After the Thaw

by Therese Heckenkamp

  Her fingertips rested on a shelf and she traced the surface, soft with sawdust, and felt a warm gratefulness that after all the time and wondering, she could now see Clay was alive and well.

  It was almost enough.

  She could turn and creep back out, not disturb this peaceful world he’d found.

  How odd that all this time, he’d only been about an hour away. Near enough to make contact, yet he never had. Grandfather’s fault, she reminded herself.

  But still.

  Clay stopped sanding and blew dust from the wood, creating a golden mist. He reached up and scratched his head absently. She noticed with some curiosity the Ace bandage material wrapped around the base of his knuckles. She saw this on the other hand, too. Was it a carpentry thing? Protection from blisters or something?

  A Blake Shelton song began on the radio, and she felt a mental push to step forward, out of what felt like a cowardly hiding spot. She wasn’t afraid. She really wasn’t, and yet something in her just wanted to stay still and silent and blend into the wall.

  Then Clay turned around.

  Chapter Twelve

  His gaze was down on the wood in his hand, so he didn’t see her. But what Charlene saw caused her to do a startled double-take and blurt, “You grew a beard.”

  And what a beard. Huge and bushy, it hid most of his face.

  His eyes, still a deep, rich brown, jumped to her. His surprise at her silent appearance quickly morphed into a guarded expression.

  Realizing her rudeness, she felt a warm blush. “Sorry, I was just surprised. You look so different.” Three years older than her, he’d be twenty-five now. He looked every year of it, and maybe a few more.

  His brows pushed together. “How’d you find me?” No mistaking the reproach in his voice.

  After the mistreatment he’d suffered because of Grandfather, how could she blame him? He probably hated her.

  “It wasn’t easy,” she finally answered. “And I know you didn’t want me to. But I had to tell you how sorry I am . . . about what happened after the funeral.” She took a small step forward. “I had no idea, until just yesterday, that my grandfather hired those men to—”

  “So it was him behind it. Figured. Just didn’t know for sure.” He spoke as if he didn’t much care, then stepped back and indicated a stool. “Go ahead, sit down.” The words came out grudgingly.

  She sat, but he didn’t. When she tried to continue her apology, he stopped her.

  “It’s over and done with. Not your fault anyhow.” He clunked the piece of wood onto the table.

  She eyed it. “So you’re working as a carpenter? That’s great. Do you . . . go by the name Sam now?”

  He shook his head. “No, still Clay.” He eyed her directly. “I haven’t had any trouble in this town. It’s small, but people mind their own business. Sam’s my employer. I’m lucky he even hired me, with my record.” He crossed his arms. “Life’s pretty good, all things considered. I can’t complain. Not looking for things to change.”

  She broke her gaze from his mouth—well, where his mouth should have been, if it weren’t so obscured by facial hair—and looked up at his eyes as the significance of his last words hit her.

  He didn’t want her, a part of his past, here messing up the life he’d carefully rebuilt. Understandable.

  “I go by the last name Smith now, though,” he admitted.

  “Creative.” She tried it out. “Clay Smith.” She released a little smirk. The name didn’t fit.

  “And how’re things going for you?” His question felt loaded with, I don’t want to ask, but I guess I’ll be polite.

  “Fine,” she hedged, not feeling it appropriate to say more. He might think she was angling for help.

  Just deliver the letter and leave.

  Instead, she touched the smooth piece of wood he’d been sanding. “What are you making?”

  She suspected a small smile beneath his concealing facial hair, but couldn’t be sure.

  “It’s a custom order, a cradle. A rush order. They’re gonna need it any day.” He ran his dusty fingers over the contoured piece, then set it down and tapped it, making it rock gently. When it slowed, he pointed. “See, these grooves here are where the corner posts will fit in . . .”

  She nodded as he went into unnecessary detail, more focused on his animated fingers and the rough, dry appearance of his skin, the white cracks around his squared nails. And those strange knuckle bandages. She wanted to ask about them. Instead, she pointed at a nearby black and yellow tool that looked sort of like a big drill. “What’s this?”

