Alone in a Cabin

by Leanne W. Smith

  Then strange visions. Tom was on the phone talking to Cal, and Cal was upset. Maggie knew it was because of the prison break.

  “No, it’s fine,” she wanted to tell them. “Zeke is not a danger to me.” They didn’t know him the way she did.

  Cars were in the yard suddenly, pulling in fast, surrounding the cabin. No! Cal called the police! Maggie had to hide Zeke. They wouldn’t understand.

  Gun shots!

  Zeke running. Blood dripping in the snow. It wasn’t his leg this time, but his chest, a gaping hole, blood staining the white. Zeke falling, rolling down a ravine. Police officers standing over him.

  Suddenly Zeke lay curled on the porch again. Frozen. His lips purple, no longer moving. No longer kissing her.

  11

  There can be no resurrection if there is no death. Conclusion drawn from the study of Ezekiel in the Bible

  Canon woke in a sweat. Third night in a row. The dream again. More vivid this time. The dark-haired woman dressing a leg wound then slapping at a man’s hands. The man pinning the woman down. Ollie’s phone still ringing.

  The clock beside Canon’s bed said it was 3:38. Regardless, he threw the covers back.

  Enough.

  He hardly remembered yesterday, had hardly had a chance to eat. Everything from helping Mrs. Jamison change a flat to driving out to Turney Center to hear the latest briefing. He had a long talk with the Dickson sheriff after. Good chance to compare notes.

  When he got back to the office Shirley had handed him a Post-it. A second caller said she saw a man walking near Patterson Road about the time the snow started. High time Canon got out there. He called Ollie twice yesterday, but each time the line was busy. Canon needed to lay this thing to rest.

  He showered then went downstairs. It was too early to eat but he wanted coffee for his thermos. The thermometer under the light on the porch said it was fourteen degrees. So he grabbed a knit hat.

  Before going out to the cruiser he checked his Glock and made sure there was an extra magazine in his belt.

  * * *

  Maggie woke with a start. Blue lights swirled over the walls.

  Her heart pounded. It was only a dream. Where is Zeke? He no longer lay beside her on the couch.

  There was sudden banging at the door! Maggie’s heart caught. Not again.

  “Zeke?” she called in a low voice. “What’s happening?” Had he gone to the bathroom?

  No reply.

  Maggie eased from beneath the quilt and put her feet on the floor. She was wearing her pajamas and robe. But didn’t I fall asleep in my clothes?

  Zeke wasn’t in the kitchen, hall, bathroom or bedroom.

  More banging!

  That must be him at the door. But…how did he get locked outside?

  As Maggie passed the dining table she noticed only one dirty plate from supper, only a single wine glass. Blue lights continued to throw patterns over the walls. Hadn’t the blue lights been part of her dream?

  Yes…no…the blue lights are real.

  Maggie suddenly felt cold. The fire had died down in the fireplace. How long was she asleep? She was at the window now.

  It wasn’t Zeke at the door, but a police officer instead. Sensing movement, he stepped to the window and peered in at her, motioning for her to open it. Maggie looked at the switch on the wall…down where Zeke had left it. She shivered, pulled the robe tighter, and opened the door.

  The man’s eyes went wide. He took a step back and searched her face. He didn’t flash a badge, but the blue lights of his squad car felt official enough. As his eyes pored over her face and hair, he said, “Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I need to ask you some questions.”

  I’m saved…the police are here…I’m not alone anymore. Or was it a bad thing that the police had come?

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  The officer hesitated. “Mind if I come in?”

  The thermometer behind the officer read fourteen. He wore a thick brown uniform jacket and knit hat, but looked cold, and for good reason.

  “Of course.” Maggie stepped toward the hearth to stir the fire.

  He threw out an arm. “Wait.” The officer’s eyes held both her and the room under scrutiny. “I’d like to look over the place first.”

  Was he asking permission, or telling her?

