by Susanne Beck
Ruby had called just as we’d arrived back at the cabin—I had ceased thinking of this place as home. My words came back to haunt me. Where Ice was, home was. Where she wasn’t, it could never be—to share with us the good news that Corinne, though grievously injured, was expected to make a full recovery.
She had what Ruby called a subdural hematoma, which she explained as somewhat like a very bad concussion. The doctors had placed her on some strong medications to both calm her and decrease the swelling in her brain. It was expected to resolve on its own without surgical intervention, for which I was profoundly grateful.
Before hanging up, Ruby let me know in no uncertain terms exactly what she expected to be told when all this was over. If it was ever over.
I answered in like tones, promising her I would tell her everything I could.
If I could.
Turning away from the window, I sat with my back against the headboard, my eyes darting around the room, looking at anything, everything, save for the pillow laying so close to me. A pillow I’d cradled for the past four days—or was it five? Six? Time was the enemy once again—in lieu of the woman I wanted to hold. Her scent was still there, I knew, trapped within the fabric, offering comfort, offering peace.
But for how long? Long enough to last a lifetime without her? Long enough to soothe a chasm of empty nights and broken dreams?
Tears welled up again, and this time, I didn’t bother trying to stop them, still denying myself the succor of her scent. Ice couldn’t help me now. No one could.
Curling my arms around my body, I felt myself begin to rock, slowly, back and forth, back and forth in a primitive attempt at self-consolation. My tears continued to fall and I continued to let them, knowing they were just the beginning of a vast ocean of grief being held back by the most broken-down of sea walls; my quickly fading inner strength.
After a very long period of time, true to their purpose, my tears slowed and left me feeling, if not better, at least cleansed. The grief was still there, a roiling black tide, but it was just a little easier to tame for having found an outlet, however short-lived.
And with this newfound—if temporary—feeling of peace came the strength to realize that I couldn’t go it totally alone. Reaching out, I grabbed the pillow and buried my flushed face into it, absorbing the cool fabric and Ice’s exotic, comforting scent deep within me, helping to fortify walls beaten down by grief’s relentless torrent.
My mind played back images of happier times, and I allowed those images to lull me into a much needed sleep, the pillow still clenched desperately against my body.
* * *
When I next awoke, it was to that blind, heart pumping relief that someone gets when they realize they’ve just been rescued from the clutches of a brutal nightmare.
But then I looked around.
And realized the nightmare was still there, and worse than the most horrid of my mind’s dark fantasies.
When it finally filtered through that the room was nearly pitch dark and I’d been allowed to sleep the day away, I gritted my teeth in anger and jumped from the bed, almost collapsing to my knees as the agony that was my feet made its presence known. Clinging to the bedpost, I took several deep breaths and willed my legs to support my body no matter how much they hurt.
After a long moment, they finally listened.
As I limped down the stairs, my pain lending strength to my anger, I chanced to look up at the clock on the fireplace mantle, and noticed that instead of sleeping the day away, only two hours had passed. When I finally made it to the bottom floor, my anger had abated somewhat, leaving more than enough room for my ever-present grief to begin encroaching once again.
Pop, his face gray with exhaustion, was in the process of hanging up the phone as I entered the downstairs living area. "Any news?" I asked, very much afraid to hear the answer.
A slow shake of his head. "No. Helluva storm’s brewin’ though. Gonna wash whatever tracks there are right away."
I followed his gaze out the huge picture window that covered most of the wall. The sky was an ominous black with roiling clouds from which lightening flashes passed, one to the other to the other like a baton in a relay race run by Zeus and his family.
It wasn’t raining yet, but the world outside seemed poised for it: still, silent, waiting. I turned back to him. "Looks like we’d better get going then, huh?"
For a moment, it looked as if he wanted to say something, but whatever it was died on his lips and he nodded instead. "Yeah. Let’s go see what we can do."
