A Late Hard Frost

by Stephanie Joyce Cole

  Merry sank to her knees on the rough grass. She’d have to collect the costumes, and she knew Scary would be full of talk about the festival, probably wanting to relive it blow-by-blow, but she wasn’t ready for all that yet. Her mind was still buzzing with her conversation with Cass. They said only a few words, but a barrier had been breached. When Cass walked up to her, Merry didn’t feel anger, or pain, or sadness. In that moment, if only in that single moment, Cass was just someone who was important to her, someone she missed, someone whose departure had left a hole in her life. She saw a friend. And though the other dark emotions, the ache of betrayal and the pain of loss, still swirled inside of her, they didn’t own her anymore. It was more complicated than that now.

  She closed her eyes and the waning afternoon hummed around her, blankets and chairs rustling and clattering as they were folded and stowed, random snatches of conversations as families made their way back to the road, the metallic clanging of the beer kegs being loaded onto the back of a truck. She waved away a mosquito buzzing close to her ear and rubbed her face, realizing her nose had scorched over the course of the long afternoon. She smiled: Most people probably wouldn’t believe you could get a sunburn in Alaska. She hadn’t even known this place existed a year ago, but now it was home. Her life was rooted in Homer now. She shook her head. So many changes.

  She had agreed to talk to Cass, and she would go out to Cass’ cabin, but not for a few days. Because once she started down this path, she sensed where it would lead her. A path back to having Cass in her life meant a path back to Nick, too, but not in the way she’d planned. Cass, Nick and…their baby. She bit back a sob. Somehow, she’d have to accept it, to take it all in. Somehow, she’d have to forgive them. It was a lot to ask, but she knew she would. Because in the end, as much as they’d hurt her, she still loved them both.

  “Merry! Merry!” Sabrina was strolling towards her, Willy once again swaying on her back, grins on both their bright faces. “I’ve sent Scary back to the studio, and he’s uncorking the wine. Let’s grab the costumes and go home. Are you ready to celebrate?”

  She grinned back, standing and brushing loose bits of grass from her jeans. “You bet.” As they turned together to face the parking lot, Ren hunched against his truck, looking in their direction. He raised one hand, the other stuck deep in his jeans pocket. Sabrina slowed, then lifted her head. “Wait a minute, Merry. I’m…I’m going to ask him to join us.”

  Chapter 20

  The truck had developed a new complaint, a rough grating moan that growled away as he accelerated. It really was time to get the damn truck in for servicing, but it would have to wait. He had much more important things to take care of, and right away.

  Nick swung the lumbering truck into the police parking lot, splashing through puddles of standing water. He probably should have called first, to make sure Anderson was around, but he decided to take a chance. Anderson seemed like a decent guy, and he sounded like he knew what he was talking about. Maybe, just maybe, he could point Nick in the right direction.

  Officer Williamson told Nick he would file the police report about what had happened on the boat, but it was clear to Nick that Williamson didn’t have any plan to find out who had sabotaged the boat, and why. As to whether the boat and the tires were related, Williamson didn’t seem like he’d be much help there either. But Anderson, he was a smart guy, maybe he had some ideas.

  Rain was falling again, this time a hard rain. Damn, it had been a wet spring. Nick hunched his jacket around his neck and shoulders and dashed for the door. He crossed the small lobby, dripping water onto the linoleum floor, and stood in front of the glass window, talking to the woman with the tinny voice on the other side.

  “I’d like to see Anderson, the DA, if he’s around.” He resisted the urge to lean down and shout through the small opening.

  He could barely see her face through the glass, but she didn’t look friendly. “I think he’s just getting ready to leave. Do you have an appointment?”

  Nick swore under his breath. An appointment. That hadn’t occurred to him.

  “No, but can you see if he can talk with me for a few minutes. We met before, about something else. Tell him Nick Dubanski wants to see him.”

  She left the window with what sounded like a snort of disgust. Nick paced in the small lobby space, waiting. After a few minutes, the door opened.