  “A nail gun.” He picked it up and showed her how it worked.

  Losing interest in that, she asked, “Do you get a lot of custom orders?”

  “Yeah, for standard things like tables, chairs, doors, and cabinets. Then there’s the creative stuff.” He began circling the room, describing pieces. She saw a clever shelf that looked like a canoe sitting up on end, then she spotted a grouping of trains, building blocks, a wooden play kitchen, and a Noah’s Ark. Stroking the smooth finish of a rocking horse, she smiled. “You make toys.”

  He nodded. “They’re actually big sellers.”

  She could see why. They had an old-fashioned charm and wouldn’t break like cheap plastic toys.

  His knowledge and enthusiasm for his work impressed her. In fact, she’d never heard him willingly talk so much. She was happy he’d found a good place for himself.

  She remembered the letter and hoped she wasn’t about to throw a wrench in his life.

  Maybe it would be a wonderful letter, giving him peace and closure, one last bittersweet moment to share with his mother.

  Or maybe it wouldn’t.

  Either way, it was time.

  He’d finished his description of turning spindles on a lathe and was regarding her in a way that told her he didn’t know why she was still here.

  She averted her gaze and focused on the sharp metal teeth of a table saw. “I do have a reason for coming. I didn’t just track you down to get a carpentry lesson—although it’s all really interesting.” She pulled the bent envelope from her purse, sorry she hadn’t managed to keep it in better condition. “I came to give you this.”

  When he said nothing, she held it out. The distance between them felt huge. “It’s from your mom. She wanted me to give it to you if she didn’t get the chance herself.”

  He stared at it, blinked, and then stepped closer. His fingertips avoided grazing hers as he took the envelope.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get it to you sooner.” She eyed the door. She knew she couldn’t stand here and watch him read it, much as she wanted to. She’d done her duty. Now she needed to bow out gracefully.

  “Wow.” He turned the envelope over. “Thanks for keeping it all this time.”

  “Of course.” She didn’t know why her voice came out so quietly. “I’ll get going so you can read it.”

  “Hey.”

  The word stopped her and she looked back.

  He touched his facial hair. “So . . . not a fan of the beard, huh?”

  She shrugged and gave an apologetic smile. “It’s just—beards are for dads and Amish men. Santa and monks. And mountain men. Not for . . . someone like you.” You have the kind of face that shouldn’t be hidden. She felt the heat of another blush and wished she could control the reflex. “It’s so big, it practically covers your face.”

  “I plan to grow it down to here.” He leveled a hand at his stomach.

  At the aghast look on her face, he added, “Kidding. I know it needs a trim.”

  No, a razor. “It’s none of my business,” she said, embarrassed. “It doesn’t matter.”

  She stepped back, yet had a pointless desire to drag out the painful conversation, simply because she felt like they wouldn’t see each other again. But her mind gave her no words. She shifted her feet. “Bye, Clay.”

  “Wait.”

  She waited.

  He looked uncomfortable, like he didn�
�t know why he’d spoken. He touched the envelope. “Thanks again, and it was good seeing you.”

  “You too.” She turned and stepped gingerly across the sawdust-powdered floor.

  * * *

  Outside, a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding trickled from her deflating lungs.

  Gravel crunched underfoot as she returned to the road. She wanted to feel happy, relieved that she’d unloaded the burden of the letter and fulfilled her promise. Instead, she felt emptiness. But the emptiness had an oppressive weight.

  Long grasses swayed in the wind, rustling. Disguising movement. With no warning, someone yanked her sharply from the edge of the road. Her feet stumbled backward, heels scraping and digging. Just as her scream took form, a hand silenced it.

  A strong arm hauled her down into the weeds. She heard a ripping noise right before her captor slapped duct tape over her mouth. More ripping followed as he swiftly crossed and bound her wrists behind her back, then did the same to her ankles, curtailing her struggles. The tape was so tight it restricted blood flow, creating an uncomfortable swelling sensation in her hands and feet.

  “Relax. I’m not gonna hurt you. Not ’less you make me.” The man faced her and watched, entertained, as recognition dawned.

