Winter Wake

by Rick Hautala

  From out of the swirling snow, Randy’s voice drifted to him with an odd, disembodied distance.

  “Curry ... I think. Her name’s Sally Curry. But I told you, she —” Randy’s words were sliced off cleanly as the door slammed shut, and John raced upstairs to his office. He expected to find another pencil-written note on notebook paper. The hammering in his ears only softened a fraction when he saw a While-U-Were-Out note, informing him that Julia had called three times while he was having lunch with Randy.

  His hands were shaking as he dialed his home number and waited five rings before she answered.

  “Oh, good — it’s you.” Julia sounded out of breath. “You still at the office?”

  “Yeah,” John replied. “I’m heading out now.”

  “We’re in for a doozy,” Julia said. “I was hoping you’d already left.”

  “Ahh — yeah. Everybody’s bailing out now. I’m gonna grab some things off my desk so I can work at home.”

  As he spoke, he wasn’t shuffling through the plans and papers on his desk; he was flipping through the pages of the Portland phone directory, looking for anyone named Curry who lived in Westbrook. Randy had said she lived on Spring Street but might have moved to somewhere in the Midwest. He was hoping, if he found a number, that by calling it he would get a taped message telling him the new number … if, indeed, Sally was somewhere in the Midwest. John suspected she might be back in Maine.

  “All right,” he whispered when he found a listing.

  “What?” Julia said.

  “Oh — nothing,” John replied. “I got everything put away.”

  He took a drafting pencil and, turning over the While-U-Were-Out note, scribbled down the phone number. Looking at his own handwriting, he couldn’t help but wonder what Sally Curry’s looked like. Perhaps exactly like that on those notes he’d been finding?

  He folded the note in half and stuck it into his pants pocket.

  “Okay, Jule. I’m heading out,” he said. “But don’t get all agitated. The roads are pretty slick, and I’m going to drive extra careful. I may be an hour or more.”

  “Just be careful,” Julia said. “See you then.”

  “Yup. ‘Bye.”

  John hung up and, figuring that tomorrow was going to be another snowed-in day at home, decided that he wasn’t going to bring home any work. Another day off would be fine with him. Maybe he would paw through the junk in the garage and see if he could find his old Flexible Flyer, if his father hadn’t trashed it, and take Julia and Bri sliding.

  “Night, Barry,” he called as he walked out into the main office.

  His boss was hunched over his desk, busily working on a plan. Without even looking up, he waved to John and muttered, “G’night.”

  “You staying here all night?”

  Barry didn’t answer.

  On his way down the stairs to the street and parking lot, John kept patting his leg with his gloved hand. It was a thin piece of paper in his pocket, and through the layers of pants material and his glove it was impossible to feel it, but just knowing it was there, and that tonight — when Julia can’t hear me — he would get Sally Curry’s forwarding phone number and call her. The thought made him feel light-headed. Of course, he didn’t expect her to be home, wherever she lived in the Midwest, because he was sure she was already back in Maine.

  VI

  The drive home was terrible. This blizzard was as bad as the one before if not worse. Being so close to the ocean made for wetter, heavier snow. The roads felt like they were covered with grease. When John finally arrived home — after almost two hours — he was relieved to see both Julia and Bri. He hugged them and, clapping his hands together, eagerly asked them what was for supper.

  “Hamburgers, French fries, and a veggie,” Julia said. She scowled when John pulled a paper bag from his coat pocket and extracted a fifth of whiskey.

  “Care for a before-supper drink?” he asked, smiling.

  Julia was relieved to see him safe at home and in such a good mood. She had been thinking, as she unconsciously rubbed her stomach, that maybe tonight she would give him the news that she was pregnant. But she didn’t appreciate that, as bad as the weather was, John still had time to stop at the liquor store on the way home.

  Perish the thought of being snowbound without a fifth.