The storm hit just as we stepped outside. Instead of rain, however, hail the size of golf balls started to fall, hurtling toward the ground with amazing speed and evil intent.
"Let’s just wait this out, Tyler," Pop said from beneath the overhang of the back porch. "Too dangerous ta go out in this."
"No. If you don’t want to go, then give me the keys. I’m not staying here."
"Tyler . . . ."
"No! I won’t leave her out in this, Pop. I can’t." Pictures of hail battering her defenseless body came to gory life in my mind, ice filling her dead, staring eyes like some grisly horror show special effect. I shut them savagely down. "I just can’t. So either come with me or stay here, but I’m going. With you or without you."
Then I grabbed the keys from his hand and took off toward his truck, not even feeling the hail as it pelted down on me.
And with a muttered "aww hell" that I could barely hear over the storm’s fury, Pop ran out to join me, snatching his keys back and shoving me toward the passenger side as he opened his door and slipped into the cab.
Within seconds, we were off, our ride accompanied by a grisly tympani of hailstones as they pounded off of the truck’s body and windshield, making it nearly impossible to see, let alone drive.
* * *
The hail soon changed into a driving rain which turned the logging roads into quagmires greedily sucking at tires as they passed in a spray of mud. More than once, the winch on Tom Drew’s truck was called into service to rescue a truck sunk door-deep into the muck.
But still we went on, driven on by the news that one of Pop’s friends had received from one of his friends who just happened to be on the Border Patrol. Impossible though it seemed, no black sedans had been reported crossing the border into the United States within the last twenty-four hours.
So, unless Pop was wrong and there in fact was a way to get across the border in a car without crossing the patrolled routes, Ice was still in Canada.
Somewhere.
And so day turned into night once again, only acknowledged by the quickly advancing hands on the watch at my wrist. The storm continued on unabated, lightning freezing and illuminating everything in brief, freeze frames of time, as if a photographer with the world’s biggest camera were taking a series of pictures documenting our search.
Then it was our turn to sink into one of the mud-pits and we both hopped out of the truck as Pop radioed Tom for his help.
"When he pulls us out, we’re headin for home, Tyler. We’re just spinnin’ our wheels as it is. We could be right on top of her and not even know it with the storm the way it is. We need to wait for it to calm down some."
"I’m sorry, Pop, but I just can’t do that. You can go back if you want to. I’ll go on on foot."
"You can’t do that! You’ll get lost sure as hell!"
"I don’t care. I can’t stop searching, Pop. I just can’t. I’m sorry." And with that, I started away, soaked to the skin, night-blind, and more than half insane with the need to find my lover’s body.
"Don’t do this, Tyler, damnit!"
I turned back, seeing the oncoming lights of Tom’s truck as they approached. "Let Tom pull you out, Pop. Then go home. I’ll be alright."
And with a sense of utter calm, I waited for the next lightning flash to illuminate the area, then stepped off the road and into the woods hearing the shouts behind me but not bothering to give them any acknowledgement.
I made my way blindly forward, feeling wind-driven branches whip at my face and body and not caring. When the next flash of lightning came, I found myself staring into emptiness, but was unable to stop myself as I stepped off a precipice and tumbled down a heretofore unknown embankment, feeling rocks and fallen branches jab and rake my naked skin and unprotected head.
My momentum was stopped, finally, by an uprooted tree. My body slammed into it, knee first, and pain exploded behind my eyes, making me cry out.
In that half-second of blessed oblivion, when the pain faded and I found myself looking out into nothingness, I thought Good. I’m dead. Now I can finally find her.
But then the pain returned, and with it, breath to my lungs and sounds to my ears. I heard my name being called, and painfully turned my neck to see the backlit forms of Pop, Tom and John as they looked down the ravine into which I’d fallen. They were shouting something, but I couldn’t make it out above the howling of the wind and the pounding of the rain.
It wasn’t important anyway. I was still alive, and Ice was still gone, and that was the only thing that mattered to me.
