Understory

by Lisa J. Lickel

  It might be crazy, but she was not going to speak at all in front of this Taylor guy. She didn’t trust herself not to accidentally say something stupid, and the less he heard from her, the better. If she could hold out another day, disappear, he’d probably forget about this little interruption in his life.

  Kenny…boy, stay savvy and quick. Keep out from under your ma’s hand. Don’t go anywhere with someone you don’t know. In fact, don’t go anywhere with Uncle Art. She’d never actually said that to him, but Kenny wasn’t crazy about Art anyway. Instilling survival skills into her scrawny, sweet nephew made him less vulnerable, as Berta was unpredictable. Loving Mama one day, wicked witch the next. Berta might let Kenny stay with her at her house overnight when Berta wanted to go out, but when he asked to come over, Berta told him no. The boy sported more bruises than a kid got from playing in the woods or running into things on the playground. A broken wrist had brought an investigation, after which Berta promised to be good.

  But was Kenny safe now? Maybe the storm would keep trouble at bay until she could get Kingston to help her. He believed in all kinds of conspiracies so he’d have to believe in this one too. No aliens, just real bad dudes. Even if one of them was family.

  Wind pushed at the cabin’s rafters, making her shiver despite the two blankets and sleeping bag. How long were they going to wait? How long until it was safe to leave? And which way to Kingston’s?

  EIGHT

  Art knew better than to call in to work and say he couldn’t make it. But he went off the road twice on the way, once into the ditch, and he kept his foot on the pedals only by sheer will, stomping the gas and brakes alternately, forcing the old car back onto the snow-covered lane.

  Foul tempered already, clocking in ten minutes late and getting a reprimand from snot-nosed Boylin, his unit manager, Art put his watch in his locker and buckled on his gear for his first rounds. This moment was the best part of the job, the quiet before he had to go out and walk the halls and listen to the jingling of keys for the rest of the night and, always, the complaints. Then he’d start delivering meals. Glorified waiter, huh. He already planned which trays to spit on.

  “Townsend, don’t forget Emergency Response Unit training. You’re scheduled for weapons requalification at eleven-twenty,” Boylin said.

  Art muttered over his shoulder on the way out. “Yeah. I’ll be there.” Great way to spend his break, making sure there was no overtime.

  Nash, the other guard on Roman’s block, learned from day one that Art would take care of one particular cell—the one good old stepdad called home. Tonight, Art wouldn’t have minded letting Nash keep the duty. The news he had to give Roman would make a saint cuss. And Roman wasn’t much of a saint.

  * * *

  By midnight, Art was looking at the parking lot, wondering how he was going to get home. Barter Valley was a fifteen-minute drive, but by the lone plow’s headlights, a vicious battle to keep up with the drifts wasn’t much of a contest.

  Hogie from the maintenance crew caught up to him. A little guy, Joe Holger wore his navy parka one size too large, thinking it made it him seem heftier than the one-fifty he probably topped on the scales. “Rough out there,” Holger said. “Lemme get Mike on the horn, tell him to make another pass on this side. You should be able to get out. You got a new vehicle, dincha? All-wheel drive?”

  “Yeah, I did. But it’s in the shop.” No way was Art going to tell anybody he’d let his sister run off with his Jeep.

  “Too bad.” Holger turned to the side and hefted a walkie-talkie. “Mike, copy.”

  Art studied his back-lit reflection in the door while Hogie called Mike in. Five more staffers walked by, laughing, calling good night as they went to their cars. Art nodded, answered one of them. “Yeah, right. Lot of shoveling, as usual.”

  Roger, his neighbor, better have plowed out their driveways at home. He didn’t feel like wrestling the drifts to get into the house. They had an agreement, and Art did all the mowing in the summer for both places. When he got around to it. Or when that stepsister of his got off her lazy—

  “Townsend! Hey, you awake? Mike cleared a path. You’re good to go.”

