Drained of energy, my legs rubbery from the aftermath of the adrenaline surge, I holstered my weapon and entered the cabin, Hershey at my heels. Artie had retreated to a far corner, crouching near the potbelly stove, eyeing me with fear and distrust. I raised my arms to show him my empty hands. “It’s just me, Artie. Damien Dickens. Hershey and I have come to take you home.”
Artie called out to the dog, who bounded over to lick dirt and dried tears from the boy’s face. “Mr. Dickens?” There was an urgent undercurrent to his words.
“Yes, Artie?”
“I gotta go pee.”
I reached into my jacket for my flashlight. “We’ll all go together,” I said, “then I want to check out the car. The jerk backed into it pretty hard when he left here.”
After Hershey and I escorted Artie to the outhouse, the three of us trudged over to the ATV. The damage was worse than I had feared. Both headlights were smashed, the front grille was badly dented, and I could see a small pool of moisture on the ground. I reached down and touched the puddle with my fingertip, then put my finger to my tongue. The liquid was sweet. The force of the collision had cracked the radiator.
The beam of the flashlight was fading. “Let’s get back to the cabin before the flashlight batteries die,” I said. “We’re not going anywhere tonight.”
Once inside, I latched the door shut, then jammed a chair under the door knob for additional security. I searched the room for a flashlight, a lantern. Anything. All I found was a candle stub. There were no matches in the cabin, and the fire had died down, but I was able to light the candle by touching its wick to a hot coal. In the dim light, I could see Artie was shivering. Reaching into the box of firewood next to the stove, I shoved as many pieces as I could into the potbelly, and blew onto the coals to generate a flame. Once I was sure the logs had caught, I pulled a couple of chairs near to the stove for Artie and me.
“What’s gonna happen to us, Mr. Dickens? How will we get out of here if the car won’t work?”
“Don’t worry, kid. I’ll figure some way to patch the radiator in the morning,” I said. “And, even if I can’t, we’ll still get out of here tomorrow. I’ve arranged for someone to come looking for us if we don’t turn up by tomorrow afternoon.”
“What about that man? Won’t he come back?”
“No, I don’t think so. I think he’s trying to get as far away from here as possible. But if he does return, Hershey will warn us. He won’t be able to catch us by surprise.”
“It’s so cold in here. My feet are freezing.”
Looking down, I realized for the first time that he wasn’t wearing shoes. “Where are your shoes?”
“That man took my ski boots away on the airplane. He said the socks would keep me warm enough. I think he figured I wouldn’t be able to run away if I didn’t have shoes or boots on.”
I knelt down next to him and felt his feet. The heavy wool socks were sopping wet, with chunks of half-melted snow and ice clinging to them. “I’m going to peel these off and lay them on the stove. I’ll wrap my jacket around your feet until your socks are dry.” I matched my actions to my words, noticing as I did so that Artie was still shivering. “We need to get you warm,” I said. “I’m going to sit on the floor near the stove with my back against the wall. I want you to sit right here beside me, and Hershey will sit on your other side. You’ll feel better in no time.”
Chapter Thirty
I settled myself as comfortably as I could, my back to the wall. Artie sat next to me, and I draped my arm across his shoulders, hugging him close to my body. Hershey knew what to do without being told. He ambled over, and Artie was soon sandwiched between us.
“Now what?” Artie asked.
“Now we wait. Do you feel like talking?”
“I guess. What about?”
“Want to tell me what happened on the mountain?”
He didn’t say anything for a while, and I thought he might have dozed off. When he began to speak, his voice was trembling. “I don’t know for sure what happened. I got off the gondola at the top of the hill, and carried my gear over to the Ski Patrol shack, where I stopped to put on my skis. A man came up to me and asked me to help him with his bindings. I bent over to look. Next thing I knew, there was some sort of sweet-smelling cloth over my nose and mouth. When I woke up, the man was dragging me through the forest. I remember trying to get away, but he was too strong. He stood me on my feet, gave me a shake, and told me to walk if I knew what was good for me. I was scared, Mr. Dickens. I didn’t know what to do.”
