Frozen Footprints

by Therese Heckenkamp

  My mind spinning, I tried to speak, but nothing intelligible came out. I had so many questions, but . . .

  Cold, so cold.

  If I could just move . . . I was wobbling, stumbling. My heart was fluttering, my breathing rapid, but not sufficient.

  Voices . . .

  And then, silence.

  * * *

  The smashing sound shocked me, and I flinched, my frozen eyelids ripping open. My confused brain vaguely registered a dark door, a broken pane of glass, the door opening . . . more darkness.

  I was moving into it, into the darkness. Shapes. I heard sounds from a distance, as if my ears were stuffed with snow. How was my body moving when I couldn’t feel my legs?

  At last, a slim relief as I felt myself sink onto something soft. Sleep would be nice.

  I jolted, cried out as bright light hit me. I blinked. Blinked again. Shifting images, a figure in white and blue. Mother of God . . . help me.

  Voices, gentle but urgent, trying to reach me. I shook, shaking the clogging cold from my ears. Clickety clack, clickety clack. The clicking in my brain, my head . . . my teeth chattering. Something heavy and dry settled over me, a huge mantle of blue, covering my shoulders, my body.

  Then I heard the muffled voice, the urgency in it. “Char, use the towel. You need to get out of those wet clothes. Now.”

  I clutched at the towel with clumsy fingers. Threads of sense wove their way into my mind, into my limbs. I moved awkwardly under the giant towel, plucking and peeling off the stiff wet layers, swaddling myself in the fluffy dryness. I heaved air into my lungs and coughed.

  Finally settling, I blinked until I realized I was sitting on a quilted bed in a small room. My tongue bumped around in my mouth like a crazy creature in a cage. At last I managed to get out a word. “Max . . .”

  He looked up from where he knelt, wrapping a fuzzy green towel around my bare feet. He gave a lopsided smile. “You’re gonna be all right, Char.”

  I gripped my blue towel closer, smelled an unfamiliar fabric softener. “Where am I?”

  He shook his head. “Not exactly sure. Some cottage on the lake. No one’s here. We had to break in to get you dry and warm before . . .” He stood abruptly and dropped another towel on my head. “How do you feel?”

  “Some numbness. But I’m fine.” Slowly, I rubbed the towel against my thawing hair. “What happened?”

  His eyes were serious. “You went through the ice. We pulled you out just in time.”

  We. I looked around and truly took in my surroundings: A single spindly lamp on the bedside table cast light onto the cream walls, the narrow closet, the closed door, the squat pine dresser with a Virgin Mary statue standing on a crocheted doily. And, of course, I saw Max. I twisted a corner of towel in my fingers. Max, but no Clay.

  No Abner.

  But . . . I remembered him calling, calling out for Clay. And Clay had heard him, had mercy on him, and was going to save him. I saw him running . . .

  Realization washed over me in a warm wave. He came running to save me. Suddenly, panic gripped me, my blood pumping. Where is he now? Where’s Clay?

  Just then, there was a knock on the bedroom door. Max opened it, and Clay stepped into the room holding a steaming red mug. I stared at him, relief raw in my chest. He gave me a small smile while his injured face strained to hide fatigue, pain, and sorrow. Chilled as my eyes were, warm tears leaked from them. As warmth wound around my heart and soul, I felt as though ice inside of me was melting, producing the tears. And from there, prickly sensation began to return to my limbs.

  “Here, drink this, Char,” Clay urged gently, unaware of the thoughts pounding through my head as he nudged the mug into my hands.

  I never said you could call me Char. But I don’t mind.

  His hand lingered, warm on my cold one, helping me lift the mug.

  I took a small sip. Hot chocolate slid down my throat and pooled warmly in my stomach. Max and Clay both watched me with intense concern. My chapped lips cracked into a smile, and I saw relief settle in their eyes.

  Overcome, I bowed my head, thinking, I’m alive. And in the perfect position to thank God, if only my hands would figure out how to fold themselves. Steam billowed warm and moist into my face. I sent a feeble prayer heavenward, but knew there was someone else I needed to thank, someone whom God had arranged to be the hand that pulled me from the water and saved me from drowning.

  “Thank you,” I said, turning to Clay, “thank you for saving me.”

  The words seemed to distress him, and his hand fell away from mine. “Don’t thank me for doing what I should have done from the start. And it only worked this time because I had Max’s help.”

  “We made a good team,” Max conceded.

  When I thanked him as well, Max gave a nod and something like a grunt as he moved to the dresser and began opening drawers. He soon turned to me with a shapeless green sweater, gray sweatpants, and wool socks. “Here, put these on.” He dropped them beside me on the bed. “Let us know when you’re done.” Then Max and Clay filed out of the room and closed the door.

