Cold Wind

by Paige Shelton

  His house was warm and comfortable, the fire and lantern light cozy, but primitive beyond anything even in Benedict.

  He must have read my mind. “I have a generator and some powered lighting, but I like to save it for when I’m working.”

  I took a sip of my hot chocolate. It was very good. “You make a living from animal pelts?”

  “It’s not for everyone, I know, but, yes, it’s what I do.”

  I took another sip, afraid that if I said anything else, I would sound stupid, patronizing, judgmental, or simply off my rocker.

  He brought his own mug over and sat in a chair facing me. He didn’t make small talk, but didn’t seem uncomfortable with the silence. I tried not to be.

  “You shop at the mercantile frequently?” I finally asked.

  He nodded. “Every few weeks or so. There’s another small shop up in Flynn. Sometimes I go there.”

  I had no idea where Flynn was.

  He continued, “There’s also a Tlingit village the other way and across the river. There’s a low-water area where you can cross sometimes. Brayn has a small general store if I just need a few essentials.”

  I nodded but didn’t mention that I’d just visited Brayn. I hadn’t seen a general store.

  “The police chief asked me the same question,” he added. “I don’t make an effort to get to know anyone, but I have talked to the man who runs the mercantile.”

  “Did Gril ask you about your property belonging to the State of Alaska?”

  “He did, and I told him it didn’t. He’s researching.”

  I looked at Lane, wondering if having company was work for him. Had he lived his life so completely alone? “Where were you born?”

  “In Brayn.” He looked into his mug for a moment. “I lived there until I was grown.”

  “Then you moved out here? Did you build this house?”

  “No, it was given to me. My way of life was taught to me.” He took a deep breath. “Where are you from?”

  “I moved to Benedict a few months ago, from Colorado. I fell off a horse and wanted to get away. I took over the Benedict Petition. Are you familiar with the newspaper?”

  “No,” he said. He looked so pointedly at me that my eyes opened a little wider. He said, “I read a lot of books, though.”

  As far as I could tell, there was not one book in the entire place. I nodded and took a drink. Surely I was imagining what I thought I’d seen in his eyes: recognition. I needed to have a firm sit-down with my imagination, rein it back in to where it was just a few days ago, before I knew my abductor’s name. There was no reason for me to have veered off the rails like this. Enough was enough.

  “I really feel terrible that I hit you. I’m very sorry,” I said.

  “Please don’t worry about it. I’m sure you were scared.”

  “I was.”

  We looked at each other for another long, uncomfortable moment.

  “I should have torn that shed down last year, but I got so sick last summer that I couldn’t leave my house for a month or so,” Lane said.

  “What kind of sick?”

  “Some sort of virus, a flulike thing.”

  “How did you manage out here? Did anyone help you?”

  “I was prepared enough. If I’d been stuck inside much longer, I would have struggled, but I got better. I didn’t have enough strength to take down the shed, but I didn’t expect it to be such a problem.” He frowned. “I don’t know the body.”

  “I don’t think Gril would have released you if he thought differently,” I said.

  “That’s correct.”

  The writer in me wanted to ask him more questions about his motivation for wanting to be so alone. But I didn’t know him, and truth be told, I didn’t like being inside his cozy home in the woods, all by ourselves.

  What had I gotten myself into? Even if I’d thought through the possible consequences of exploring the shed, I wouldn’t have predicted this outcome.

  I nodded and couldn’t stop myself. “Who’s buried out by the shed, Lane? I saw the gravestones.”

  “Family,” he said without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Who were the baby clothes for? The ones inside the shed?”

  Sadness spilled over his face. I bit back the apology that made its way up my throat. I really wanted an answer, but it was clear that I’d asked a painful question.

  Lane only shook his head. “You hungry?”

  “Oh. No. I should get going. Thank you for rescuing me, and for the hot chocolate. I think my clothes are dry.” I moved the blanket off my shoulders. I hadn’t taken my clothes off, but the dampness seemed to have dissipated. The fire was very warm.

  “No, not tonight. You’ll probably be able to get out of here in the morning, but not tonight. Too dangerous.”

  “People will be worried.”

  “Yes, but then they’ll be relieved that you’re still alive and didn’t try driving through something you shouldn’t have. That’s how it works out here.”

  “No way for me to call anyone?”

  Lane laughed once. “No, no signals at all. It’ll be okay. Seriously, it’s the right thing to do. I have extra beds. I have plenty of food.”

  I tamped down a good wave of anxiety.

  “I have books,” Lane said.

  He set his mug down on the coffee table and made his way to what I would have thought was the kitchen pantry. A long, narrow door covered some shelves at the end of the short countertop. He pulled the door open; the inside was well packed with books.

  “This is my disorganized library. I take some books on trade, I visit the Benedict library book sale every year, some people just give them to me. You might find something to read.”

  He closed the door and looked at me seriously.

  “If you had hit your head, I would have gotten you back to town. You’re okay, though, so just wait until the morning. Relax, get some rest.”

  “If I did anything to make the shed collapse, I’m very sorry.”

