by Anne Frasier
As she drove into Minneapolis from the south, the city looked magical. She took Interstate 35 to the Crosstown, then the Cedar Avenue exit to an area called Powderhorn. Luckily, the GPS on her phone took her straight to the building she was looking for. It was dark, the street was empty, her wipers beating the window to death. She didn’t pull to the curb, because the snow was deeper there, and she didn’t want to risk getting stuck. God, that would mess things up for the rest of her life. So she stayed in the tracks someone else had made and put the car in park.
“See that door?” She pointed to the brick apartment building with the single light above the entry.
“Uh-huh.” He was so little his feet didn’t touch the floor.
“I want you to walk to that door and open it. Go inside and wait in there until someone comes.”
“Not you?”
“Not me.” Truth be told, she felt a little saintly and generous letting him go like this. He had a chance this way. To be somebody, to have a life outside the walls of her house.
“Where you going?” he asked. “Shopping?”
“Yeah, shopping. Can you wait? For as long as you have to?”
“I can, Nana.”
She quizzed him. “What did I say?”
“Wait for you by the door.”
Let him think she was coming back. “That’s right.”
She unfastened his seat belt, then reached across and opened the passenger door. Flakes swirled in. He giggled in delight. The snow was level with the floorboard. She had to get the hell out of there. “Go on, now.” She briefly thought about giving him a hug, but that was a stupid idea. Where had it even come from? She’d never hugged him, not in the four years he’d been with her.
He slid out and stood there. She shooed him away. “Go on. Hurry!”
He turned and stopped, his back to her. Then he started walking. She closed the door and lowered the passenger window, the action cleaning the glass so she could see him. He looked so little in front of the big building. So little trudging through snow that was much deeper than his knees.
She’d planned to wait until he reached the entry, but she spotted headlights coming her direction. She put the car in gear and pulled away.
Taking care of the kid had been good, easy money while it had lasted. Sure, she’d had to learn to be thrifty. Shopping at the dollar store and Goodwill. Clipping coupons. But it had been worth it, not having to work anymore.
She considered circling the block to make sure the boy did what he’d been told, but that was a soft thing to do. What did she care, right? Not her boy, not her responsibility any longer. And he always obeyed her. He was a good kid.
Ten minutes into the drive home, she began to feel euphoric about unloading him. What a weight lifted from her. She was free. Fifteen minutes, and she had the radio blasting and was singing along to an Adele song.
A semi roared past her on the four-lane, the driver going too fast for conditions. She got sucked into his draft, then quickly released. She stopped wailing along with the radio, the moment ruined. She laid on the horn and threw the driver the finger even though he couldn’t see her. That felt good for only a half second. She overcorrected, and the car began to slide.
Turn toward the skid.
She knew that, and she tried, but turning the wheel did nothing to change the direction of the vehicle as the twin beams of her headlights revealed a metal guardrail straight ahead. She hit it, the impact rocking her to her bones while metal shrieked against metal. Her seat belt pulled tight across her chest and the airbag inflated, hitting her in the face.
That wasn’t the end of it. The car shot into the sky.
In that moment of flight, she thought everything might be okay. But with another jarring shudder, the car slammed to the ground, tires exploding, the vehicle rolling until it came to an abrupt halt, the seat belt digging into her waist as she hung upside down.
CHAPTER 8
Jude’s bus made it a third of the way home before getting stuck. No amount of rocking back and forth, digging, or pushing by the passengers, Jude included, could unstick it. Belongings were collected and the riders disembarked, most with the intention of walking the rest of the way. Others spotted a café that was still open and aimed for the lights.
In front of the bus was a gridlock of cars also stuck in deep snow. It made sense for Jude to ask how someone like her, with reasonable intelligence, hadn’t just remained at the police station. But she’d slept very little the night before, and it was true that her cat needed to be fed, and she really wanted to be alone in order to process the events of the past twenty-four hours. She could think better when she was by herself, in the solitude of her apartment. And she could recharge better when she was home. It had sort of made sense an hour ago, as long as the buses were running and streets were still open.
But the snow. The damn snow wasn’t showing any sign of slowing. In fact, the wind was picking up, tunneling down streets, causing drifts to build quickly. And here they were, a handful of people without transportation; Jude was horrified at the prospect of offering strangers the use of her place to wait out the blizzard. “My apartment is about a mile away,” she announced in a decent attempt to hide her reluctance to issue the invite. “If anybody needs a place to stay.”
People looked down, mumbled thanks, and moved off.
Had they recognized her? Remembered that she’d killed her own father? Did they know a young girl had died in her apartment not long ago? It said a lot that they preferred a blizzard to her home. And yet she was relieved that none of them took her up on the offer.
“I hope you all have a place to go!” she shouted after the thinning crowd, making one final attempt. Because regardless of how she felt about company, she didn’t want anybody to die tonight.
A man turned around. Walking backward, he said, “I’m heading for that bar.” He pointed to a neon sign down the street. His knit cap was covered with a thick layer of snow. He was a big guy, and he’d pushed with the rest of them.
Another person: “Thanks, but I’m almost home.”
