by Jo Leigh
She had to look away.
Mike went to get the suitcases from the car while she moved inside. The kitchen was cold and it smelled from the unused gas heater being cranked up for the first time in ages. The room itself seemed familiar in a cheesy sort of way. That same Formica dining table, the same torn plastic chairs she’d seen in a hundred guest cabins in the area. There was nothing lovely at all about the room. It was function over form, decorated in the fifties to be strictly utilitarian. She wasn’t the least bit surprised that the fridge and the stove were that awful salmon color. Or that the curtains over the window were so faded, they seemed almost white. But, she thought, as long as it all worked, what difference did it make?
Becky heard Sam in the other room and she followed his voice. He was in the living room, at the base of the stairs.
“There’s a bedroom up there,” Mike said.
Becky turned to see him in the kitchen, a suitcase in each hand.
“That’s where you'll be sleeping. My room is down here,” he said.
Sam raced upstairs, and Mike followed him.
Becky turned her attention to the downstairs. The furniture in the living room had been covered with sheets. The whole place looked dark and spooky, like something out of an old horror movie. She turned to look upstairs. In a moment, Mike came out empty-handed.
“Is there a washing machine in this place?” she asked.
“In the basement,” Mike said. “The stairs are in the kitchen.”
Becky flipped back the sheet on the couch. Beneath it, the sofa was nicer than she’d expected. A big pattern, white with large red flowers, good for a summer cottage, but wrong in the dead of winter. She gathered the sheet up in her arms, then plucked the others from the two fake-leather wing chairs. She ran a finger over the coffee table, and it came up brown. Once she put the food away, she would clean the house.
At least there was a big fireplace to warm up the place. The hardwood floors would probably work well in summer, but not in this weather. She wished they’d put in wall-to-wall carpeting instead of just the one long carpet runner.
She moved over to the large windows and found the cords to open the floor-to-ceiling beige drapes. The meager light from outside helped brighten the room a little. Not enough. It still felt stuffy.
“What the hell are you thinking?”
Mike’s voice scared her and she dropped the sheets on the ground. He walked behind her and pulled the drapery cord so hard she thought he might break it. The drapes trembled as if they, too, had been startled. The room grew dark again.
“We're in hiding here. It’s bad enough there’s going to be smoke from the chimney. I don’t want you making yourself an easy target.”
“Don’t scare me like that.”
He lifted the edge of the curtains and studied the front yard. “We've got to be on our toes, Becky,” he said, his voice strained and weary. “That’s all.”
“He’s going to find us, isn’t he?”
Mike dropped the edge of the drape. “No.”
He’d taken off his jacket. His flannel shirt was open, and the white T-shirt underneath wasn’t so white anymore. Over it all, strapped on his body like a prosthesis, was his shoulder holster with his precious .45 ready for action.
“I hate this.” She kicked the sheets, but they just billowed a bit and sank to the floor again. “How did he escape? He was in Leavenworth, for God’s sake. No one gets out of there. Weren’t there guards and dogs and guns? Why didn’t they just kill him?”
Mike took a step toward her, but she backed away from him. “Don’t touch me. And don’t you dare say everything’s going to be all right.”
“I won’t let him hurt you or Sam.”
She looked at the couch. In the dark room, the red looked like blood. “You shouldn’t tell lies, Mike. They only make you feel better.”
“Dammit, Becky. Stop it. You think it’s my fault the bastard broke out of prison?”
“Nothing’s anybody’s fault,” she said. She looked up at him, fighting the anger that was churning inside her. “It’s no one’s fault, but people keep dying, don’t they? Well, not my son. So help me God, I won’t let him take my son.”
“I'll keep him safe.”
He stood straight and tall, his hands loose and open by his sides, ready to fight. His warrior stance. Once upon a time, she’d found it the most reassuring sight in the world. But she’d learned how dangerous it was to believe he could fight every battle and beat every foe. “I know you'll try,” she said, unable to hide the sadness from her voice.
“I'll do more than try.”
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She studied his tall, fierce body, the determination on his face, the hard cut of his jaw, and she wanted to run to him. To fold herself inside his arms. To have him stroke her hair and tell her everything was going to be all right. But she knew she wasn’t welcome in those arms. She never would be again. “I just want this over,” she said. “I want to go back to my life. I have to meet with the florist and the carpet man. Sam’s got a geography test.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” She bent down to pick up the sheets. “I'll go put these in the wash. Then we'll put the groceries away.”
Mike was next to her then, grabbing for the linens, too. He touched her, his fingertips brushing lightly across the back of her hand, and the shock of it ran up her arm. She pulled back, but it was too late, the damage was done.
It had been a long time. It used to be that she needed the feel of his skin like she needed water to drink or air to breathe. It had taken her a year to stop needing him. To stop waking up in the middle of the night, alone and frightened. To stop longing for his touch.
She risked a glance at him. He’d felt the shock, too. He was still, like an animal is still when it smells danger. She wished she could tell him there was no danger here. But there was. It wasn’t just about the madman out there, either. No one had ever had the power to hurt her like Mike had. And she knew she had that same power over him. That’s why they needed to be apart. So no more damage would be done.
