Understory

by Lisa J. Lickel

  She bent as though winded.

  He gained on her slowly, kept talking. “You know what happens if your hands and feet refreeze? Weather this cold, that will happen in a matter of minutes. Maybe right about now.”

  Rosalind started to turn and stumbled. He caught her around the waist. “Come on back to the house.” She didn’t struggle when he lifted her.

  In the cabin, he settled her as gently as he could on the couch, though he was breathing hard enough from the snow removal job. He leaned on his knees, working to catch his breath. When he could look up again, Rosalind hadn’t moved. Cam reached to stroke the hot tears from her cheeks and then unbuttoned the white coat slowly. The whole time, she kept still as if she’d been stunned. Lear watched from the door, where he sat guard. Iago paced in a circle, his nails clicking on the wood floor until Cam felt nauseatingly motion sick and ordered him to sit.

  “I promise to help you get away,” he told her. “As soon as it’s safe.”

  As he peeled off the coat, she leaned over her lap, her shoulders shaking.

  “Believe me, I prefer my privacy, and I am not keeping you here against your will. I called for a plow.” He shed his own coat to give her some time before checking what she’d done to his handiwork. After stoking the stove and changing into wool slippers, he helped her lie back and lifted her feet, still encased in his old Redwings. “I can go back to Findley if he’s the one you’re headed for. Is that where you were going when you were trying to get away from Kenny?”

  Rosalind held her hands in front of her face. They were white as salt. The blisters made it look like she’d been tortured. Her feet…

  “Okay. I hope at some point you’ll be able to trust me. I’m going to get these boots off. If you thought warming up your feet hurt the first time, I think this might be worse.”

  Cam recalled a chick flick Laura rented once. He remembered the title, Bounce, but not much else besides this one line. Ben Affleck played a loser who said something about not knowing how God made women so brave. Laura liked that. Then she died.

  Rosalind let slip a tiny groan when he pulled blood-soaked wool from her feet.

  Brave, maybe. But stupid. “Lady, you aren’t going to be running anywhere soon. In fact, I hope you’ll be able to walk again someday.” He wanted to shake her. “Don’t you understand how fast gangrene can set in? I can’t stop that. And I was serious about the ambulance.”

  After cleaning her up and trying not to vomit at the field memories of the sight and terrible cloying sweet and fermenting odor of gangrenous soldiers’ wounds, he fed her more aspirin and pulled a blanket around her ears. Iago licked her salty cheek. She closed her eyes, though the trail of tears continued to leak.

  Cam turned away. Should he alert some authority, no matter how this weird situation appeared? How long did an adult need to be missing in Wisconsin before being able to file a report?

  She was running from a guy, obviously. Someone dangerous. After Cam got plowed out, he’d go into town, nose around. He bet if someone was looking for her, it would be the creep.

  But Findley played into this somehow. Had she truly been trying to get to his place?

  Cam took a deep breath and stared out the window. The sun was brilliant, lighting up the crystals of ice fluttering and swirling as the wind blew them. Findley the hero felt wrong. Even though he’d come through with the salve, other things in the cabin, the way he was alone, that grin, made Cam twitch. Maybe she’d been trying to get to that other place down the road past Findley, the one with the huge fence and motion sensor lights. There was a cell tower inside the chain-link border. He’d never bothered to do more than drive past the gate, which activated the lights, making him feel like he was back on base, but it was impressive with its paved driveway. They must have access to emergency services. Going to them made more sense than running to a druggie smart aleck for help.

  Then again, maybe she was a fugitive and Kenny the victim. She might be running from the law. He shook his head at his own foolishness. If anyone could figure out a runaway, it should be him.

  Cam sighed and sat in his chair. Name of the other neighbor? He sifted through his memory, trying to dredge up a name. Not like the usual names in this part of Wisconsin. Not Scandinavian, not German. Short. What was it?

  TWENTY-THREE

  Roman carried the book nonchalantly back to his cell, walking evenly, face down, eyes averted. Halman, in fact, assumed duty that night and performed a cursory search, much to Peterman’s disappointment.

