After the Thaw

by Therese Heckenkamp

  So he didn’t plan to hit to kill, but to make Clay suffer. How in-control did he think he was? A powerful, vengeful blow to the face could be very damaging. Possibly deadly. Especially from someone built like Lance.

  “All I need is one shot. Just one. I’ll make it count.” He curled his fingers into a knuckle-hard fist.

  She was running out of time.

  Gripping the nail gun, she edged closer to Lance’s legs. With her arms bound behind her, she worked at an awkward angle, and she almost lost her balance and fell sideways. Steadying herself, she lifted and aimed the gun at his right calf muscle while he drew back to deliver his punch.

  Right as she pushed the tool to his muscle and squeezed the trigger, his leg moved. With no pressure against the gun’s muzzle, the nail failed to shoot. Unbelievable. The safety mechanism cost her her chance.

  Her head snapped up. Lance glared down at her, a fistful of her hair in his hand. He snatched the nail gun.

  Her heart hammered.

  She really hadn’t thought this through.

  He twisted her hair, forcing her head to look up, up into his hard, merciless face, his blue flinty eyes.

  He shoved her against the wall and pressed the nail gun to her chest, over her heart. She watched his finger perch on the trigger, then squeezed her eyes shut. A nail through the heart. What a way to go.

  “A nail gun. Creative weapon choice.” He almost sounded amused, as if by an inside joke. “You’re lucky you missed, or I guarantee I’d be shooting you full of metal right now.” He laughed, then clunked the tool down, though not far enough away for her liking.

  He still held her hair, and the roots screamed for relief. A silver knife flashed close to her face, sparking a new level of fear. He drew the flat side thoughtfully over her left cheek. “And what a shame that would be, wouldn’t it, Cissy?”

  Her eyes riveted to the blade grazing her skin.

  “Your mommy called this little spitfire a ‘rare jewel.’” He looked pointedly at Clay. “Generous, yes, but it would be a shame to ruin such a pretty face.” The blade switched to caress her other cheek, while blood roared in her ears.

  “Such pretty hair, too. It must have taken years and years to grow it so long.” Still holding her with her hair wound around one massive fist, he lifted the knife and slashed.

  Slashed right through her hair, she realized as her head fell back, suddenly light.

  Her shock prevented her from trying to reach up and assess the damage. Not that her taped wrists would allow her to. But she could see the pile of hair as Lance dropped it to the sawdust, and it was too much. She should have been thankful it was a painless cut, yet her vanity felt sliced in two at the thought of how she now looked.

  The expression on Clay’s face matched her dismay.

  Lance picked up the nail gun and a rag and came toward her, twisting the dirty fabric tightly.

  Dear God, he’s not done.

  He shoved her against the composite wood wall and laid the twisted fabric snug over her throat. Zing, zing, he shot a nail into each end of the rag, effectively pinning her—collar-like—to the wall. A concentrated varnish odor hit her nostrils.

  “There now, that should keep you out of the way and give you a good view while I finish up.”

  Turning, he moved back to face Clay.

  She had accomplished nothing but delaying the inevitable.

  “Ready, Cissy?”

  Clay’s face tensed. His eyes glinted defiantly. Then they caught hers, softened, and told her, Look away.

  “Me, I’m more than ready.” Lance drew back, paused for effect, then let his fist fly.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Charlene heard the blow but didn’t see it. Didn’t want to see it. Her quivering eyes focused on the concrete floor—on the cracks, the dints, the stains. And still, she barely saw them.

  Thanks to Lance’s previous detailed description, ugly images burst to mind, despite her desire to block them: splintering bone, bursting blood vessels . . .

  She mashed her lips together. Clay’s pain made her remorse over the loss of her hair utterly trivial.

  Her gaze lifted. She couldn’t stop herself. She had to know. Why didn’t she hear Clay make any noise? Not even a groan.

  Then there it was, a deep, guttural sound, harsh and horrible. His eyes swiveled strangely, as if he was fighting consciousness. But he could take this, she told herself, remembering all he had endured in the past.

  Unless he’d finally reached his limit.

