by T. F. Walsh
A very large body pursued Arty. She couldn’t see if the interloper caught the bum from her traffic-obscured vantage. Possessions were less important than stemming the licks of fire over her throat and face. The dirty snow appealed and she went on her hands and knees while her eyes watered. Before she scraped up a fistful of the muck, the large someone returned, flung her bag down, and rushed to her side.
“Are you all right?” he asked, reaching for her.
Izzy jerked away from the stranger’s hand. She blinked back tears, trying to make out his face. “Burned.”
“Burned?”
“Mace.”
“Shit. Wait right here, ok?”
Where the hell would she go? Izzy nodded, scooting back against the building. The man sounded so familiar, but he sprinted down the street before her vision cleared. She really wanted to rub and scratch at the prickling heat spreading over her skin, but that would make the burning worse and spread the mace. Every time her left arm shot up to worry her aggravated skin, she knocked it down with her right. Taking stock of the damages to her possessions occupied her antsy appendages.
Ignoring the wet pavement under her butt, she rifled through her bag: pointe shoes, leather flats, footed tights, leotard, chiffon wrap, e-reader, and wallet present. Cell phone and keys? Absent. Along with the busted strap, the side pocket where she kept her need-them-now items flapped from the few threads holding it to the bag. How would she get home? How would she get in her home?
Fantastic.
Izzy groaned as her self-appointed savior trotted to her feet and squatted next to her. Getting her first good look at him, she gasped. Her white knight was Curtis Keene, the handsome man from last week with the scary dog. Embarrassment burned hotter than the chemicals on her skin. She was surprised steam didn’t curl from the pavement.
“Ok, tilt your head back,” he said, unscrewing the cap from a bottle of water he held.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“At the moment, trying to get this crap off you.” Curtis chucked a finger under her chin and lifted her head. Icy water ran over her cheek and neck and soaked into her coat and the oversized white tunic she wore underneath.
“You should get that wet coat off,” Curtis said when the water ran out.
“I’d rather be a little uncomfortable than completely freezing.”
“I don’t mean the water. You might have gotten some spray-back. That’ll make for a nasty surprise if it seeps through the wool or you touch it accidentally.”
Izzy shot to her feet and struggled with the large wooden buttons on her pea coat.
“Your bag probably got some, too,” Curtis went on while Izzy warred with her garment, “but I didn’t notice anything while I had it. A few tumbles in the wash couldn’t hurt. Here,” he approached her when her frustration mounted, “let me help.”
“I got it,” Izzy angled away her body.
“Could have fooled me,” Curtis said and chuckled.
The laughter set Izzy off. “I’m not some helpless cripple.”
Anyone would have thought she’d sucker punched him. Curtis’s bright expression closed and he scratched his neck, shooting a sidelong glance down the street. “I didn’t say that.”
Guilt twanged in her chest like a popped guitar string. Izzy took her aggression out on her buttons. She’d known going back to Keene Lodge had been a huge mistake. Not only had she buckled under her dog phobia, she’d done it in front of a big, strong man. Curtis Keene probably had a good laugh at her last week, too. She gritted her teeth. She could have handled Arty on her own, but she didn’t have to snap at the man who’d gotten most of her stuff back and washed the mace off her. Shrugging out of her coat, she shivered and mumbled, “Thank you, by the way.”
Some of Curtis’s brightness returned with her praise. “Anytime,” he said and pulled off the puffy jacket he wore and held it out. “Trade you.”
They exchanged garments and Izzy shimmied into Curtis’s enormous jacket while he tucked her coat into her duffel. In his outerwear she resembled a big, black marshmallow. A snug, big, black marshmallow.
“So, besides chasing the homeless and treating minor chemical burns, what brings you my way?” She frowned at her puffed figure.
Stripped of his jacket left Curtis with a white, short-sleeved tee and jeans, but he didn’t seem cold. He dug in his left pocket, tugged out a piece of cloth and tossed it to Izzy. She caught it and rubbed the supple leather between her thumb and index finger.
“You came all the way from DeConing to return my glove?”
