Cold Heart

by Chandler McGrew

  Because only Clive and Rita or Rich could talk to people outside of McRay.

  Was Rich nervous now?

  Had he spotted Stan?

  El glanced at Stan's body and his mind twisted and turned in that strange way that it had of molding events to fit El's reality.

  No.

  Rich had seen nothing.

  Rich would have no warning.

  He wouldn't have heard shots fired.

  Wouldn't have heard the ammo going off out front of the store.

  He'd land and when he saw El sitting on Clive's fourwheeler he might wonder why Clive wasn't there to meet him, but he'd be more curious than alarmed.

  I'll wait and wave like a good old boy, while Rich unloads the mail.

  Then I pull up under the wing and shoot him dead.

  Five fucking o'clock.

  He strapped Stan's and Micky's rifles on the handlebars along with Rita's shotgun and rested Clive's rifle clumsily on top of them, keeping it in his left hand as he gunned the fourwheeler with his right thumb. The ungainly pile of weapons made the Honda damn near unmanageable but he felt that he needed all the guns now. He had to have them near him.

  El smiled.

  With any luck at all, Rich's curiosity would kill him.

  5:02

  MICKY LISTENED TO THE four-wheeler rasping away with the closest thing to relief she'd felt all day. She stared up at the landing and prayed that she had been right.

  There was no blood on the knife.

  El hadn't said anything about finding Dawn.

  She'd heard no screams. No struggle.

  And he hadn't come back down the stairs muttering to Dawn's corpse.

  But of course now Micky was duct-taped to a chair. Trussed like a Christmas turkey. That presented a little problem.

  “Dawn!” she screamed. “Dawn! Can you hear me? El's gone.”

  Silence.

  “Dawn! It's all right! He's gone. Answer me!”

  Silence.

  Am I wrong?

  Is the girl dead after all?

  No.

  She can't be.

  Micky refused to accept that possibility. She knew exactly what was happening.

  She'd been Dawn.

  The girl was paralyzed. Just as she had been.

  And Micky knew that her own paralysis had cost people their lives, no matter what the police said. No matter what the shrinks said. No matter what Uncle Jim or Damon or Aaron said. Hiding had saved her life. But there had been a dreadful cost.

  “Dawn!” she screamed again. “You have to listen to me! He's gone but we don't have much time!”

  5:05

  DAWN COWERED UNDER THE sleeping bag, still unable to believe that El wasn't tricking her. Wasn't waiting with raised knife for her to move. Her eyes were closed so tightly that the lids hurt and tears leaked onto the backs of her hands. There was nowhere else to go, nowhere to run, nowhere else to hide.

  She heard Micky screaming but she tried to block the cries out. She couldn't believe that El was really gone and, even if he was, what could she do? There were no guns left and she wouldn't have the courage to face him with one if there were. He had killed everyone in town but her and Micky and now he was going to kill Rich.

  What did Micky expect?

  Dawn just wanted to sleep. She wanted to keep her eyes closed until her mind went blank, and then everything would be all right. Then nothing could hurt her. She would just disappear and, if she ever came back, things would be better. The police or someone would have come and taken El away or killed him.

  I hope they kill him.

  She pictured different ways for him to die. She wanted him to suffer the way her mother had suffered. She wanted them to cut him up into little pieces and then burn the pieces.

  Go to hell.

  She remembered old Howard, staring straight into the barrel of El's gun and saying that. She wished that she had Howard's strength. She wished that she had had the guts to pop up in El's face like a nasty Jack-in-the-box and rip his glasses off his face and spit out that same curse. She knew she'd be able to hear Howard for the rest of her life.

  Go to hell.

  “Dawn! You have to help me!”

  Micky's shout cut through the cobwebs in Dawn's brain.

  She closed her eyes even tighter and tried to close her ears as well.

  What does she want?

  Should I go?

  What if it's a trick?

  What if El's holding a gun to Micky's head, making her call me?

  He would do something like that. Then when she showed herself, he would squeeze the trigger and blow Micky's brains out right in front of her eyes. Before he came for her. Came up the stairs again with that robot face and those alien eyes and that ugly knife. Came to cut and stab.

  And kill.

  “Dawn, honey! He's gone. I know what you're going through! But if you hide, he'll come back and, even if you live, you'll hate yourself! Help me!”

  What is she talking about?

  Why won't she shut up?

  Dawn already hated herself.

  She didn't need Micky to tell her about it.

  She moved her left hand, ever so slightly, gently lifting the bag a half inch off the floor.

  Then she listened.

  No movement.

  No breathing.

  It was only her mind that insisted that El was still lurking over her.

  But that didn't mean that her second guess was wrong.

  He might very well be holding the gun to Micky's head or the knife to her throat. Making her call out.

  But Micky wouldn't do that.

  Dawn's eyes opened just a slit when she realized that.

  Micky would never call for her.

  She'd let El blow her brains out first.

  And another little voice told her it wasn't likely that El would hold a gun to Micky's head because an inkling of El's plan was starting to seep into her mind.