  I set the mug down and sucked in a quivery breath before shedding the towel and pulling on the clothes. Relieved that the large sweatpants had drawstrings, I tugged them and tied them securely. Too long, the pants pooled at my ankles. I heard Max and Clay talking in the other room, their voices muffled, but as soon as I opened the squeaky door, they both stopped speaking. They hurried to my side and guided me onto a sofa draped with a brown afghan.

  The broken windowpane in the front door leaked swooshes of cold air into the cottage. Through it, I thought I caught the shadowed shapes of pines, and I imagined the lake lurking out there. I pictured how Max and Clay had guided me away from the disaster area, across crusty blue-white snow to this cottage. If I looked outside, I would see our footprints in the moonlight. But I didn’t look. Didn’t need to. I was content right where I was.

  Footprints only show where we’ve been—I heaved a deep breath and turned my eyes to Max and Clay, a flutter in my breast—not where we’re going.

  “We’re finally free,” I said with wonder.

  They remained standing beside me, watching me, both so unusually silent and still. Why wouldn’t they meet my eyes? I followed their shifting gazes to a black telephone. “Does it work?” I asked.

  “Time to find out.”

  Confused by Clay’s clipped tone and the frown that creased his brow, I glanced questioningly at Max, who put a detaining arm on Clay’s shoulder.

  “We’re even, man,” Max said gruffly. “You came through in the end. That’s all we care about. So get out of here. Disappear.”

  I jumped up from the couch. “Max, what are you saying? Why would—” Then it hit me. We’re about to call the cops. There would be a tirade of questions, reports, an investigation, and details would come out. There’d be no hiding who Clay was and what part he’d had in the kidnapping. Max and I might pardon him, but others wouldn’t. The law would see the facts.

  The law would prosecute.

  “Max is right,” I said softly. “You need to go. You can’t risk—”

  Clay shook his head. “I’m not running.” He set his jaw firmly. “I’m going to face this.”

  “But they’ll take you to jail—they’ll lock you up—”

  “I’ll survive.”

  “But you could be free.”

  “No, Char.” He looked me in the eye. “Not really free. Not by running, not by hiding.”

  “It wouldn’t be wrong,” I almost sobbed, surprised at the intensity of my desperation. “You could move far away and no one would ever know—”

  “But it wouldn’t be right,” he said, adding, “and I would know.”

  “But—”

  “He’s made up his mind, Char.” Max took my arm and tugged gently. “Respect the man’s decision.”

  Biting my tongue, I halted my words.

  Clay seized the phone while anxiety ate at my empty insides. Maybe the ph
one wouldn’t work. Maybe we would have just a little more time—

  He started dialing.

  I swallowed and made my way past a cluttered knickknack table. A brass-framed mirror caught my eye and I shrank from my appearance. Shapeless baggy clothes. Bedraggled stringy hair, red eyes underscored with hollows, and pasty, blighted skin. The cops won’t even recognize us.

  “My name’s Clayton Morrow. I need to report . . .”

  I ducked into the bedroom, not wanting to hear the rest. The towels lay crumpled in a pile on the floor, beside my wet clothes. Crouching on my heels, I gathered the towels in my arms and squeezed them against my chest, buried my face. I needed to think about something else, anything else. But my thoughts had been filled with darkness for so long now, I didn’t know how to find the light.

  Lifting my head, my gaze swooped around the simple room, and I wondered who lived here, what kind of people, and what they would think when they found out about our intrusion.

  My eyes fell on the Virgin Mary statue. She held Baby Jesus in her arms, so young and chubby, unscathed by the horrors that were to come. But He knew they would come, and so did His Mother. And yet . . . they both smiled.

  Shivering again, I looked away, down at my soggy discarded clothes. I began folding and stacking them. My fingers touched something hard and cold; it was the rosary dangling from my jeans pocket. Strange to think that it had made it through the whole ordeal with me. I pulled it free and dropped the beads into my palm, closing my fingers around them.

  I retrieved my mug from the nightstand and carried it into the narrow kitchen. I added a splash of hot chocolate from the saucepan to warm my drink. The fresh heat burned my branded palm, and I quickly adjusted my hold on the mug so that only my fingers clutched the handle. My body told me to drink, but I couldn’t just yet. I stared out into the tiny living room—at Max sitting on the sofa and Clay hanging up the phone—and I felt like I was waiting for a verdict.

  “They’re on their way,” Clay said.

  Max nodded.

  I said nothing.

  Clay’s hand still lingered over the phone. At last he picked it up again. “I’d better call my ma. I’d rather break the news to her than have her find out some other way.”

  I moved to sit next to Max on the sofa. Clay’s conversation this time was too quiet to hear, not that I wanted to. His back was to us, so we couldn’t even read his expression. But I couldn’t help wondering how his mother was reacting. She was already very sick, and now she was learning that one son was dead as a result of criminal activity, and her only other son was turning himself into the cops for his part in that activity. It seemed too cruel of a burden to dump onto a dying woman.

  When Clay returned, I whispered, “How did it go?”