She gathered up the laundry as he straightened up. Then she walked away.
Mike watched Becky head to the basement door. She’d made her feelings clear—she hated him for this. Which wasn’t a surprise. He was no good for her. They both knew that. The best thing was for him to keep his distance, for his sake as well as hers. Hadn’t he just proved that? He’d touched her and she couldn’t get away fast enough. It didn’t matter. It hadn’t mattered for a long time.
He stilled. Something had caught his attention, but he wasn’t sure what. He looked around. Nothing had moved. Then he heard it. A high-pitched engine, getting louder as it approached the cabin.
He moved quickly to the window and pushed aside the curtains just a hair while he reached for his gun.
He saw the snowmobile coming up the road. The driver was taking his time. There was no way to make out a face behind the fur-lined hood of the parka. He eased the gun’s safety off with his thumb. Logic told him there was no way Mojo could be here this soon, but with Mojo, there was no logic. He waited as the driver stopped the snowmobile and cut the engine. In the silence, he could hear the sound of water going through the pipes downstairs.
The man walked up the front steps. Mike tensed, lifting his gun shoulder high. Then the driver pushed back the hood of his coat. It was Witherspoon.
Cliff’s description of the caretaker had been right on the money. Tall, whippet thin, a shock of white sparse hair. There was no one behind him. The scene from the window couldn’t look more innocuous.
Mike breathed again, and cursed himself for letting his feelings about Becky get in the way of the job he had to do. It wouldn’t happen again. He slipped his gun into the holster, then opened the door.
“McCullough?”
Mike nodded.
“Witherspoon’s my name. Cliff said you were going to be here. Thought I’d come by and make you welcome.
”
Mike stood aside to let the old man in. “Thanks.”
Witherspoon walked past Mike into the house. He eyed the place as if he were looking to buy it. “Now, I'll come up if the pipes are broken, or if the heat doesn’t work. I don’t think you'll have any problems, but you never know. The cabins are for summer, so I kind of let them go until spring. But you've got a nice fireplace here, and plenty of wood outside, so you should be warm.” Witherspoon walked over to the fireplace and bent low from the waist peering up and into the chimney.
In a minute, the old man finished his inspection and turned back to Mike. “I've got a couple of snowmobiles that you can rent. When the storms hit, you won’t be taking that Bronco of yours anywhere. Take out the garbage on Tuesday. There are barrels under the porch. I'll pick it up from there. Be sure and put the lids on tight, so the raccoons don’t make a mess. Any other questions?”
“Where’s the TV?”
Mike turned at the sound of Sam’s voice. His son had come down from upstairs and was standing near the door to the kitchen.
“Sorry to disappoint you, son, but we don’t have TV here.”
“What?” The alarm in Sam’s voice would have been funny if it hadn’t been so pathetic. “No TV? What kind of place is this?”
Mike coughed. “Sam, this is Mr. Witherspoon.” He turned to the old man. “My son.”
Witherspoon nodded at Sam. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, and I'll tell you what kind of place this is. Quiet. At least in the winter. Summertime, this place busts from the seams. People don’t miss the TVs when they only stay up here for a week or two a year.”
“What about you?” Sam asked as he moved to Mike’s side. “Don’t you have one?”
He shook his head. “Can’t say as I do. I've never been much of a watcher myself.”
“Then what do you do?”
“I've got myself a ham radio. And I sculpt.”
“Sculpt?” Sam looked up at Mike.
“I work with metal. Scrap iron.”
The look on Sam’s face told him just what he thought about sculpting.
“You come on by my place sometime,” Witherspoon said. “I'll show you what I mean.”
Sam looked down at his shoes, obviously uncomfortable with the caretaker’s invitation.
Mike stepped forward. “We'll only be here for a few days,” he said. “But if we have time, we’d like that a lot.”
“Just so’s you know, I'm not proud. It’s been a long, lonely winter, and I wouldn’t turn down a dinner invitation from you, either. I'm pretty sick of my own cooking.”
Mike smiled. “Sure,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow. And by the way, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention us being here to anyone on that radio of yours.”
The old man nodded. “Cliff told me not to say a word. I won’t. What we've got to do is fix you up with the snowmobiles. We can get one now.”
“That would be great.”
Witherspoon walked over to Sam and looked him over like he was a side of beef. “You want to come, half pint?”
Sam looked up at Mike. It was clear he didn’t want to go fetch the snowmobile. “Sam, I think you’d better stay here with your mother. Why don’t you go downstairs—” he pointed to the basement door in the kitchen “—and tell her I'm going with Mr. Witherspoon.”
“Yes, sir.” He was off like a shot.
Witherspoon watched him run to the stairs. “I had two sons,” he said. “Good boys.”
“Had?” Mike asked.
“Passed away now. Like the misses. I just lived too long, that’s all.”
Mike felt a knot in the pit of his stomach, but he shook it off. Now was no time to start feeling sorry for some old man. He had enough problems of his own. He grabbed his parka from the couch. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get a move on. We still haven’t unpacked.”
“Sure, sure. It will only take a minute.” He pulled up the hood of his parka and his face disappeared behind fur. The old man left and Mike went to the kitchen. He heard footsteps on the stairs, and soon he saw Becky.