  “Mr. Dubanski?” Anderson leaned on his cane, a quizzical expression on his face.

  “Yes, thanks for seeing me.” Nick opened and closed his fists. “Ah, sorry I didn’t make an appointment, but this is important. Can we talk for a few minutes?”

  Anderson nodded, and led him to the same small, windowless room where they’d met before. This time Nick stood with his back against the drab green wall, rocking back and forth on his feet.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t have long to talk. I’ve been scheduled for an emergency court hearing in Anchorage this afternoon, and I’m taking the next flight out.” Anderson sat with a yellow pad on the table in front of him, a pen poised, his eyes focused on Nick’s face. “Has something happened with your daughter, or your grandson?”

  “No, no, this is something completely different. My truck tires were slashed a few weeks ago, and I thought it was just some stupid kids, but then…”

  As Nick told Anderson about the day on the boat, Anderson put down his pen and listened intently, his eyes staring at the wall behind Nick.

  “…and well, it’s such a coincidence, both things happening like that. Hell, I can’t think of anyone who wants to hurt me, but it’s more complicated now, with Cindy and Kevin with me. I keep thinking they might be in some danger, if someone is after me and they get in the way. Collateral damage, you know. But I don’t know how to go about this, how to figure it out, and I thought maybe you could help.”

  Anderson picked up his pen and tapped it slowly on the pad in front of him. He seemed lost in thought, almost as if he’d forgotten Nick was still there.

  Nick waited. Finally, Anderson swung his eyes back to Nick, and sat up straighter in his chair. “Sit down, Mr. Dubanski, I think we have quite a bit to discuss.”

  Nick dropped into the chair.

  Anderson hesitated. “You are the father of Cassandra Drake’s baby, are you not?”

  Nick reeled backwards and almost fell out of the chair, dumbfounded. How could Anderson know that?

  Anderson leaned forward, his expression intensely serious. “There’s a lot here that you might prefer not to talk about, and that I wouldn’t talk about either, under normal circumstances. But I think this isn’t a normal circumstance. I think that Cassandra may be in real danger, and based on what’s been happening to you, I suspect that somehow this is all related.”

  “Cassandra, in danger? What the hell do you mean? She wasn’t on the boat. How is Cass in danger?” He was confused and a little angry. What was Anderson getting at? Did he think Nick was endangering Cass, or what? This made no sense at all.

  “Mr. Dubanski, a lot of what I’m going to tell you is a breach of confidence, but I have no choice. This situation has the potential to get out of hand, and you need to be apprised.”

  In a carefully measured voice, Anderson began.

  ***

  Nick sat in the cab of his truck, still in the police station parking lot, shaking with shock and frustration. He had spent almost an hour with Anderson, as Anderson told him about the situation with Cass and what had been happening out at her cabin, before he’d bolted to catch his plane. Cass, all this time on her own, dealing with whatever the hell this was. All alone there in the cabin, pregnant. Why, why, why hadn’t she told him? He slapped the steering wheel, hard. She’d had the good sense to go to the police, at least, but she knew she could always rely on him. Why hadn’t she let him help her?

  And from what Anderson had said, no one had yet taken any steps to protect her, though even in his inflamed state of mind he wasn’t sure what could be done. Anderson had said that up to t
his point, they weren’t sure if this was even an actual threat, though they were taking it seriously. But now, with this new information about Nick’s tires and the meddling with the boat, it was time to start a more formal investigation. As soon as he got back from Anchorage, he’d make a plan. Damn straight.

  He turned the key in the ignition so hard that he felt it start to bend. Damn. Well, he was going out there, to find Cass, to get to the bottom of this. He’d have to swing by the cabin first, because Cindy would be waiting for him. Yesterday she’d called and asked if she could come by. One of her new neighbors had agreed to watch Kevin for a bit, and she wanted to talk with him about some ideas she had for the future. On the phone she’d said she might have found a bit of work in town, at least for a while, and his heart had swelled with hope.

