Freeze Frame_a Snapshot novel

by Freya Barker

  “Vandalized how?” she demands to know, tilting her head back to look me in the eye. “Holes in the wall? Windows broken? What?” The deep sigh slips out before I can check it. Not enough then.

  “Nothing broken, and nothing that we can’t get rid of with a good scrubbing—urine.” Her confusion is visible on her face. “And lipstick,” I add, and that gets her attention. Her eyes close to slits and her perfect lips press into a straight line.

  “A woman,” Isla hisses, pulling from my hold. She turns around, braces herself on the small sink, and drops her head down.

  I’ve got to admit, I’m at a bit of a loss what to expect here, so I settle for putting a hand on her back.

  “That woman!” she yells, as she swings around, knocking my hand away. I take a cautionary step back and watch as my little pixie changes into a snarling fury. “What was the message?” she spits out, catching me of guard. “Oh, don’t look so surprised, it’s not quantum physics. It’s clear what she’s trying to do.”

  Isla doesn’t even blink when I tell her what’s written on the bathroom mirror.

  “God, how cliché,” she mutters dismissively.

  The next moment, I hear the crunch of tires on the path—the cavalry has arrived.

  Isla

  The sound of the approaching car has got Atsa up and off the bed in a flash.

  I barely manage to grab him by the collar as he tries to squeeze by Ben, when he steps out of the trailer.

  “Not without a leash, buddy.” I grab my coat where I tossed it on the couch and find his leash underneath. The dog is at the door, his nose pressing against the seal, and a low growl coming from his throat. “Easy, puppy,” I whisper at him, as I clip the lead to his collar and take it in a strong grip before opening the door.

  Good thing too, since his head is already pushing through the narrow opening.

  “Hold on, boy.”

  Outside, Ben is talking to a tall, lanky man in uniform. Both heads turn my way, as I struggle to control the dog, and all conversation stills. That pisses me off.

  “What’s the plan?” I snap, inserting myself in whatever it is they were discussing.

  “Isla,” Ben mumbles, his voice low and warning, before he sighs and indicates the other man. “This is Drew Carmel, Montezuma County Sheriff. Sheriff, this is Isla Ferris.”

  “Sorry to meet under these circumstances.” The man offers his hand, which Atsa doesn’t seem to approve of, if his low guttural growl is any indication.

  “It’s okay,” I tell the dog as I take the handshake. “Sheriff.” I nod with a tight smile. “Now, what was I interrupting?” I push, when neither man gives any indication of volunteering any information.

  “I was just about to head up to the house and wait for my deputy,” Sheriff Carmel says with a nod, and quickly retreats to his patrol car, leaving Ben and I to watch him drive away.

  “You scared him off.”

  I whip around, my temper flaring.

  “I don’t care,” I snap, fired up. I don’t give a shit if I’m being unreasonable. “Why is it, I get the feeling that even after I had to drag what little information I have out of you, I still get the sense you’re holding back? Oh, wait, maybe it’s because the big boys stop whispering the moment I’m within earshot?” Ben opens his mouth to speak, but I flick my hand in front of his face to cut him off. I’m on a rant. “I had plans, Ben. Plans that involved that big new bathtub up there, and our new king-sized bed, in our brand-spanking new house. I’m tired, and I’m pi-hi...pissed,” I sob, hysteria finally catching up with me.

  I hate feeling out of control.

  I hate that there may be things I don’t know about Ben.

  I hate thinking it means something when he tries to hide things.

  I hate feeling unhinged.

  More than anything else, I hate that someone is messing with a really, really good fucking thing.

  Ben

  I’m clearly clueless as to how this works.

  The one thing I was trying to avoid, is the one thing I managed to accomplish; upset Isla. Shit—and not just a little. Who knew that anger and tears go together? I sure as fuck didn’t.

  So I stop thinking and do what comes naturally; wrap her in my arms and in a hushed voice start talking.

  “I think her name is Jahnee...” I start, and proceed to tell her exactly what I told Damian and Sheriff Carmel, holding nothing back this time.

