Deadfall

by Stephen Wallenfels

  “Then what?”

  “We stopped for a deer in the road. Then we found a girl named Astrid in a trunk. And here we are.” Saying we makes me think about Ty, and how that part of the we is gone and how I keep secretly hoping that he will stick his head through that flap and say, Let’s get the fuck out of Dodge. But with every passing minute the degrees of separation from that hope become more and more distant. I fight back tears. It’s a losing battle.

  “I’m…” She stops what she was going to say and changes course. “You said your father found this place.”

  Wiping my eyes I say, “Years ago. I was still in diapers.”

  I’ve done enough damage here. I unwrap the last two gauze bandages, place them over the wound, then wind the compression bandage around it, hold it in place with a strip of tape.

  “There,” I say with the biggest fake smile I can muster. “All cleaned and good as new.”

  “You said you wouldn’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not.” Certain that she knows I am.

  She takes a deep breath, coughs. “Pills and water, please.”

  “Sure. And drink what you need. I have a plan.”

  After she’s finished and settled in, she says, “Tell me about Stumptown.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “You said your father found it. How did he find a place that is impossible to find?”

  “That’s an excellent question.” I tell her about the arrow-shot elk, how Benny followed the blood trail to this hideout that was built by some mystery person for some mystery reason in the 1950s.

  “How do you know it was the 1950s?”

  “One of the soup cans has an expiration date of June 1956. And there’s a Playboy magazine in this trunk with Marilyn Monroe, Miss December, 1953, on the cover.”

  “At least we have some reading material.”

  “When we’re desperate.” We both go silent, probably thinking the same thing: If this isn’t desperate, then what is? I say, “Benny took us here for our birthday. That’s when we named it Stumptown. He promised that we’d come back for a secret getaway, eat trout from the creek and live like robbers and kings.”

  “Did you do that?”

  “No. He moved us to Portland the next day to start a tow truck business. He got…sidetracked.”

  “Does he know you’re here?” she asks hopefully.

  I smile. “Actually, he’s in my pack. Would you like to meet him?”

  Her eyebrows gather. “Uh…sure.”

  “Good. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.” I put the bloody bandages in the toilet hole, doing my best to hide the carnage from her view, then reach into the front pocket of my pack and take out the plastic pill bottle and hand it to her. “Benny, meet Astrid What’s-Her-Name. Astrid, meet Benny Bic.”

  There were lots of things she could have said, like I’m so sorry or This is too weird or That’s disgusting. Instead she surprises me with “It’s nice to meet you, Benny Bic. Why are you here with your son?”

  “Give me the bottle. I’ll show you.”

  She gives me the bottle. I crawl over the bags of money and drugs to the stove. “Welcome home, Dad. May you rest in peace.” I open the bottle and dump his remains into the stove.

  After a respectful silence, Astrid says, “But what if I want to light a fire in that stove?”

  I say, “Considering how Benny died, I don’t think that would bother him at all.”

  I pick up the empty water bottle and head for the door.

  LUSTER, OR.

  SIX MONTHS AGO

  37

  They agreed to meet at the south end of the soccer field at 3:45. But it started raining at noon and didn’t let up. She walked up to him in the hall between fifth and sixth period, said, “Gazebo, three forty-five,” and walked away.

  He arrived first and walked out to the gazebo. The wood floor still had the splatter outline of Stellah’s shoes when he yacked all over them. Kayla’s VW showed up a couple minutes later. He watched her make her way across the wet grass, the hood of her black jacket pulled up over her head. She lowered her hood, sat beside him facing the pond. Other than the ducks huddled together, heads tucked under their wings, they were alone.

  She said, “Someone didn’t do their CPR homework.”

  He said, “Someone forgot.”

  “You do your compressions too hard.”

  “The dummy lived. That’s all that matters.”

  “Maybe. But the trauma will scar it for life. It will have to retire from the CPR circuit and live a childless life full of loneliness and despair.”

