Winter's Secret

by Lyn Cote

  Rodd tried to sort through the emotions in Wendy's words. Why was she taking this so personally? "But I didn't charge Trav with anything," he explained patiently. "And I thought his uncle might say something if I questioned his nephew, let something slip. If you rattle people, they talk."

  "With that line of reasoning, you should have called me in and questioned me. Then Uncle Dutch could have been rattled. You did question my uncle, didn't you?" She gave him a fierce look.

  "Yes." How would she react to that? Would this make things even worse?

  "So did Elroy say anything? Did he?" Wendy asked, her head turned away from him.

  "No." No one had said anything worth listening to.

  "Elroy never says anything and he does less," Wendy snapped. "He's been an albatross around Trav's neck his whole life. Poor Trav lost his parents in a drunk-driving accident when he was five. His poor indigent grandmother has struggled to raise him alone. ..."

  Rodd decided to try one more time. "Wendy, I'm sorry. This will all blow over as soon as I've arrested the thief. Everyone knows what a good kid Trav is."

  Wendy wiped her eyes with her gloved fingers. "You just don't understand what you've done, do you? You don't know what Trav has had to go through to build his good reputation." She let herself out of the Jeep and ran up the steps into her trailer, the tinny sound of the metal steps ringing in the silent hour.

  "She's right," Rodd spoke to his windshield as he drove away. "I don't understand."

  Wendy rushed inside, fighting the tears. Lord, he doesn't understand me at all. He doesn't understand what it's like to work your whole life to establish a good reputation. He doesn't know what it's like for people to look at you as though you're trash—poor white trash. He's a Durand—how could he know how a Rieker or a Dietz feels?

  In the darkened room lit only by the small lights on the Christmas tree, Sage and Trav sat on the sofa.

  At the sight of them holding hands and looking so downhearted, Wendy burst into tears. What could she say to them? She'd made no headway with the sheriff at all.

  Sage hurried to her side. "Don't cry, Wendy. You haven't done anything wrong."

  "I'm just so ...sorry...." All the turmoil from the long evening finally pushed her over the edge. She couldn't stop the tears.

  Trav came beside her and patted her on the back. "Please don't cry, Wendy. It's not your fault. How could the sheriff understand how we feel? He's never had people talking behind his back like the three of us have."

  But he has. Cram and Veda have done their best to make his life miserable. Wendy couldn't verbalize these thoughts to Sage or Trav. Rodd wouldn't like it; he didn't want anyone to know that the gossip and rumors bothered him. Wendy sank down into the chair by the couch, next to the small tabletop Christmas tree.

  "I should go home. I promised Gram I'd be home by one. She worries." Trav put his arms around Sage. "But I hate to leave you." He brushed away the hair from her face and leaned his cheek against hers.

  "It's all right," Sage assured him. "Wendy and I'll be fine. We always have been. Trav, I'm going to tell her. She should know. I told Mom and I've waited too long as it is."

  Trav nodded.

  Sage moved the few steps to Wendy's chair and knelt in front of her. "Trav and I are getting married right after graduation this spring."

  Wendy couldn't find her voice. Get married right out of high school? Just like their mother. No.

  In the chilly entryway between the outer and inner doors to the clinic's emergency room, Rodd faced Wendy.

  "Rodd, I just can't think right now."

  Wendy's tired, flat voice made him ache. Two days had passed since New Year's Eve and in those two days, he'd tried to reconnect with her—but in vain. He had to try once more to get her to reveal what was troubling her.

  Was it just his questioning Trav or something more? The way she stood there with her arms wrapped defensively around her cut him deep. Was she warding off the cold? or protecting herself from him? His arms ached to pull her close and warm her within his embrace. But her stiffened, wary stance warned him away. "What is it, Wendy?"

  She shook her head.

  The way she looked at him hurt him. She looked as though she'd given up, as though all the life had gone out of her.