“Why not? Walk you to your car?”
“Can’t drive it. No keys,” Izzy displayed the torn pocket on her bag. “No cell phone either.”
“Well, shit,” Curtis said and strained to see over the passing cars. “Help me check over there?” He pointed at the opposite sidewalk.
Izzy agreed and made to cross when Curtis held out his hand. Hesitating, she finally slipped her left hand into his and they trotted across the street at the first break in traffic.
Their search wasn’t entirely fruitless. Curtis found Izzy’s smashed cell phone in a slush pile. He turned it over guiltily.
Izzy let her head hang back. “Mind if I borrow yours? I need to get hold of a tow truck and, hopefully, my building manager.”
The calls took longer than Izzy expected. Curtis had to be the last person on the planet without Internet on his phone. The Stone Age cell flipped open and closed and had a retractable antenna. He didn’t have a tow company in his contacts, so she dialed information. Ten minutes later, she hung up and massaged the deep crease in her brow.
There goes a few hundred dollars. Large, unexpected expenses caused Izzy physical pain.
Building managers weren’t as easy to get on the phone as grouchy tow truck drivers. After being dumped into voicemail a few times, Izzy left a message, flipped the cell phone shut, and passed it back to Curtis. She thought he’d take off, what with danger thwarted and her glove returned, but he followed her back to her car. He leaned with her on the SUV while they waited on the tow. Passing cars packed with Friday night party boys honked at them and hollered lewd encouragement to Curtis. Izzy hid behind her hand and prayed they went home sans pleasurable company.
“Aren’t you cold?” she asked when a particularly nippy breeze rippled Curtis’s shirt. His tanned skin wasn’t even goose-pimpled.
“Nah. I was worse after taking a plunge into the creek a few weeks back.”
“What were you doing?”
“It started off as fishing, but ended up as snorkeling. I tripped over my tackle-box.”
Izzy laughed as the tow truck pulled up. She started removing Curtis’s jacket while the driver, who was more attractive than he’d sounded over the phone, hitched up her car. The trip home wouldn’t be so bad after all. She went for the passenger door when Curtis called to her.
“Want to ride with me?” he asked, eyeing the tow truck owner while that man eyed Izzy. “Figured you might need my phone again. And a drink.”
Cocking her head, Izzy considered him. Curtis didn’t seem like a psycho stalker, but psycho stalkers never seemed that way, did they? Whenever someone found out their neighbor or spouse killed a bunch of people, they always said the same thing: he was so normal.
Curtis wasn’t normal. He was tall, handsome, friendly, and a little pushy. And he waited for her answer with a hopeful glint in his eye. Something else touched his gaze too, that same something she’d spied at the lodge and nearly forgotten, a shadow skimming just below the surface of deep water. She narrowed her eyes, but he spun around and his shoulders slumped in an exaggerated sulk before she figured out what that shadow was.
“I get it. A man knows when he’s been turned down.”
“I’m not turning you down. I — ”
“Great
. Be right back.” Curtis jogged for his Jeep before Izzy got in another word. He picked her up by her car, popping open the passenger side door. She sidled into the cloth upholstered seat, grateful for the heat he’d turned up. Peeling off his jacket, she tossed it in the back and settled in for the short trip. Evening news hummed from the radio, but he had the volume down, so it wasn’t much of a distraction from the prolonged conversational lull. She didn’t know Curtis well enough for the silence to be comfortable. She filled the void with chatter.
“I can’t believe you came all this way to use my glove as an excuse to ask me out,” Izzy said. She’d had guys get her flowers and treat her to dinner and drinks, but Curtis had gone way out of his way for a total stranger. There had to be an angle he played that she didn’t see.
“Why not?”
“It’s a lot of work for such a little thing.”
“Women like gestures and big gestures make big impressions.”
“Can’t argue with that logic.” Izzy stared out the window where the scenery blurred. Curtis’s reflection superimposed over the cars and inviting restaurants they passed. He took his eyes from the road for a quick moment, then a longer one.
“I also wanted to apologize,” he said.