“What happened next?”
“We walked for quite a while, following a path of sorts. I could tell we were heading in the direction of Long Trail. When we reached a clearing, the man shoved me down onto the snow and told me to stay put. He made a call on one of those satellite phones, like Aunt Susan uses. He said something like, ‘This is Duke. I’ve got the kid.’ I watched him, hoping he would turn his back, and I might be able to sneak away. But he kept his eyes on me the whole time. After he finished his phone call, he grabbed my arm and yanked me to my feet. ‘Time to go, kid,’ he said. I tried to pull free. He grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me again. ‘I’ll show you not to listen,’ he yelled. He slapped my face, and I fell back into the snow. When he reached down to grab me again, I bit him on the wrist. Hard. He let go of me, and I was able to run off into the woods. I thought if I could get even a little way into the forest, there was a chance he wouldn’t be able to find me. I knew we were right near the Long Trail, and I could follow it to the Mountain Road.”
Artie was breathing hard, reliving his fright. I waited in silence for him to continue. Once he had calmed down, he picked up the thread of his story. “It’s hard to run in ski boots, but I managed to make it through the woods to Long Trail. At one point, a ledge of snow gave way, and I almost fell down the embankment. That really scared me, so I slowed down. After a while, I came to the clearing above Sterling Pond. You know where I mean? That little lake on the north side of the mountain, above the Smuggler’s Notch ski resort? I was so tired. I couldn’t move another step, so I sat down to rest. There was a man sitting on a snowmobile at the edge of the pond. He called out to me when he saw me. Asked me if I was lost. I told him I was, even though I knew exactly where I was, and he offered to take me to Smuggler’s.”
Artie took a deep breath that was half a sob and blew it out. “He picked me up and carried me piggyback to his snowmobile. He set me on the seat, climbed on behind me, and we rode down to the parking lot. We pulled up next to a car, and he asked me where I lived. I told him I lived in Stowe, and he offered to give me a ride home. When I accepted his offer, he told me to wait in the car while he returned the snowmobile to the rental office. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, we were on Williston Road. I asked him what we were doing in Burlington. He told me he had promised to deliver something to a friend at the airport, and asked whether I’d like to see a really cool airplane.”
He shook his head. “I should have remembered what Mom and Pop always told me. I shouldn’t have trusted a stranger. He took me by the arm and led me around the outside of the airport building over to a neat-looking airplane with two huge propellers. We climbed a set of stairs and went inside the plane. He said there was something interesting near the back, so I followed him down the aisle. As soon as we moved away from the door, the pilot closed it. I looked through a window and saw the propellers starting to turn. That’s when I realized what was happening. I yelled for him to let me out, and ran back to the door, but I couldn’t open it. The man grabbed me and shoved me into a seat. He fastened the seat belt around me, then used a rope to tie me to the seat back.”
Artie had stopped shivering. I leaned forward and retrieved his socks from the stove top. The heat had shrunk them, but he managed to get them back onto his feet. “That feels better.” He leaned back, and turned his head to look up at me. “Mr. Dickens, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure. Ask away.
”
He hesitated. “Well, it’s about my mother? My birth mother, that is.”
“Yes?”
“Well, I know that Aunt Celine was really my mother, and that she left me with Mom and Pop, and I know that Aunt Susan is my aunt. But…” He swallowed hard, and I could feel his body tense, as though he was trying to suppress a sob.
“You’re wondering why your mother left you?”
“Yeah. It’s just that… I mean…” He took a deep breath and finished in a rush. “Some of the guys in school have been talking about her. When they think I can’t hear them. Or, maybe when they think I can. They say she was a whore. That she didn’t want me. Never loved me. That she would have aborted me if Mom and Pop hadn’t persuaded her to leave me with them instead.” He paused to wipe away tears with an angry swipe of his hand. “You knew her, Mr. Dickens. Was she really a whore? Are the guys in school telling the truth?”
