CHAPTER 31
Margo’s sister Heather and her husband, Charles, had been grateful at first. Her sister often wrote describing how Margo’s “niece” was doing. She’d even sent pictures of the child. Heather said Olivia’s arrival had made her life complete, that she had the perfect daughter, the perfect life. The baby was getting the best possible care, was a member of their family. But Margo still felt empty. She wondered if she would’ve felt the same emptiness if anonymous strangers had adopted Olivia. Would out of sight, out of mind have spared her the anguish?
According to plan, Margo stayed in Birmingham to separate herself from Heather and Olivia. She didn’t want to live with her parents anyway. Not until the summer after her freshman year at Duke University in North Carolina did she return to Spokane for two weeks. Her bedroom had been converted into a sewing room, and she had to sleep on a cot among the threads and bobbins and assortments of fabrics. Her school friends had grown apart from her, so she spent most of her time hanging out with her younger sister, Blanche.
When Margo first set eyes on Olivia, a precocious two-year-old, she fell in love with her. Since the time of the birth, Margo had convinced herself that she was only Aunt Margo, but that changed when she saw Olivia’s eyes. They were as brilliant blue as the eyes of her biological father, the boy who’d gone by the silly name Keystone. Maybe she should’ve found that disturbing since she never once tried to look for him or tell him about the child. Her parents hadn’t either. No one seemed to care one ounce about him. At the time, it was too complicated to bother with anything like that, which was exactly what the Fletcher family convinced themselves of. Another skeleton in the closet, one not to be exhumed. Other than those blue eyes, Olivia looked like Margo, not like her sisters. If the child had only looked like Heather or Blanche, it might not have been so troubling. But the child’s physical resemblance to Margo only made her seem more like Margo’s child.
On their first meeting, Margo kneeled down and said, “Hey, sweetie, I’m your—Aunt Margo.” Except she almost swallowed the words Aunt Margo.
“Momma,” Olivia said, and grasped Heather’s leg. Heather smiled. Margo wanted to die.
Margo steeled herself and forced out the next words. “Grandma Emma and I made you a little blanket. To play with your dolls and to sleep with if you like. Grandma Emma likes to quilt. You’ll see it has pink hearts and purple butterflies. We didn’t know which color was your favorite.”
“Pink,” Olivia said in a precious, small voice.
When Margo handed Olivia the blanket, the child’s eyes sparkled.
“What do you say to Aunt Margo?” Heather said in a firm voice that reminded Margo of her father’s.
“Thank you, Aunt Margo,” Olivia said.
Margo hugged the child and told her that she was welcome. Was it her imagination, or did Heather’s posture stiffen when Olivia hugged Margo back?
A few weeks after Margo left, Blanche told Margo in a phone conversation that Olivia had become so attached to the blanket that she took it with her everywhere she went. She also told Margo that Heather had several times tried to take the blanket from Olivia—resulting in hysterics from the child—until Charles convinced Heather to relent.
Now, from the forest observation tower, Margo prayed her unborn child would have the chance to carry a favorite blanket or stuffed animal.
She rose and stretched. The smell from her soiled clothes permeated her nostrils. She’d have to find a way to bathe. Then the baby moved a limb, the ripple visible through her shirt. Thank God her body took care of the baby’s needs.
She walked from window to window, studying the surroundings. No telling how long Nick had been gone. Then she saw traces of footprints in the snow that led down the incline they’d climbed to get to the tower. Nick was right—one misstep would’ve been deadly.
She went to the kitchenette and scrounged around. Inside a cabinet below the counter, a few pans were tucked up on a shelf. In an upper cabinet, she found some dishes. Inside one of the drawers, she found utensils and packets of salt and pepper and a pack of matches with three matches left. Those three meager pieces of paper with a minute amount of explosive on each tip had the potential to save a human life.
A gust of wind beat hard against the windowpanes, sounding as if a pane of glass had broken.
Margo flinched and dropped the matchbook, which slid behind the counter. She reached for them, but the girth of her belly stymied them. Nick would have to deal with that later.
She walked to the center of the room and studied the map table. From a faded red dot marking their location, it appeared that they were on top of Scalplock Mountain, about five miles from the highway. A doable walk without the snow but now seemingly impossible. She traced her finger along the trails, memorizing the pathways to fill the time.
Then the sky darkened, which meant more snow. The room was also getting cold, and the wood was gone. She walked downstairs to look for more, but it was too dark to see, so she headed back up. When she rounded the corner and the surface of the top floor came into view, she noticed a radio sitting on a low shelf cabinet. That she could reach. It wasn’t a two-way radio, but it still served as a connection to the outside world. She pumped the handle for power, but before the radio powered on, the door downstairs opened, and footsteps echoed up to the second floor.
She set the radio back on the shelf, “Nick?”
“Be right up,” he replied and soon mounted the stairs.
As he turned the corner, her eyes widened when she recognized what he was carrying. The sight made her both ravenous and nauseous. “You killed a deer?”
He set the animal down on the counter near the sink. “Baby elk.”
“I hope you don’t plan on butchering it in here.”