She nodded and watched them disperse. Inside the bus, the driver sat behind the wheel, cell phone to her ear.
“What about you?” Jude asked through the open door.
The woman waved her on. “I’m staying! Plow is supposed to come through in another hour or two.”
So Jude took off.
Head bent into the increasing wind, she trudged forward. The snow was almost to her thighs in spots, and walking was astonishingly hard, almost impossible. Back in the early 1900s, anthropologist Franz Boas claimed that Eskimos had dozens of words for the different forms of snow. She wondered what this form would be called. It was thick and heavy, almost like trying to walk through wet cement. There were times when she thought she must be almost home. She would squint through the whiteout, searching for a familiar landmark, only to find she’d barely gone a block. In her pocket, her phone vibrated, but she didn’t check it.
Ten minutes into her journey, she was the only human left on the street. Businesses were closed, houses and apartment buildings dark and mysterious. Street-corner lights illuminated nothing but the immediate snowfall beneath the bulb.
Oddly enough, Jude felt her shoulders relax, felt the tension leave her. The snow, as deadly as it could be, created a buffer between herself and other people. And right now, this was her world. This beautiful hush. It kept everybody else away, and that was a good thing.
She took a moment to pause in the center of the street, breathing deeply, watching the snow fall. She thought a light might have flickered—an intrusion on her brief sense of calm. She shouldn’t be afraid of a power outage. A power outage had saved her life. But she was aware enough of her own mind to know a blackout could trigger unwanted memories.
She trudged on, head down, while remaining aware of her surroundings. She picked out familiar landmarks and knew she had only a few blocks to go, when the silence was broken by a hum that grew louder until it
finally stopped alongside her.
“Need a ride?” The question came from a man on a snowmobile dressed in full gear, his face hidden behind a shield.
Probably a Good Samaritan, but no. She would never get on or in a vehicle with a stranger. She told him she was okay, and he blasted away, searching for his next victim or person in need.
By the time she reached her apartment building, her leg muscles ached. A small and not very strong bulb illuminated the entry. Just below the light and etched into concrete was the year the dwelling had been constructed—1930. Within that alcove, snow had drifted high in front of the double glass doors.
She retrieved her key, thankful to be home, looking forward to tugging off her damp clothes, slipping into yoga pants and a sweatshirt, putting a frozen dinner in the microwave, and feeding Roof Cat.
A sudden nearby noise brought her to full alert.
It sounded like a whimper.
She fished out her phone and saw she had messages from Uriah, probably checking to see if she’d made it. She turned on the flashlight and passed the beam around the alcove. One of the drifts shifted, and she heard a repeat of the sound.
Animal?
She dragged her foot through the snow, breaking it down, uncovering a patch of fabric. Definitely not an animal. Maybe a homeless person. What an awful night to have no place to sleep. She dug quickly with her gloved hand, brushing snow away, aiming her light at the shape in the corner for a full reveal.
The figure in the corner was a child.
CHAPTER 9
Jude crouched beside the child. He or she whimpered again but was otherwise unresponsive. Speaking gently, she shook a small shoulder. Eyes opened and stared at her, a bottom lip trembled.
She didn’t know much about kids. A boy? Maybe. Probably. This one could have been five. No, six. No, four. She had no idea. Too young to be on his own. That’s all she did know.
She unlocked the entry door, propped it open with her leg, then scooped up the tiny human and carried him inside, brushing snow from him as she went. On the way to her apartment, she paused on the third floor and kicked at Elliot’s door with a boot, shouting his name.
He appeared in jeans, a gray hooded sweatshirt, and slippers, his dark hair in a ponytail, eyes a little bleary.
“I need your help.” Slightly out of breath, she shifted the boy and handed Elliot her keys. “I found a kid.”
“Jesus.”
Her apartment was on the top floor. He followed her up the remaining flight of stairs and unlocked her door. Inside, she put the snow-covered bundle on the couch and pulled back his hood, then tugged off her gloves to feel his face. Cold. No surprise there. His lips were tinged blue, but the eyes watching her were alert.
How long had he been there? Was he lost? Did he live in the building, or nearby? Had he wandered outside to play in the snow? Or maybe walked home from school and gotten disoriented?
She pulled off his mittens. “His hands look okay, I think.” Dirty. The kind of dirt that took time to accumulate. She’d guess homeless or neglected. Or both. “I’m Jude, and this is Elliot.” She untied his laces.
“Are you supposed to take off their boots?” Elliot asked. “I saw this show once where the guy’s feet were frozen, and they took off his boot and—”
“Stop talking,” Jude said in a calm, conversational voice. She didn’t want to alarm their guest.
It seemed to take Elliot a moment to understand he’d been about to get graphic in front of a young child. “Oh, right.”
She slowly pulled off the boots, dropping them to the floor. No socks. His feet were even filthier than his hands. She tested them. “Ice-cold.”
Elliot made a sound of concern and hovered behind her.
