After the Thaw

by Therese Heckenkamp

  After the Thaw

  Therese Heckenkamp

  ITP

  Ivory Tower Press

  www.ivorytowerpress.com

  © 2016 by Therese Heckenkamp

  www.thereseheckenkamp.com

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN 978-0-9968057-0-4 (Print edition)

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Scripture verses taken from the Douay-Rheims Holy Bible.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Fleuron by Foglihten DecoH02

  Cover design by Elena Karoumpali (L1graphics)

  Published by

  Ivory Tower Press

  www.ivorytowerpress.com

  Also by Therese Heckenkamp:

  Frozen Footprints

  Past Suspicion

  For everyone who wanted a sequel

  to Frozen Footprints.

  And in loving memory of my brother.

  Jerome, you are missed more deeply

  than words can describe.

  “Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord,

  and may perpetual light shine upon him.”

  “For though I should walk in the midst of the

  shadow of death, I will fear no evils,

  for thou art with me.”

  — Psalms 22:4

  Prologue

  She was dying. No matter how she danced around it in her letter, Clay Morrow knew his ma well enough to read between the lines. The cancer was consuming her.

  But how much longer did she have? Months? Weeks?

  Days?

  He squeezed the paper, crumpling it in his fist, regretting it instantly because this might be her last letter, her last words to him.

  “Move it,” barked a voice behind him.

  He tried not to flinch at the jab in his back.

  My own fault.

  He knew better than to drift into thought out here, knew he had to be alert if he didn’t want to be an easy target. He picked up his pace and followed the orange-suited men into the yard—the razor-wire-topped, metal-fenced, cement yard. Guard towers punctuated the corners, and correctional officers patrolled the prison perimeter, on alert for any unruly action.

  Clay gladly turned from the sight of his reality to glance at the sky. It was smeared with soggy gray clouds, but the fresh air felt good, smelled good. Man, it even tasted good. And look at that, the first snow of the season. Or at least, he amended, the first snow that he was aware of.

  A shiver of something—a pathetic remnant of childhood fascination, maybe—came over him as he watched the flakes sift down. Dear God, for all it reminded him of, he wanted to hate the snow, but he couldn’t.

  “Hey, Cissy!”

  Clay clenched his teeth. Company. Great, just what he never wanted here. And that name, that lamest of nicknames. He’d like to know who first leaked the fact that Tarcisius was his middle name. If any con tried spelling it, he wondered if they’d be smart enough to use the “C.” Probably not.

  However the name had been discovered, it didn’t much matter now. His first week here, he’d backed down from a fight, ending up with a broken nose anyway. Didn’t exactly create a tough reputation.

  Yeah, he’d been known to walk away from potential fights, but he didn’t care. By his way of thinking, not much was worth getting busted up over and then thrown in the hole for. His plan was to finish his time quietly, with as little trouble as possible, and be out in two months.

  Surprisingly, time was passing. Reading helped. So did the gym. He’d even found some satisfaction working in the woodshop. Just thinking about it, he flexed his hands, not minding that his skin was worn rough, his palms calloused and cracked. The physical labor and the smell of lumber brought him a little closer to the outdoors that he missed so much. The real outdoors, not this nature-bereft, concrete yard.

  “Cissy!” the voice yelled again.

  His fingers tightened on the letter. Not being free to see his ma, be with her when she needed him most—that was the real punishment here.

  “Ya deaf, Cissy?” An inmate of wiry proportions and greasy sparse brown hair stepped in front of him. Weasel had earned his nickname for obvious reasons. He was an offensive, slick, agile side-kick to a con called Nails.

  Rumor had it Nails had pulled off twenty-plus armed-robberies before being busted. His charge had been small, though, and his sentence light. Woe to the world when he was released.

  Clay had been fortunate to avoid coming under his radar.

  Till now.

  Nails, his big chin cocked loftily, stood looking down on him with an expression Clay didn’t care to read. He glanced instead at the guy’s powerful forearms, bare in the chill air and sporting tattoos of scattered nails.

  Not ordinary round nails, either. Long angular ones. The kind the ancient Romans pounded through people.

  Clay resumed walking, distinctly disliking the foreboding swelling his gut.

  Both cons fell in step alongside him, one on either side, stealing the fresh air. Replacing it with prison stench.

  Weasel turned to face him. “Nails’s got something to say to you, Cissy, so listen up.”

  “Here’s the deal,” Nails said pleasantly, walking with an easy swagger and aiming a predatory smile and nod at a female CO on the perimeter. The foolish woman actually acknowledged him with something close to a smile and a slight dip of her head.

  “I think we need to come to an understanding,” Nails continued, focusing again on Clay. “You and me, our bids are almost up. We’ll be out within a year. It’ll be time to get back to work. One last big job, a job to end all jobs. And you’re the ticket.” He smacked his fist into his palm. “I know you’ve got connections with a certain Perigard.” He paused, as if waiting for Clay to fill in details.