  “Or,” Cory said, “it could write a tell-all book called CPR for Dummies, sell a million copies, and move out of that Red Cross duffel bag into a mansion, get married, have dummy babies, and live happily ever after.”

  “You’re still an optimist.” She popped a stick of gum in her mouth. “That means you haven’t been absorbed yet.”

  Cory wasn’t sure he heard her right. “Do you mean adopted? Because we’re just placed—”

  “No. I don’t mean adopted. I mean absorbed.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The Mott family doesn’t just take you in. They absorb you. Then they spit you out.”

  “Still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Has he taken you fishing?”

  “Won’t happen. I hate fishing. Stinky hands. Ugly vests. Worms…”

  “He’ll take you. Then you’ll understand. But by that time it will be too late. Your fate is sealed, Cory Bic.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  She stood and started walking on one of the two-by-four floorboards. Placed one foot in front of the other like a gymnast on a balance beam. “How are Chloe and Justin?”

  “Chloe designed a prom dress for you.”

  “She’s such a sweetie. Did you see it?”

  “Yes. It’s backless, lots of lace with a fun neckline. A classic.”

  “I’d like to see it. Will you bring it to me?”

  That meant they’d meet again. “Sure.”

  Kayla reached the opposite side of the gazebo. She spun a half circle on one foot, arms framed in front of her ballerina-style, and walked toward him. Said with her eyes lasering into his, “But wait! There’s a problem. Haven’t you heard? You’re not supposed to talk to me.”

  “Not officially. Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”

  “Officially, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m toxic. Like this pond when all the fish died.”

  “Why are you toxic?”

  “I’m sure someone’s told you by now. It’s basically the first thing anyone says after welcome to fucking Luster.”

  “Nope. Definitely not the first thing I heard.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “ ‘That will be five dollars and sixteen cents. Do you want a bag?’ ”

  “Then you’re not listening, Cory Bic.” She leaped forward off one foot, landed three feet away on the other foot. Stuck the landing dead center on the board.

  Cory clapped. “That was very impressive. The gazebo judge gives it a five point nine.”

  “It’s more impressive on a real beam.”

  “Are you a gymnast?”

  “Was.”

  “What happened?”

  After a beat, “I became unbalanced.”

  She sat next to him again. Eyes on the pond, she asked, “Who were you with in here?”

  Cory was surprised she saw him. He thought she drove away. Was she spying on me? And if yes, then why? “She’s a friend from Portland.” Then, before she could squeeze in a follow-up: “I saw you smoking. Was it weed?”

  “You have good eyes, Cory Bic.”

  “Not really. I’m just…familiar with the product.”

  “Want to know why I was here smoking weed watching you watch me?”

  “Sure.” He liked it when she asked the question he was
going to ask her.

  “It relaxes me. So I come here and smoke up before I have to do something I don’t want to do.”

  “Is it helpful?”

  “Usually.”

  It sure wasn’t for Benny B.

  She asked, “Want to know who taught me that trick?”

  “Okay.”

  Her eyes shifted from the pond to him. “The future senator.”

  That answer set him back a second or two. Meanwhile, a dark two-door coupe pulled into the lot. Her eyes flicked away. She seemed to tense. Cory asked, “What was the thing you don’t want to do?”

  “Next question.”

  Of the fifty still in his head, Cory asked, “Why did you tell me not to text you?”

  The coupe drove away. Kayla watched its taillights fade in the misting rain. She stood, walked to the stairs leading down to the grass, paused to stick her gum under the rail. Cory could see a mound of them, an inverted sugarless volcano. She turned and looked at him. “Before I go, tell me one true thing about you that no one else knows. You have this many seconds.” She held up five fingers, then four.

  He felt her watching him as he struggled to find an answer that didn’t hurt. Cooking was his go-to secret, but he had already told that to Stellah. He could lie and make something up, but he didn’t want to do that. He had this feeling that she would know and be disappointed. With one finger remaining he blurted out, “I’m scared! Every morning when I wake up. I’m always scared.”

