The Night Is Cold

by Brandon Enns

  "I—I don't know."

  Classic Susan.

  There was no stopping her now, it was easy to see.

  She was being ridiculous. Abruptly uprooting Chris, pulling him away from his hockey team. They relied on his offense. Actually, they didn't stand a chance without him.

  A silence filled the room, followed by some footsteps upstairs. They both gazed at the staircase, waiting. He put a pin in his anger. Maybe he could still recoup things before they got out of hand.

  "I'm up for Corps Major. Between me and one other."

  An unpleasantness scorned her face, but it dissipated faster than it took form. "That's amazing, Brian. When will you know?" She was being sincere.

  "Going to Ottawa tomorrow. Should find out in a couple weeks."

  She forced a smile for him. It looked like it took great effort. "Good luck in Ottawa. You'll do great."

  "This could be the new start we need."

  Susan laughed. Just as quickly as she was endearing, she was a bitch. "Oh, my God. Your head is so thick, it's unbelievable. This is my home. I like it here."

  "Then I'll turn it down."

  "No. You need this."

  In the event of A or B, she always selected C. And C equaled who the hell knows.

  "So what?"

  "So…we have to go." Chris came barreling down the stairs with his backpack slung over his shoulder.

  "Hey, Dad."

  "Hey, bud."

  "You're working again?" Chris asked.

  Brian looked at Susan.

  "I'm going to Ottawa."

  "Why?" Chris looked frantic, his pre-teen mind reading the situation.

  "It's a work thing."

  "We're not moving, are we?"

  "No, of course not."

  "Can it wait until the season is over?"

  "Chris. Not moving. Take your mom's luggage to the car."

  Chris eyed up his mom and dad and then grabbed the big suitcase and exited.

  "You're not actually doing this," Brian said.

  "Take the job. You're gonna get it."

  "I don't want the job. I want you and Chris."

  "In no way have you shown this. In a long time." She looked outside and then back to Brian. "We will be here again in a couple weeks. And you can't be. Not now."

  "Su—"

  "Let me know how it goes."

  She walked out toward the car.

  "Susan!"

  She ignored him, threw her bag in the truck, and backed out of the driveway. Chris rolled down the window to yell good-bye. It would click for him on the drive if it hadn't already. He would ask his mother questions. Will she answer them truthfully? Doubtful.

  Brian waved at his son and closed the door.

  The house was too quiet.

  14

  Bart Reider walked away from the construction site toward his truck. He threw his tools in the back of his pickup and climbed in, the old rusted door creaking. He turned the ignition and it fussed but started.

  Bart hadn't been able to work since his brother went missing. He felt physically ill every day. It was crippling. He wished it had been him that was taken instead. Derek was the mature one, the one willing to take on Dad’s farm when his health began to slide. It was important to keep the farm in the family, and though Derek never spoke of it, Bart guessed that he had other aspirations than being stuck in Naicam. He had always been more helpful than Bart on the farm, but that didn't mean it was his life's calling. Little brother had behaved as big brother.

  The construction gig had been really good to Bart and he had actually been enjoying it. Colleagues were awesome, his boss was great too, always letting them know how much he appreciated their long day of grunt work. They were treated to an endless supply of beer once a week.

  Now that he was back at work, it wasn't the same as before.

  His face was numb from the violent wind and he could feel the snot running down to the top of his lip. He wiped it away onto his work sleeve.

  The pain was never going to subside. He'd remain stuck, the image of his brother, white-skinned with blue lips, discarded in a ditch somewhere.

  As he tried to warm up his hands on the register, Bart felt a presence in his truck. It was drawing quiet breaths. His eyes drew up slowly, hoping he'd been deceived by his own senses. The rearview mirror aligned with his eyes, and there in the back sat a man. He was bald, a thick goatee on his face. His face was expressionless. Must be a drunk homeless guy.

  "Who the hell are you?"

  The man didn't move an inch, and his stare turned harsh.

  "Listen, buddy. I know it's cold out there, but you can't just break into people's trucks."

  Still, nothing.

  "Man…I’ll take you somewhere, but it's gotta be nearby. I'm not driving across the city for you. Okay?"

  The man tilted his head. He raised up a nail gun directly at Bart's head and pulled the trigger.

  The taste was redolent of copper, something inside his head continuing to fold apart, salty liquid pouring down his throat as he drowned in it.

  Choking. He couldn't stop choking.

  Eli thought about shooting a second nail through the center of his head. His first shot had pierced through on the right side, poking out above Bart Reider's eye. He leaned around to get a look at the wound. Bart Reider's wide eyes still showed signs of life. They darted back and forth in disbelief.

  Eli's toes scrunched up, a knot of giggles building and desperate to burst. The blood must have curdled in the back of his throat as he gagged and sputtered, red splattering onto

  the steering wheel, creating a new art piece that Eli couldn't have created himself. It was archaic in its pattern, yet he found it peaceful and assuring. If he had time, he would've disassembled the wheel and taken it home with him, but it wasn't worth the risk.