  “No, and I don’t think —”

  “Don’t sweat it. I’m just having one to calm my nerves after a drive like that,” John said. He followed his explanation with a laugh that seemed forced and unnatural.

  Julia watched as he broke the seal on the bottle and poured a splash into a glass, adding enough water to turn the whiskey a thin, amber color.

  “So,” John said, looking at Bri after taking a sip and smacking his lips with satisfaction, “I haven’t seen you for a while. How things?”

  “Fine,” Bri said.

  “How’s Kirsten”

  “Kristen,” Bri corrected him, “and she’s fine. There probably won’t be school tomorrow, and I was hoping maybe she could come over.”

  “As long as you get your homework done tonight, I don’t see why not,” Julia said. She went to the refrigerator, took out the hamburger patties she had made, and set them on the broiler pan.

  While the storm gathered strength outside, slamming against the sides of the house and rattling the windows, the family sat down and shared a warm and relaxing meal. Julia was surprised — and pleased — that John seemed so much better. Even his appetite was back. As they ate supper, she found herself thinking that maybe the talk they’d had this morning had done him some good.

  Maybe — although she hated even to think it — last weekend’s binge had been what he needed to work his anger and grief out of his system, and that was the end of it.

  Whatever, she decided, she wasn’t going to examine things too closely. It seemed as if John — the John I know and love — was back, smiling and laughing the way he used to … before their move to Maine.

  “It’s neat, ain’t it?” Bri said.

  “Isn’t it,” Julia said, automatically correcting her.”

  “Being so cozy inside while it’s snowing like crazy outside.”

  “Maybe we can get a fire going,” Julia said, turning to John. She was finished eating before they were, so she stood up and started clearing the table. Maybe tonight would be a good time to tell him her news. She wanted to make sure he was relaxed and jovial … and didn’t keep drinking.

  “Sure, we can have a fire.” John mopped up the last bit of meat juice and ketchup from his plate with his last bit of hamburger roll. “But let me take care of the kitchen. You guys go sit and watch the snow fall. It’ll only take a minute.”

  “You sure?” Julia asked. “You’re the one who worked all day. You should —”

  “I got it, he said, and Julia heard a tone that said no argument. She and Bri exchanged glances of exaggerated surprise, but neither of them complained as they went into the living room and settled down on the couch. From the living room, they could hear John whistling to himself as he set to work.

  The whole time he stood at the sink, washing and rinsing each plate and glass and then carefully lining them up in the dish drainer, John was aware of the piece of note paper with Sally Curry’s phone number in his pants pocket. He barely paid attention to what he was doing. The clank of dishes and jangle of silverware barely invaded his thoughts as he stared out the kitchen window into the thickly falling snow. Long, white streaks showed against the soot-dark night as they flew through the light from the window. He considered what — if anything — he would say to Sally. Or would he hang up on the off chance he actually got her on the phone. He certainly wasn’t going to come right out and ask if she knew what he had done to her sister. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake he had made with Randy, so he wanted to think this all through very carefully.

  Before he realized it, he was done with the dishes. He pulled the plug, and watched as the dishwater, greasy with meat juice
, sucked down the drain. He had everything in mind: how — if Sally answered — he would explain why he was calling. He ad moved back to town recently and had been thinking about Abby and wanted to contact someone who had been close to her. Maybe he would hint at why he was calling. He had been thinking about Abby — as he often did — and wondered if anyone ever heard from her.

  He would be crafty and shrewd this time, and not let on that he suspected anything … unless Sally blew it and spilled her guts.

  But, of course, he didn’t think he would get an answer because Sally Curry wasn’t somewhere in the Midwest. Her phone would ring all right, but it would go unanswered because — John clenched his hands into fists as he looked out at the raging snowstorm — for all he knew, Sally Curry was outside the house right now … masked by the snow … and watching the house of the man she was convinced had killed her sister.

  Using the spray attachment, John rinsed the greasy soap residue down the drain and then reached for a paper towel to dry his hands. As he spun the roll and tore off a single sheet, his stomach tensed.