  “You know who I’m talking about.” Nails’s tone lost some friendliness. “That Charlene girl with the Perigard fortune. She’s the key into her billionaire grandfather’s mansion, and the way I figure it, you’re the key to her. I got connections and I hear how it was with you two. You kidnap her, torture her, and she still defends you on the stand.” Something like leering admiration surfaced in his voice. “What won’t she do for you?”

  Weasel chuckled in the background.

  Clay was still struggling to think past hot anger at hearing Charlene’s name on Nails’s foul lips. His first instinct was to curse him out, but he bit back the urge. “Your connections are wrong.”

  “Don’t be modest.” Nails grinned. “I wanna hear all about her. Does she write to you? Visit you? Is she waiting for you to get out?”

  Clay clamped his tongue and kept walking.

  Patience left Nails’s voice. “You make this happen, man, and I can promise you an easy time in your last months here, and enough dough to take care of you once you’re out. They say the old Perigard scrooge doesn’t trust banks. He’s got a fortune stashed away in a safe. Once we’re in, it’ll be an easy job. What do you say?”

  Nothing. Clay picked up his pace, but he knew the discussion wasn’t going to end that simply.

  “You don’t make this happen, kid, and I can promise you a very unpleasant time in your last months here. Your choice.”

  Clay half-realized his ma’s letter was growing moist in his fist. “It would never work. Perigard and I aren’t ever gonna see each other again, and anyway, I heard she was disowned by her gra
ndfather. She’s got no money.” He knew he should add, She’s worthless, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. “She’d be no help.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” Nails sent him a mocking glance. “What do you know? You’re what, barely twenty?”

  Twenty-two.

  “You in?”

  “Nope.”

  “Afraid? You’re even more of a coward than everyone says,” Weasel sneered, letting loose a string of scathing insults.

  Clay let the tirade roll over him with relative ease. Funny how he used to care what others said about him. He rotated his shoulder, stretching a muscle, and kept walking.

  When the verbal lashing failed to provoke a reaction, Nails interrupted Weasel. “Fine, Cissy, have it your way. You won’t work on her, I will. I’ve seen pictures of her, that sweet little nineteen-year-old body. It would be my pleasure to work that—”

  Right hand seizing into a fist, Clay swung. His knuckles smashed into Nails’s jaw, with all his body weight thrown in behind. Through the rage buzzing in Clay’s ears, he heard the smack of flesh and an instantaneous crush of bone as Nails’s jaw snapped. For one second, Clay felt a rush of pure jubilation.

  The next second, painful retaliation.

  Nails and Weasel slammed him to the pavement. Cement chewed his cheek. Powerful kicks struck him in the stomach, the ribs, thrusting air from his lungs. Gasping, he heaved himself over, started to rise, but the blows bashed him back down. Pummeled him from every direction. Sharp pain became a deep, blending blur.

  He was vaguely aware of a cheering roar. Even if he’d been able, he didn’t have to look to know the inmates were circled around, watching his pounding like prime entertainment.

  Gun blasts from the guard tower silenced the crowd, the shots a welcome sound. An alarm blared and COs ran in, bellowing, “Get on the ground!”

  Not a problem, Clay thought with a groan. Already there.

  But as soon as the COs ripped his attackers off, he heaved himself up in time to catch an evil, smug sneer on Nails’s busted face. Despite the damaged jaw, Clay was sure he saw Nails mouth the word “Charlene,” and he couldn’t help going for him again with a wild swing of his fist.

  Before he could make the satisfactory connection, a CO’s club cracked his knuckles. “Down, con!” The burst of pain shot his fingers open, and something dropped out. The letter, his ma’s letter.

  He tried to grab for it, but the COs tackled him, rammed him back to the pavement. Stars flickered in his vision. His teeth cut his tongue, and he tasted blood. A knee crushed into his back. As he struggled for breath, his arms were yanked behind him and his wrists cuffed, the metal clamping sharply. Then he was hauled up and dragged, stumbling, away. He caught a last glance of the crumpled paper, squashed underfoot in the snow.

  It’s just a piece of paper.

  Swallowing blood, he hustled his steps to keep up with the COs’ angry pace. They lugged him past the other cons who, following policy, were still on the ground. The whole prison would be in lockdown now.

  Teeth gritting and eyes smarting, he looked up and blinked against the natural light, memorizing the sky, knowing it would be artificial glare and claustrophobia where he was going. He’d pay with time in the hole for this one. A month, maybe longer. Fine. He’d handle it. He was getting good at letting his mind take him elsewhere.

  It had all been worth it, anyhow. It had felt good to defend Charlene, and he’d do it again, even though she’d never know. A penance for all those times he’d failed her in the past. Not that there was much honor in the world, but she had it at least, and he’d fight for that.

  A sick, hooting laugh caught his ears. A weaselly laugh. If weasels could laugh, that is.

  “You’re in for it now, Cissy!” Weasel’s voice erupted with glee, despite the CO marching him away. “Nails don’t forget. You’re a dead man, Cissy, ya hear? A dead man!”

  Clay’s lip curled and he strained in Weasel’s direction, but the COs wrenched him back. He sucked in one last breath of the clean outside air, knowing it would be his last for a while.