  Art whacked Hogie on the shoulder. “Thanks, man. Have a good one.”

  “Yeah, you too.”

  Inside his glove, his paycheck, all folded into a square, scraped against the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. He was supposed to use it tomorrow, not for cash like usual, but to open a new account for the insurance money payment he’d get when…well, when she was gone. The directions were clear. Go to window three of the bank tomorrow, before noon because the bank closed early on Saturday. Roman was plenty unhappy hearing that the girl hadn’t been delivered on time. Limm had been expecting her before the storm. He’d gone out of his way to prepare for her arrival, Roman said.

  Like it was Art’s fault the major blizzard came sooner than predicted. Art leaned forward, peering through the windshield at the dots of white aiming for him, trying to take him out. The car’s weak headlights weren’t much help. The car started a slide and Art let up on the pedal, turning into it until he straightened.

  He rolled down the window and stuck his hand out, gesturing at the sky.

  Good thing Art hadn’t mentioned Berta to Roman. No telling what would have happened.

  The corner of the squared paper bit into his palm as he gripped the wheel. All the stupid pussy-footing. With no power, would the bank be open? Starting up new accounts? Why couldn’t the mysterious Limm have simply done it? He seemed like a guy who could do anything he wanted. Roman had acted particularly perturbed about his simple question about why he’d need another bank account. His stepfather’s face got red as he spit his reply through clenched teeth. All Art could make out was that Limm had a private security business. He knew what he was talking about, and if he told Art to open another account, he’d open another account. Don’t make any waves for us, boy. The family needed to stay low. Thus, the fence around the property, the dogs, the gate, why the old man never came into town. Shut up and do what you’re told. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  Art didn’t care what went on at the estate in the woods. One of the former guards at the prison had gotten a part-time job over there. Come to think of it, Art hadn’t seen the guy lately. Must have been transferred.

  At last. Art slowed even more to pull into the driveway. So dark…so dark. One smallish drift in front of the garage door. Roger’d done all right.

  Art clenched his fist as he unlocked the house. Still no power. The place was a meat locker. Good thing he’d kept the woodstove in the basement. He drained the pipes which fed the kitchen and bathroom. No sense in letting water freeze and bust them.

  One thing for sure, though, he needed at least some cash from his paycheck, no matter what Limm threatened. Maybe he could deposit it in his account and use a check from there to open the new one. The payoff better be worth all the extra work he needed to do.

  With no electricity to run the blower to send heat from the woodstove through the house, Art got out an old army cot and sleeping bag and decided to settle in downstairs. An hour later, he leaned back, feet toward the fire, second beer in hand. At daylight, he’d go check on Berta’s body, make a sad call to the cops. Then deposit his paycheck, write out another check, even if that’s not what they’d told him. He needed some money for the week.

  Open another account. Window three. Eleven thirty. He yawned.

  NINE

  Saturday, December 16

  Midnight. Cam closed his book. He set it, along with his glasses, on the end table. The woman fell asleep after the last time he’d stoked the stove, a couple of hours ago. She lashed out once, then moaned when her hand came in contact with the couch. She righted herself and stared at him for a couple of chapters. When he looked back, she turned aside.

  He hid his grin behind the book. Not trying to communicate through telepathy, then, was she.

  This time she seemed pretty well out of it. Cam rose a
nd stretched, walked silently in his wool slippers to the kitchen to make sure the dogs had water. He stared out the window over the sink, knowing there was nothing to see but a wavering reflection of himself and the room, nevertheless drawn to the oblong pane of blackness with its circular crust of white rime. Wind howled and shook the shingles, rattled the chimney hat. Cam hoped it would still be there come daylight.

  Morning…what should he do? The storm might let up enough to ski out of here, get to town and call for help. Or it might not.