  He saw something —

  A small, white square

  — drop from inside the roll of paper towels. It fluttered onto the counter — a single sheet of notebook paper folded in half.

  John’s breath cut off sharply as he stared in amazement at the paper.

  He knew that, inside, he would find a message written in heavy-handed pencil strokes …

  How the Christ did she get this here? he wondered as he stared at the paper.

  He didn’t dare pick it up. His heart was thudding loudly in his ears, and a tightening constriction closed around his throat.

  Don’t pick it up! he thought. His hands made wet, squishy sounds as they clenched and unclenched. Don’t touch it! … Don’t even think about it!

  But he knew he would pick it up … and he knew he would read it.

  He had to!

  Slowly, he reached out for the paper, the tips of his fingers tingling as they drew closer … When he touched it, he was surprised by a sudden wash of coolness that shot up his arm like a spike of ice. With one fearful glance over his shoulder to make sure Julia or Bri wasn’t standing in the doorway, watching him, he grabbed the paper. Shielding it with his body, he almost tore it as he unfolded it and read —

  MEET ME… TONIGHT

  John let out a low, tortured gasp as the choking sensation around his throat got tighter. His hand reflexively clenched shut, wrinkling the paper, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the message.

  MEET ME ... TONIGHT!

  “You goddamned lousy bitch,” he whispered under his breath. “You rotten cunt! Where … where the fuck do you want me to meet you?”

  The sudden ringing of the telephone made him jump and spin around. Without thinking, he shouted, “I’ve got it!” and quickly crossed the kitchen to the phone. He shoved the wrinkled note into his pocket.

  “Ill bet it’s Kristin,” Bri hollered from the living room.

  “I’ve said I’ve got it,” John shouted and he grabbed the receiver and said, “Hello?”

  At the other end of the line, he heard … nothing — absolute dead silence. No voice — no hiss — nothing! Only a black, cold silence so deep it was dizzying.

  “Hello?” John repeated, his hand slick with sweat on the phone. “Who is this?”

  The silence on the other end of the line seemed to mock him.

  Finally, after several seconds, he heard a faint click, and at the edge of hearing, he detected a low huffing sound as though someone was taking in a deep breath with great effort.

  “Meet me … tonight,” the soft voice whispered.

  It sounded like the dry crackle of fire, and in his mind, John saw the three words of the note sparkling with deep orange flame.

  “Who the hell — ?” he stammered, but his throat closed off, and he got an instant mental image of an old building — a weather-stained, falling-down barn. He hadn’t meant to think of it, but inexplicably, it was there.

  “Meet me … tonight,” the voice repeated with labored intensity. “You know where …”

  Haskins’ barn!

  The thought tore into John’s mind as if it had claws. He found himself staring at the blank kitchen wall no more than a foot from his face, but all he could see was the blank, gray, moonlit side of Haskins’ barn surrounded by a deep, cold night sky that vibrated with intensity.

  “You know where,” the voice repeated, and then the line went dead.

  After a moment of chilling silence, the rasping dial tone hit John’s ear like a drill. With a grunt, he slammed the phone back into the cradle so hard it made a little br-ing sound.

  “Who was it?” Julia called from the living room.

  Frantic, John looked around but saw that he was alone in the kitchen. His ears still echoed with the hollow sound of that voice.

  “Meet me … tonight … You know where!”

  His face was bathed with sweat. He tried to wipe it away with the back of his hand.

  “Ahh — wrong number. They asked for … a Sally Curry,” John said. He would have laughed out loud, but his chest felt like it was bound by steel bands that were steadily squeezing … squeezing …

  He glanced at the clock and then looked out at the snow streaking past the kitchen window. Clenching his fists, he took a breath deep enough to make his lungs ache. Then he went to the hall closet and grabbed his coat, hat, and gloves. Julia looked at him over the back of the couch, a surprised expression on her face.

