he was so bitter about his wife leaving him, why did he let the wreath still hang in full view?

  He saw my gaze on the door and remarked, “Clay’s in there sleeping off a beating.”

  Remembering the brutal sounds I’d heard hours earlier, I wondered if he would ever wake up.

  I faced the kitchen on rubber knees and drew in a deep breath, hesitant to open the fridge and cupboards. Abner was obviously trying to give me an impossible task, like in a fairy tale when a fair maiden is commanded to spin straw into gold. He wanted me to fail so he could carry out his dastardly threat. Well, I might not have been a fair maiden, but I liked to think I had a fairly decent brain. I’d figure out some solution.

  Abner crossed the small living room and fiddled with the dials of the radio while still keeping an eye, and the gun, on me. A beer can sat on the bookshelf. Warmth seeped through my coat and thawed my cheeks, and I assumed the wood stove was burning strong. I removed my hat, scarf, gloves, and coat, and I felt ten pounds lighter. Then I smoothed my hands on my jeans and got to work.

  A quick glance through the squeaky cupboards revealed a major lack of ingredients, as well as a sprinkling of mouse droppings. Trying not to cringe, I began accumulating canned tomatoes, Italian dressing, a chunk of rock-hard white cheese, and a bottle of ketchup. “No lasagna noodles!” I exclaimed, almost ready to give up. Then I glanced at Abner, sitting in the ragged rocking chair, gun in one hand, beer can in another. His eyes speared mine and glinted, making my gaze jump back to the cupboard.

  He must have turned the radio on to some easy-listening stat
ion, because I caught strains of soft music and gentle lyrics. A highly unfitting soundtrack for this cabin of nightmares. The music did nothing to soothe me, as such songs normally would.

  While I inspected the cheese for mold, Abner said, “Girl, bring me another beer.”

  I begrudgingly separated another can from the large collection in the fridge and brought it to him. He popped the top immediately and began guzzling.

  Back in the kitchen, I made a point of observing the trap door to the cellar, but casually, from a distance. The door was actually two doors that closed like shutters, each one with a raised handle made for a wooden slat to be slid through as a bolt. But this one was not bolted, I noted with satisfaction. And the wood was thin, probably flimsy.

  I heard a groan as the bedroom door opened. Clay emerged, rubbing his mussed hair. “Here I am, the human punching bag.” He gave a feeble grin, stretching his split, puffy lip.

  I tried not to stare, but he looked terrible, especially in the revealing electric light. His face was more bruises than not, one eye was swollen shut, and blood stained his shirt. He was in no condition to tackle Abner or escape for help, so I told myself it was time to stop holding him up to such expectations. Messed up as he looked, I was relieved to see he wasn’t worse.

  He lowered his voice. “What are you doing up here?” His tone sounded worried.

  “Making dinner. And I’ve got to get it just right, or it’ll cost me a finger. Abner’s conditions.”

  He glanced in Abner’s direction.

  I whispered, “He actually seems really absorbed in the music. I guess I should be glad, but it creeps me out.”

  “Don’t let it.” Clay’s voice was equally hushed. “He’s just dwelling on the past. Music like this reminds him of Lydia, I think. He gets like this sometimes, especially when he’s got a couple of beers in him, but don’t be fooled, he’s still alert.”

  “Clay!” Abner barked. “Let her do her work. Come sit over here where I can keep an eye on you.”