  She shuddered at the sight of him. Defeated. Even with the beard and the tape over his mouth, she could tell his jaw hung limply, awkwardly. He looked like he could collapse, but that wasn’t an option. He had to fight the strain of his suspended arms and wrists because dropping his weight would likely dislocate his shoulders.

  Lance stepped back and tossed a gloating grin her way. “Don’t let anyone ever tell you retaliation isn’t satisfying. And while I’m at it—” He yanked out Clay’s wallet and pawed through it. “A ten?” He aimed his scorn at Clay’s unresponsive form. “That’s all you got? Pathetic.”

  He pocketed the bill, then pulled a paper from Clay’s wallet, unfolded it, and scanned it with a frown. “‘Clayton Morrow Sentenced to Prison for Accessory to Assault.’” Lance hooted. “What, you thought you’d forget? Needed to keep the article as a souvenir? What an idiot.” Still laughing, he chucked the wallet and the article to the ground before moving toward the door.

  “Please,” Charlene tried to say, her voice restricted by both the rag rope around her throat and the tape on her lips. Lance stepped her way with a purpose that made her stomach flip. He reached out and in one quick motion, ripped the rag from her neck. Then he tore the tape from her mouth.

  Ignoring her stinging skin, she hurried to speak. “Please, don’t leave him like that.” She glanced again at Clay’s wrists, saw the rope cutting in. His hands looked like they were starting to swell. “At least untie him.”

  Lance seemed to consider her words. “Nah.” He shook his head, chin hefted high. “I don’t think so. You’re free to go, though.” As if she could go anywhere taped like this. And as if she’d leave Clay.

  “Don’t forget me, sweetie.” He pinched her cheek. “We may meet again someday. I guess I’ll forgive you for leading me on that wild goose chase to St. Mary’s. This turned out great.”

  Great? He was a fiend, capable of anything. Fire flashed through her mind. “You burned my condo.”

  He straightened. “You think I did that?” He laughed and turned away. “And you think I’d admit it if I did?” He sauntered from the workshop, out into the sunlight, and out of sight.

  She willed her panicky heart to slow. At least he was gone. Clay wasn’t dead. At least not yet.

  Wracked with worry, she looked at him. How long before anyone found them? She had no idea when his boss, Sam, would return. They couldn’t wait.

  Resolved, she strained and tried picking and pulling at the duct tape on her ankles. No good.

  She began a tedious search of the shop for something to use. Trying a screwdriver, she only jabbed herself painfully.

  Dropping the tool, she shuffled closer to Clay and spoke his name.

  He moved and groaned and for that she was thankful. Each time his head began to droop, he jerked it up. But his response seemed to be getting more delayed.

  There was another urgency, she realized, from the look of his hands. His arms had given up lifting against the strain, and their weight pulled the rope deep into his wrists.

  Spotting a low wooden stool, she managed to shove it over to his scuffed work boots. “Stand on this. Lift your feet.” With repeated urges, she got through to him. He stepped up on the stool and the rope slackened, helping relieve the strain from his arms and wrists.

  A piercing scream ripped through the air.

  Startling, Charlene tried to whirl, but in her bound state it was more of a slow turn.

  A young woman raced to Clay’s sid
e. “Clay! Are you okay? What happened? Answer me!”

  The woman’s frantic gaze swung around, hardly registering Charlene, yet processing what needed to be done. She traced the rope to where it was tied, ran to it, undid the knot, then lowered the rope slowly so that Clay’s arms went down gradually instead of suddenly. Slight as she was, she tucked herself beside him and helped him step off the stool. He sank to the floor and just lay there, perhaps finally giving in to unconsciousness.

  One hand on his shoulder, the woman pulled out a phone and called for help. Then slowly, carefully, she worked the tape off his mouth. It took a long moment before she glanced at Charlene, but when she did, she took in the sight of her taped wrists and ankles. Pocketing her phone, the woman crossed to a workbench. She removed a scissors and came to Charlene’s side. “Hold on.” She knelt and cut through the layered tape, releasing first her wrists, then her ankles.