  Lane hesitated. “You shouldn’t have been there, Ms. Rivers. You were trespassing, and behaving ignorantly considering the landscape, terrain, and weather, but you didn’t destroy the shed. Like I said, I should have taken care of it last year. The police might be angrier with you than I am.”

  I swallowed. “Yes, I am truly sorry.”

  I held the mug in between my hands as I sent him an uncomfortable blink. I didn’t like the idea of staying here with him, but he was correct; it was the safe thing to do.

  He stood and walked toward one of the bedroom doors. “There are twin beds in here. Make yourself comfortable.”

  He walked to his bedroom door, opened it, and went inside without another word.

  I sat there a moment, listening to all the quiet. It was quieter even than snow falling. No television, no music, no other voices. The fire popped and I could hear small whooshes from the flames, but there was nothing else. If this was what he was used to, I could understand how even from a quarter mile away, he had heard my truck engine. I was grateful he had.

  I stood and walked to the hidden library, pulling the door open. At first it seemed disorganized, but I saw a pattern soon enough. Stacks and rows of thrillers and mysteries. I’d read many of them. I’d written six of them.

  Front and center on the top shelf, my books’ spines faced me. “Damn,” I said quietly. I looked toward his bedroom door, but it was shut tightly. Had he read them all? Was he a fan? Had he recognized me?

  There was simply no way I was sleeping overnight in this house out in the middle of nowhere. No way at all. I would rather die in my truck somewhere on the way back to Benedict than be there a moment longer.

  Lane was a stranger, but Travis Walker was in that house, too; sure, he was in my head, but he was there. He wouldn’t be in my truck. I wouldn’t let him in. I would have some control. I didn’t care one bit if I was making another unsafe decision. I didn’t care in the least if I was being stupid.

  I closed the
cabinet door. I grabbed my coat and gloves from a hook by the front door, fished my keys from my pocket, silently grateful Lane hadn’t kept them, and let myself quietly outside.

  It was still snowing, and an inch had accumulated on my truck, but he hadn’t reset his trap, so I wouldn’t set off that noise. He’d hear the truck again, but I didn’t care. I got in, pushed down the old locks on the doors, and turned the key. It started right up. Thank goodness for the tires, I thought for the millionth time as I steered without much slippage. There were no snowplows out here. But again, I simply didn’t care. I turned onto the road and inched my way back toward Benedict without one glance in my rearview mirror. But I knew he was watching me go. He and Travis were both watching. I had to rid myself of both, and thankfully, they got farther and farther away as I drove.

  Twenty-Five

  It was dark and cold inside the shed—my shed, the Petition. I turned on all the lights, giving the space a helpful glow, and cranked up the heat. I’d been there at night before, sometimes writing until the early morning.

  I had made it. It had been slow going, but I’d made it. I had the proper driving gear—the truck and its tires. However, the drive—I didn’t want to think of it as an escape, but I kind of did—had given me time not only to calm down, but also to think. I’d cycled through many things on that short but slow-going trip—fear, anger, embarrassment, even some real rage. But I hadn’t had any visions, and ultimately, I’d been relieved to be away from a place where I’d felt trapped, even if it had all been only my imagination.

  It was almost midnight by the time I made it to the Petition, but I was wide awake, and I needed the internet. Fortunately, Orin left the library’s server on all the time. If someone needed a connection after hours, they could park next to the building or sit on the front steps.

  A mudslide had occurred, and it seemed to have changed everything. Two girls, a woman’s dead body, and a man whom everyone had been unaware of were now exposed. As an aside, the man had all my books on his shelves and had behaved as if he might know who I was. To be fair, he wasn’t the only one. I’d seen many shelves with my books, but it had been the combination of all the other ingredients that made me run away.

  A knock sounded on the shed’s door. All the work I’d done to calm down fell into an invisible well. My heart rate sped up yet again as I grabbed the glass coffee carafe. This couldn’t be good.

  “Hey, Beth, it’s me,” Orin said from the other side.

  Air whooshed out of my lungs and my hands started to shake with the release of adrenaline. I cleared my throat. “One sec, Orin.”

  I was now tired and wired, anxious and nauseous, but I had to pull it together. I didn’t want Orin to see me in this state.

  I put my hand on the doorknob, took a few more deep breaths, and then unlocked and opened.

  “Hey,” I said as I pulled the door wide. “I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you.”

  Orin stood there with a folder tucked under his arm and his hands in his pockets.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, his breath making a foggy cloud.

  I nodded.

  “I’ve been waiting for you. I was working when I saw your truck head down that road. You were gone awhile. I was about to call Gril.”

  “I am fine, but I had an adventure, and though I’m very sorry you waited for me to return, I can’t tell you how happy I am that you were watching out for me. Thank you, Orin.”

  “You’re welcome.” His eyebrows came together. “Can I come in? Is it too late to share some information? And, do you want to tell me what you were doing?”

  “Come in.” I stepped back. “It’s not too late.”

  He hesitated, but then joined me inside.

  The typical Orin scent filled the shed, but this time it mixed with the cold. It wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, I took it in. Familiar and now comforting.

  We took the seats we always took as Orin placed the folder on my desk in between us. I slid my typewriter over an inch or two and gave him my full attention.