  Maggie stood mute, feet rooted to the floor, while the officer looked up and studied the cut-out to the bedroom. He unhooked a tie on the gun at his side before running his eyes over the dining table, then stepping into the kitchen. Maggie’s pulse picked up again as the officer checked the lock on the back door and peered out the window. He checked cabinets. Maggie even heard him open the refrigerator door. Then he stepped back in the open doorway and looked over his shoulder at her.

  She shivered, whether from cold or fear she couldn’t have said. When Maggie looked up at him the officer moved on, going down the hall to the bathroom and bedroom, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He was tall and broad-shouldered.

  He’ll find Zeke. Any minute now.

  Maggie braced for it. How would she explain she’d harbored a fugitive? Should Maggie have tried harder to escape? But there were no sounds to indicate Zeke’s discovery. Had he fled before the officer arrived then? But how had Zeke known this man would come? He obviously sought to erase evidence he had ever been in the cabin.

  The police officer came back to the living room holding Maggie’s cell phone.

  Zeke left my phone.

  “The code.” The officer had a deep voice—a voice of assurance—but there was a faint note of something. Hesitation? He seemed like a man who did more thinking than talking. His roving eyes didn’t miss a thing.

  Maggie told him. He punched it in and checked her messages. Then he handed the phone to her, looking sheepish. “I apologize for disturbing you. Just trying to make sure you’re safe. I’m looking for a felon from Turney Center—that’s a prison not too far from here. We’ve been huntin’ him three days. I needed to know he didn’t come here.”

  Zeke.

  Maggie stood dumbly.

  “But he might have come to this area,” continued the officer. “I need to scout around once it’s light outside.”

  The cold seeped up through Maggie’s feet from the floorboards. She rubbed her arms. “Can I build a fire now?”

  “Oh.” The officer swept off his knit hat and reached for the kindling. She could see he was graying at the temples. “Let me.”

  As he knelt to make the fire she studied his broad back. The officer knew what he was doing. The kindling caught quickly. He stacked larger pieces on top. When the flames were strong and popping, he finally stood, his gaze swinging between satisfied and apologetic.

  The blue lights continued to fan over the walls. Maggie didn’t know what to say. They stood awkwardly, each staring at the fire as it continued to lick and build.

  “What time is it?” she finally asked.

  “’Bout four-thirty.” He checked his watch. “Nearly five.” The officer sounded tired. Had he worked all night? Why come here at such an hour?

  “Would you like a cup of coffee, Officer…”

  “Dale. Canon Dale.”

  Maggie smiled in spite of the strangeness of his being here at this hour and the erratic beating of her heart. Would it ever find its normal rhythm again?

  What happened to Zeke? Should Maggie tell this man—Officer Dale—about him? “Your first name is Canon?”

  “Buchanan, officially. Canon for short. One ‘n’ like a law, not a weapon. Canon is actually my second name. My first name is Tom…Thomas. But…” there it was again, a look of satisfaction, pleasure almost, then apology, “nobody ever calls me that.”

  The string of words appeared to be more talking than the officer was used to, but if it was nervous chatter, it didn’t seem to fit his character. And really, what would he have to be nervous about?

  Leave that switch down on the windows, Maggie. Don’t ever be afraid to let folks
in. Had Zeke not told her that, she might have invited this man to leave, just for having the first name of ‘Tom.’

  “Would you like a cup of coffee, Officer Dale?”

  His shoulders relaxed then. Definitely a look of satisfaction now. “More than I know how to say.”

  As Maggie went to the kitchen to make coffee, the officer went out to his car to turn off the swirling lights. If Zeke was out there hiding, those blue lights gave him plenty of warning to leave.

  The officer came back in stamping snow off his boots, picking up where he’d left off as he stepped into the kitchen. “Nobody calls me ‘Officer’ either.”

  Maggie opened the refrigerator door for the cream. “What do they call you?”

  “Sheriff.”

  She held the carton in the air. “You’re the sheriff of Marston County?”

  He nodded.