  He hadn't killed Micky the way he had her mother or Howard.

  He had left Micky alive in the store and hunted Dawn instead.

  Because he expected Micky to stay with him when everyone else was dead.

  He was in love with her!

  Or whatever passed for love in his screwed-up brain.

  He wasn't going to kill Micky.

  And if he wasn't going to kill Micky, then Micky was her only hope.

  Dawn lifted the bag enough to glance over the one box that still barred the tunnel. A feeble light shone against the rafters and exposed pink fiberglass insulation.

  But no shadow.

  She drew a deep breath and pulled the bag off her back, biting her lip at the slithering, silky noise of it. A mouse probably couldn't have heard it but the sound of it in the confines of her tunnel made Dawn wince.

  “Dawn! Please, honey! We don't have much time!”

  The voice was pleading and Dawn wondered if Micky could really help or if she was only giving up her hiding place so that she could die sooner.

  Maybe Rich has a gun.

  Maybe Rich will kill the bastard.

  “Dawn!”

  I'm coming! she thought, mouthing the words silently.

  She crept ever so slowly around the last box.

  5:06

  EL STOOD AT THE end of the short gravel runway. To his left, through a narrow stand of spruce and birch, he could barely make out the muddy flow of the Kuskokwim in full spring swell. The river was so wide that he couldn't see the far shore.

  The four-wheeler was hidden in the trees.

  The mail plane had circled once overhead, close enough for him to see Rich's face in the pilot's seat. The Supercub was a powerful little machine, favored by bush pilots for its lifting ability and the fact that it could take off and land on a postage stamp. But most of the planes were well over fifty years old and as it cruised overhead now the engine didn't sound much larger than the one on the four-wheeler. El was tempted to pull out the pistol and blow the little aircraft out of
the sky.

  He had to tie up all the loose ends.

  Rich was the only remaining connection to the outside.

  The telephone was no problem.

  He'd overheard Clive before, sending in the weather report. El had contrived to be there on numerous occasions when Clive reported in with it and he knew exactly what to say. He had considered pretending to be Clive but thought better of it. He would simply say that Clive was busy and then tell them later that Clive got sick and died.

  People died in the bush.

  It was to be expected.

  Over time, he would report that everyone in McRay had died.

  If anyone asked.

  It never occurred to El that Rich might be missed. Things that didn't fit neatly into his plan weren't ignored. They just didn't exist.

  Rich circled again, tilting the plane at a hard angle.

  What is he doing?

  Land the damned thing!

  El stepped out into plain view.

  He smiled broadly and waved.

  5:08

  DAWN STUCK HER HEAD out into the murky twilight of the bedroom.

  It blinded her.

  She covered her eyes and waited for them to adjust, her ears as keen as a rabbit's.

  Micky had stopped shouting. Maybe she had given up.

  Or El was making her be quiet.

  The thought froze Dawn in place, half in, half out of hiding. She knelt there for a long minute, listening.

  What if he's down there, in the store?

  What can I do?

  Go back and hide?

  El was going to find her sooner or later if she did. She let out a long deep breath and pulled herself as quietly as possible to her feet, creeping one step at a time across the floor, not wanting to make the boards creak the way El had.

  She stopped just short of the bedroom door, standing on tiptoe, trying to peek over the edge of the landing. She could see the light from the front window and new footprints marring the carpet of ash. The door was half-open. If El was gone, he hadn't bothered to close it. A shaft of light forced its way inside as though it had to struggle against the darkness that El had created.

  Dawn took another tentative step forward and her eyes met Micky's. Then Micky's eyes closed and slowly reopened. She was nodding to herself and smiling.

  “He isn't here, Dawn,” Micky said in a hoarse voice. “Please come and cut me loose.”

  5:09

  THE PLANE ROARED OVER El's head, descending fast, the engine sputtering.

  El watched as the wheels splattered gravel and the plane fishtailed and then straightened, the flaps dropped and the engine idled. Rich slowly rolled to a stop at the far end of the runway. The motor revved once more and Rich made a 180degree turn and then there was silence.

  El blinked.

  He had expected Rich to taxi back to him.

  Why had the plane stopped at the other end of the airstrip?

  He didn't know whether to walk casually out to greet Rich or to wait.

  His fingers tapped the walnut grip of the pistol nervously.

  The plane just sat there, its windshield reflecting the low sun into his eyes.

  Walk over? Act nonchalant and wait?

  This was the kind of situation that El wasn't good at. He hadn't planned for this.

  He nudged gravel with the toe of his boot and chewed his lip.

  Nothing moved on the far end of the runway.

  What was the bastard doing?

  A pleasant chill started between El's shoulder blades.

  Was Rich on the radio?

  Was Micky right?

  El didn't have any idea of whether or not the plane's engine had to be running to use the radio but on reflection he assumed not. He stared up at the high peaks and wondered if Rich could contact anyone.

  Maybe.

  El sauntered toward the plane.