  Again, he hesitated. He probably really wanted to know what I’d been up to, but he didn’t immediately ask again. “All right, I’ve been at the library all day. I tried to call Gril but he’s probably busy. You’re the first one seeing this.”

  I nodded encouragingly.

  “Okay, let’s start with the Hortons. Do you remember us talking about them? The people whose house burned down in the fire?”

  “Yes, and only one girl’s body was found.”

  “And as far as we know, no one knows what happened to the other girl.”

  “Do you think it’s one of the girls who were here?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Seems plausible.”

  “It does. Around the time of the fire, about two months before it, actually, Randy and his wife Wanda Phillips came to Benedict. I don’t remember Wanda. I came to town around the same time, so maybe our paths just didn’t cross. Randy had their house built before they moved here. I think he wanted to surprise his wife. The house that Randy had built is almost identical to Paul and Audrey Horton’s house, the one that burned down; they were neighbors. Remember that detail. Wanda Phillips must have disappeared around the same time the Hortons left, after the tragic fire.”

  “Wait. Was her disappearance news back then?”

  “Nope,” Orin said. “I never once heard mention of it. You have to understand that once winter hits, people hunker down. By the time the next spring thaw came, she was probably forgotten about. We take care of our own out here; sometimes that means others do get forgotten. Here, I’ll show you what I found. Here’s record of the purchase of Randy and Wanda Phillips’s land—they bought it from the Hortons. There was no real estate agent involved. Not uncommon out here.”

  “Okay.”

  “It took me a while to even remember conversations about Wanda, but I might remember hearing at some point that Randy’s wife went back home to New York City. The news didn’t make an impression on me. There was no goodbye party. Nothing seemed strange. It just was what it was. Again, never a big topic of conversation.” Orin paused and looked at me.

  “I’m following.”

  “Good. Okay, here’s the really interesting part.”

  “Let me guess. You looked and couldn’t find her in New York?”

  Orin smiled. “Good work. That’s correct. But not only that, I couldn’t find her anywhere, Beth. I have access to databases that track Social Security numbers as well as credit reports. Wanda Phillips’s credit stopped being pinged, used, wasn’t checked, not long after the fire. No sign of her using her Social Security card for anything. I can’t find her anywhere.”

  I bit my bottom lip. “Is there a chance she could have just stopped needing credit? Maybe they had a home that was paid for and she just moved back into it. It’s a stretch, I know.”

  Orin nodded once. “You’re kind of onto something, though. I found their old address in New York City, and they did not sell it; they are still listed as its owners.”

  “So she moved back there?”

  With a satisfied expression, Orin shook his head. “No one has lived there for six years.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I started with utility companies. Then, I confirmed with their building’s co-op board. Their apartment is and has been empty. Once a week, someone comes in to check things, look around.”

  “How did you do that?”

  He sent me an incredulous look. “I have my ways.”

  “Okay, so Randy must know she didn’t go back there?”

  “I don’t know what Randy knows. But she didn’t go anywhere, Beth, not as far as I can tell.”

  “And now her body has been found in Lane’s shed?”

  “I don’t know. Was it her?”

  I suddenly realized I knew things Orin didn’t. He might not know about the wrist tattoo. Did he even know Randy had been taken to Juneau? Now I told him everything, including what I’d been up t
o that evening. He was curious and then visibly angry at my bold move in exploring Lane’s now collapsed shed.

  “Aw, Beth, please don’t do stuff like that. It’s just plain stupid,” he said.

  I blinked. “I know. I’m sorry. But if the shed hadn’t collapsed, I’d have been in and out and back quickly.”

  “It was snowing and you didn’t tell anyone where you were going.”

  “True.”

  “Never again, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. Now, Gril has the tattoo as the only distinguishing feature so far?”

  “Yes, and the Juneau ME, an interesting woman named Christine, is the one who did the research.”

  “Ah, tattoo research. She’s good. I’d like to meet her.”

  “There’s such a thing as tattoo research?”

  “If you’re good. If I had a picture, I might be able to track down the same things she has, but I bet she was able to find the artist. Maybe someone nearby in Juneau, and then it’s a matter of hoping for accurate and archived sales records. Who knows, but there are ways. I’ll ask Gril for a picture. Does she think the body is Wanda’s?”

  “I don’t know exactly. She took Randy to Juneau for identification purposes, and maybe booking, I guess. I doubt more than one woman around here would fit the description so precisely.”

  “Can’t think that way. If the tattoo artist was a local, more than one woman with brown hair could have that tattoo.”

  “It’s close to a perfect murder, you know? I mean, they move here and a month later Wanda ‘goes back home.’ No one in either place would spend too much time wondering. Maybe Randy is sending fake emails to friends. It’s well thought out,” I said.

  Orin tapped his lips with his fingers. “Sort of. If the body had disappeared forever, then it would’ve been perfect. If it’s Wanda, she’s been on ice somewhere and just became exposed. Why now?”

  “What if a body is thrown into the ocean. Is that a guarantee that it will disappear?”

  “It would take a boat and some weights, but currents are strong. A body can resurface and show up on a shoreline somewhere.”