Izzy faced him and his attention returned to the road. “Apologize?”
“For not recognizing you sooner,” he squeezed the steering wheel. “If I would have thought for a second, I wouldn’t have been so stupid with Petey.”
Oh, it’s a guilt thing, Izzy thought. That made sense. If Curtis Keene didn’t own Keene Lodge, he was certainly related to whoever did. Of course he’d remember what happened four years ago even if he didn’t remember her specifically. People didn’t die on their property everyday. She chewed her thumbnail and swallowed back the painful bulge of emotion stuck in her throat. Curtis could deal with his own guilt, however it related to her. She wasn’t in the mood to play therapist, especially not when she was still so attached to her own.
“You could have emailed,” Izzy said, voice terse.
“Nope. Couldn’t have.” Curtis inclined his head toward her. “You know what the Chinese say about the life you save. Well, the Six String Samurai, at least.”
Izzy snorted. “Samurai are Japanese and Arty is many things, but not a killer. You saved me a lot of inconvenience tonight, but not my life.”
“I didn’t mean tonight.”
“Well then what — ”
The car jerked to a stop and Curtis pointed out the window. “This your place?”
They parked in front of her building. Curtis switched on his emergency lights and Izzy jumped out of the car to direct the tow truck to her reserved spot. She had no clue what Curtis meant about saving her life, but the whole “the life you save” thing? She knew enough about bad samurai movies to know he felt responsible for her. She’d have to get that idea right out of his head. No one was responsible for Izzy but Izzy. Still, she was curious. When had he saved her life if not tonight? He hadn’t been there that day, had he? She couldn’t remember. She stared at him as he slapped a beat on his steering wheel. Good thing she needed a drink.
• • •
The Glo Bar was overpriced, over designed, and snooty, but it was three blocks from Izzy’s building so that’s where they went. Besides the proximity to home, the indoor koi pond — the monster fish poked their gulping mouths from the lily-padded water whenever anyone passed and begged for treats — was also nice as were the paper lanterns hung overhead. A snaking fence of towering bamboo partitioned tables and booths from the bar. While Curtis braved the three-body-deep rush at the polished counter, Izzy grabbed a two-person table vacated by a couple heading out early. She’d had no luck with her building manager and spun Curtis’s phone on the table, glaring at the handwritten menu touting the evening’s featured appetizer: lobster ravioli.
“Do you know how much this was?” Curtis asked. Her personal ronin plunked down two napkins, a bottle of beer, and a rum and pineapple on their table. He didn’t wait for her guess. “Eighteen bucks. Eighteen! That’s not including tip. Bartender gave me the hairy eyeball, too.”
Somehow, Izzy didn’t find that surprising with Curtis’s rugged charm. Anyone else at Glo Bar going for the I-don’t-care-how-I-look effect did so in a seventy dollar T-shirt and three hundred dollar jeans. Curtis’s graying undershirt and Levis probably didn’t inspire confidence in a generous tip. Smiling, she pulled the pins from her hair. Her stylishly long bangs and shoulder length tresses fell loose. She didn’t wear makeup or jewelry, but her outfit just passed for decent in this place. The long-sleeved wrap draped over her white tunic covered most of her prosthetic and the flesh colored, silicone glove sheathing the false arm made it look almost real.
“Your hair looks nice down like that,” Curtis said after swallowing a mouthful of beer. “How come you wear it back?”
“Because it’s practical for ballet. Hair away from the face, clothes close to the body.”
“That’s right, you’re a dancer.”
“Was,” Izzy stirred her sweet, sweet drink, focusing on the swirling ice. “I teach now.” She pursed her lips. No more skirting the issue. “What did you mean in the car?”
“What, the glove? I’m trying to get on your good side, obviously.” Curtis arched one eyebrow and swigged his beer.
Izzy wished he’d knock it off. She didn’t need him pandering to her. “I meant the ‘life you save’ comment. When did you save my life?”
Joviality blanched from Curtis’s face. He tapped the bottom of his brown bottle on the black lacquer table. “I — ” he squirmed in his chair. “I was the one who found you. And your brother.”