  Dr. Doug opened the door from inside the clinic, letting a breath of warmth touch them. "Wendy, I need you."

  "Sure. Right away." Wendy turned to go.

  "I'm sorry," Rodd said, desperate to get her to look at him the way she had when he'd walked into the auction on New Year's Eve.

  She only nodded and walked away.

  Rodd's lonely ride home felt like a ride to nowhere he wanted to go. The usual lift he felt when he turned into his snowy lane didn't come. Why was Wendy so upset with him? I was just doing my job. What does she want from me? His mind echoed: What does God want from me?

  Rodd parked his Jeep in the garage and walked into his kitchen. The big old farmhouse that he loved felt cold and empty. He stood at the window over the sink and stared out into the winter gloom, seeing the clear night sky glittering with stars. How could he make Wendy understand why he'd questioned Trav? How could he make things between them better? Maybe if he talked to Trav himself...

  The phone rang. Rodd picked it up. "Durand here."

  "Hi, Sheriff. Don't you think it's time you caught the Snowmobile Burglar?"

  Rodd came alive. The anonymous caller was phoning a second time. "I've been trying to catch him. What do you know that I don't?"

  "I know where he's going to hit next. Would you like to know where?" the muffled voice taunted him.

  "Are you going to tell me?"

  Silence. Would the caller hang up?

  "Be at Harlan Carey's tomorrow night." Click

  Rodd gripped the receiver, then hung it up. Harlan's? Why would someone target Harlan? But did the Weasel have a conscience? No. Another thought jarred him. Could he trust the caller or was this just another ploy like the call about the snowmobiles?

  He'd have to follow this lead just like any other. And he had to keep anything from happening to Harlan. Not only for Harlan's sake, but for Wendy's. Anything that hurt her grandfather hurt her. He'd signed on to protect the county, and so far he hadn't been very successful. He'd have to be at Harlan's tomorrow night—ready for anything. He had no choice. God, all the doors leading to the Weasel have been locked tight to me. What am I doing wrong?

  Night had dropped its inky shade over the sky and landscape. A brave luminescent full moon was rising above the darkened horizon Rodd eased his snowmobile to the thick line of snow-flocked evergreens behind Harlan's machine shed. He had to have his snowmobile in place near enough to respond if the Weasel really did show up and try to break in to Harlan's. Hampered by deep snow, Rodd crept around in the dim light from the full moon. Right away, he realized that Harlan was at home. Would the Weasel break in to an occupied house?

  Who knew? The thief's original pattern had been broken with the kegger. Yes, the Weasel might hit the house with Harlan there. Or Harlan might be scheduled to go somewhere tonight. Just in case this was another ruse, Rodd had all his deputies on alert and patrolling the county, ready for anything, and he'd called to ask Dr. Doug if any rural residents had been brought in for an overnight stay. None had. Rodd took one last look around to see if everything on Harlan's property looked normal; then he retreated to the cover of the trees to wait.

  He'd thought about warning Harlan and Wendy about the possibility of the house being hit tonight, but he had decided it was best not to. Either Harlan or Wendy might do something out of the ordinary, which could alert the thief that he was expected. Rodd also knew that Wendy wouldn't be in the picture tonight. She would be working at the care center. Before New Year's Eve, she'd given him her schedule for this week so they could plan a day to go snowmobiling for fun. Well, that probably wouldn't happen now. Would he ever be able to reconnect with Wendy? How did I misjudge the situation with Trav so completely? Why has some
thing so routine upset her? Do women ever get easier to understand?

  The cold wind rustled the trees around him. Time crawled. He shivered. Even his snowmobile gear couldn't keep out the unrelenting January chill. The weatherman had predicted below-zero temperatures for tonight. Rodd played mind games with himself to stay alert. He counted stars. He named the constellations. Behind his face mask, he yawned.