Slowly I pulled myself together and set about getting out of the trap I’d fallen into. Sitting up gingerly, I used both hands to pull out the leg that was wedged beneath the great, gnarled roots of the old pine I’d slammed into.
I nearly fainted when my leg finally tore loose from the tree’s greedy hold and I saw the ragged flaps of skin where my knee used to be.
I wasn’t about to let a little blood stop me, though, and, gritting my teeth against the agony, I hobbled back up to my feet and stood, swaying, as my body tried to regain its lost equilibrium.
I looked up again in time to see Tom and John slip-slide their way down the embankment, managing to keep their footing only by the slimmest of margins. Finally getting to where I was standing, Tom reached out to me, but I pulled away, my teeth set in a feral snarl. "Don’t touch me!"
"C’mon, Tyler. You’re hurt bad. You need to get back up top and get that leg looked at."
"The only thing I need, you bastard, is to be left alone."
"Tyler . . . ."
"Cowards!" I yelled, some part deep within me shocked at this insanity, but the rest reveling in it. "That’s all you are! Cowards! Go home, Tom. Get all warm and dry in your nice warm cabin. Kiss your wife hello and don’t worry about me. Just . . .go home. I’ll do this myself."
For that one horrible second in time, all I felt was hate. I hated them all, but I think, more than that, I hated myself.
"Tyler, please. . . . ."
"No! Leave me alone!!"
He wouldn’t, though, and grabbed me in a tight bear hold that I didn’t have the faintest prayer of escaping, insane or no. Like some sort of trapped and wild animal, I fought for all I was worth, kicking and scratching and even biting, but he bore my rage patiently.
And when my rage turned to grief once again, he turned me in his arms, held me close and tight, and stroked my dirty, wet hair as I sobbed my sorrow into his massive chest.
* * *
"Is Pop ok?" I asked from my position on the couch, my badly damaged knee thoroughly cleansed and swaddled in several layers of towels and propped on two pillows.
Tom smiled slightly at me as he entered the living-room from Corinne’s room, where he’d taken Pop when we’d arrived back at the cabin. "Yeah. He was having some chest pain. From the tension, I think."
I sat up straighter. "He needs to get to a hospital then."
"Nah. He’s stubborner than you about those things," he said with a pointed glance. "I gave him the medicine he takes for those attacks and he’s resting fine now. A little sleep and he’ll be better."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. It’s happened before. Doc Steve checked out his ticker and it’s ok, for the most part. Just relax. He’ll be fine." He crossed the room to stand beside the couch. "How’re you?"
"I’m ok."
"You really need to get that knee checked out, Tyler. I’m not a very good nurse."
"You did just fine. And I will. Have it checked out, I mean. Later."
He chuckled. "Peas in a pod, you are." Then he looked out the window. "I just checked with John on the CB. The rain’s setting to clear and we’re getting ready to go back out again."
"Ok."
Smiling, he reached out and ruffled my hair before turning to leave.
"Tom?"
He turned back. "Yeah?"
"I just want you to know I’m sorry for what I said back there. I didn’t mean any of it, you know."
"I know, sweetie. Grief makes us do some crazy things. Just remember, Morgan’s my friend too. And I’m not gonna stop until I find her. None of us are."
Suddenly shy, I looked down at my hands. "I know," I mumbled, yet again on the verge of tears. "And that means the world to me, Tom." Then I lifted my chin and looked him dead in the eye. "I need for you to believe that."
"I do, Tyler. Believe me. I do."
* * *
Several hours later, Pop shuffled out of the bedroom, his hair a corkscrew of tangles, his eyes red, his face pale and drawn and stubbly with a couple day’s growth of beard. "How ya holdin’ up, Tyler?" he asked, voice rough with sleep.
"I’ve been better. You?"
"Same." He yawned and stretched, then sat down in the chair next to the couch upon which I was lying. "Any news?"
"No."