  It paid to hold tight to things that kept the heebie-jeebies at bay.

  Settled on the cot, Roman turned away from the face of Peterman in the window and pulled the blanket around him. No matter how often they came from the prison laundry, they always scratched like horsehair and smelled of urine. He opened the book from the boxful that Limm’s son donated yesterday. Roman had despised the twenty-four-hour light until he figured out that impressions on paper leave a shadow when the page is tilted a certain way. With some effort and time, of which there was great plenty, it was possible to send and receive messages without resorting to underlining and circling words and letters. Anybody, even the guards, could catch on to that technique, and did. Roman expected the Charles Colson book would be gone the next time he went to the library. Grandhoff, the last inmate—patron—who’d had it in his possession, would have to deal with some sincere searching, among other punishments, as the accused troublemaker to mark a book with messages.

  Finnegan’s Wake was a fine book. In another world it was a code unto itself, but here and now, Roman was only interested in pages thirty-two and thirty-three. He had to laugh when he realized Shawn Limm delivered the box of books. Shawn the Postman. Roman bowed to Limm’s unending cleverness. Too bad Roman planned to disappear in Mexico after this one and only job. The two of them coulda been partners.

  Back to page thirty-two.

  * * *

  Cam brought the bucket back inside after dumping it. The woman glared with distaste at him, letting her gaze drop to his hands. He shrugged. “At least we’re not using the same one.”

  They’d shared a supper of venison roast, which she’d picked at. He’d made the mushroom tea…it hadn’t smelled any more appetizing than it appeared. Like mud and dried pine needle soup. Steeped, it could have been black tea but looked too much like swamp water, ripe with tannin. Cam shivered as the drafts from the front door swirled in when he went to check the thermometer on the porch. And wished he hadn’t. Full dark at five p.m.

  “You ready for bed, Rosalind? Or need more aspirin? I’ll get to town and stock up on supplies. Hopefully tomorrow. I wasn’t counting on company.”

  She stared at the woodstove window, seemingly mesmerized by the orange and yellow flames licking the cross of split logs on a bed of powdery white ash. Her face was wan and creased with pain, even in the dim lighting of the lantern.

  He’d need fuel for that too. “Can I get you any personal items? If Sven and Ole get me plowed out, that is.”

  Her eyes flickered quickly to his and away again. “You recognize the names, don’t you? Friends, perhaps? I was thinking maybe they’d take you back into Barter Valley.”

  She bit her lip.

  “Should I call them and ask now? If they’re friends of yours, maybe they could help.”

  The woman shook her head. Shifting, she bent level with Iago, who thumped his tail when she smoothed her wrist along his snout and between his ears.

  “I wish I knew what was going on. Why won’t you talk? I’m not going to hurt you. I think that’s obvious. I’m not going to turn you in if you’re running from the law. Lord knows I understand how that feels.”

  * * *

  She kept her face averted so he wouldn’t observe her struggle not to weep at the pain or laugh and cry at his ridiculous suggestion she was a wanted criminal. No one wanted her except the scary ones she was running from. But he knew, didn’t he? How it felt, being chased for something that was completely ou
t of control.

  Why had God let this happen to her? Why here, him, now? She sighed out, emptying the distressed air and breathed in new, faintly scented wood smoke and wet animal.

  Iago was such a sweet dog. The Shakespeare reference she vaguely recognized, but what play? She’d even be willing to put up with the drool if he were hers.

  The aspirin was barely cutting the sharp ache of her feet. Man, she hoped she wasn’t getting gangrene. That meant her skin was dying. Wouldn’t it be numb if it was rotting? Thank God she hadn’t been able to eat much, though it tasted good. Swallowing past the acid lump in her throat, she thought of the way he’d stuffed juniper into the venison and served it sliced with caramelized onions. She should be more grateful. The guy was trying. She’d probably be dead if not for him. But the gratitude was mixed with…respect? He impressed her, sure, reminding her more of the guys at work, the writers, the ones with manners, who held a door or had tickets to the symphony as well as hockey. This guy…crazy professor spouting poetry, as he did right now. She leaned toward his chair but tried to act like she wasn’t paying attention.