Bar noise, loud enough that they’d semi-shouted at each other, dwindled, or seemed to. Izzy’s mouth opened, but she couldn’t speak. The most vivid memories of that day rolled through her mind like a silent roll of eight millimeter film.
There went Izzy and Alan leaving their parents in their rented cabin, her mother at the rough wood dining table sipping from a steaming mug of coffee, her father scrambling eggs and burning toast. They took to the trails. Alan ran ahead of her. Sunlight caught golden flecks in his dark hair. They raced to Rock Spout Falls (a trickle through two boulders), their traditional first hike on their annual trip to Keene Lodge.
Shaking her head, Izzy cut the reel and concentrated on the man in front of her, his chin a little grizzled, his brown hair a little long and falling into worried eyes. Her vision wavered with tears she held back.
“You found us?” she asked and her throat clicked when she swallowed. Curtis dropped his chin in affirmation. He studied her reactions, his gaze roving over her face, shoulders, fingers. “I don’t remember you.”
Izzy remembered Alan’s vacant, blue eyes. Red smears on his face. A dark shape worrying his body. Rumbling noises like creeping thunder. Pain and pain and pain. People. Men shouting. Weightlessness, then nothing. Nothing until she woke up in the hospital two weeks later, doped into numb ambivalence, her right arm and her brother gone. She sucked in a sharp breath and loosened her death grip on her sweating glass.
“I didn’t expect you’d remember,” Curtis said. “You weren’t really there. You talked to me, though.”
“What did I say?” She sipped her watery drink and tried keeping her hand steady.
“Sang.”
Izzy choked on a sliver of ice. “I sang to you?”
“Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. My fault. I wanted to keep you conscious, so I got you singing with me until emergency response came.”
“But why didn’t the wolf attack you?”
It came out of the woods a mile from the falls. A humongous streak of black fur, yellow eyes, and white teeth. It took Izzy first, bolting from the trees where she wandered and dragged her by her arm. The silence was uncanny. Any wolf attack she imagined was punctuat
ed with snarls and growling barks, stringed instruments too. Silence wasn’t right, was it? Something so awful should be noisier, have its own soundtrack. The wolf growled only after Alan came for her.
“I was on the trail with Thomas, a friend of mine. When we found you, the wolf took off. Two big humans were more threatening than two smaller ones.” Curtis’s lips twisted. “S’all I can think.”
Izzy’s hands supported her drooping head. “You know I missed Alan’s funeral? I was out cold in the hospital when they buried my brother.” Her voice broke and she shut her mouth. What was she saying? They were here for drinks and chit chat. Couldn’t she save the soul bearing for Dr. Turner? Chewing the insides of her cheeks, she prayed Curtis picked up the conversational slack. If she moved, spoke, looked anywhere but into her drink she’d cry. Moments like these made her glad her bangs obscured her face.
The wolf attack at Keene Lodge had been downright bizarre. In general, wild animals avoided humans. Until Alan Tunskill, there wasn’t a single recorded wolf-related death in North American history. And in Colorado of all places. Hunted to near extinction in the 1940s, wolves avoided the land. In 2002, wolf sightings in the Rockies had excited naturalists, but the animals were reluctant to return. Their numbers hovered in the single digits to date. Press on the Keene attack had been massive. An up and coming soloist from the New York City Ballet loses her arm and survives her brother in a freakish, brutal mauling? What wouldn’t the media love? Interests in wolves and ballerinas had skyrocketed for months.
“I thought about visiting you in the hospital. Thomas talked me out of it,” Curtis said. “I should have gone.”
“I doubt I would have seen you. There were a lot of well meaning nut cases wanting to get to me back then.” Strangling her rapidly warming glass in her left hand, Izzy fought rising anger. Why had Curtis been spared? Why couldn’t he and Thomas or whoever, have gotten to them sooner? Alan might have lived.
It wasn’t his fault.
In the beginning, Izzy had blamed everything and everyone for her brother’s death, no one more than herself. If she’d kept up with him, if she hadn’t gone off the trail.