  Maggie sensed he didn’t tell her because of ego, but because he was a man who liked to get the facts straight.

  “For the past twenty years anyway…a deputy twelve years ‘fore that. Hoping to retire in another eight.” He grinned. “If I live that long.”

  Canon Dale was a nice looking man, his jawline more hardened, no doubt, from the hardness of his line of work. His presence filled the cabin in a way Zeke’s hadn’t. Maggie didn’t mean to start a mental comparison of the two, but the differences were so striking—so palpable—she couldn’t help it. Zeke’s presence caused her both peace and fear. This man was stirring peace and fear, too, but in a different way…for different reasons.

  What was it about a man in uniform? Maggie had grown used to sterile white jackets and stethoscopes long ago, but had to admit the deep brown of his sheriff’s shirt beneath the bulky jacket was nice, too. She couldn’t really tell how large Canon Dale was…taller than Tom Raines, certainly, and taller than Zeke…so tall the sheriff’s head nearly came to the top of the inside doorway.

  “My name is Maggie,” she said. “Maggie Raines.”

  She set the cream on the counter. Would the sheriff notice she was getting things out of order? She should have made the coffee first. On the inside Maggie was rattled…confused. On the outside she was trying to appear normal.

  As she reached to open the cabinet door for a filter, Maggie noticed there was only a single mug in the drainer. This was how Sheriff Dale had seen things—nothing in his search to indicate the presence of another.

  Maggie looked to the end of the counter. The cookbook Zeke last flipped through was back in the stack, as if never opened. The page she tore from her journal for him was gone, the pen lying loose on the counter. If Maggie suggested Sheriff Dale get his dusting powder and sprinkle it over the countertops, would he find evidence that Zeke’s fingerprints had ever been there? Was this moment happening? Was the sheriff really standing in her kitchen now?

  “How do you like it?” she asked, opening the bag of coffee. Gourmet. Italian roast.

  “Strong. Hot. Black.”

  Maggie poured beans into the grinder and water in the carafe. He removed his jacket, stepping to the dining room to hang it on the back of a chair, then sat on the red stool at the end of the counter to watch her. The badges, the gold stars, the words and stripes sewn into his uniform were all evident now…intimidating…there was even a gold star pinning his tie down.

  “I thought police officers wore navy.”

  “Municipal officers do, but we’re a county sheriff’s office. Tan and brown. Colors of the soil. Deputies wear tan, I wear brown.”

  Maggie tried not to stare. Zeke was the last one to sit on that stool. Or was he?

  “How many in the prison break?” she asked.

  “Just the one.”

  That didn’t fit. Zeke seemed to indicate there were two.

  Maggie put her back to the sheriff under the guise of getting a second mug from the cabinet. She didn’t want him to see her eyes. “What did he look like?”

  “Tall, lean.”

  Maggie’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Hispanic fella in his mid-twenties, name of Rodriquez.”

  She let out the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Sheriff Dale heard, but misunderstood.

  “So you never saw this man.” He was setting facts straight again.

  “No.” Maggie was grateful she could answer honestly. She wasn’t sure she could have fooled him with a lie.

  Sheriff Dale peered around the cabin again. “It’s just you here.”

  Maggie could tell he had already decided it, based on his inspection. She turned to check the coffee.

  She could feel Canon Dale’s eyes studying her. When she turned back to him to confirm it, his eyes fell to the cell phone Maggie had set on the counter.

  “Who’s Cal?” He pointed to it with a nod.

  “My son. In Franklin.”

  “You’re from Franklin.”

  “I live in Nashville now. I came here to…”

  “Recover.”

  Sheriff Dale looked down at the phone again. “I don’t mean to act like I know your business, just seemed like you might have been through a recent…” He left the words hanging there.

  Maggie rearranged the mugs on the counter again and wished the coffee would hurry up and perk. Finally she blurted, “Do I have ‘divorce’ stamped on my forehead? How do you know it was recent?” Had the sheriff run some kind of check on her car tags before coming in?