“Have you asked your Mom or Pop about this? Or your Aunt Susan?” I was stalling. Playing for time as I tried to figure out how best to answer his questions.
He shook his head. “I thought about asking them, but I just couldn’t.”
I looked down into his upturned face. Into his searching eyes. Celine’s eyes. Silently, I asked her what I should do. What I should say. And I heard her voice inside my head. ‘Tell him the truth, Damien. It’s time he knew the truth.’
Gathering my thoughts, I took a deep breath, and cast my mind back through the years. “Your mother was a beautiful woman.” My voice caught, and I had to swallow a couple of times before I could speak. “Not just the way she looked. She was beautiful on the inside, too. She fell in love with your father one summer while she was still in college. But he ended up marrying someone else instead. A month or two after the wedding, Celine realized she was pregnant. She didn’t want her family, or your father, to find out. Mary Hegarty had been nanny to her and Susan when they were children, and Celine had kept in touch with her. Your mother contacted Mary and asked whether she and Zeb would take her child and raise it as their own.”
“Mary and Zeb were childless, and were eager to oblige. They invited your mother to stay with them until you were born, and for as long afterward as she wanted. But the pain of seeing you every day in the arms of another woman was too much for her, and she ran away to California. Her father - your grandfather, whose name you bear - grew worried when he stopped hearing from her. He hired me to find her and bring her home. Celine settled down, finished her college degree, and started working for the family business. She had stayed in touch with your Mom and Pop even after she went to California. She would call them at odd hours, and ask question after question about the foods you liked, your favorite toys, whether you were happy, whether you had any friends. All the things a mother would want to know. Mary used to send her pictures of you, to a post office box in San Diego. When she came back east, she wanted to see you. To get to know you. So she became ‘Aunt Celine,’ related to you in some unexplained fashion you were too young to question.”
I felt Artie’s body relax against mine, and I realized he was on the verge of falling asleep. “Your mother loved you very much, Artie. She loved you so much that she gave her life to protect you.”
“Were you in love with her, Mr. Dickens?” he asked, looking at me through half-closed eyes.
His question caught me by surprise, and I stopped to consider how best to answer. “I admired her,” I said at last. “And, yes, I was in love with her. Celine was an easy person to love.”
“Did you ever tell her?”
I shook my head. “I couldn’t. I had no future to offer her. She was an heiress, and I was struggling just to pay my rent. We inhabited different worlds. And I was a lot older than her.”
“But she came to you for help, didn’t she? Before she was killed?”
“Yes, she came to me for help. She asked me to protect you. She was worried someone might want to harm you. She confided in me that day, told me everything, as though I was her older brother, or a favorite uncle.”
“I sure wish I had an uncle like you, Mr. Dickens. Could we make believe you’re my uncle?”
“Sure, Artie.” My throat constricted with emotion, and I swallowed hard. “I’d be proud to be your Uncle Damien.”
Chapter Thirty-one
February 24, 1983
I awoke to needle-like rays of sunlight penetrating through the small holes in the bed sheet that covered the window on the east side of the cabin. Artie had shifted his position during the night and was sound asleep, his head resting on Hershey’s body. The cabin was cold enough to preserve meat. I rose with difficulty, and hobbled over to the stove on stiff legs. The fire had burned down to a few hot coals. A search of the wood bin produced a handful of kindling, three pieces of split log, and a lumpy package enveloped in bubble wrap. I left the package in place for the moment, and used the kindling to build the fire back up. Once the small sticks had caught, I added one large split log, keeping the others in reserve. I didn’t want to eat up our entire supply of firewood all at once.