  Kayla held his eyes for a few moments, her head tilted slightly as if assessing the value of each individual word. Then she smiled. “I like you, Cory Bic. You’re not rude like your brother.” She raised her hood and left.

  Not rude like my brother?

  What the hell?

  STUMPTOWN

  NOW

  38

  I need to spend as little time as possible outside and not make an obvious mess. Reaching a few feet beyond the stump, I scoop four handfuls of snow into the water bottle, then do my best to smooth out what I did. Not perfect, but hopefully good enough. I take one more scan of the area—see nothing other than the tracks that are starting to fill in. My right leg twitches. I want to run down to Anvil Rock because maybe we got our messages crossed and Ty is waiting for us there. I fight off that urge. He said give him two days, and this is day two. Which reminds me about the letter—the letter I don’t want to read because of what it would mean. My entire body tenses. I want to scream into this falling snow that is trapping me here: TY! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU? But that would be stupid on too many levels. I whisper the words instead.

  Then turn and head for the hole.

  Astrid is on her back, eyes closed. I hope she’s sleeping because I need some quiet time to work a few things out in my head. I slip the bottle of snow down to the bottom of my sleeping bag, then zip in and focus my eyes on the elephant in this room: ziplock bags filled with money and drugs.

  How did it get here?

  It has to be Benny. Ty said he was skimming. I had my doubts. Benny wasn’t that ambitious or organized. He had grand ideas but never followed through, except when Tirk was involved. But what I’m seeing here suggests that Ty was right. It’s the only explanation—unless Benny told someone else about Stumptown. If he did that, who would it be? And why? I decide that Benny treasured this “one in a million” secret too much to trust it to anyone other than me and Ty, and even when he told us, it was because he had to.

  Astrid moans softly. I wait to see if she settles, and she does.

  The next question on my greatest-hits list: How did Benny do it? He must have been sneaking it up here after we moved to Portland. It’s possible it was up here when Benny introduced us to Stumptown, but there is meth in that load, and Benny didn’t get into meth until after he met Tirk—at least that I knew of. Besides, I remember a conversation in the truck when Benny said, “Business is about to get a shitload better,” but he wouldn’t say what that shitload looked like.

  Well, Benny, this sure looks like a shitload to me.

  While Tweaker Teeth trashed Benny’s bedroom and the kitchen, Tirk had asked all those questions about Benny and the shed and if he’d been letting anyone in. On the morning after Benny was killed, when Detective Ostrander grilled us about what we saw, then revealed that Benny was working with him as an informant, I figured there it was—that’s why Tirk stopped by for a chat, and later why he hit Benny with the hammer and locked him in the shed. Ty had it right again: Benny was a snitch. But maybe it was something else that Tirk wanted.

  And then there’s the big question coming out of left field: Astrid.

  Why was she in the trunk of a car? And why in this forest? On that night?

  Astrid moans again, mumbles some words. She starts twisting and turning in her sleeping bag, like she’s fighting off some unseen demon. I’m afraid she’s going to hurt her arm, so I reach out and gently shake her shoulder. “Astrid, wake up. You’re having a bad dream.” Her eyes fly open. They are alive with that fresh-out-of-a-trunk-filled-with-gasoline look.

  I say, “Hey, it’s me. You’re okay.”

  She sees me, blinks twice. “I thought…I thought you had left me.”

  “I was only gone a couple minutes.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Just outside. I brought you a treat.” I reach into the depths of my sleeping bag and show her my creation.

  She frowns. “A bottle of snow?”

  “Oh, it’s way more than just snow. It is delightfully seasoned with needle of pine, reindeer moss, and a hint of mud. It’s a veritable trifecta of flavor and nutrition.”

  “But you said we can’t eat snow.”