  While she had known at the voice that this was her night intruder, she now knew something else. This was the guy from school, the one she’d bumped into and who’d sat with her at lunch. What was his name? Lane? No, Lance.

  “So you remember me.” He thrust his chin cockily and pocketed the duct tape. “Glad I made an impression.”

  While her thoughts cascaded, he picked her up, slung her over his shoulder and slunk through the weeds. Where was he taking her? Orienting herself as he skirted trees, she realized he was making his way back to where she’d come from—the woodshop. The noises she attempted through the tape were pitifully ineffective. There was no hope Clay could hear her, not over the music.

  Lance moved to the open door, and the next thing she knew, she was shoved inside, onto the cement floor, smashing loudly and painfully into a pile of lumber, which crashed down beside her.

  The racket brought Clay to her side in an instant. His focus all on her, he never had a chance.

  Look out! she tried to convey with urgent eyes, because she saw what he didn’t: Lance approaching, and the look on his face was lethal.

  “What the—” Clay’s words were silenced by a powerful blow to the back of his head.

  * * *

  Lance worked quickly, taking advantage of Clay’s dazed state. The blow hadn’t rendered him unconscious, but it had dropped him to the ground, where he lay, stunned.

  Lance cinched Clay’s wrists with a brown rope, then whipped the other end up over a heavy rafter. He dug the tape roll out of his pocket, then sealed Clay’s mouth shut.

  “Wakey, wakey, Cissy.” Lance slapped Clay’s face impatiently. “I’ve waited too long for this moment to not have you appreciate it fully.”

  Clay’s forehead creased, his eyes opened, and awareness, then recognition, dawned with harsh realization. As if he’d awakened to a nightmare.

  Charlene could relate.

  At that moment, Lance backed away and yanked the rope taut, heaving Clay’s arms abruptly upward. Clay instinctively climbed to his feet to relieve the sudden tension. With his arms tethered up and his boots bracing the floor, he couldn’t go anywhere. Lance wrapped the rope once more around the rafter, then tied off the end around the heavy bulk of a drill press.

  Panic battered Charlene’s stomach. What was Lance planning? And why? She really didn’t want to know, yet her mind buzzed with frightening scenarios. She tried to comfort herself with the fact that if his goal was to kill Clay, he would have done that already. Unless . . . unless he wanted to draw out the pain. She winced.

  Lance, taller than Clay by a head, circled him, regarding him with a chuckle. “That’s right, it’s me, ol’ pal. We’ve got an old score to settle.” He rolled up his sleeves slowly, precisely, revealing a scattered array of dark, wicked nail tattoos on his forearms. “But first, I’m gonna have a little fun.”

  Clay’s eyes hardened, then swung to Charlene, flashing a warning, a command: Get out of here!

  But she reflected only helplessness. Bound as she was, how could she flee? Like a flopping fish? Real effective that would be. Attempting, she scooted along the floor, awakening pain in her knee and shoulder. She searched for something to cut her taped ankles with, but everything at her level was useless wood scraps, shavings, and sawdust.

  Lance turned and speared her with a look. Clearly irritated, he shoved her back against the wall.

  Clay made an angry noise, muffled by the tape. Lance just shook his head at him and scanned the floor, seeming to search for something. “Ah, here we go.” Grinning crookedly, he reached down and swiped an envelope from the sawdust.

  He straddled a stool and flipped the envelope over. “Didn’t even have the guts to open it yet, hey, Cissy?”

  Charlene’s heart clenched as Lance ripped into the letter, the letter that she was supposed to guard and deliver at just the right moment. Oh, how she’d failed.

  His eyes scanned the sheet. From where she sat, she glimpsed lined paper filled with delicate handwriting—precious words that no one but Clay was ever meant to see. Now Lance read greedily, his cruel smirk growing larger as time passed. Country music played on incongruously in the background.