  But that talk would have to wait. He growled at the slow car ahead of the truck, poking down the highway like no one on the road had anyplace they needed to be. The tendons in his hands ached and he tried to loosen his death grip on the steering wheel. He swung out to pass the car ahead, ignoring the blare of the horn from the semi heading his way, ducking the truck back into his lane barely in time, almost clipping the car as he passed it. He glanced in his mirror. The driver of the car flipped him the bird. He stepped on the gas, hard, and the truck lurched forward.

  If someone was after Cass, they’d have to get through him first.

  Nick frowned as his truck shuddered to a stop at the front of his cabin. Cindy’s car wasn’t there, though it was over an hour past the time they’d agreed to meet. Maybe she’d come and gone. He fished his phone out of his pocket, walking through the front door and dialing her number. No answer.

  A pile of mail was strewn across the kitchen table. Cindy must have picked it up on her way in. But where was she now? He dialed her number again and waited, rifling through the pile as he listened to the rings. Still no answer. At the bottom of the pile, he pulled out an envelope, torn open, its contents wrinkled and shoved halfway back inside. It was another bill from the clinic for Cass, a pretty big one this time. He swore under his breath and slammed the phone down on the table. Cindy just couldn’t keep her nose out of his business, at least where Cass was concerned. He had a pretty good idea where Cindy had gone.

  Chapter 21

  Cass lay awake late into the night after talking to Merry, rerunning their brief conversation in her mind. When Merry didn’t come the next day, or the day after, she didn’t worry. Merry had said she would come, and soon, and Cass was absolutely certain that she would. Somehow, though she didn’t know how, they would talk it out. She put a tentative hand on her barely rounded stomach. Merry would help her figure this out. She bit her lip and closed her eyes.

  Because…she gave her head a sharp shake…because she didn’t want to keep this baby. In the last few days, her mind had tiptoed closer and closer, circling round and closing in on a conclusion that was painful but now seemed obvious.

  She shook her head again and forced her thoughts toward a plan for the day ahead. There was work to do. She was behind on her scheduled production of bowl sets for Moira, and throwing the same shape, over and over, was always soothing and hypnotic.

  Fortified with a large mug of very strong coffee, she pressed some Mozart into her ancient tape deck as the rain pounded on the cabin’s tin roof in rhythmic staccato. Carting a bucket of fresh water to the wheel and opening a new bag of porcelain clay, she nestled in close to the wheel to begin.

  The first lumpy wet mound she slapped onto the wheel slid and spun underneath the gentle pressure of her hands, becoming complicit with her vision of what it was to become. The clean tang of the clay rose into her nostrils and soothed her. For an hour, then two, it was just her hands and the clay, dancing new forms into existence. From time to time she straightened on her stool to relax her back, absently rubbing streaks of clay across her face. Time paused; there was nowhere else in the world she wanted to be, and nothing else in the world she wanted to be doing.

  When the rumbling from her stomach reminded her that lunch would be a good idea, she stood and gazed with satisfaction at the rows of new bowls lined up next to her, each perfectly proportioned and exactly alike. It was easy work for her now, though it had taken years of practice and many failures to get to this place where her hands worked almost on their own, knowing the way.

  Was any cheese left? She frowned. She couldn’t remember. She turned towards the fridge and found Cat perched on the kitchen table, focused on her with an unblinking stare.

  “Don’t you dare go anywhere near those bowls. And you’re not supposed to be on the table.” She shooed him away with her muddy apron, and he slowly strolled towards the door, pausing to stretch into each leg, one at a time, as he made his way across the floor.

  “Okay, go outside. That’s a good place for you right now, even if it is raining.”

  She pulled open the door and froze as she caught a glimpse of a small, soft bundle on the doorstep, at her feet. A tiny dead bird splayed over the middle of the top step, its lifeless eyes open and staring, the rain-heavy breeze ruffling its buff gray chest feathers.

  She bit her lip and crouched to get a better look at it. “Oh, Cat, that’s not good.” Cat circled around her and sniffed delicately at the tiny corpse.