  “Thank you.” Charlene rubbed the stinging red spots and felt the pooled blood drain from her hands and feet.

  Watching her, the young woman’s slender brows flicked together. A brief narrowing of her eyes revealed recognition.

  At the same time, Charlene recognized her. Brook, the cashier from the grocery store.

  Clay let out a low sound and mumbled something, and Brook moved closer to him. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.” Her voice caught. “Honey, don’t worry, I’m right here.” She laid her hand on his chest. “I called for help. They’ll be here soon. What happened?”

  When his lips didn’t move, she glanced at Charlene and repeated, as if realizing she was the only one she’d get an answer from, “What happened?”

  Charlene’s brain had stalled on the “honey” of a few sentences back, and she studied the beauty-marked girl with her long hair and ruffled blouse. I wonder how long they’ve been together.

  Brook stared at her. “Who are you?”

  She pulled her gaze away from Brook’s hand cradling Clay’s head. “My name’s Charlene.”

  Charlene waited. Had Clay ever mentioned her? She watched Brook’s face. Not an eyelash stirred.

  “And?” Brook prodded.

  And what? What could she say? She was a friend? Charlene doubted she qualified. Her voice came out in an apologetic tone. “I used to know Clay.”

  Brook waited, wanting more.

  Charlene shifted on the cold concrete. “I was in town and stopped by and—and—some horrible man—someone with a grudge against Clay—attacked him.” She glanced around at the shambles of the shop. “He destroyed everything.”

  Brook’s expression blended anger with disbelief, then she lowered her mouth to Clay’s ear. Charlene felt an unnecessary desire to tell her to be careful. But of course Brook knew to be careful; she spoke softly, comfortingly, and her arm went around him.

  Charlene clasped her sore wrists and averted her gaze.

  * * *

  Nails’s knuckles pulsed with the bruising memory of the punch, and he wallowed in it. A perfect punch. Perfect retaliation.

  Forest undergrowth crunched under his boots. Pitiful woodland creatures darted away as he invaded their territory. Squirrels shot up trees. Birds wheeled to the sky. He laughed. Not hunting you varmints. Not yet.

  The hunt would be on for him, but he wasn’t worried.

  His time with the Callaghans had taught him well. Make plans. Do what you want. Take what you want. But never get caught.

  Never.

  I learned from my mistakes, Mr. Callaghan. I learned.

  He learned about staying chill under pressure. About not feeling.

  About controlling others with fear.

  About laying low after a job was done, in places no one would ever look, no one would ever think a person could survive.

  About not bragging. Not to anyone, ever.

  Trust no one.

  He rubbed his knuckles and pushed through the woods, deep, deep, to where the old trailer nestled, long forgotten. But not by him. And he’d made sure it was well stocked.

  He eyed the rock under the birch tree and smiled, pride swelling.

  What made him so good at what he did, was knowing how to plan, execute the plan calmly, then lay low and stay low for as long as it took for the heat to die down. Stay off the roads, out of the motels, and just disappear. Disappear.

  And plan the next job.

  * * *

  Charlene hesitated in the entrance of the hospital waiting room. Brook sat hunched in a chair, frowning at her phone. Charlene took a step into the room, assessing. Only a few other people waited, all strategically situated for personal space so that no one sat directly beside anyone else. With the limited chairs available, she would be forced to break the trend. It was unfortunate, as she could really use a comforting bubble of solitude right now.

  As she gravitated toward a matronly woman wearing earbuds and swaying slightly, Brook looked up and met her eyes.

  “Hey.” Brook offered a small smile. “Sit here.” With a hand, she indicated the seat beside her.

  Complying, Charlene lowered herself into the chair and stared at a wide-leafed artificial plant across the room.

  “So how are you?” Brook asked.

  “I’m good.” Considering all that had just happened, that was almost laughable, but it was her automatic avoid-unpleasantness-at-all-costs response. She tapped a finger on her chair. “Okay, well, I’ve been better.”