“What’s this?”
“I'm going to get the snowmobile from the caretaker. I'll only be gone a little while.”
Becky looked behind her to make sure Sam wasn’t around. “I don’t want to be here alone. What if—?”
“There’s no way he could be here this soon, even if he did know where we were. Which he doesn’t. I want to get this over with. We might need the mobility.”
She didn’t look happy about it. “Sam says the old man is creepy.”
“Not creepy. Lonely. He was trying to be friendly.”
“I don’t like this, Mike. I don’t like the idea of you leaving.”
“I would never go if I thought you were in any danger. You know that.” He zipped up his parka and put on his gloves. “I'll make this as quick as I can.”
He had the urge to touch her, to make her look into his eyes to see she had no reason to be afraid. Not yet, at least. But he kept his hands to himself. “Just lock up behind me.”
He walked to the door and went out.
Becky followed him and set the dead bolt. She leaned her head against the cold wood. She felt as if she were living in a nightmare. What was she doing here? She should be home. She should be cooking the turkey she’d taken out of the freezer. There were the drawings she wanted to do for the florist, and she was supposed to confirm Sam’s field trip chaperons. There were a million things to do, none of which included hiding in a cabin with Mike. Damn him for dragging them into this. Damn his job and his guns and his madmen. He had no right.
“Geez, Mom. That guy was such a goober.”
Becky spun around. She hadn’t heard Sam come up the stairs. Her heart was racing and she took a deep breath to calm herself down. “Don’t say things like that.”
“I only said goober. I can’t believe there’s no TV. How long do we have to stay here, anyway?”
“I don’t know.”
Sam moved to the couch and sat down. “You think they'll catch that guy soon?”
Becky was only a little surprised that Sam knew. He was a bright kid, and they hadn’t been completely discreet. She only hoped he didn’t realize the depth of the danger they were all in. “I don’t know that, either, Sam. But if you're worried about this, don’t keep it to yourself. Talk to me or your dad.”
He nodded. “I'm not worried about anything but dying of boredom.”
Becky studied her son as she walked over to the sofa. She saw so much of Mike in the boy. Not just his looks, but in his quiet ways. He hardly had any friends, just those computer ghosts. Every time she tried to get Sam involved in activities with other kids, he resisted. When he did go, he hardly said two words. The last thing she needed was for him to be scared that some maniac was coming to get him.
“Have you set up your computer yet?”
“I can’t find a phone plug for the modem.” His eyes widened with horror. “They have phones here, don’t they? I mean, come on. No TV, no phones. I'm in the middle of a game with Warren, and I haven’t answered any of my e-mail.”
Becky walked over to the staircase. “Let’s go see what we can find before we panic, okay?”
Sam shot up from the couch and passed her on the stairs. Why couldn’t he use some of that energy to play ball or ice skate?
The second floor wasn’t large, just one room with two single beds and a tall dresser. Sam was looking at the baseboards for a phone jack. Becky thought about the layout of the room, and figured there were only a few places to wire for phones. She walked to the bed where Sam had piled his stuff and moved it aside.
“Hey, kiddo. Look what I found.”
Sam was next to her in a flash. “Cool.” He unzipped his computer case and pulled out a telephone wire. He handed one end to Becky and he plugged the other end into a slot on the side of his computer. Becky hooked him up, then moved some sweaters aside so she could sit next to him.
“Got it.” Sam type
d in his password. In a moment, he was in the bulletin board itself.
It was an incredible thing, really, this nationwide communication system. A user could talk “live” with one or a hundred other like-minded people either one-on-one, or in a “real-time conference.”
Mike and Sam talked privately. Mike would log on to the computer and write to Sam to ask about school and his friends. Sam would get the message when he got home from school and write back. They’d repeat the process every couple of days.
She supposed it was better than nothing, but she wished Mike would use the real phone more often. Sam needed him. Not some disconnected words on a computer screen.
She looked over Sam’s shoulder. A long letter was scrolling quickly by. “Who’s that from?”
“Darrelyn.”
“A new friend?”
Sam shook his head. “I've known her for a long time. She’s not like most girls. She’s into computers and science fiction. She lives in Denver.”
“I see.” Becky wasn’t all that surprised to find Sam had connected with a girl. Most nine-year-old girls were more sensible than their male counterparts, and Sam was nothing if not sensible.
“Her parents are divorced,” Sam said.
“That happens to a lot of people.”
Sam’s fingers stilled on the keyboard and he looked up at her. She thought he might say something about her divorce from Mike, but he didn’t. Not out loud. Only his eyes asked “Why?”
“Come on, kiddo. You can talk to Darrelyn later. I want to play a game.”
Sam frowned. “You never want to play my games.”
“I do today. Come on. Teach me.”
Sam sighed. He signed off from the bulletin board, then reached once more for his computer case. This time he got out two joysticks and handed one to Becky.
“How much you want to bet I can beat the pants off you?” she asked.
“Ha. No way.”
She smiled. At least this would keep him busy, she thought. If he’s busy, he won’t think. He won’t be scared. She turned her attention to the game.