  “Again I looked at the snow-fall,

  And thought of the leaden sky.”

  But he should understand she had to try it, getting to Kingston, no matter how stupid. Kingston was the only one she was sure couldn’t be bought out.

  Her right calf muscle cramped and she jerked.

  “Are you okay?” Cameron asked, breaking off from his muttering.

  No, of course not. She looked at him, pressed her lips tight and nodded, then went back to petting his dog while flexing her foot to ease the knot. A whole day passed, really, two, since the big plan had gotten so messed up. Today was Sunday, Cameron said. She was sure school had been canceled Friday, with all that snow. Was Kenny safe with Berta? With no power? No heat? They’d probably go somewhere. Unless Berta turned on the gas oven again to try and warm the place. Her sister did that once before. Kenny called her when his mom passed out, too close to the stove and too high on crack.

  Art would be at work, she guessed. Maybe that would keep him away from Kenny until she could get there.

  Would it be a good idea to go with Sven and Ole? They bought a shiny new snowplow. Was it theirs? Or had they caved to the company too? They’d been chummy in high school but not so much lately, not since Ole had asked her out a few weeks ago and she’d hesitated. He’d gotten a little mad and said he’d changed his mind. She liked Ole. It was just weird now that they weren’t in high school anymore. She would have said yes if he hadn’t gotten so bent out of shape right away. People around here somehow got the idea she was stuck up, after living some kind of high life in the cities then having to crawl home. Art, spreading rumors. How come she turned out to be the only one with a conscience in a family of jail bait? And what was with Cameron, muttering again?

  “That arched o’er our first great sorrow,

  When that mound was heaped so high.”

  Whatever. If her host was insane, nothing much she could do at the moment. She still didn’t know who to call no matter what. The whole situation sounded outrageous. Who would believe a story about a fake company taking over a town and people disappearing? They’d think she was nuts, especially since the family had done so much.

  “Aha! Now I remember!”

  She raised a brow in crazy Cameron Taylor’s direction.

  “Limm. The name of the neighbor over past Findley. You’ve heard of them? Maybe they can help.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Clomp, clomp. Bang-bang-bang.

  Everything got real dark for a second to Kenny, like in the movies before a guy passed out. He could not move his hands or legs—just his eyes—to see the shadow at Mrs. Ramirez’s front door.

  Thomas laughed like a monkey.

  “Hush, you,” Mrs. Ramirez said. “Grab Kenny and head for…” She jerked her chin over her shoulder toward the kitchen door. “And quiet! For the love of God, be quiet.”

  Kenny would have laughed back at the way Thomas got all white, with his huge freckles making him look like a Dalmatian. Kenny would have laughed but he was too afraid of throwing up. He followed Thomas, remembering at the last second to grab both their coats.

  Outside, Thomas showed him the broken part of the fence where they could crawl under the trailer. Cool. Kenny was too afraid of rats to do that at home. Besides, Mom would yell if she caught him.

  “You ever see any rats?” Kenny asked.

  Thomas said, “Nah. Besides, it’s winter. They all die.”

  “Then where do they—”

  “Shh! We’re here.”

  “Here” meant on the other side of the trailer close enough to the front door where Kenny saw feet. And heard voices. Mrs. Ramirez said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. They ain’t here.”

  His aunt would have said, “Aren’t. It’s aren’t, not ain’t.” Then she would have poked his nose and said it was his magic memory button.

  “Look, lady. Mahoney told me you two are friendly. You must have seen something. Everyone else flips aside the curtains now and then. Gives me the creeps.”

  Uncle Art. It was Uncle Art’s voice. Kenny couldn’t stop it. All that soda, all that hiding in the closet. He made a hot, wet puddle underneath his pants. Thomas reached over and smacked Kenny’s shoulder.

  “So?” Mrs. Ramirez said.

  “Can I talk to your kid, then?” Uncle Art said. “Maybe he saw something.”

  “He’s in school all day. He didn’t see nothing.”

  “Where is he?” Uncle Art’s voice was getting mad. “I’m coming in.”