  He twitched his shoulders, a flicker of warning between his shoulder blades reminiscent of being a target back in his military days. Everybody and anybody in Kandahar would as soon shoot a soldier. Couldn’t trust anyone. Just like that lying coed in his class who couldn’t accept a C for the semester when he probably should have failed her. He hadn’t understood the girl’s desperate, constant e-mails and texts; had no clue her boyfriend could hack into his account and make it appear he’d e-mailed her back… Get over it, Cam. That part of your life is dead—dead as Laura.

  More lines from the Lowell poem coursed across his memory. “The First Snowfall.” That was it.

  I stood and watched by the window

  The noiseless work of the sky,

  And the sudden flurries of snowbirds,

  Like brown leaves whirling by.

  I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn

  Where a little headstone stood.

  Finding a woman in the woods this far from town was strange enough. No need to add “something wasn’t right” to the situation. Of course, something was mighty peculiar about the whole deal.

  How bad would it come around and bite him? Georgia, his older sister, said he was too naïve after his acquittal. “Your instincts are still there, baby, you just forgot your roots. Wake up,” she’d told him with a not-too-gentle slap. “Uncle Wally’s place is what you need.”

  Was he being too naïve now? He glanced back at the living room through the open kitchen door. The woman would have died. Was she some kind of bait from some sick joker who’d decided to prove that a black man couldn’t be trusted? Who would play games with a person’s life?

  Another gust from outside sent a cool whisper through the window sill and across his neck. He might not be able to get out tomorrow if the wind didn’t let up. A deep freeze was expected for the next week. Below zero temps for highs through the weekend.

  The woman needed medical attention. That neighbor to the west, Findley. Some kind of herbalist, wasn’t he? Cam had only been in there a couple of times. The guy was the epitome of a hippy, with a hundred acres of trees and occasional open spots for his special plantings. Nice house with outbuildings, grounds kept neat. Friendly sort, though private, which suited Cam fine. He wasn’t about to get in anyone’s business after his experience at the Freeman, and he appreciated nobody messing with his. Findley might have some salve or something if he couldn’t move the woman into a hospital soon. Who knew when they’d get plowed out, and Cam didn’t own a snowmobile.

  He should get the woman to bed. He could take the couch for a while. She’d be more comfortable and private in the bedroom.

  Back out in front of the sleeping woman, Cam set his hands on his hips. A sheen of sweat covered her forehead and upper lip. Fever? He hesitated then reached to touch her cheek. When she thrashed and moaned, he stepped back.

  “Kenny! No!”

  TEN

  Art checked his watch by the dim glow from the stove. He’d woken once at three thirty, shivering. The fire was nearly out and he cussed and hopped around on the cold floor as he started it again, adding balled up newspaper and kindling, blowing on the faintly glowing coals. Fine white ash puffed back in his face and he cussed again. When the paper burst into smoky flame he leapt back, tripped, and landed hard on his cheeks. That was gonna leave a mark. Good thing no one was searching him today.

  The cot had been miserable. His neck hurt and so did his heel and now his butt. So cold…maybe he should ask for an extra shift instead of hanging around trying to find somewhere warm. He didn’t have to go back to work until Sunday night.

  Five a.m. He should wait at least a couple of hours before checking on his poor sister-in-law and nephew. He was worried about them since the power went out. He practiced his responses to questions he guessed the police would ask when they came to check his report of poor Berta’s cold body.

  He snorted himself awake again at seven, with numb lips and nose so cold it hurt. He pushed back the bag and went upstairs to the bathroom where he used some water from the storage jug he kept for emergencies. Plumbers were going to have a field day with all the work fixing broken pipes that were sure to follow the power outage and deep freeze. People weren’t as smart as he was about most practical things.

  Some place in town must be running on a generator. He’d go find some breakfast. Pump himself up for the ugly business about to come. By seven thirty Art pulled up in front of Lou’s Diner in what made up Barter Valley’s six-block downtown, the happening scene for oversized pickups and orange hunting suits, with parking for snowmobiles. Leastways the plow managed to tunnel out some lanes on the main roads.