His eyes narrowed in irritation. “We can’t leave the carcass outside. It would attract predators.”
“Of course, you’re right. As usual. What can I do to help?”
“You can get out one of those pans, and we’ll cook some of this meat.”
“I want to ask how you killed this animal, but a part of me really doesn’t want to know.”
She met his questioning eyes.
“Okay, so tell me then.” She needed to praise his efforts, not act like a schoolgirl. It might be the way to loosen him up. Then she added, “No reason girls can’t become good hunters.”
“I set a trap, something for the animal to fall in. The key is knowing how to find a herd and then spook them into running in the right direction. The hard part is avoiding the adult animals.”
“What did you use as a weapon?”
“I found a shovel downstairs. How much more do you want to know?”
She raised a hand.
“I didn’t think you’d be so squeamish after having worked in an emergency room.”
Margo tensed. She’d never told Nick she worked in an emergency room. Had she? No, she certainly didn’t remember that.
Who was this man?
CHAPTER 32
The day after Andie’s murderous death, someone tapped on Nick’s barrack’s door.
“Sergeant, it’s time,” a soldier said. Nick rose from his chair and headed out toward Andie’s casket, which was sitting next to the cargo bay of the transport plane. The base chaplain, a tall, lanky, youngish man who looked more like a college basketball player than a member of the clergy, said a few words, all scripted—the same script he’d used for other fallen soldiers who had shipped out earlier that morning. After the God rest her soul part, the pallbearers began wheeling the casket toward the ramp to place it inside the cargo hold. “Wait, Chaplain,” Nick said as he walked toward the casket. “Please open it.”
“I’m sorry, Sergeant, we can’t do that,” the chaplain said. “Her wishes were for a closed casket.”
“Do it, sir,” Nick said, with a tinge of menace in his voice.
The soldiers in attendance fidgeted nervously. Not only was Nick making a morbid demand, but he was also cha
llenging a superior. Enlisted men didn’t talk that way to captains, chaplains or not.
The chaplain stared at Nick and nodded. “Open it, Corporal,” he said to the soldier in charge of the depressing task.
The corporal complied.
Nick walked over and looked at Andie. There was no more blood, no more ripped flesh. She was laid out in her dress uniform. Her body had been cleaned, her hair styled in a tight bun. How beautiful she looked, like a doll in a package just waiting to be opened.
Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. It was as if a massive wrecking ball had slammed into his chest. His mouth went dry, and his knees were about to go weak, but he dug down deep for that reservoir of dispassion he’d first found in grade school and forced himself to hide his distress. He stood more erect, and saluted Andie.
“Close it,” the chaplain said.
Nick couldn’t bear it. He took a step closer and touched her hands, which lay folded gracefully across her chest. He’d always marveled at how her hands could be strong and delicate at the same time. Those hands had protected the innocent, had killed those who were evil. Her flesh was cold and warm at the same time—cold clay of death, warm from the scorching sun. How was that possible? The temperature was already in the nineties, and he was perspiring profusely like everyone else, so undoubtedly the others would confuse his tears for sweat. Sergeant Nick Eliot didn’t cry. He wanted to touch her face, but that, like his tears, would show weakness, would reveal something about himself he had to keep hidden. Instead, he slipped the pearl engagement ring he had purchased in New Zealand onto her finger. He’d been waiting for the right romantic moment, but that time would never come. But she would forever be his.
“Step back, Sergeant,” the chaplain said to Nick. “Let her go. It’s not your fault.”
“I never said it was,” Nick replied.
CHAPTER 33
Margo and Nick sat together at the small table, eating cooked elk and drinking sterilized water. She wanted to ask him about how he knew she was an ER doctor. But she couldn’t. Maybe if she could get him to talk more, he would reveal something that would ease her mind. But even in repose, he wasn’t much of a talker. He hardly uttered a word unless she prodded it out of him. It was almost as if her presence was the cause of his reticence.
“You’re still limping,” she said. “More, actually, since the fall on the steps. Now that we’re warm, I really should take a look.”
“It’s fine. Just a scratch.”
“I’m worried that you haven’t been able to keep it clean, and it’ll get infected.”
He looked up. “There isn’t much I can do about that at the moment.”
“Yes, there is. We can make soap from the animal fat.”
His eyes widened, and he shook his head slightly, as if he were wondering why he hadn’t thought of that himself.
Finally, he seemed to understand that she could be helpful.
“We’ve got a pan; we just have to mix the fat with cold water and refrigerate it,” she said. “We can set it out on the balcony. When the fat hardens, we discard the water and keep the soap frozen until we’re ready to use it.”
He nodded and stood. “I need to clean up the dishes.”
“I have some news.”
He set the dishes on the counter and looked at her with a curious expression.
She pushed her weight forward and got to her feet. She walked across the room and found the radio where she’d left it on a shelf. “A radio,” she said, holding it up.
“Interesting,” he said, his tone even and not excited as she’d expected.
“I thought you’d be happy.”
When he didn’t respond, she returned to the table and sat down. “It’s not a two-way radio, unfortunately. It’s the kind you power up with a crank.”
“Let me see it.”