  Cat had proved to be an excellent hunter of vermin, and the population of voles that snuck into her cabin every winter was greatly diminished this year, thanks to Cat. He had also decimated the ranks of the spring crop of fat, black spiders, and for this Cass was quite grateful. But birds? That was another story. He’d never killed a bird before. Well, at least he’d never brought a bird home before.

  She studied the sad little carcass. It looked like a Bohemian waxwing, with its rosy, tangerine face, its pointed crest and the black markings on its face and wings. She didn’t see many of those near her cabin. They were fond of various kinds of berries, especially berries from mountain ash trees, and there weren’t any of these around here. She wasn’t an expert on birds by any means, but she’d remembered the waxwings because she’d been intrigued when she’d been told they sometimes got drunk on alcohol from fermenting fruit. But this one was definitely dead, not drunk.

  On occasion a bird would fly into one of her windows, when reflected sunlight on the glass fooled them. But this one wasn’t under a window. No, it had to have been Cat.

  She stood up to go inside and find a rag or piece of paper to pick up the bird, but then she turned to look at it again. It was lying in such a strange position, on its back, its wings spread wide as if it were still in flight, its head twisted so that its dead eyes stared directly at her door. And its legs…she shuddered as she realized they had both been mangled and broken. She hoped it hadn’t suffered too much. She’d seen the ruthless way Cat played with his prey when he got the chance, before finishing them off.

  Seemingly uninterested in the whole enterprise, Cat was bounding off into the meadow when she returned to the bird. She scooped it gently into a paper towel, and as she lifted it, a crumpled white shape fell away and tumbled down the stairs, landing in the mud.

  She followed the white bit down the stairs and stood over at it, staring. It looked like—it was—a shred of paper folded many times into a squarish lump.

  Her heart drummed in her ears. She whipped around in a half circle, scanning the meadow and the forest beyond. Someone had been here. Someone had killed this bird and left for her to find. He could still be around here. He could be looking at her, right now.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She dropped the little bird in its paper cradle on the bottom step and snatched up the tiny wad of paper, running back into the house and slamming the door behind her. She fumbled with the lock and then stood with back pressed into the door, peering through each of her windows. Her hands were trembling, her whole body shaking, so it took a few moments to pry apart the edges of the paper.

  From middle of the paper, in a smeared red pencil scrawl, a lopsided heart stared up at her.
>
  ***

  She had to find Ryan. She had to get out of here, right now, and go to the police station to find him. He would know what to do.

  She crept around the cabin, scanning the meadow and the forest from every window, trying to stay close to the wall, out of sight. The rain was unrelenting and had darkened the day to a twilight gloom. Other than the heavy drip from the eaves and the rhythmic tap of raindrops against the roof of her jeep, she didn’t see or hear any movement. She struggled to pull her thoughts together. There was no way of telling how long the waxwing had been sitting on her step. She hadn’t been outside since yesterday. On the other hand, someone could have dropped it there just a little while ago, and still be out there, in the trees, watching the cabin. Watching her.

  She stood facing the closed front door, clutching her car keys close to her chest. She had to get out of here. Putting her hand on the doorknob, she pulled in deep breaths, readying herself, feeling the rush of adrenaline jump through her body.

  She pulled the front door open with such force that it slammed against the inside wall and then slammed shut behind her. She didn’t stop to lock it. The jeep wasn’t locked but she fumbled with the door handle, swearing under her breath, too terrified to look up. The door screeched as she forced it open and she flinched, but then she was inside, she was safe, and she snapped the door locks.

  Her hands were shaking, shaking so hard that the keys jangled loose and slid onto the floor and she scrabbled for them, rapping the knuckles of her right hand hard against the brake pedal before finding them. She fought to pull in a breath as she sat up, jabbing the keys into the ignition. When the engine turned over she sobbed, just once, and shoved the gearshift into drive. The jeep lurched forward as she pounded her foot down on the accelerator, but she was off, she was driving down the road, she was away, she was safe.