  By the time I’m done, her sniffles have slowed down, and she takes a swipe at her nose with her sleeve.

  “How did you leave it with her?” she asks.

  “Not sure what you mean.”

  “How did you end the relationship? Was it amicable? Was she upset?”

  “Babe, there was no relationship,” I point out. “I got the information we needed, we shut down the operation, and I moved on to the next assignment.” That earns me a punch to my shoulder.

  “But did she know that? You just disappeared without a word, didn’t you? And clearly that message didn’t get across if she still carries a torch,” Isla mumbles those last words, shaking her head. “Although she has a weird way of showing it.”

  I did disappear without a word. I never told her my real name. I think I was Brent Kaiser for that one. I used that alias a few times. My focus was always on getting the job done, by whatever means necessary, and I didn’t spend a lot of time worrying about the players—or the innocent bystanders. At least not until my last assignment brought me to McPhee Reservoir. And Isla.

  -

  The sun is going down by the time the police cars finally leave and I lock up the house. We’ll deal with the mess tomorrow.

  Isla is on her way back down to the trailer. She came up with me when the evidence technician arrived. We’d left Atsa in the trailer and he was making a ruckus, wanting to tag along. I was surprised Isla was more curious than anything else.

  She’d brought her camera and offered to take pictures of anything worth noting. I ended up simply observing, as Isla tagged along behind the other woman as they moved from laundry room, to bedroom, and finally into the bathroom. By then Isla was so focused on getting the exact shots the tech asked for, she barely seemed to register the message.

  I watch from the rock as she parks the ATV and opens the trailer door, removing the cumbersome collar from an excited Atsa, before letting him run free. Young as he is, he already seems protective of her. He was leery of the sheriff and seemed restless with the arrival of the other cars. He hasn’t even had a chance to get used to all the sounds and smells. Despite his obvious excitement, he doesn’t seem to venture very far from Isla as she walks down toward the water’s edge, returning to her side before loping off to investigate another trail his nose picks up.

  I’m covering the utility trailer, which is still housing the bed, with a tarp, when they come back from their walk.

  “There should be bleach in the shed on the shelves,” she says, holding down the corner as I pull the strap tight. “Come hell or high water, tomorrow night I want my bath, and my bed.” I look up and smile at the determined look on her face.

  “Damn right,” I confirm, earning a little smile back.

  “Sandwiches okay?” she asks over her shoulder, as she walks to the trailer, slapping her thigh to call the dog.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  With the tarp tied down, I head into the shed to look for the bleach. Two bottles are sitting on the supply shelves and I pull them down. I grab some other things I think we might need, along with a couple of buckets, and set them close to the door so it’s easy to pick up tomorrow. Then I pull out my phone and dial Damian.

  “And?”

  “They just left.”

  “How’s your girl doing?”

  “Good, all things considering. Surprisingly well, actually.” Damian chuckles at that.

  “She doesn’t seem the type to suck her thumb in a corner,” he offers.

  “Not exactly. So have you had any luck?”

  D
amian was going to try and see what he could find out about the woman, with only her first name and her place of employment, give or take a decade ago.

  “You’d think with a name spelled like that, there wouldn’t be many around,” he complains. “Two hundred and thirteen popped up in the system. Can you believe it? That’s only the ones who’ve been witness to or perpetrated a crime. You can always check with your old boss, see if the DEA is willing to share what they have.”

  I know they’d have a record. I also know that my old boss didn’t always agree on the way I got the job done. After Isla’s reaction earlier, I’m starting to see why.

  “I will, if you can’t dig anything up,” I concede.

  “Now what about security? Gus Flemming is right there, maybe twenty minutes away, if you decide you need some help.”

  “Appreciated. I think we’ll be okay. Just a middle-aged woman on a rampage, right? We should be able to manage,” I jokingly assure him.

  I don’t let on that this whole situation unnerves me.

  I close the shed door and look around the deserted campground, the only light from the two street lamps on the other side of the gate, and that coming through the windows of the trailer.