Satisfied with my efforts, I returned to the bin and lifted out the package. It was surprisingly heavy. Heavier than Hershey, who weighs about 60 pounds. I placed the package on the table, and examined the wrapping before beginning to peel off the clear tape. Handling bubble wrap is never a silent activity, and the sound of popping plastic woke Artie. He sat up, rubbed his eyes and walked over to watch. Under the bubble wrap was a soft felt sack secured with drawstrings tied around the neck. I picked at the knot until it loosened, opened the sack and reached inside. My fingers contacted an irregular-shaped object. Reaching in with both hands, I eased it out of the sack. Artie leaned in closer, and we stared in awe at a lump of gold whose shape suggested a dragon.
My pulse quickened. “Did you know this was underneath the firewood? Did the man who brought you here put this in the box?”
“Nuh-uh.” His eyes were round in amazement at he stared at the object on the table before us. “Why? What is it?”
“It’s a solid gold nugget, Artie. It was stolen from a casino in Las Vegas.”
“Wow!”
I laughed and tousled his hair. “You can say that again, kid.”
“What are we going to do with it, Uncle Damien?”
He gave me a sideways glance, gauging my reaction to his manner of address. With a smile, I told him we would return it to its rightful owner, and that there was a reward offered for its safe return.
“Cool! Just like in the movies. But how are we gonna get there? Isn’t your car fried?”
“I’m going to go out in a few minutes to check on it,” I said. “I want you to promise to stay inside the cabin while I’m outside. I’ll leave Hershey with you.”
“Sure, Uncle Damien. I promise. Just one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“First, I gotta go pee.”
I chuckled. “So do I, Artie. And I’ll bet Hershey would like to take care of business, too.”
I removed the chair from its position under the doorknob and pulled back the latch. Taking my revolver out of its holster, I pointed it skyward and eased the door open. A cautious look outside revealed no sign of danger, and no fresh footprints in the light dusting of snow that had fallen overnight. We stepped out of the cabin into intense sunlight and brittle cold. I stood post outside the outhouse while Artie went in, then escorted him and Hershey back to the cabin before walking over to inspect the vehicle. The damage was even worse than I had feared. In addition to the smashed headlights and the leaking radiator, both front tires were flat. Even if I succeeded in patching the radiator and was able to melt enough snow to refill it, there was only one spare tire. We weren’t going anywhere without a tow truck.
I wasn’t too worried, except for Artie’s comfort. I could depend on Warrenburg to send out a posse before the day was out. But, as far as I knew, there was no food in the cabin, precious little water, and we were nearly out of firewood. I opened the small
trunk of the ATV and found a tire iron. The table and chairs in the cabin were made of wood. If I could pry them apart with the tire iron, I could keep the fire going. I had noticed an old metal pot in the corner near the stove. I could use it to melt the freshly fallen snow for drinking water. At least we would be able to stave off cold and thirst. Returning to the cabin, I set about dismantling one of the chairs, and fed the pieces one by one into the potbelly. They were too long to fit, so I left the door to the stove open until the wood was partially consumed by the fire. The cabin was toasty now. I took the pot outside, filled it with snow, and set it on the stovetop to heat.
While I was waiting for the snow to melt, I found a couple of metal cups hanging on hooks and took them outside to scrub them clean with fresh snow. Using the sleeves of my coat to protect my hands, I removed the pot from the stove. The water was cloudy with fine silt, which had been released from the snow as it melted. I waited a few minutes for the largest particles to settle to the bottom, then decanted the precious water into our cups. Cautioning Artie to drink slowly, I handed one of the cups to him and took a sip from the other one.
The water was lukewarm and had a gritty feel to it. Artie made a face and laid his cup on the table. “Better drink it,” I told him. “We need to stay hydrated.” He started to protest, but I wasn’t having any of it. “Pretend you’re on a Boy Scout survival challenge. If you were lost in the woods, you wouldn’t object to a bit of dirt in your water.” I won my point, and he emptied his cup, one slow sip at a time. I refilled my own cup and steadied it on the floor while Hershey drank his fill, then took the pot back outside to collect more snow.
The Gold Dragon Caper: A Damien Dickens Mystery (Damien Dickens Mysteries Book 4) Page 16