Cold Woods

by Karen Katchur

  “You look a lot better since the other night,” he said.

  “I should hope so.” She was almost at the end of the string of lights and held out her hand for him to pass her another one. His fingers brushed hers, causing her pulse to react, her body responding the same way it had the other night when he’d touched her. She’d been so certain she’d been wiped clean—or rather that she’d been beaten out of any romantic feelings she’d ever had or might possibly have—that she didn’t fully trust what she was feeling now.

  “I shouldn’t be here talking to you,” he said.

  “Why not?” she asked. “What’s her name?”

  He shook his head, smiled. He was so easy to amuse. “I’m divorced. I’ve got two kids, though. Trevor is seventeen, and Ainsley, sixteen.”

  “You? Divorced? And with two kids? I thought you of all people would’ve been the kind to marry and live happily ever after.”

  He shrugged, an obvious sore spot. “I have joint custody. I’m with my kids every chance I get. I’m not some deadbeat dad. Everything I do is for them. Every single thing.”

  “Well, that’s great, Scott.”

  “They’re great kids.”

  “I’m sure they are.”

  He passed her another string of lights. She wrapped them around the post. She would need an extension cord at some point in order to plug them in.

  “Look, I’m here because I need to warn you about something.”

  She hesitated. “About what?” She’d left her beer in the house. She scratched the skin by her wrist.

  “I talked with two detectives today.”

  “And what does that have to do with me?” Would he think it strange if she suddenly went back into the house and returned with a beer? She glanced at the door.

  “They were asking a lot of questions about you and me. About us.”

  “Us? There’s an us?”

  “There used to be, as I remember it.”

  Ah yes, she recalled why she couldn’t be with him, why any romantic feelings she might’ve had would’ve eventually shriveled up and died. He was just too good. He wore his kindness like a halo around his head. Meanwhile, her head sprouted horns. Their last conversation before he’d enlisted, she’d all but told him this to his face.

  “I’d be good to you,” he’d said. “I’d never hurt you.”

  “I know you would. But I’d hurt you,” she’d said. “It’s what I do.”

  The way he looked at her now, she almost wanted to believe she was wrong and that it could work out for them after all. Maybe he cared for her as much as he had then. Maybe she could be a different person. Wouldn’t that be something? But while she permitted herself these fleeting thoughts, there was something else she sensed from him. Was it pity? She fought the urge to spit on him.

  “They’re going to want to talk with you,” he said.

  “What did you tell them?”

  “The truth, as best I could.”

  “You mean the truth as you saw it.”

  “Yes, that’s fair.”

  “Did you tell them everything?”

  “I told them what I suspected Lester had done to you.”

  Trisha glared at him. The winter air could’ve been a hot day in the desert compared to the ice pick he’d plunged into her heart. “You had no right.”

  “Maybe I didn’t.”

  She fisted the string of lights, threw them at him.

  He caught them before they hit him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just want you to know that I’m really sorry.”

  Trisha’s mother appeared at the door. “Everything okay?”

  “Officer Best was just leaving,” Trisha said.

  Scott set the string of lights on the chair. “Take care of you,” he said, then nodded at her mother. “Mrs. Haines.”

  Trisha watched him get into the cruiser, drive away. When he was gone, her mother came outside and handed Trisha a beer. They sat on the chairs on the porch, drinking, not talking for some time.

  “That man still cares for you,” her mother said of Scott. “He was a good kid back then, and he turned into a good man.”

  “Yes, well, that’s always been the problem, hasn’t it?”

  Her mother laughed.

  They sat in silence again.

  Her mother motioned across the street to Evelyn’s house. “I miss her,” she said. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without her and Linda. I don’t know what I did in this life to deserve such good friends. I’d do anything for them.”

  Trisha nodded, hesitated. “Would you do anything for me?” she asked.

  “Anything,” her mother said.

  They watched as a black sedan turned onto Second Street. It stopped in front of their house. The back window went down, and Sid’s face appeared, gray, skeletal.

  “Go in the house,” Trisha said to her mother.

  Her mother stared at Sid for a long second; then she got up, touched Trisha’s shoulder before going back inside.

  “Get in,” Sid said.

  Trisha set the beer can down on the porch. Sid’s driver opened the rear passenger-side door for her. She climbed in. She’d followed Sid’s orders for so long that it had become automatic. Her brain shut down; her emotions locked up tight. No matter what happened next, she’d survive.

  He’d trained her well.

  The driver got back behind the wheel, drove down the street, taking his time on the icy surface. The freezing rain had stopped some time ago, but a cold mist dotted the windshield. The wipers groaned, screeched across the glass.

  “I have some business in Atlantic City,” Sid said. “I’ll be gone for a couple days.” He smelled of expensive cologne, cigarette smoke, but it didn’t mask the old-man smell underneath, his rotting insides, his blackened heart.

  “I’m not supposed to leave. The police,” she stammered. She’d told him the same lie the other night at the casino.

  “So you said,” he snapped.

  Trisha flinched, then went still, robotic.

  The driver stopped at the stop sign at the end of the street. He seemed hesitant to interrupt. “Where to?” he asked finally.

