A Cold White Fear

by R. J. Harlick

Deciding the condition of my hardwood floor was the least of my worries, I motioned for the boy to pick her up, and off to the den we went.

  NINETEEN

  Larry lay huddled under the blanket, his eyes closed. Apart from sinking more comfortably into the sofa cushions, he hadn’t moved since I’d dressed his wounds. The blanket trembled with his shivering. Little wonder. With only a handful of coals remaining in the fireplace, the room had taken on refrigerator temperatures.

  “Could you get the fire going again?” I asked Jid.

  At the sound of my voice, Larry’s eyes sprang open. He looked around anxiously. I turned off my headlamp to keep from blinding him and placed the tray with his food on the table next to the sofa. The oil lamp still had enough fuel, but it was getting low. I would have to add more.

  A curious Shoni was sniffing along the edge of his blanket. His hand slipped out and patted her gently on the head. She licked it in return.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Is that you? I thought you’d gone.”

  “I’m afraid I’m back.”

  “Jeez, you sure had Professor mad. He wanted to kill you.” He raised a shaking hand to brush a hunk of greasy hair out of his eyes. “I was glad you’d got away. It’s not safe for you here. Why did you come back?”

  “I ran into the third member of your team, Slobodan. Unfortunately, he was holding a friend of mine prisoner.”

  Larry twisted his head around to look at the boy, who was standing off to one side in the shadows. “You talking about the kid?”

  “Yeah. Jid, meet Larry, and vice versa. I couldn’t leave him alone with that man, so here I am.”

  “You’re a nice lady. Take the kid and run as far away from here as you can.”

  Though he was acting sympathetic, I wasn’t about to tell him our plans. “Look, I brought you some hot soup. You need to eat something.”

  “Nah, I’m not hungry.” His top lip was moist from a runny nose.

  “How’re you feeling? Any pain?”

  “It don’t hurt so much, not like before. You done a good job fixin’ me up. Thanks.”

  His brow glistened with sweat.

  “Let me take your temperature. I’m worried you might have a fever.”

  The basket of medical supplies still rested on the floor where I’d left it. I removed the thermometer and was about to place it in the man’s mouth when he pushed my hand away.

  “It’s not a fever.”

  “Let me make sure. A fever could be a sign of infection.”

  “So what. Nothing you can do.”

  He was right. If the gunshot wound was infected, antibiotics would be the only way to deal with it. Without medical help, that wasn’t going to happen.

  After stoking the fire back up to a glowing roar, Jid sank into one of the leather armchairs and lifted the puppy onto his lap.

  “What’s wrong with him?” he asked, his eyes glued to the prone man.

  “He was shot.”

  “While he was trying to escape?”

  “I imagine. Do you know who shot you, Larry?”

  “I don’t remember.” He wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand. “So ya know we escaped from jail, eh?”

  “Yeah, from Joyceville.”

  “Do ya know anything else?”

  “I think the three of you were in a vehicle. The Serb said something about a staged crash. He mentioned a woman being responsible for it. Do you know her?”

  “Nope. Just know her name’s Jo. She’s his woman. Supposed to be one tough broad. I remember the van, one of them prison vans. They were taking us to another facility. I remember a big bang, nothing after that.”

  “Was there anyone else in the van with you?”

  “If you mean prisoners, nope. Just Professor, Tiger, and me. But there were a couple of hacks.”

  “Hacks?”

  “Yah, guards. One of them was Nick. Nice guy for a hack.”

  “Do you know what happened to them?” I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know.

  When he turned his eyes away, I had a pretty good idea.

  “Like I said, I don’t remember much,” he said.

  “Do you think you can sit up? I need to get some soup into you.”

  “I’m not hungry.” His eyes shifted away from me again and then back. Once again he wiped his wet lip with the back of his hand. “I need something else. You got any pills around here? You know, stuff like Oxycontin, something that’s got a kick in it? Maybe even horse?” His eyes reflected the desperation I heard in his voice.

  The minute he said the word “horse,” I knew what I was dealing with.