  He drove past the library, where a sign in the window notified geek users they’d have to wait until the power came back on to check out books and use the Internet. The bank drive-through was dark. Great. Only four places were lit up—the cop shop, the pathetic little grocer, Lou’s Diner, and the Freeman office. Breaking news, people. There’s a power outage. And it’s going to be co-o-old this week.

  Art parked and sauntered into the crowded diner. Ole and Sven Iversson, the tall twins who lived across from the high school, held court at the counter. They’d all been buds in school. None of them escaped Barter Valley, though Ole and Sven hadn’t actually ever wanted to go anywhere else besides this little bit of heaven crawling along a coulee of the Barter River on its way to the Mississippi.

  “Guys. ’S’up?” Art nodded to Gerry Cain who vacated a stool next to Sven. He slid onto it before anyone else could nab it.

  Ole, a beefy once-upon-a-time linebacker with pale blond hair, quiet, snorted at his blinking phone and held it up. “Another one.”

  Sven, the skinny, talkingest one, grinned. “We been taking calls left and right. Snow plow jobs.”

  “Good for you.” Art held up a finger to get the waitress’s attention. “Coffee to go. Straight up. And one of them sweet rolls.”

  Christy nodded, harassed by the clamoring crowd. Huh. She ought to be grateful for the extra business. While he waited he dipped his big toe in the rumor mill waters. “Anything happening?”

  Sven peered at him sideways while slurping his pale coffee. “Yeah. Power outage. Big storm.”

  “Har, har.” Art grabbed an oven fry from Sven’s plate. “Like, anyone hurt.” He looked Sven in the eye. “Missing.”

  “Nah. We ain’t been called out on any medical runs yet, though there’s bound to be plenty of chopped off fingers once the snow blowing commences.” Sven contemplated the big puddle of ketchup he squirted on his plate. “Got the ambulance all stocked and ready to go. Chains on the tires an’ all.”

  “Right,” Art said. He stared at the ketchup pool.

  “What do you mean, ‘missin’?” Ole leaned over his brother to stare at Art with eyes the blue color caught in icebergs.

  Art squirmed under the attention. “Nothing particular. You know how easy it is to get lost in a storm.”

  Ole blinked. “Expecting someone?”

  A shiver tickled Art’s spine. “Just making conversation.” What was with Ole? He didn’t usually talk so much.

  “Always have some tom-fool tourist hike off the trails or stuck up a creek, ya figure?” Sven said, gulping coffee and nodding at Christy for more. “But not today.”

  Art raised his head when the waitress thrust a bag into his hand and set a tall covered paper cup in front of him.

  “Four eighty,” she said, swiping a lock of hair behind her much-pierced ear
.

  Art tossed a five on the counter and got up. “Later.”

  He re-buttoned his coat but didn’t bother with his gloves until he got back in the car. Stupid thing to say. He turned the heater on high. What a waste of time and gas as he drove cautiously to the trailer court. He reared back and struck the steering wheel with both hands. Should he change his plan to check on Berta? And what about the other one?

  He banged on the steering wheel until he started to slide off the road and corrected.

  Story. Quick.

  With no luck getting any work in BV, my dear stepsister decided to move to…to…where? How’s this? Officer, my sister moved back to Minneapolis, went to stay with a college roommate and got a job in a coffee shop for now.

  Yeah. Name of the roommate?

  Did it matter? Would she tell him?

  Yeah, probably. Especially if she wanted mail forwarded.

  Um…She said she’d call when she figured out what was going on, give him her new address…and so forth.

  That should work. Not like anyone really cared. Except maybe that one girlfriend of hers. Then again, if she hadn’t told her best friend she was moving, why would she bother to share the pertinent details with her own brother. Her stepbrother, who’d been nice enough to trade cars.

  Art smacked the steering wheel again. He drank the cooling coffee and tore off a huge chunk of the frosted cinnamon roll. No raisins, thank God. He hated raisins.