  When he had gone ten paces, the side door of the Supercub popped open and a couple of booted feet hit the runway. But the window in the door reflected light just like the windshield and the sense of menace behind the twin mirror surfaces sent a pleasant tingle of fear up El's spine. He couldn't see a face to match the feet and he wasn't expecting the sound of the bullhorn that brought him up short.

  “That's far enough!”

  The voice was harsh and nasal over the electronic amplification. It croaked away through the trees like the call of a solitary crow.

  El tried to smile and wave but just when he needed it his voice failed him.

  Was that a gun barrel between the door and the plane?

  He glanced around.

  He wasn't on the strip proper. Instead he trudged through the spongy muskeg beside it and it was maybe twenty yards to the nearest trees.

  He glanced back but it was equally far to the fourwheeler, where the loose rifle rested against the seat.

  Get your voice! Say something!

  But El wasn't accustomed to shouting. Mumbling was what he practiced.

  He waved again stupidly and took another couple of steps forward.

  “No farther!”

  The voice was even harsher but fear had crept into it.

  Did Rich have a gun or was he bluffing?

  More than likely he did have one in the plane.

  He'd be a fool not to, considering where he flew.

  In that case, El decided, it was time to trust fate.

  He waved again and, sidestepping in case Rich did have a gun, he drew the pistol and began to fire as he advanced.

  5:10

  GUNSHOTS RANG THROUGH THE open door.

  Dawn was on her knees clawing at the duct tape with raw fingers. She couldn't seem to find a loose edge or peel the tenacious tape and Micky urging her on only frustrated her the more.

  Both of them stared at each other as another shot echoed off the mountains.

  Micky closed her eyes and cursed.

  “Find a knife,” she said. “Anything sharp. Hurry.”

  Dawn shook her head.

  “You have to, Dawn,” said Micky. “Go!”

  “He took all the knives. He even took Rita's scissors off her sewing machine. I looked all over.”

  Of course, thought Micky. No guns. No knives. No sharp objects or anything that might be a weapon. All the weapons in McRay belonged to El now.

  Think!

  She stared at the blue mountainside through the window and tried with all her heart and her cunning to come up with a way out of their dilemma. El was only one man. Surely they had a chance at least to beat him. Their ancestors had defeated wooly mammoths with only stone tools and courage. Eskimos had been hunting polar bears with little more for millennia. And El's brain was dangerously out-of-whack. That had to give them a tiny edge.

  Or did it?

  Had it saved any of the others?

  Weren't those shots proof that he had just murdered Rich?

  But all the others had been surprised. They hadn't known what was coming.

  She and Dawn knew.

  And they had a few minutes at least to try to escape. If they could get out the door before El returned, then her idea of hiding out until help arrived might work. Forget looking for a weapon. Forget facing El. Just hide and wait and let the authorities deal with him.

  The sun reflected off the snow on a peak outside and prismed through the window directly into her face. The sharp pain closed her eyes and she cursed softly. But when she opened them an idea was written on her face.

  “Break the window,” said Micky. “Get a shard and cut this tape.”

  Dawn leaped to her feet to obey. She searched quickly through the wreckage that El had wrought. Beneath a pile of blankets she discovered an ax handle. She rushed straight up to the window and, without hesitating, made a home-run swing. The crack and tinkling sound took Micky back to the crash at the bar. And, for a second, all she could see was Wade's hand, hanging lifeless from the window of the police cruiser.

  Dawn leaned on the handle, surveying the pieces of g
lass that had fallen out onto the front deck. Micky shook her head. The wood frame held deadly-looking triangular shards, radiating from the center point where Dawn's blow had landed. The transparent daggers ranged in length from eight inches to two feet long, and they angled slightly outward, a crystal shark, snapping at the world.

  Micky struggled against her bindings. “Get gloves or a cloth! Something to protect your hands. Quick.”

  Dawn vanished behind the counter.

  Two more shots rang out. Different.

  Then another.

  Then a plane engine, revving into life.

  5:11

  EL CROUCHED BESIDE THE four-wheeler, nursing the wound in his right calf. The prop on the Supercub stirred loose gravel at the far end of the runway, and already the plane was starting to roll. El leaned the pistol on the front right fender and fired off the last three shots in the cylinder in rapid succession.

  The plane picked up speed.

  El had sensed Rich getting ready to fire before he caught the glint of Rich's scope and that intuition and the flash of light set off something in his brain. He didn't hear the shot that hit him in the leg and spun him like a broken-field runner, didn't know that his dance had probably saved his life when Rich's second shot went wild, past the spot El's head had been only a split second earlier.

  El stumbled stiff-legged back to the four-wheeler and cowered behind it, trying to catch his breath.

  The pain hit him then. Not hard.

  Not yet.

  But it would and he couldn't look at his leg.

  No way.

  He didn't mind other people's blood.

  But he couldn't stomach his own.

  Micky would have to fix it.

  After he took care of Rich.

  He shoved the empty pistol back into his holster and reached across the seat for Clive's rifle.

  The plane was almost on him.

  He wondered if Rich could get a shot out the window.

  Probably not. He had to fly the plane.