He nodded, then looked out the window. "Weather’s cleared up. That’s good, at least."
"Thank heaven for small favors." It sounded sarcastic and, in truth, it was. I was hanging on by the tiniest, most frayed of threads, but more determined than ever not to again give into my anger and sorrow.
And, indeed, the night had cleared beautifully. The breeze seemed gentle as it swayed the pines and the stars and moon formed a beautiful tapestry across the sky above. Tom had opened the windows before he left, and the air was cool and fragrant as it brushed against my skin.
We sat for awhile in companionable silence, listening to the chorus of frogs as they chirped for their mates.
Then they went silent and I looked over at Pop, who’d also noticed and was rising slowly from his chair, his face set in stony lines.
"What is it?" I whispered.
"Dunno. But I aim ta find out. Them bastards don’t stop unless there’s danger about."
"A bear, maybe?"
"Maybe. Or somethin else." Going to the corner of the room, he grabbed his rifle and threw back the bolt. "Stay here. I’ll check it out."
"Not on your life," I replied, easing myself off of the couch and placing my bare feet on the warm floor.
"Tyler, ya don’t need ta be getting up with yer knee like that."
"I’ll worry about it later. Let’s just see what’s out there."
Willing myself not to collapse as the sharp spears of pain drove up my leg and into my gut, I put some weight on my leg, nodded once with teeth clamped hard enough to draw blood from my lip, and hobbled across the floor, putting my hand on Pop’s narrow back as we continued through the dining-room and out to the rear of the house.
We both scanned the darkness seen through the screens of the back porch, seeing nothing save for the gently rustling trees. "You ready?" he asked me, rifle held securely in his hands.
"Yeah."
With one foot, he pushed open the door and stepped out onto the patio with me close behind.
The eerie silence continued, broken only by the rustling leaves and the hum of the wind through the trees.
"I don’t see anything," I whispered.
"Me neither. That’s what’s got me worried."
I was tempted to shrug it off, but the tension Pop was giving off wouldn’t let me. I stood still as I could, willing the pain in my leg to recede, if only for a brief second’s respite.
Then I saw something; a movement in the bushes Ice had planted between the edge of our property and the road, a movement that was not caused by the wind. I stiffened, my heart racing ane
w, the pain finally forgotten as a new danger presented itself.
Next to me, Pop, also aware of the movement, raised his rifle slowly, socketing it snug against his shoulder. "I ain’t in the mood for playin’ games, whoever you are, so do us both a favor and c’mon out before I start shootin." His voice, though low, was steady and strong.
The rustling continued.
"Do it, now, or I swear to God I’ll pull this trigger and ya won’t be doin anything again."
After another moment, a white rabbit, fat with summer’s bounty hopped from the bushes and twitched his impudent nose at us, his eyes red in the porch lighting.
I sagged against Pop in relief but he remained steady, rifle not moving a millimeter.
"What is it?"
"Rabbit’s got blood on it."
"Oh shit." The tension in me redoubled and my eyes searched again the dark night.
"Last warning! C’mon out!"
A figure rose from the bushes like a beast from a nightmare, blood-covered and ragged and holding a pistol aimed directly at Pop.
My gasp of horror was loud in my own ears.
But something as close to a premonition as I’ll ever be blessed with again reached in and grabbed my soul and sent my arm out pushing the rifle a way a split second before Pop would have fired. "No!" I screamed. "Don’t shoot!"
"Get back inside, Tyler," Pop ordered, bringing his rifle to bear again. "I’ll handle this."
"No!" I yelled again, grabbing the gun with desperate strength. "Don’t shoot! It’s Ice!"
"What?"
"Look, Pop! It’s Ice! Don’t shoot! Please!"
His eyes squinted as he looked at the gore-covered apparition who was still standing, gun pointed at him. "Morgan? That you?"
"Step away from her, old man. Step away before I kill ya."
"Do it, Pop! Put your gun down and step away. Please."