  “Ya see, Tiger didn’t bring any. He usually gives me the stuff.”

  Just what I needed, a heroin addict going into withdrawal.

  “You need to eat. A little chicken noodle soup will make you feel better.” A tried and true grandmother recipe for all that ails one, at least that’s what they say — whoever “they” is. But the soup wasn’t homemade, just straight out of a can with all the goodness processed out of it.

  I brought a spoonful of tepid soup to his lips and kept it there until he reluctantly opened his mouth. He’d no sooner swallowed it than I gave him another spoonful. This time he readily took it. A couple of more, and he was trying to push himself more upright. I helped him to sit up as far as was comfortable. He finished the rest of the soup on his own.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Do you want more? I can reheat it.”

  “Later. But I’ll have that piece of bread.”

  He munched on the bread while Jid and I watched him in silence. With flames licking at the fireplace’s metal screen, the room had warmed up to almost cozy levels. Behind us, flakes scraped a staccato beat against the window, reminding us that danger lurked as much outside as it did inside. The two men continued to argue in the kitchen. I figured it was probably the Scotch taking over.

  “You got some nice decorations.” Larry jerked his head in the direction of the mantel, where I’d draped a garland of emerald tinsel and set up a streetscape with the last of Aunt Aggie’s china Christmas houses, some more chipped than others.

  “My kòkomis used to decorate her house for Christmas. It was kind of nice. I liked going there. Mom never did much of anything.” He sighed than turned to the boy. “You from the rez?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How old are ya?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Not very big for your age, are ya? I figured you were younger.”

  That wasn’t something the boy wanted to hear. His small size was a source of embarrassment. Often bullied by the bigger boys, he’d learned to get back at them with his quick tongue. Eric had taught him a couple of effective moves he’d employed as a professional hockey player. The one time Jid had been forced to use them, they’d worked, leaving one bully lying with a broken wrist on the ground and the other running as fast as his legs could carry him away from their victim. He’d had no further run-ins.

  “Who’s your dad?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “How about your mom?”

  “She’s dead.”

  At that point the shouting in the kitchen stopped, followed by the thump of footsteps echoing along the hall toward us.

  TWENTY

  The three of us stopped talking. It sounded like only one man was stumbling down the hall toward us. I tensed as I waited to see whose face would appear. I supposed if I had my choice, I would choose the tax evader over the murderer. He hadn’t killed anyone, at least not that I knew of.

  I heard the thump of a body against a wall before I saw Professor’s snakes etched in the glow of the lamp. His face twisted into a smile.

  “How’s it going, P’tit Chief?” he rasped.

  He clung to the doorframe before lurching into the room. He made straight for the chair where Jid was sitting and fell into it, barely giving the boy enough time to escape. It would appear that consuming a bottle of rye and good quantity of Er
ic’s Scotch had finally caught up to the man. The big question was whether he was a benign drunk who would slide into a drunken stupor or an angry one who would become belligerent and violent.

  “Hey, Red, I should kill you for taking off on me.” He pulled out Eric’s knife and ran his finger along the sharp edge.

  I froze. I had my answer.

  Jid scrambled out of the way, his eyes huge with fear.

  Not exactly the kind of behaviour I associated with a tax evader. I tried to act as nonchalant as I could and remained seated in the leather armchair by the fireplace as if having a knife pointed at me happened everyday.

  “Professor, she’s good people,” Larry said. “She ain’t gonna do it again.” His eyes pleaded.

  “You’re right, she won’t. I’m going to tie her up. Kid, get me some rope.”

  My heart sank. There went my chance to escape. It was now up to the boy.

  He turned frightened eyes toward me as if seeking direction. In the ensuing silence I heard the third escaped convict clamber up the stairs.

  “You know where we keep the rope, eh?” I said.

  Nodding imperceptibly, he silently acknowledged that he knew it was in the woodshed. With no one in the kitchen, he could make a run for it and take the puppy with him.

  “Okay?”

  He nodded and mumbled, “Okay.”