  “Drive around the block,” Sid said in a normal voice. He waited to speak again until they were back on Second Street, stopped in front of her mother’s house. The windshield wipers continued screeching.

  “I’ll be back in two days,” he said and adjusted his tie. Then he leaned in close, smelled her, his lip rising, taking in the scent of her. “You have two days, and then you’re coming with me. And I don’t give a fuck if you’re allowed to leave or not.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  MAY 1987

  Trisha leaned over the back of the couch, stared out the front window, watched the cars drive down Second Street. Carlyn and Dannie had left in Dannie’s mother’s station wagon over an hour ago. They hadn’t invited Trisha to go along. They’d avoided her at school and hadn’t knocked on her door in five long months.

  Trisha pulled on the cigarette, played with another one of her mother’s lighters, flicked it on and off. She brought the flame within an inch of the curtain. She could burn the entire house down, herself included. Would anyone care? Wouldn’t their lives be easier without her in it? Her friends wouldn’t have to think up excuses to blow her off or go out of their way to avoid her in the halls. They could forget they’d ever known her and what she’d done, what she’d asked them to do. They’d lied to the police, protected her, and it appeared they’d gotten away with it.

  She brought the flame closer to the ugly pea-green cotton fabric. She no longer knew who she was, now that she was no longer the girl who lived with a monster. She should’ve been happy. She was free of him. Instead, she found that she was still angry all the time, although she couldn’t find a reason for it. She lashed out at her mother, at her friends, searching for anyone to take it out on. She rarely slept. And on the occasions when she did sleep, she’d wake in the middle of the night, expecting to find Lester stan
ding over her. She hated who she was. She hated the feel of her own skin. What had he done to her?

  The flame flickered. At the last second, she pulled the lighter away. A part of her, the fighting part, wouldn’t give Lester or her friends the satisfaction of knowing they’d gotten to her.

  She picked up the beer from the end table. Her mother had an endless supply of cigarettes, lighters, and beer. Sometimes she’d even let Trisha drink a six-pack with her at the kitchen table over a frozen dinner, neither one talking much. Their silence had become comfortable, if not boring. Deep down in a place Trisha rarely allowed herself to go, she ached for the excitement, the adrenaline-pumping fear, the fighting, that for years she’d wanted to end. But now that it had, the silence that followed filled every corner in the house until the rooms buzzed with it, a constant drone inside her head. The dark sleepless nights, the long days, had become unbearable. If she stayed here much longer, the quiet was sure to drive her mad.

  Outside a car door slammed. Dannie’s mother’s station wagon was parked in front of Dannie’s house again. Carlyn stood next to it. Dannie took a little longer to pull herself out of the driver’s seat. She’d put on more weight recently. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up like her mother.

  Trisha sprang from the couch, spilling beer on the carpet. She rushed outside. “Hey,” she called, stomping down the porch steps and across the street. “Where were you?” she asked accusingly.

  “I got my driver’s license,” Carlyn said. “Dannie let me use her car for the test.”

  “I didn’t even know you knew how to drive,” Trisha said.

  “Dannie’s been teaching me.”

  That hurt. When had they been going out driving? After school? Weekends? “How about you teach me too?” Trisha asked.

  Dannie’s face was flushed. “Sure, some other time, though.” Her eyes drifted to the beer in Trisha’s hand. She pointed to her house. “I have to go check on my mom. I’m sure she’s wondering where I’ve been.” She didn’t wait for either Trisha or Carlyn to comment. She made the sign of the cross, as if talking to Trisha was a sin, and then she ran up the steps, disappeared behind the front door.

  “Well, I should get going too,” Carlyn said and turned to go.

  “Wait,” Trisha said. “I’ve got a couple of beers inside. Want to hang out?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have stuff to do.”

  “What kind of stuff?” Trisha asked.

  “I don’t know, just stuff.”

  “Oh, well, can I join you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Carlyn said and headed in the direction of her house.

  Trisha called after her. “What about tomorrow? Or the day after that? Or are you busy then too?” she spat.

  Carlyn stopped. There was an expression on her face Trisha hadn’t seen before, something like disappointment. “Yeah, Trisha, I’m busy then too.”

  Trisha took a swig of beer, then pulled on the cigarette. “Screw you!” she said. “And screw Dannie too!”

  Trisha lay on the bathroom floor next to the toilet. She’d been sick most of the night. Her mother had found her passed out on the living room couch, beer cans scattered across the floor. She’d helped her to the bathroom, put a blanket on her, told her to sleep it off in here. Her mother must’ve known the retching was coming.

  Trisha pulled herself off the small area rug in front of the sink and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her cheek was creased with stripes from the pattern on the rug. The dark circles under her bloodshot eyes would make the most die-hard goth kids envious. Beyond that, she looked like she’d lived a thousand years. It was hard to believe she was eighteen years old.

  Carlyn and Dannie had made it clear they were no longer her friends. The Slate Sisters were nothing more than sharp slivers of the memories they were made of.

  “Happy birthday to me,” Trisha said before kneeling in front of the toilet again.