  The sound of a car motor disrupted the night. He was on his feet, working through the knee-high snow to the end of the line of trees where he could see who was coming up the drive without being seen. Wendy's Blazer. He wanted to curse. Then he calmed himself down. That fit. She'd probably come to take her grandfather somewhere, but why now—he checked the luminescent dial of his watch— at almost ten at night? That didn't make sense. What was going on? Was this another Weasel trick? Had he come here for nothing?

  Wendy parked her car in Harlan's machine shed and hurried inside the house. Rodd felt like pacing back and forth. Should he go in now and alert them? What if the Weasel arrived when he was inside?

  Rodd could lose him, and he couldn't afford to let that happen again. Better to go back to his spot and just wait. What could happen next on this miserable, freezing stakeout?

  The minutes on Rodd's watch kept passing. He waited, hoping that Wendy would leave with Harlan. But after a while, the lights in the house started going out—one by one—till the house was nearly dark. Was Wendy staying the night with Harlan? Rodd nearly went to the house to ask but stopped himself. God, this doesn't feel right. Am I being set up instead of the Weasel? He looked skyward as though the stars knew the answer. God, I don't know what has been holding me back from asking you to head up this investigation, and right now I'm too cold for deep thought, but Wendy's right. Send me all the help I need. I mean that. Amen.

  Now in the silence of the winter night, he could do nothing but wait. He waited. The moon rose higher. The icy temperatures dropped lower. He shivered.

  The faint buzz of a snowmobile sounded in the distance. He froze in place. As if in a scene from a movie, the snowmobile skirted the moonlight by hugging the shadows beside the fence line as it headed straight toward Harlan's.

  His adrenaline pumping, Rodd found it hard to breathe. He stayed well hidden, afraid he might alert the man on the snowmobile that he was waiting for him.

  The snowmobile didn't stop until it was right at Harlan's back door. The suited, masked figure threw something at the yard light. The sound of tinkling glass, then darkness. The figure ran up the steps and struck the door with a crowbar.

  Rodd slid onto his 'bile, swooped between the trees, and zoomed toward the Weasel. His heart pounded. He felt like shouting, "Got you!"

  The figure spun around and made a dive for his snowmobile.

  Rodd jumped from his snowmobile and lunged for the thief. Their two bodies slammed together and fell to the ground. They twisted and rolled in fervent battle. The crowbar hit Rodd across the shoulders, loosening his grip on the thief. The Weasel sprung up and raced off. Clambering onto his 'bile, Rodd tore after him

  Wendy heard the crowbar hit the back door, the shouts, then snowmobile motors outside. She darted to the window. She knew instantly who drove the two snowmobiles disappearing into the night along her grandfather's fence line. Rodd. And the thief!

  She rushed to the back hall, quickly donned her snowmobile suit, and stepped outside into the freezing cold. Racing to the machine shed, she pulled on her mask, helmet, and gloves. She jumped on her grandfather's machine and barreled outside. The whine of the two motors drew her, and she pushed the throttle to the max

  Her mind raced as fast as her snowmobile. Around a bend near the Thorpes' trailer, she caught a glimpse of what must be Rodd's bright red taillight Her response in following him had been instinctive. Now her conscious fear for Rodd surfaced.

  At high speed, he'd be overdriving his headlights. And even with his month of night patrolling, he still didn't know all the traps the Weasel could lead him into. And that was the only way the Weasel would be able to get free of him now. Rodd, be careful. God, stick with him, with us.

  Snow flew beneath her and flared up behind her. Though she swept on at top speed, the two snowmobiles still loomed far ahead of her. When they turned toward Hunter's Lake, her fears quickened.

  Both snowmobiles broke away from the trail. The Weasel was leading Rodd across open country. Any low spot could cause the snowmobiles to flounder and kill the engines. But she kept pace with them, her prayers flying as fast as the wind past her ears.

  The first snowmobile turned and headed out onto the frozen surface of Hunter's Lake. Wendy sucked in breath. No! She knew instantly what the Weasel planned to do. No!