  Stepping back, I said out loud, “Take Shoni. She needs to go to the bathroom.”

  “The dog stays with me.” Professor pulled the whimpering puppy from the boy’s arms.

  Jid tried desperately to hang on to her, but when Shoni cried out in pain, he let go.

  “The dog has to go outside. I don’t want her making a mess on the carpet,” I persisted.

  “You telling me what to do? The dog stays with me.” He clumsily grabbed her leg as she struggled to leave his grasp. She yelped.

  “Let go, you’re hurting her.”

  “The only one I’m going to hurt is you.” Locking his eyes on mine, he ran his long fingers with a surprisingly gentle touch along the puppy’s back and behind her ears. She quieted down.

  Jid remained standing, unsure of what to do, until the man shouted, “Go!” and off he ran, his face twisted in apprehension. I prayed he understood that he had to leave right away.

  As I listened to his footsteps fade into the kitchen, I knew I had to distract the tattooed man to take his mind away from the boy. But my thoughts were in a whirl. All I could think to say was, “So you like dogs.”

  He buried his face in her silky coat, and then, sitting back up, he said, “Nothing like a puppy.” He tickled her under the chin. “Yes, you could say I’m a big fan of the canine species. Once I settle into my own place, I plan to get one. Maybe I’ll take Shoni. She does rather like me, don’t you think?”

  Over my dead body, I thought, and then shuddered when I realized it might come to that.

  “I had a dog in prison. A rescue dog. A Rottweiler/German Shepherd mix, not a refined specimen like Shoni.” He ran his fingers through the soft fur.

  At least the distraction seemed to be working. “I didn’t think they allowed dogs in jail.”

  “He wasn’t allowed in my cell. They didn’t trust us. Though I did manage to sneak him in once. He had his own personal cell, a crate. Poor bugger had to be incarcerated like the rest of us.

  “It was one of those do-gooder programs that are supposed to make us nice people.” He sniggered. “They teach us dog training techniques, and we in turn transform these badass dogs into pussycats to make them more adoptable. Yeah, right. They hadn’t bargained on us liking the aggression in our dogs. We had some terrific dog fights, and mine usually came out on top.” He growled at Shoni.

  “You’d better not give her any ideas.”

  “Nah, she’s a sweetie, just the way I like my women, docile and submissive. That’s right, eh, Larry?”

  He stared so pointedly at the injured man, who beamed back at him, that I began to wonder about his definition of “women.” “Since you like dogs so much, I’m surprised you’d want to leave him behind.”

  “The dog’s dead. He got sick one day and was gone the next. I figured he’d been poisoned.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “As they say, easy come, easy go. I figured my cellie did it. He hated Mom.”

  “Yeah, Hammer probably done it,” Larry added. “I liked Mom. I used to play fetch with him, remember?”

  “Mom would’ve made some kid a terrific dog. I had him expertly trained.”

  “Mom?” I asked.

  “After Mom O’Reilly, the biggest boss biker of all time.”

  Not another one. “Are you a member of the Black Devils too?”

  “Nope, I’m an independent. I prefer to work on my own. But you have to admire a man who transformed the biker gangs in Quebec and made them into a major player. Too bad he’s doing time.”

  “Mom’s in SHU at Saint Anne’s,” Larry added. “That’s where that stupid judge sent me before they transferred me to medium.”

  “I assume you mean medium security.”

  “Ya, I didn’t belong with all those hardcore killers, ain’t that right, Professor?”

  “You just had the bad luck to get that particular tough-on-crime judge. Your legal aid lawyer didn’t help either,” the tattooed man answered.

  “What is SHU?” I asked.

  “It’s super-maximum. No way you can escape from there,” Larry replied.

  “Mom’s got one hell of an organization behind him,” Professor cut in. “I’m willing to wager he won’t complete his sentence. They’ll find a way to get him out.” He winked. “Look at how easy it was for us to escape, eh, P’tit.”

  Larry giggled until he gripped his stomach in pain.