  “No, you’re not. I’m calling the cops if you don’t leave.”

  Kenny hoped she wouldn’t tell him she didn’t have a phone. He put his arms over his head, as if that would hide him better.

  “I’m concerned about my nephew, that’s all. And my sister.”

  “I’ll let you know if I see them. How ’bout that?”

  Yeah, how about that, Uncle Art?

  “Now that my other sister has gone back to the Twin Cities, I’m all the family…”

  No! She’d never do that without saying good-bye.

  Thomas poked him. Kenny lashed out and accidentally hit him on the mouth.

  “Hey! Cut it out!” Thomas hissed.

  Uncle Art clomped down only two of the three steps. Kenny watched those big boots stop and turn around.

  Thomas grabbed his arm and started dragging him away.

  “Who’s there?” Uncle Art bent down and put his face against the old wire fence by the steps. “Kenny? Are you hiding? Come out!”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Mrs. Ramirez yelled. “Get off my property!”

  “Someone’s under there.”

  “Cats. All kinds of ’em.”

  “Cat that…”

  Uncle Art’s voice faded as Kenny and Thomas reached the far corner of the trailer and leaned against a wall. It was really dark.

  “You stink,” Thomas said. “Whad ya do? Pee your pants?”

  “Shut up!” Kenny grabbed some frozen dirt and chucked it toward Thomas’s voice. “Just shut up!”

  “What are you so scared of?”

  “In case you forgot, my mom’s dead. Uncle Art killed her.” Kenny heard a scratching sound then saw a flicker of light. “And he might do the same to my aunt. I have to find her.”

  Thomas held a match in front of his face.

  Kenny sniffed hard at the gross smell of the match and quickly wiped his eyes. “You look totally creepy. Where’d ya get the matches?”

  “At the bowling alley, when I went with my dad.” Thomas dropped the match. “Ouch.”

  It was dark again. Kenny blinked. “Ya get burned?”

  “Nope. I don’t know if your mom’s really dead. I just said that.”

  Kenny snuffled again and wiped the sleeve of the coat across his nose. “He stuck her with the needle. He grabbed me. I thought he was going to kill me.”

&n
bsp; “Who’d want to kill a little kid?” Thomas struck another match.

  “Stop that! What if he’s still out there?”

  “I heard a car door. He’s gone. C’mon.”

  “Are you gonna help me find my aunt?”

  “Who, me? What do I gotta do?”

  * * *

  Roman’s hands shook too much to read anymore. He needed destroy it. The toilet would do. He couldn’t flush the whole book, but it could be ruined. At least wash away the bloody half-fingerprint on page thirty-six.

  Once he’d dunked the book and let the binding and pages soak, he crept back under the blanket and thought of Porta Vallarta. Not that he’d go there. He couldn’t, for it was too public, too easily accessible. But he’d been to the beach once for a weekend back in the good old days. It had been warm and the view of those ripe young things was one Marge could never have presented to him.

  He could almost taste a margarita, the salted rim of the icy wide-mouthed glass and the tang of fresh lime. He gradually stopped shivering and prayed that when he woke, the threats indented into the chapter ends would stay so much pulp. Limm knew the exact moment of his release and would send a courtesy car. He now wanted the child as well, and the courtesy car would have a different destination if he didn’t get both the daughter and the son.

  Dream of sand between my toes. Dream of a casita and nights so black not even starlight would bother my sleep. No snow. No dismembered parts of Syl, who’d lost half of his forefinger in a freak fishing line accident, to float through my dreams. No need to wear anything heavier than a sweatshirt—no life vest they’d put on me, full of fish heads and parts of Syl, and set me adrift, with my legs dangling like bait, fifteen miles offshore.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Monday, December 18

  She blinked in the dark and checked her watch. Four. She closed her eyes and curled in a ball. She couldn’t tell if her feet were frozen or burning—the sensation was the same. At least her hands no longer felt like someone poked bamboo under her nails and lit it. That tea Cameron made last night…Kingston sent it. Mushrooms. Bleh. But it helped.