  The gags worsened, ripping out from his throat and then from a deeper place. One more blast of blood erupted from his mouth, making a mess of the masterpiece that had once been. Bart's head fell forward against the horn on the steering wheel, forcing Eli to move him back. To his delight, it was a brighter red than the last time. Eli gazed across the parking lot at two other trucks that remained.

  ***

  The binoculars gave Jennifer a clear view of Eli's house. Parked about a half-mile east, she reached into a cup of Christmas edition Smarties. She cracked one in her mouth as she peered through the lenses, waiting for him to walk out of his house holding a dead body with the murder weapon in his hand. Based on the blood-splattered patterns, fragments of maple wood from the first kidnapping, and the tooth left behind from Danny Adams, they were confident he was bludgeoning his victims, a strict policy that allowed only the baseball bat.

  The lights were off in his home, and there had been no activity for hours. Jennifer thought his truck was parked in the garage at first but was beginning to wonder if he was even home. What if he was killing Mia now as she sat there uselessly?

  How could Brian have been so careless? Was his apathy generated out of embarrassment or frustration with himself?

  She checked her phone. No texts.

  With the thought of Jacey's nude body, she set down the binoculars and leaned her head against the window. Jennifer went to her comfortable happy place, thinking about her body intertwined with Jacey's, and somewhere along the line, the night held her, and she fell asleep to the sound of the radio in the background.

  ***

  “Mirrors on the ceiling

  The pink champagne on ice

  And she said 'We are all just prisoners here, of our own device'

  And in the master's chambers

  They gathered for the feast

  They stab it with their steely knives

  But they just can't kill the beast"

  The Eagles verse clung to the man in black. Driving down highway 219 out of Saskatoon, the lyrics resonated. He was a prisoner, unable to leave his life. Taking someone's life didn't thrill him. The process did, along with the money an
d freedom that went with it. He couldn't kill the beast, however. There was no "normal" life for him.

  Snow was falling hard now. He wasn't far from Baker's home. He had been informed of the man named Baker. A man that wouldn't stop...unless he stopped him.

  He wasn't supposed to be here; he should have been back in the States by now. Check in, draw his new identity from a hat, and off he'd go. France, maybe.

  But there was something about the situation that he just couldn't stand staying away from. Taking Baker out was logical. It would have been the best decision for all parties

  involved, but Jennifer Allen was in the way. The order had not been made. It didn't appear it would.

  Nearing Eli's mansion, the man in black spotted a white car up ahead in the distance, parked on a side road. He turned right and detoured around. He would approach the home from the east. He'd have to get out and walk by foot to avoid being seen by Allen.

  He wanted so badly to go inside, to look Eli Baker in the eyes before eliminating him. But he wasn't being paid for that. Not yet anyhow, despite his professional opinion that wasn't valued by his employer. Wagner... He had only ever met the man once, and that was enough. He disliked the way he conducted himself. A superiority complex was Wagner best summed.

  He pulled out his binoculars and raised them to his eyes, and there weren't any looking back at him. Only a sleeping Jennifer Allen. Her brow was furrowed, intense, perhaps a troublesome dream that she could not wake from.

  He glanced at his pistol, a Swiss 3000 with a silencer, and he exhaled forcefully, irritated by his own obsession to indulge his curiosity. Binoculars to his eyes again, he stared at Jennifer, who was in the exact same position, head leaned up against the window, drool glistening on her chin. He looked at the bluff of trees to his right and smiled. I'll never be seen.

  Entering through the back, the man in black was surprised to find an elevator, one that he assumed could have been made by Baker. From cold cement, he stepped into the warmth and inched his way down a long and slender hallway, heading toward the main entrance. There was not a sound inside, no TV, no cooking, no shuffling, nothing. As he neared, the sound of a fire crackled. He crept around the

  corner, gaining a visual of the immaculate kitchen before turning to find the back of a head. The man was sitting perfectly upright, sipping his tea and watching the fire. He continued to approach, gun raised, absolutely no idea what he was going to do.

  Eli turned his head to set his tea down on a coaster. The man in black stopped. He flinched from words not expected. "Are you an employee of Pearson?"

  What is happening to me? He couldn't speak.

  "It's humorous in a way, isn't it? I was so concentrated on my own plans that I forgot others’ interests might be connected to my own. It's selfishness, is what it is. I'm working on it. Most don't."

  He took two more steps to the left to see if Eli had a weapon on the couch. He didn't, unless there was one hidden under the couch cushion.

  "I'm Eli. You are?"

  Decide.

  He had to see his face. Look into his eyes. He continued to angle around with caution, gun still raised. Eli turned his head.

  "You like guns too. I'm indifferent when it comes to pistols, but rifles—I'm particular in that regard."

  The man in black inched around, his feet sliding on the slick floor.

  "Can I get you some hot chocolate?"

  Finally, he turned to face him, his ass growing hot quickly against the fire. "No. Thanks though."

  "You look troubled."

  The man in black could not find anything. His instincts were gone.

  Eli continued, "Well, I understand. It isn't always clear. Can I ask you something intimate?"

  He nodded.

  "What do you desire?"

  "Desire?"

  "Yes, right now."

  His eyes finally settled on Eli's. They were hollow.

  "I don't know."

  "And before you entered? While you were in your car."