  “You don’t have to go out for firewood. We have plenty,” she said.

  “I’ve got to do something,” he said sharply.

  Julia saw the dark tension had returned to his face, and she knew — even as she asked — what his answer would be.

  “I’ll be right back,” John snapped as he jammed his arms into the coat sleeves and yanked on his gloves. Before either Julia or Bri could react, he was out the kitchen door. The door slammed shut behind him. He trudged through the deepening snow and got into the car. After shoving the key into the ignition, he ground the starter until the engine caught. Slamming the shift into reverse, he slewed down the driveway onto Oak Street and then stomped down on the gas. The car fishtailed down the road to the intersection of Shore Drive, and he took the turn without slowing down.

  “I’m gonna end it tonight,” he muttered as he hunched over the steering wheel, trying to pierce the darkness and the blowing snow. The headlights illuminated no more than a few feet ahead of him, and it was only with effort — and good guesswork — that he kept the car on the road.

  “I’ll meet you out at Haskins’ barn, you bitch, and we can fucking settle it once and for all!”

  TWENTY-THREE

  The Blizzard

  I

  John pulled to a stop at the side of the road. He couldn’t see Haskins’ barn, but he knew it was straight across the field in front of him. The storm howled around him like a raging beast. Gusts of wind punched the car, rocking it on its suspension. The air was so cold it burned his lungs as he breathed rapidly in and out. Clenching his fists, he got out the car and started walking.

  The snow was already knee-deep. His flashlight beam didn’t do much to illuminate anything except the snow whipping past him. The night was filled with the deafening roar of the wind in the trees.

  More than once, he was afraid he would lose his sense of direction and walk past Haskins’ barn and into the woods without even knowing it. He had to find the barn soon, if only to get out of the numbing wind.

  No one could last long outside on a night like this.

  Why the hell am I doing this? he thought as he lurched ahead, the snow tugging at his legs like a powerful undertow. Thin but powerful fingers yanked at his coat collar and slapped him from behind. Snow stung his face, numbing it.

  Then — like a mirage — the massive bulk of the barn appeared up ahead, blacker than the night. In the blowing snow, it appeared much larger than he knew it was. It loo
med up out of the darkness like a towering ocean wave threatening to crash down on him. A clutching chill ran through him as he approached the building. It appeared to sway back and forth in the gusting wind, its ancient wood creaking and snapping from the stress of the storm. He walked to the door and shouldered it open in a blind panic, desperate to get out of the weather.

  The instant he stepped inside and swung the door shut, the sound of the storm dropped to a low, whistling roar. Anxious with mounting fear, and wondering why anyone — Sally Curry … or Randy … or whomever — would ask to meet him here on a night like this, he swept his flashlight beam around the inside. Snow filtered through the many cracks and gaps in the walls and ceiling, but inside the barn was a hushed quiet … as if he had entered another world that provided him a distant view of the outside world.

  Grunting to himself, John walked across the hard-packed dirt floor, his flashlight playing over the angled ridges of snow that had drifted inside. The gray-ribbed walls rose above him with dark clots of cobwebs drifting in the eddying winds. He couldn’t help but wonder what creatures found refuge up there in the dark rafters.

  John knew it was foolish to be out here … especially on a night like this. As he surveyed the barn, his mind couldn’t help but go back to the night twenty years ago when he and Abby had arranged to meet here …

  For the last time, as it turned out, he thought.

  The memory made his eyes sting. His stomach churned with sour acid.

  So far he hadn’t dared to look up at the hayloft … up to the rafter where Abby had hanged herself.

  He wondered if he would see traces of the frayed rope on the thick beam.

  He had come out here that warm spring night to meet her. They had planned to talk things over, work things out if they could … but they never got to talk.

  Instead, he found her swinging from a length of rope … swinging slowly back and forth like those clots of cobwebs overhead. And she had a hand-printed note pinned to the pocket of her gray sweater.