  “Mom was ratted out by one of his own. If anyone does that to me, they’re history.” His eyes pierced Larry with their glowing amber threat.

  “Professor, we’re buddies. You know I’d never do that to you.” Larry shrank farther into the couch.

  The tattooed man continued to hammer his fist into his other hand with such intensity that I wondered if he’d ended up in jail because someone had squealed on him.

  An exceptionally strong blast of wind slammed against the house. I could feel it shake from front to back and top to bottom. This storm wasn’t going to let us forget that there was as much havoc happening outside as inside. By now the boy would be well under the protection of the forest canopy and on his way to Will.

  My diversion seemed to be working. Professor was more interested in dogs and being ratted out than about wondering why the boy hadn’t yet returned with the rope.

  I relaxed too soon.

  The sound of two sets of approaching footsteps filled the hall, one lighter than the other.

  Jid appeared first, his shoulders slumped, his face a mask of dejection. Melting snow dripped from his down-filled jacket while his boots left a trail of water.

  Behind him glowered Slobodan, dangling the rope from his fist.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Slobodan pushed the boy into the room. “The kid try to run away. I tell him, he go, I shoot you.”

  I was numb. Gone was all chance of being rescued.

  Jid barely glanced in my direction. For a second I thought he would burst into tears, but he took a deep breath, firmed his jaw in resolution, and shook himself free of the biker’s grip. The red splotch on the side of his face had grown.

  I motioned for him to come to me and put my arm around his trembling body. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “You tried your best.”

  Turning to the man, I said, “He wasn’t leaving. He was going to the woodshed to get that rope you’re holding.” I summoned up my courage. “Don’t you dare hit Jid again.”

  “You do what, lady. Hit me back?” He snorted. “Kid go after cops. I stop him. He do it again, I shoot. Why he need rope?”

  I’d let Professor answer that one.

  But Slobodan didn’t wait. “What this boy to yo
u? You say friend, but he call you auntie. You no look like him.” Slobodan let the rope fall to the floor. “You very white with your red hair. He Injun, for sure.”

  I cringed. The word was as insulting for me as it was for Jid. “Don’t call him that.”

  “I call him what I like,” he sneered. “So you his aunt?”

  Worried he would use our close relationship against us, I exaggerated the distance and hoped Jid would understand. “He’s just a kid from the reserve who does odd jobs for me. ‘Auntie’ is the term used by children for older women within their community.”

  “Hey, other Injun. Wake up. You know boy?” He thumped the sofa with his foot.

  Larry, who looked to be battling his own demons, flung his eyes open. He glanced around as if not sure of where he was. “Whaddya say?”

  “The boy. He Injun like you. Ya know him?”

  He stared intently at a shuffling Jid. “Nah, too young. He wasn’t born yet when I was sent away. Besides, I was gone from the rez long before that.”

  “Maybe you know his parents,” Slobodan said.

  “What was your mother’s name?” the injured man asked. “Jid’s your name, right? Short for Adjidamò, eh? Little Squirrel. See, I haven’t forgot all my Algonquin. Had me a friend called Jid when I was gro —” Larry sputtered, started coughing, and gripped his side painfully. I passed him some water, which he gulped gratefully. “Jeez, that hurt.” He continued breathing heavily for a few minutes before continuing. “Gimme your mother’s name again. We mighta growed up together.”

  “No way. My mother was good. She wouldn’t be friends with a bad person like you.”

  The biker chortled. “I like boy with spirit.” The man stepped forward to ruffle his hair. But Jid ducked his head and backed out of reach. The grin vanished from the man’s face. “But not too much.”

  I hastily intervened before anger took over. Walking over to the sofa with Jid firmly by my side, I said, “I want to check your bandage, Larry.”

  The biker grunted and clenched his fist but didn’t move from where he was standing.

  I saw no indication that blood had seeped through the gauze. “Good. Now roll over so I can check the back dressing.” Although I could detect some seepage, I felt it wasn’t enough to cause concern. “How bad does it hurt you, Larry?”