When he sat down, she handed the radio to him, and he began turning the crank. A few minutes later, he tried switching it on. No luck. He located the battery compartment and slid off the lid.
“Battery’s corroded.” He brushed it against his pants, got up, and went over to the kitchenette. After rummaging through the drawers and cabinets, he found a long nail. Returning to the table, he began shaving off the corrosion. Once the battery was shiny, he put it back into the radio and cranked the handle again. This time, the radio powered on.
Her heart soared. Finally, a taste of the outside world.
He turned the dial back and forth slowly at first, but got no reception, only static.
“Let me try,” Margo said.
To her mild surprise, he handed the radio over without objecting.
She played with the dial until she heard faint voices. There was too much static to get clear reception. She rose and walked around the room, holding the radio high and ultimately finding a sweet spot in the room. Country music, Clint Black’s “The Hard Way,” was playing, still accompanied by a lot of static, but recognizable. She closed her eyes and sang along, gently swaying to the soft melody. She only knew a few of the country artists. Her father detested the style of music. But her mother, an Alabama girl, had her favorites—Patsy Cline, Tammy Wynette, Emmylou Harris.
When Margo was a kid, her mother, when not driving with Professor Fletcher, would tune the radio in the car to the classic country station. She knew this song, which seemed to tell the story of her life. Until it’s gone it can’t be missed …. She lost herself in the music, becoming one with it, so much so that she felt truly connected with the outside world. She imagined reaching an arm over the mountains, away from the ice and snow, and pulling her body back home to safety.
The song ended, followed by more static. An announcer said the local news and weather was up next. Still more static.
A loud boom pounded on the floor, as if a tree had fallen inside the house, but it was Nick stomping his foot.
He shouted, “Stop it!” and knocked the radio from her hand. The device smacked the ground with a horrible crack-thud, and the crank handle broke off and slid across the floor.
Margo froze as she watched the handle come to a stop. Then she cut her eyes toward Nick.
His chest heaved as he stood glowering.
Anxiety slammed into her chest. As if a massive wave had engulfed her body, she felt as if she’d been forced below water. Her fingers and toes instantly numbed and began to throb. She slowly stepped back, trembling. There was nowhere to go. Even if she’d wanted to run, he stood in the path to the door.
He looked away and turned toward the window. Had he cracked under the pressure?
She forced herself to maintain control when all she wanted was to fall apart. This couldn’t escalate, couldn’t go any further. He needed reassurance. That was all.
Keeping her voice low, she managed to say, “What’s going on, Nick?”
He gaped at her, wild-eyed. Moments later, he shook his head. “The static. It got louder, and I … It doesn’t happen often, but the static. IEDs the Taliban use sound like this, I lost four of my platoon.”
So, he was suffering from PTSD. From her ER experience, she knew that the smallest, most inconsequential occurrence could bring on a manic or psychotic episode. She’d seen former military vets lose it and have to be taken down by orderlies or security guards and then sedated. When she worked at Marshall General, a disabled vet went on a rampage in his neighborhood, banging mailboxes with his fists and threatening to kill his neighbors and anyone who stepped on his property. The event was triggered by the postman coming to his door with a piece of registered mail. After the vet’s wife was able to calm her husband, she brought him to the ER and had his hand stitched up. He looked in control at first, but when a nurse asked him what had happened, the episode was re-triggered. Before all hell broke loose, the attending nurse was able to stick him with one hell of a powerful sedative. Margo didn’t have the luxury of attendants nor the medications to calm Nick down.
Her hands were shaking, so she clasped them together to conceal the tremors. Whatever sh
e did, she couldn’t appear frightened. She should have expected this, should have seen it coming. It was all too clear now. Nick’s tough exterior was just that—an act. All along, he had been bottled up with dynamite looking for a fuse. His quiet but hard nature, his directness without much compassion, his need to be in control were all evidence that he was fighting demons. And yet, he’d done nothing before this to reveal his instability. Usually there was a hint. Not with Nick Eliot.
He raked his hands through his hair and exhaled. “We’re in a life-and-death situation. I’m doing the best I can to keep you safe. But you just keep on and on with your insubordination and your nonsense.” This episode had far from passed. She was no longer simply his pedestrian foot soldier, she was a soldier in his platoon who’d crossed the line and disobeyed. Worse, she had become his enemy. If he became any more manic, anything might happen.
“Of course you’re doing your best, Nick,” she said in an even voice. “Thank you. Sincerely. I’m going a little crazy here myself.”
His face hardened again, and he advanced on her at lightning speed, stopping inches from her face. How foolish of her. She’d used the wrong words.
“You think I’m crazy? Is that it? Crazy?” he spat.
She took a few steps back to put space between them.
“Answer me!” he said.
“No, of course not. I’m sorry. You’ve been remarkable, getting us through this. If not for you, my baby and I would be dead. I’m so very grateful. I just want to go home. I know you do too.” She paused, then tried a technique that sometimes worked in the hospital. “Tell me about yourself, Nick. After all we’ve been through, I really want to get to know you better. So I can be better help to you. Please. I’m sorry if I’ve made the situation worse. I just want to help.”
Cover Your Tracks Page 16