  It’s silent, without the sound of frogs at the edge of the water, or the lowing of the cattle grazing the mountain in the summer. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, but nothing is moving.

  The noise of the tap running inside the trailer pulls me from my trance. I head inside, where the dog lifts his head from his perch on the couch, and the woman looks up from the plate to greet me with a smile.

  Home isn’t a place.

  CHAPTER 16

  Isla

  “That one goes in the great room.”

  I point the delivery guy in the right direction. This is the third delivery today. The huge horseshoe-shaped sectional couch was delivered this morning, along with the twin dressers and nightstands we picked from the same place in Albuquerque. Those were in a spare bedroom for now. The second delivery of furniture was a collection of smaller items: stools, bookshelves, and a desk and chair for the office, as well as some high-end pots and pans I can’t wait to put to use.

  This last one is the one I know Ben’s been waiting for; the big screen TV. We don’t have cable up here, but apparently Ben knows a guy who installs satellite, and he’s scheduled to come in sometime this week.

  “I have years of football to catch up on,” he said with a grin, making me groan out loud.

  We scrubbed everything yesterday. More than once, but the smell still lingered. Ben insisted he wasn’t going to have me sleep in the stench of his old life. I was going to argue, but when I saw his face, I decided against it. This morning he was already here, scrubbing the floor again, by the time I walked up with Atsa.

  Now the windows are open in the master suite, to get rid of the chlorine fumes, and Ben is out with the dog to find some firewood for the fireplace that bisects the large picture windows.

  I close the door behind the delivery guy, who left the huge box propped against the wall, and head back to the kitchen, where I was washing the new plates and glassware that were packed in the trailer with the bed. The new pots are already done and hanging from the massive pot rack, dangling over the island.

  For now, we’re going to make do with stools at the counter, instead of a dining room table, because Ben really wants to make one. I worry a bit, with all the projects he’s got lined up, that he’ll get bored when he runs out of things to do. Is he worried about that?

  “Hang on, boy.” I can hear Ben mutter to the dog when they come in. “Let me clean your paws.”

  Makes me smile. Yesterday he’d laughed when I put an old towel by the door for Atsa’s muddy or wet feet. Today he’s using it without prompting. And they say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

  “I’ve got some deadwood that needs cutting, but I don’t want to do it with the dog outside,” Ben says, walking into the kitchen stocking footed. He gives my neck a kiss in passing, before opening the double door refrigerator and pulling out a beer. “The TV’s here?”

  “Just arrived.”

  I watch as he grabs his bottle and goes straight for the big box. I sigh when I think about the boxes holding the pieces of our bed in the master suite.

  I dry and put away the last of the glassware and head down the hallway to our bedroom, leaving Ben to play with his new toy. I don’t need him to put together a bed.

  -

  “I’m putting that together,” Ben says twenty minutes later, when he finds me sitting on the bedroom floor, boxes opened all around me, reading the instructions carefully. “And we don’t need this.” He plucks the sheet of paper from my hands and tosses it over his shoulder. Then he hands me my phone. “You’ve got it on vibrate. I found it almost buzzing off the kitchen counter. It’s Al, I just missed him.”

  “You sure you can manage?” I ask him, taking the phone and scrambling to my feet. I know I’m poking the bear, but it’s fun to see his eyes narrow on me. “I mean, I did already read the instructions and all.”

  “Out,” he growls, which I ignore as I lift on tiptoes and kiss his scruffy jaw.

  “If you’re sure...”

  “Pixie.”

  “Oh, okay. I’ll just give Uncle Al a call then.”

  “That’d be good.”

  I’m already dialing as I walk inside the great room. I sink down on the new couch and feast my eyes on the view.

  “How’s my girl?” my uncle’s smiling voice answers.

  “I’m good. No, I’m great.” I correct myself, smiling at his voice.

  “How’s that boy treating you?” I roll my eyes. My uncle never fails to call the big, husky man, currently wrestling our new bed, a boy.

  “Uncle Al...” I chastise, as I always do and Al just chuckles.