  At last Lance looked up at Clay. “So your old lady finally croaked, hey? This letter she left you is really touching.” He let out a low whistle, then stood and stepped closer to Clay. “Apparently, she was keepin’ a little secret from you your whole life and wanted to make a deathbed confession to ease her conscience. So get this, your saintly mommy slept around. Your dad wasn’t really your dad at all. How you like that? Dear mommy was really nothing but a low-down, worthless, cheatin’ tramp—”

  Clay’s foot smashed into Lance’s stomach, sending Lance stumbling back. He crashed into a pile of lumber. The wood toppled around him. He only chuckled. “You don’t like that, hey Cissy? Good.”

  Lance shot back up with a sledgehammer clamped in his grasp. He approached Clay tauntingly. “You know why I’m here. You know I’m a believer in retaliation. I haven’t forgotten our last encounter, and it shouldn’t be any surprise that payback’s coming.” He heaved the hammer to his shoulder and took another swaggering step closer.

  Clay’s smothered, angry words were futile, indecipherable behind the duct tape. His trussed up arms made him a defenseless, waiting target. He wouldn’t be able to avoid or deflect any blows.

  Lance hefted the hammer, paused, then swung.

  Muscles seizing, he stopped short of Clay’s face and snickered at the way Clay had recoiled from the expected blow.

  Lance drew back and swung again—and again he stopped short of actually making contact. It was an unnerving game, a cruel, taunting torture. Charlene’s fingers curled, her nails pressing into her palms as she watched, helpless. At least the tape over her mouth couldn’t stop her prayers.

  Readying for another swing, Lance smiled. “Third time’s the charm.”

  Her eyes flinched closed, and she heard a splintering blow.

  Terrified, she cracked an eyelid to see him wielding the sledgehammer and destroying furniture and other carpentry pieces, left and right. All those long hours of handcrafted work, gone. Obliterated.

  He battered a rocking chair, split a cabinet in two, and smashed Noah’s Ark.

  She felt the vibrations on the floor, saw the Saint Joseph picture shudder, slide off the wall, and crash into a pile of sawdust.

  Next he aimed for the boom box. “If I Die Young” was crushed to silence, and she shuddered. He even pummeled the Shop-Vac.

  He moved on to a delicate scrollwork end table. Smash. The canoe bookcase. Smash, smash.

  Clay, his gaze brittle, followed every move of the destruction while the rope rubbed red marks into his wrists.

  W
hile here she sat, useless on the floor.

  There couldn’t be much left to pulverize now. Wood splinters and sawdust rained to the ground. Here and there, even tools toppled and clattered from tables, shelves, and hooks. A hammer, a box of nails, the nail gun.

  She swallowed. The nail gun wasn’t far from her. She scooted sideways, feeling like a two-limbed crustacean, and swiped the tool behind her back.

  Clay caught the move. His brown eyes darkened. Somehow, he knew her plan. His face clearly told her, No. Stay out of it. The unspoken words shot at her like both an order and a plea.

  But she had to do something.

  Lance, finished destroying the shop, headed once more for Clay, the sledgehammer still clamped in hand.

  “I enjoyed that. A good warm up.” He rolled his shoulders. “I’ve had a long time to think about this moment. I knew your girl here would lead me to you.” He turned to flash her a smug grin and she hastily hid the nail gun close to her back, hoping he wouldn’t notice she’d edged forward.

  I led this monster to Clay? The knowledge crushed her, but she had to struggle out from under it, had to do something to fix this. Now, more than ever.

  “You know your Bible says something like ‘an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth’? I live by that.” Nails touched his jaw. “I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you, Cissy, but I’ll admit you packed a punch. You shattered my jaw. I even lost a tooth.”

  Since she was creeping up behind him, she couldn’t see Lance’s face, but she knew Clay had one eye on her.

  “The pain, the swelling, the metal, the wire, living on soup for eight weeks straight—I can’t wait for you to experience it. To make it fair, I don’t need this.” Lance dropped the hammer with a clang, almost making her jump. She was close now. Only a few more feet . . .

  Lance socked his palm. “With just my fist, I can pack a stronger punch than you ever could.”

  Clay gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. While she knew it was meant for her, Lance noticed and took it for something else.

  “Scared? You should be. The pain’s wicked. Bones cracked and splintered in your jaw. The blood swelling your face till it feels like it’s gonna burst.”