  "I thought I'd know when I saw you."

  "You are conflicted?"

  Eli picked up his tea and took another sip. "I wouldn't fret over that. It happens to us all. Especially those who are worthy."

  "Worthy of what?"

  "Living."

  Eli set his tea back down. "You had heard the stories? Question is, from whom?"

  He was speechless.

  "Not important." Eli remained upright but turned in his seat to face the man in black. "Do you view this as your make-or-break moment?"

  "Not exactly."

  "I see. You are a soldier, correct?"

  "Why would you think that?"

  "Your feet were too quiet. I almost missed it. And the way they align with your shoulders, even as you’re standing now… Would you like to use my land out back? It's almost like an arena of sorts." Eli grinned. "We can start on opposite sides and use a signal to begin."

  "Capture the flag?"

  "Wouldn't that be something?"

  "I think I would just kill you now."

  "Oh? Shame. Though I don't believe that for a second," said Eli.

  "Do you feel fear?"

  Eli's ears perked. "Yes. I feel it right now."

  "The tempo and pitch of your voice would suggest otherwise."

  "Right you are." Eli's gaze melted over the crackling fire. "My fear is different. I'm afraid that you will stop me from doing what I have to do. I'd like you to leave me to my work. As much as I enjoy your company, I'd like you to leave right now and never come back. Or at least not until I'm done. But I guess we never really are done, isn't that right?"

  The man in black wished to extend the conversation, but he didn't have time.

  "You'd like me to leave?"

  "Unfortunately, yes. You and I should meet on a future date. I want you to trust that what I'm doing here is important...I'm not crazy."

  "I know that."

  ***

  BANG.

  Jennifer reached for her gun. Two kids cackled and scurried off to their snowmobiles, the leftovers of a snowball sliding down her windshield. They revved their sleds, spraying snow back toward her parked car. She had nearly pissed herself from waking so abruptly and now she really had to go. She debated squatting in the ditch or beside her car with the door concealing her, but just then Eli pulled into his driveway. She hoped he hadn't spotted her car in the distance.

  Had he been away all night, or had he already come and gone, only to come back again? The time read 7:52 a.m. She had slept for five hours. With her binoculars back on the house, she observed Eli walking back outside toward his truck with a big plastic bag of what looked like hair. He got into his truck and slammed the door before backing out onto the grid road. He drove straight ahead without looking her direction, and Jennifer put her car in drive and followed.

  ***

  Jennifer tailed Eli through busy downtown traffic. He pulled into a parking lot by the Saskatoon Cancer Center and exited with the bags of hair.

  Five minutes later, she continued to follow Eli through the traffic. Jennifer turned her radio on. A current pop song winded down, switching over to the host.

  "Man! It is not warm out there! Does anyone else ever stare out their window and just think, why do we live here? Another beautiful day of minus thirty-three with the wind chill. You know what though? I know why I live here. It's the people. And hey, our battle through these lousy winters just makes summer that much more rewarding, right? I feel like if we had more summer months we wouldn't appreciate them as much. Then again, maybe not...hope all of you are having a good Friday. I'll do my best to put that clock of yours on fast-forward so we can get you well on your way to a weekend of Netflix in bed. I know that's what I'm doing. If you are out on the highways, please be safe out there, folks. We'll be back with some hits from the 90’s after this short message."

  Jennifer was ready. Whether it was Steven Adams or Bart Reider, it was going down soon.

  ***

  Eli
unbuttoned his shirt in his bathroom and gazed upon his tattoo-riddled body. The scales of judgment were leveled across from one another. Underneath, centered in his back, was a large eye with the Sigil of Baphomet on both sides. Surrounding the tattoos was Saskatchewan land consisting of icy tundra, spruce trees, upon which a raven sat perched up, wings expanded.

  Hot steam filled the bathroom as the shower ran. He admired his sharply toned muscles through the shower's sliding glass door into the mirror. The steam blurred his image.

  The man that entered was never exactly the same as the man that got out.

  Eli scrubbed himself clean. He lowered his head as the hot water ran down his backside, switching from his front which was deeply reddened.

  He wiped the fog from the shower glass and looked at himself in the mirror across from him—a portion not yet steamed over. His stare met his reflection. Studying the red lines rippling from the corners of the whites in his eyes, he lost himself...

  ***

  Young Eli scampered off the bus, anxious to get to the safety of his room. On his way through the door he could hear his foster brother, Rodney, throwing a fit in the living room. Chelsea had her hands full when he entered. Rodney was positioned up at the window, pointing out at the kids who were flying down the hill on their sleighs and shiny, colorful carpets.

  "There! There! Rodney said there!"

  "Rodney, do you want a snack?" Chelsea pleaded, overwhelmed.

  "There!"

  "We have to stay inside until your mom's home."

  "No, no, no, no."

  "Rodney—"

  "Don't! Don't, don't." Rodney tapped his head with his fist.

  "Don't do that Rodney. Don't hit yourself."

  "Don't, don't, don't."

  Chelsea reached out to grab Rodney's hand, but this set him off even worse. Rodney began to cry. "Rodney and Momma, Rodney and Momma!"