Her place was small. Almost a year ago, she’d walked in with nothing but the few articles of clothing Uriah had brought to the hospital after her escape from captivity. It was interesting how belongings she used to care about meant nothing to her anymore. All she wanted was a secure space, privacy, and a bed. Nothing else really mattered. Nobody above her, one bedroom, living-room-and-kitchen combination separated by a breakfast counter and three stools. The previous tenant had skipped out on rent, leaving behind a nice vintage orange sofa, now faintly bloodstained from the recent murder that had taken place in that very room, midcentury modern coffee table, braided rug, Grain Belt beer poster, metal bottle opener shaped like Minnesota, along with dishes and pots and pans. The bloodstains, which had refused to come out completely no matter how much Jude scrubbed, hadn’t bothered her before. But seeing the child sitting next to them caused her to inwardly wince.
She straightened, kicked off her own boots near the door, tossed her coat on a chair, and hurried to the kitchen in search of something big enough for the boy to put his feet in. She rarely cooked, and this was her first serious exploration of the lower cupboards. She was pleased to find a deep pan that might have been used for spaghetti. It was a tight fit, but she was able to get it in the sink to fill with lukewarm water. “The trick is to slowly warm the extremities.” She carried the pan to the living room, placing it on the floor in front of the child.
“Should we call 911?” Elliot asked.
“I’m not sure they can get here, and I don’t think he needs a hospital.” To the child, she asked, “Honey, what’s your name?”
“Honey is bee poop.” The words were spoken one at a time in a strange singsong.
Elliot let out a snort, and the boy looked up at him with curiosity—a good sign.
“What’s your name?” Jude repeated.
“Don’t have a name.”
“Everybody has a name.”
“Nana says I don’t need a name. She just calls me Boy because I’m a boy.”
“Who’s Nana?”
“Nana, Nana, Nan.”
Was Nana short for nanny? But what kind of nanny didn’t take care of her charge? “Keep your feet in the water,” she told him when he tried to pull them out. He quickly put them back in. “Do you live in this building?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Do you live around here?”
He shook his head.
“Where do you live?”
He pointed. “Over there.” Somehow Jude discerned that the pointing and the words were in some vague reference to something that could be near or very far. He just didn’t live here.
“Did you ride in a car from somewhere else?”
He nodded an exaggerated nod that was more like a head bob.
“Where is Nana now?”
“Gone.”
“Did she walk away?” If the woman was out there in the blizzard, she might need help.
“Drove.” He made driving motions with his fists.
“Maybe she stopped, and he opened the door and got out without her knowing it,” Elliot said.
“Most cars have safety features to keep that from happening.”
“Newer ones.”
True.
“Did you get out of the car when you weren’t supposed to?” Jude asked.
“No.”
“Did a grown-up tell you to get out of the car?”
“Nana did.”
“What did she tell you?”
“She said go to the door and wait. So I waited.”
He could be confused. Children often got things mixed up, but if he wasn’t . . .
“We need to check with all the tenants and see if anybody was expecting him,” she told Elliot. Maybe he was supposed to have been buzzed in. Horribly neglectful, regardless. Leaving a small child to tackle the intricacies of an intercom. She also zeroed in on the idea of someone deliberately abandoning him. Like an infant left on church steps. And not only abandoning him, but doing it during a snowstorm. There were cases of overwhelmed mothers murdering their own children. It happened too much. Maybe to an unstable mind, abandoning a child in a snowstorm seemed less horrible, unlike the preferred methods of poisoning or drowning.
Elliot looked up from h
is phone. “I just sent a group text to all the residents to see if anybody is expecting him or missing him.”
“You know everybody in the building?” How was that possible? She spent most of her time trying to avoid them.
“It’s not that hard. There are sixteen apartments, and only six of them are occupied. This isn’t a prime location, which I’m guessing is why you moved here.”
Jude straightened and revisited the kitchen, this time to fill a plastic pitcher with hot water. When she returned, Elliot was eyeing an unopened letter from her lawyer lying on the coffee table. It had been there awhile now.
She held the pitcher out to him. He jumped a little and took it.
She hadn’t opened the envelope, because it could contain confirmation of a DNA match. People had come out of the woodwork to try to claim they were heirs to her dead father’s estate. Let them have it. She wanted nothing to do with any of it. She’d made that clear, and she wished the lawyers would leave her alone. But a small part of her was also curious because it could mean she had a sibling out there. But she wasn’t curious enough to read the letter yet.
“Gradually increase the water while I try to contact Child Protection Services,” she said.
“Nobody will be able to pick him up tonight.”
She mouthed the next words. He can’t stay with me.
“I think he might have to.”
She felt a rush of panic, worse than the panic she’d felt when she offered the bus riders the use of her home. She couldn’t take care of a child.
Maybe he could go to Elliot’s.
In the privacy of her bedroom, door closed, Roof Cat purring under the bed, she took a few moments to check Uriah’s texts, then replied to let him know she was home. She would explain about the boy later. After that, she made the call to Child Protection Services and got the news she’d expected.
“Under normal conditions, we’d have someone out there within an hour, but with the roads closed, nobody can come for him tonight,” said a woman who introduced herself as one of the staff handling off-hours and emergency calls.