  Even though she knew she wouldn't be heard, she shouted, "Rodd! Stop!" She hunched down and snaked one of her hands to the seat behind her. She found the nylon rope and fumbled, finding its end.

  In front of her, it happened exactly as she knew it would. The Weasel sped toward the edge of the lake. Rodd roared after him. The Weasel swung wide. Rodd headed straight for him, cutting across the area the Weasel had avoided. Wendy heard the crack of ice breaking.

  Rodd swerved, but too late—the hazard had him.

  The thick ice shuddered. Wendy felt it under her as she slowed her machine, skirting around the area of thin ice over the spring that fed the lake. Craaacckk. Craaacccckkkk.

  She cut her motor and sprang off, the rope in her hand. As the front end of Rodd's snowmobile angled up, he slid back toward the opening ice.

  "Rodd!" she shouted. "Catch the rope!" She swung the coiled cord like a lariat over her head and sent it sailing toward Rodd as he floundered on the parting ice. "Rodd!" she screamed.

  He grabbed the rope.

  "Tie it around your waist!" she shouted. "Don't try to walk. I'll tow you out." She jumped back onto her 'bile, restarted the engine, and slowly moved away from the ice fault. A glance backward told her that Rodd was holding tight. Slowly ...slowly ... she inched forward until Rodd's body was on solid ice again with several feet to spare. "You're safe!" she yelled.

  A terrible moan rent the air. The ice over the spring opened wide, shuddered, then devoured Rodd's snowmobile; it sank into the lake. The sound sent an aftershock of terror through her. She ran to Rodd and threw her arms around him. "Are you all right?"

  "Why did you follow me?" He railed at her. "You could have been hurt, killed."

  She let his angry words fly over her, realizing they were just the reaction to his fear for her, his own fear, and anger at himself for falling into a trap. She clung to him.

  Behind them came a hoot of laughter. Rodd went still, the laugh seeming to trigger a memory. He turned in time to see, in the forest beyond the lake, the Weasel pause to perform a distinctive hand pumping gesture of victory. Again, the unique laugh came. And then he was off.

  "He's getting away!" Wendy shouted.

  "I know who the Weasel is," Rodd said, half to himself, half aloud. "Let's go!" he shouted and hustled her back onto her snowmobile. "Hold on!"

  Wendy clung to a dripping Rodd from behind as he barreled back across the firm part of the lake, doggedly pursuing the thief. Her face wet from Rodd, Wendy didn't bother to look. She'd also recognized the Weasel and guessed where he was headed. All too soon, both her assumptions would be proven true.

  Flanagan's green neon shamrock came into view. Rodd slowed the snowmobile and stopped beside the machine the Weasel had been driving. He climbed off and checked the other machine; it was still warm. "It's Elroy. I remembered his laugh from Thanksgiving Day— when we came here to bring your uncle—"

  The sound of a loud argument and women's shrieks from inside interrupted him. Rodd rushed into the bar.

  Wendy lagged behind him and hung back near the entrance. Elroy and Uncle Dutch were slugging it out. She felt sick.

  Elroy shouted, "You lousy double-dealer! You set me up."

  "I don't know what you're talking about." Dutch swung at Elroy and the smaller man w
ent down.

  But Elroy came up swinging. Women screamed. Men shouted encouragement.

  Feeling like someone had punched her in the stomach, Wendy stepped outside and made her way to the snowmobile. She started it and turned toward her grandfather's. She'd planned to spend the night with him because he'd come down with the flu. He needed her and by now, he would be frantic with worry.

  She knew Rodd would call for backup. In fact, she heard a siren in the distance. She wasn't needed here.

  And her heart had been broken—again.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Three days later Wendy sat on the afghan covering the old, harvest gold sofa and stared out the window of her trailer. The sky was winter drab; it was after ten o'clock in the morning, and she was still in her nightgown. The mug of coffee she held had gone stone cold an hour ago.