  But at least she hadn’t needed an ambulance to get here, like Clay. The emergency personnel had been swift to arrive. Official questions had been asked, and she gave her statement willingly, but so far Lance hadn’t been caught. She’d gotten her purse back from the weeds, but her wallet was gone, and so was her pink pearl necklace. She could only assume he’d swiped them. But she couldn’t complain. She wasn’t the one in surgery.

  “How’s Clay?” Charlene asked.

  At the same moment, a strong voice broke over hers. “How is he?”

  She looked up to see a gray-haired man, his face pulled in worry-lines, explode into the room. His question had been directed at Brook, but the instant he saw her, his face twitched and eyes darkened.

  It was the graveyard man, the guy she’d followed to this town. The guy who almost ran her over. She returned his gaze narrowly.

  He dropped into the other seat near Brook, beside a rack of messy magazines. His long, jean-clad legs protruded, his dirty clunky work boots a tripping hazard to the general public.

  “How is he, Brook?”

  “I’m sorry, Sam. They didn’t tell me much. They hurried him away and told me to wait here. They’ll let us know.”

  Something like a low growl stirred in Sam’s throat. His eyes met Charlene’s accusingly. “Why are you here?”

  She blinked. “Excuse me?”

  Brook pressed against her seatback, allowing a clear view from Charlene to Sam. He shook his head and looked as if he wanted to spit. “I know who you are. You’ve never brought anything but trouble into Clay’s life. You’re a thorn in his side. Now you’re here, and he’s in the ER. You do the math.”

  Charlene’s stomach rolled. Heat spread through her body. She vaguely sensed Brook’s shock, while ears around the room perked up and curious eyes stared.

  Part of her wanted to jump up and leave, but after all she’d been through today, she wouldn’t let herself be bullied. Cruel insulting man or not, she had to stay to find out how Clay was.

  She forced herself to lower her voice in contrast to Sam’s. “Are you actually trying to blame me for what happened? Do you know what happened? Were you there?” Her ankles and wrists surged with a stinging sensation, justifying her words, driving her on.

  “I don’t know what your deal is, but I’ve been through enough today.” She kept her words intensely smooth and even. From too many conflicts in the past, she was learning that the one who kept their cool usually came out the winner in a verbal spar.

  Sam’s voice was not so controlled. “Why were you at my place? You never should have been on my
property.”

  “Really? Then maybe you shouldn’t operate a shop on your property.”

  Sam’s neck flamed red.

  “I only went there because I was trying to do Clay a favor. And his mother a favor,” she threw in for shock value, feeling immediately contrite—not for how it made Sam’s face darken, but for using Margaret’s memory in a spiteful way.

  “Clay’s mother is dead.”

  “I’m well aware. She was a good friend. I was with her through her sickness, her suffering. I was at her funeral.” She gripped her left hand so tight she felt her knuckles roll together. “It was her dying wish that I deliver her letter—her last words—to her son. Would you deny her that?”

  Sam didn’t reply.

  “It took me years to track Clay down, and today, when I finally kept my promise—” her voice shook—“that man attacked us. I don’t know why. I can’t tell you why. But blaming me is—”

  “I’m sorry,” he ground out the apology grudgingly.

  She swallowed more words, her throat a prickly, parched tube. “I’m going to grab a water.” She stood up and fled, hyperaware of her racing heart and fiery cheeks.

  Her hand dove through her purse, feeling for the small hidden pocket where she kept a few extra bills. Please . . .

  She pulled out the folded cash. A small victory.

  Moments later, while leaning beside the vending machine and gulping bottled water, Brook appeared beside her.

  “Hey, you all right?”

  Charlene nodded.

  Brook lingered. “Sam’s just really upset. It’s horrible what happened.”

  “I know.” She capped her water. “So why does he have to make it worse?”

  Brook shook her head. “I haven’t known him long, but long enough to know he really cares about Clay. I’m sure he feels bad that he wasn’t at the shop when it happened.”

  It. An insignificant, insufficient, sanitized word.

  Oblivious to Charlene’s jaded thoughts, Brook turned on her heel. “I’m gonna head back. I don’t want to miss . . . any news.”