  “I did say that. But I had an idea thanks to you. If I put this bottle in my sleeping bag my body heat will melt the snow. Then we can drink it.”

  “Brilliant,” she says. “But why thanks to me?”

  “Because I was thinking that if your fever got too high, I could cool you off with snow. Which of course would melt and then we’d have water.”

  I return the bottle to the depths of my sleeping bag, then dig a granola bar out of my backpack and break it in half. I need her to answer some of those questions knocking around in my head, and there’s no better time to have a conversation than over a good meal. “Let’s have breakfast or lunch or whatever this is. And maybe you can tell me a story about you.”

  “What would you like to hear?”

  “Everything.”

  Astrid says that when we showed up she didn’t know why she was in the boot of a car, why she was covered in petrol, how her wrists and ankles got tied with plastic. She didn’t know what her name was, or where she was from. She didn’t know why she couldn’t talk—just that when she opened her mouth it wouldn’t happen. And she wasn’t even sure she could trust us. All Astrid knew at that time was someone had done bad things to her, that same someone said, “I’ll be back for you,” and that to stay alive she had to get away. Astrid said the pieces started returning to her in a jumble when we woke and saw the deer. Something I had said triggered memories and they came at her like a flood.

  Taking my last bite of the granola bar, I say, “If I may be so bold…what were those memories?”

  “The first thing I remembered was a phone call. I had a mask over my eyes. A voice on the line said, ‘Astrid, honey, is that you? Talk to me. Please.’ ”

  “That’s when you scratched your name in the snow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it one of your parents?”

  “I think so. My mum. I couldn’t talk. He got mad. He called me a stupid bitch. He…he pushed me to the floor and kicked me.”

  I remember the bruises on her body when I pulled up the hoodie. That must be where they came from. I know this is hard for her, but I have to press on. “What else was in the flood?”

  “It was all so random. There was a van that smelled like dog. A gun in my face. A needle stabbed into my leg. Floating…” She pauses, licks her lips. I hand her the
water bottle. She sips, closes her eyes, and takes a breath. Like she’s gearing up for something really bad. Although what I’ve heard so far is pretty grim already. “Since then it’s been coming back to me in bits and pieces.”

  I pause. “Do you want to talk about those bits and pieces?”

  Astrid’s gaze shifts to the roof above her. Her silence makes me think she’s ready for this conversation to end—but I’m wrong. She says, “We were chained to the floor.”

  “We?”

  “There was another girl. Our ankles were chained to the same bolt. Like dogs. The floor was dirt, except for concrete around the bolt. The air smelled like onions.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “I don’t know. Days? Weeks? We slept on mats with a blanket. It wasn’t enough. We huddled together to stay warm. She cried a lot.”

  “My God, Astrid. This is so awful.” I see the pain deep in her eyes. “Is this too hard for you? Do you want me to stop asking questions?”

  She shakes her head. “I need to do this. I’ll let you know if it’s time to stop.”

  After a beat I say, “Did you know the girl’s name?”

  “She spoke a different language. Russian, I think? I hardly understood anything she said. But I think her first name was Yana. I could never say her last name right.”

  “Where were you?”

  “I don’t know. It was always so dark. There were stairs going up.”

  I think about where she was, and what she must have thought when I showed her the stump and said, “Here we are!” No wonder she freaked. “Were you in a basement?”

  “Maybe. The stairs would creak when he came down. We hated that sound.”

  I look at the money and drugs. Then I think about Benny and his world and Astrid and her world and I can’t help but wonder if somehow these worlds collided in this place. But all I have are dots. I don’t have the lines that connect them. I ask, “What did he look like? Was he big? Small? Did he have a beard?” I know it’s a leap, but it’s the only leap I’ve got. If it was Tirk or his minion, Tweaker Teeth, I’m rooting for the minion. Ty, even on his worst day, could take him down. But Tirk—I’m afraid if there were three Tys, that still wouldn’t be enough.