  “Gotta ask, girl. Especially since I’ve gotta call six times before you even give me a ring back.”

  “I’m sorry. Left the phone on the counter. I was working in the kitchen earlier.”

  “So how’s the house coming along?”

  I feel bad for my uncle. This was originally his idea, and he hasn’t had a chance to see any of it yet, except through pictures.

  “It’s mostly done, just some cosmetic stuff now. We had some...a delay, but we’re back on track now.” I feel guilty not telling my uncle about the recent events, but he’s had his hands full with Ginnie, whose health hasn’t been great. That’s the reason he hasn’t been down yet, he didn’t want to leave and then have something happen to her.

  “How’s Ginnie?”

  “Much better,” he chuckles after a brief pause. “For sure, I thought that was it for her, but that woman is indestructible. She doesn’t know me at all anymore, after this last episode, though. Keeps asking me who I am. Every day I walk in, hoping I’ll see some recognition, and she smiles pleasantly enough, but it’s no different when she greets anyone else.”

  My heart is heavy for my uncle. Already he’s had to say goodbye to one wife, and although Ginnie is apparently hanging in physically, it sounds like her mind is long gone, along with all their memories. It’s heartbreaking.

  “That’s tough, honey,” I say softly, knowing he won’t want the tears filling my eyes anyway, or the words of sympathy I’m feeling.

  “Yeah, kid. Tough is right. But she’s happy, you know? She giggles at everything and her hands are always busy, she hasn’t forgotten the knitting.”

  “Crocheting, Uncle Al,” I gently correct him. Ginnie hated knitting, but always had a crocheting project in her purse she could pull out anywhere, like others carry rosary beads or something.

  “Same damn thing,” he responds, the same way he’s done many times before, and it makes me smile. So much has changed, but when you look at the details, so little is different.

  “So I’m thinking,” he says casually. “Maybe I’ll come down for a visit at some point, now that things with Ginnie have settled down. I’ll stay at that
Dolores Mountain Inn, always wanted to see what that’s like.”

  “Nonsense,” I interrupt. “We’ve got room. I won’t have you staying anywhere else.”

  “Stubborn,” I hear him mumble over the phone.

  “I learned from the best,” I fire back, making him laugh. “Look, how about getting away for Christmas? Or would you prefer to stay with Ginnie during the holidays?” He’s quiet for a minute before he answers.

  “I was dreading Christmas, to be honest,” he says, the struggle with his emotions evident in his voice. “Last year she was still mostly there. We made some good memories. The thought of sitting across from someone I still love with all my heart, who has no idea who I am, or what Christmas is, is not something I want to have as my last memory.”

  “Understood.” I struggle to swallow down the ache I feel at hearing his pain. “Come as soon as you feel you can get away,” I forge on, not lingering on the sadness, which I know my uncle won’t want. “You’ll like the trailer we got from your old buddy here. It needs some work, though.”

  “Yeah? How’s Phil? Did he try to shoot you off his property?” It’s good to hear his chuckle. It’ll be good for him to come and see his old buddies.

  “It was close,” I joke, glad to hear my uncle’s mood lifted.

  By the time I end the call, he’s all geared up for his visit and excited to take Ben’s niece exploring, like he used to do with me when I was a kid.

  In the laundry room, I empty the dryer and quickly fold all the new bath towels on the nifty, fold-down shelf Ben apparently installed. It doubles as an ironing board. There are more dandy little touches he’s added. A shallow knife drawer, right beside the stove. A drop down spice rack, underneath the upper cabinet. And in one of the bedrooms, he reconfigured the closet with storage slots for office supplies on the inside of the door.

  One of the things I enjoyed about living in the trailer was the practical use of every nook and cranny. Everything had its place. Ben has brought a little of that into our new house.

  With the stack of towels in my arms, I walk into the master bedroom, finding Ben sitting on the floor, in the middle of the bedframe, looking a bit confused at two large pieces of wood still lying unused, beside the rolls of slats, on the far side of the room. I struggle not to chuckle as I walk by, as if nothing is wrong, and quickly put away the towels in the bathroom.