  He looked apologetic again. “You have an unconscious habit of reaching to twist a…” Canon pointed “…non-existent ring on that left hand.”

  Maggie covered her left hand with her right. “Oh.”

  “Sorry.” But he smiled when she looked at him and his eyes didn’t really look sorry.

  Maggie changed the subject. She didn’t want to talk about her. “Do you often work through the night, Sheriff?”

  Canon rubbed the back of his neck. “I feel bad about that. Couldn’t sleep. Decided to check on Ollie Thompson. Been trying to get up here since the storm hit, but there were accidents. Then the prison break. Someone called in that they saw a man walking along the highway not far from here.” He sighed. “I shouldn’t have bothered you this early, but when I couldn't get Ollie to come to his door, I decided to drive down here to see if he had a renter. When I looked in…”

  Maggie looked up when he hesitated. “I could see you on the couch and…considering the prison break and all…wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  Now Maggie was worried. “I called Mr. Thompson a couple of days ago and didn’t get him. Do you think he’s okay?”

  The sheriff smiled sadly. “Chances are he is. Right as he can be. He’s gettin’ old and I worry about him.”

  Maggie’s brow knit.

  “He drinks sometimes,” Canon explained. “When it snows.”

  “Did something happen?”

  “Yes.”

  Maggie decided not to press the point when he didn’t offer any more on the matter. She glanced through the kitchen cut-out at the empty bottle of Pinot Noir on her own dining table hoping the sheriff didn’t think she had a drinking problem.

  The coffee was ready. Maggie poured a cup and handed it to him. Zeke was the last person to drink from this mug. Or was he? Had Zeke been real?

  Maggie pointed toward the dirty dishes in the dining room. She never was one to leave dirty dishes until morning. But she hadn’t been herself last night…the last couple of nights. “Is it okay if I wash those?”

  The sheriff nodded and gulped the coffee, his eyes fastened on her face.

  She put a hand on his arm—his arms were thick indeed. “You don’t have to rush through your coffee, Sheriff Dale.”

  His eyes went to her hand. “Canon.”

  “You must be tired.”

  The stool creaked as he leaned to watch her gather the dishes and carry them back to the kitchen. Turning on the faucet she filled the sink with soapy water. Her eyes fell on the knife block. The knives filled each hole as if they’d never been removed.

&n
bsp; Had Zeke been nothing more than an invention of Maggie’s mind? But it was all so real…so vivid. Maggie wanted proof she wasn’t going crazy. But how could she look for evidence with the sheriff watching her every move?

  * * *

  Canon tried not to show his feelings. Surprise. Confusion. Hope.

  In his dreams he’d seen a woman, but didn’t know where she was. She was here. In the old Patterson cabin. He was looking at her.

  Canon never got a clear look at her face in the dreams and couldn’t really tell peering in at the window by the glow of the embers, but the hair was the give-away, that brown hair falling around her shoulders.

  This was her, all right. When she opened the door it nearly stole his breath.

  It wasn’t like Canon hadn’t seen his share of lovely women. A small town sheriff knows the people in town. That’s his job. Nobody moved to Marston County without Canon knowing about it. He knew every house, every road, every truck, every car. He certainly knew the faces.

  But Canon didn’t know when he’d last laid his eyes on a woman so lovely.

  It thrilled him to know she was alone in the cabin. And not in danger. The empty space on her finger was an unexpected bonus. He told her he was sorry about her divorce, but that was a lie. Canon wasn’t a man who typically lied. But this whole thing had him rattled.

  Now he felt himself releasing the tension. The dreaming, the snow, the car accidents, the report from Turney Center—Canon felt them seeping from off his shoulders.

  He might not understand the dream or how it pulled him here, but here he was. And there she stood, looking cute in those socks and her flannel pajamas under the robe.

  Looking like a woman.

  12

  According to Sol Stein, the fiction writer's job is to entertain—to create pleasure for the reader.