  But things would get better, he told himself as he landed in solitary. He drew his knees to his throbbing chest and clutched his head. Dear God, it had to get better than this . . .

  Chapter One

  Over three years later . . .

  “How much farther?” Charlene tried not to sound impatient as she followed Ben Jorgensen up the steep rocky path that narrowed and twisted like a labyrinth. They would have walked side by side, hand in hand, if the trail allowed it.

  “Almost there,” Ben promised, turning to flash an encouraging smile.

  Just the spark she needed. Pulling in a breath, she held the image of his grin and trudged on carefully. The treacherous paths of Sunset Lookout Park had, on occasion, been known to lose hikers over the cliffs, or so Ben had told her.

  She wished he hadn’t.

  Despite the cool April evening, sweat trickled down her neck and under her sweatshirt, wet and itchy, and she felt like a mess. Her jeans sported dirt at the hem and, even though she’d done her best to confine her hair in a ponytail, her maple-brown curls kept springing free and snagging on branches.

  Ben, in contrast, appeared clean and cool as always. His smooth dark hair, his crisp khakis, his forest green sweater—all perfect. His easy stride was much longer than her short, anxious one. Even toting a backpack, he didn’t seem winded. But then, this hike was nothing compared to his grueling firefighter training with a heavy SCBA strapped to his back.

  “This way.” Ben ducked under pine boughs and moved off the path onto a thread of a trail that, on second thought, Charlene didn’t think deserved to be called a trail. The ground under her feet became slippery with old rust-colored pine needles.

  Ben squeezed through a mossy outcropping, and as she followed, she wondered if he really knew where he was going. She picked her way down a jumble of boulders, and in the next instant, she gasped.

  Before her, endless sky glowed with sunset colors that blended and melted into the rolling horizon. And below her lay a lake, a shimmering jade jewel set in the green expanse of new spring foliage.

  She breathed in the sight. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Yep, it sure is. Thought you’d like it.” Ben sounded almost smug, but there was a humorous sparkle in his eyes as he took her hand. “Come on, I reserved balcony seats.”

  He led her around a rock wall to a sandstone ledge, so confidently that she didn’t pause to question the nearness of the drop off. Following his lead, she sat down on the bluff, propping her back against rock while her heels rested only a foot from the edge.

  Holding hands, the two of them watched the impressive show of purples, pinks, and golds. The panoramic sunset subtly shifted and changed. Eventually her gaze wavered from the sky and fell to the lake far below, which seemed to have darkened.

  Distracted now, she tossed tentative glances down and around at the huge gray and purplish rock slabs, which looked like weird blocks that had been balanced precariously by a child. Branches and sparse vegetation clung to random crevices. Her perch offered a remarkable vantage point, but her body tensed with nervous energy, the view losing its appeal.

  As if sensing her apprehension, Ben’s arm came around her, snuggling her securely. His nearness comforted her, and she caught a whiff of his spicy cologne.

  She met his eyes, and then her gaze slid to the curve of his lips. Calming, she nestled closer. Two years of dating had proved that with Ben, she would always be safe.

  “Are you happy?” he asked as dull clouds began blotting out the sunset.

  “Yes, so happy. It was worth the long hike. This moment couldn’t get any better.”

  A strange look crossed Ben’s face, a sort of knowing half smile as he countered, “I think it could.”

  Before she had time to wonder, he released her and dropped to one knee on the pine needle covered rock. “Charlene Elizabeth Perigard . . .”

  As he said someth
ing about loving her forever, her pulse raced and her ears hummed.

  Here it came—the moment she’d been longing for…

  * * *

  Nails stepped off the bus and cracked his knuckles as he surveyed the town in the evening light. Nothin’ like comin’ home.

  Ha, what a stinkin’ load of bull. No such thing as home to him. The longest he’d ever stayed in any place had been the one he’d just come from.

  He strode forward, noting things had changed in the years he’d been gone. New roads. New signs. More buildings. Shops and a parking lot stood where a field used to.

  And look at that. On the corner. A welcome back gift. A new, shiny-windowed bank. Advertising money. Flaunting it.

  His fingers twitched, aching for a gun. Adrenaline surged. He eyed the exits, scanned for security, felt a pull to move closer, his mind spinning a plan. Pure instinct. It would be so easy—

  But no, not yet. He stilled his fingers.

  Not yet.

  He already had a plan. Tearing his gaze from the bank, he headed for the older part of town. He had a stash he could live on for now. There was something he had to do before replenishing his cash. A score that needed settling.

  He cracked his jaw from side to side.

  Some people thought they were better than him.

  He poked his tongue into the spot where he was missing a molar.

  Some people needed to be taught a lesson.

  He clenched a fist. Some people thought they could hide, but he’d find ’em. He grinned.

  He’d find him.

  And when he did, this time there’d be no COs to save him.

  * * *

  Charlene remained unblinking while Ben produced a diamond ring, a bright angular orb in a yellow-gold band. The diamond caught the dying rays of the sun and threw them into a blinding, sparkling display.