  It was time she disappeared, started over, made some changes.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Parker knocked on Sharon’s door. Geena stood behind him, checked the time on her phone. They’d get one shot at pulling information, possibly a confession, out of Trisha. The evidence they had against her was circumstantial, but after a brief conversation with the DA, he’d said that if they could get Trisha to admit that she was on the trail and the bat was in her possession (combined with Officer Scott Best’s statement, the key word being officer), he believed he could get a conviction.

  Or maybe if Trisha were pressed, she’d give up her mother or someone else.

  There was also the problem of the timeline to consider. They hadn’t been able to pin down Lester’s movements around the time he’d disappeared and when the report had been filed. Maybe Trisha would be more forthcoming than previously and fill in the gaps.

  Either way, a lot was riding on this interview.

  Geena put her phone back in her pocket. Parker knocked on the door again. The raw air bit at his ears. His thoughts jumped to Becca. He still needed to apologize for his behavior the other night, but if his case broke wide open in the next few hours, there was a good chance he’d have to work late, which would mean he wouldn’t get an opportunity to stop by her place, not without having to wake her up. What if she had surgery scheduled in the morning—remove a cat’s claws, neuter a dog? He shivered at the thought.

  He knocked a third time. “Mrs. Haines,” he called. “It’s Detective Reed and Detective Brassard.” He heard movement from inside the house. In the next moment, Sharon opened the door.

  “Detectives,” she said and stepped aside to let them in.

  “Is your daughter home?” Parker asked.

  Trisha walked into the living room. She carried a can of beer. Her dark hair was draped over one shoulder. Her jeans were tight. The cable-knit sweater she wore hung on her, the fabric stretched, ill fitting for her small frame. Her snow boots were nothing fancy, the typical kind everyone wore around here. It appeared as though she’d officially swapped the tailor-made clothes she’d worn when he’d first met her for something more casual. She must’ve decided the three-inch heels were no longer functional. It also meant that she planned on staying for a while. This was good news.

  “I need you to come down to the station,” Parker said to Trisha. “And answer a few questions for us.”

  “What’s this about?” Sharon asked.

  Trisha’s face remained neutral. She didn’t show any sign of being surprised by his request.

  “It’s just a few questions,” he said. “Why don’t you get your coat?”

  “You don’t have to go with him,” Sharon said.

  Parker kept his eyes on them, his mouth shut. Geena stood quietly next to him. Sharon was right. Trisha didn’t have to go to the station with them. She didn’t have to answer any of their questions, not unless he was arresting her and not without a lawyer present.

  “No, it’s fine,” Trisha said and set the beer can on the end table. She pulled on her coat. “I’ll go.”

  “You don’t have to answer anything he asks you,” Sharon said. “Not without a lawyer.”

  “Your mother’s right,” he said and proceeded to read her her rights.

  “Got it,” Trisha said.

  Parker stepped back, allowed Trisha to go ahead of him. They walked to the unmarked cruiser. He opened the back door for her.

  “Am I under arrest?” Trisha asked and slipped into the back seat. Her voice was level, not a hint of concern, as though he were taking her to the grocery store for milk.

  “We’d just like to ask you a few questions,” he said and closed the door.

  They were quiet on the ride to the station. Parker was hoping Trisha would have more questions for them, but she didn’t seem to mind the silence. Gray clouds soaked the sky, threatening to dump several more inches of snow on the town, or quite possibly more of that awful freezing rain. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d
gotten so much snow in December. According to the weather reports he and Geena had searched in the archives, the last time they’d had a particularly snowy December had been in 1986, when almost two feet of the white stuff had fallen in those three weeks before the holiday. Scott had been right about the storm.

  At the station Parker escorted Trisha to interview room one. It was a different room from the one where they’d talked with Scott, where there were tissues and an artificial plant. This room contained a small table bolted to the floor and two chairs. The walls were a grungy beige. A camera was mounted in the corner. They’d agreed ahead of time that Parker had established a kind of rapport with Trisha and that he would do the interview. Geena was in another room watching on the CCTV.

  Parker directed Trisha to sit in the chair, facing the camera. “Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?” he asked. “Cigarette?” He dropped the pink lighter and pack of cigarettes onto the table.

  “No, nothing. Thank you.” She sat straight, still, her hands in her lap, the pink lighter not having any effect on her that Parker could see.

  “Do you know why I asked you to come here today?”

  “No,” she said in a monotone voice. Her eyes flickered to the camera.

  He was surprised by her response. He expected her to say that it must have something to do with her stepfather. “It has to do with your stepfather, Lester Haines.” He reminded her of her rights, advised that the interview was being recorded.

  “You can ask me whatever you want,” she said. “But it doesn’t mean I’m going to answer you.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Do you remember where you were on Thursday”—he checked his notes for the exact date when Lester was reported to have disappeared—“December fourth, 1986?”

  “School,” she said.

  “Actually, you weren’t. You were marked truant that day.” He’d found the information in the original file, made a note of it.

  “If you say so.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “I skipped school all the time. Hard to say exactly which days I was there and which days I wasn’t.”