  He sank down beside me, shaking his head. “She’s praying,” he said wryly.

  We were all silent. A clock ticked.

  “There’s still time,” I attempted. “You could still go.”

  Clay shook his head. “I can’t. Someday I hope you’ll understand.”

  I stared into the murky hot chocolate. Why is he making this worse than it has to be? We should all be so happy right now. We could all be going home. But even if Clay took our advice and left, how could he go home? The cops would find him, take him away. His only chance was to disappear, and that would mean never seeing his mother again. She probably didn’t have much time left. I thought about me and Max, the rich home we would be returning to, and sighed.

  Still, we are free. This is what we wanted, what we prayed for. I noticed the spindly hands of a mantle clock pointing to 1 a.m. A new day, I realized. A Sunday.

  I squeezed the rosary in my fist, and the crucifix poked my palm. I flinched and let the beads trickle out between my fingers. There was nothing left to do now but wait.

  Wait, and pray.

  Clay’s mom has the right idea.

  I bowed my head, crossed myself, and murmured a plea for us all. Looking up, I caught Clay’s eyes. They seemed to question me: Praying again?

  I spoke over the ache in my throat. “Someday I hope you’ll understand.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Just look at this!” thundered Grandfather several mornings later as Max and I sat at our dining room table working trigonometry problems. I jumped slightly, making the large New Year’s champagne glass centerpiece wobble as Grandfather appeared like an angry apparition between our chairs. I hadn’t heard him enter the house.

  At the commotion, I saw Joy and Gwen peek in from the hall. Both their mouths formed little “Os.” I imagined the cook and maids crowding near the kitchen door to eavesdrop.

  But my attention was redirected as three newspapers slapped on top of my notebook, textbook, and calculator. “What do you have to say about this?” Grandfather demanded.

  Fanning out the skewed papers, I read the varied headlines:

  Grandkids Kidnapped, Perigard Didn’t Care.

  Cold-hearted Grandfather Allowed Perigard Teens to be Tortured!

  Perigard Too Greedy to Pay Ransom for Own Grandchildren.

  I pushed the papers away, not interested in reading the slanted accounts, and glanced up at Grandfather, whose taught, veiny neck poked turtle-like from his body. “Well?” he barked.

  “Well what? We didn’t write the articles.” I picked up my pencil and returned to my notebook.

  “Don’t get smart with me. You’ve obviously been talking to reporters.”

  “No, we haven’t. You know we’ve barely left the house since we got back.” From the tiny cottage tucked among the pines, the police had taken us to the nearest hospital, where we were treated. Clay, we heard, had been treated also, then taken into custody. Max and I spent weary hours answering police questions, then returned home to crash. Other than meeting with Father Selton for much needed confession and Holy Communion, we ate and slept and tried to avoid answering more questions. We hadn’t felt up to returning to school yet, so we were completing assignments at home and online for now. The principal had been understanding.

  Grandfather was not.

  I gave the newspapers another shove. “However they got their information, it wasn’t from us.”

  “It’s all vicious lies,” Grandfather said. “I did what I could. It’s not my fault the police are imbeciles. And now my company stock is taking a nose dive. I may never recover the losses!” Again, as he had when he’d first seen us at the hospital, Grandfather sputtered with anger. “You two have caused a blasted load of trouble.”

  My tone prickled. “It wasn’t exactly a holiday for us, either.”

  Grandfather smacked a fist on the table. The champagne centerpiece teetered menacingly, sending curly metallic blue strands shivering. “I know that! And that’s why retribution must be paid. The dead one’s the lucky one; the other one will face my wrath.” He rubbed his hands together. “That scum’s going to face so many charges, he’ll wish he never heard the name Perigard.”

  I dropped my pencil. “We told you we don’t want him prosecuted.”

  “Nonsense. You were delirious and sleep-deprived when you said that. Surely now that you’ve had time to recover, you’ve come to your senses.” His eyes challenged us to deny it.

  Max, surprisingly silent and controlled thus far, spoke. “We meant what we said. We’re not changing our minds. Clay saved Char’s life, and we can’t ignore that.”

  “But you’ll ignore everything he did to me—to us?” Grandfather blustered. “Don’t be a fool. He knew he was a goner, and letting her die wouldn’t help his case. He just wanted to win your sympathies to save his own skin. But you’ve already given your statements to the police about what happened. You can’t change that, and the facts go against the scumbag. I’ll see that he gets life in prison. The worst prison there is.”

  “You can try,” Max said evenly, “but you won’t have our support.”

  Grandfather grabbed the newspapers, crumpled them, and waved the wads in our faces. “You’ll do as I sa
y, and that’s final.”

  I opened my mouth, and he almost stuffed the paper into it.

  “You’ll do as I say,” he repeated, “or you can say goodbye to your rich, cushy life. If you defend that worthless criminal over your own flesh and blood, I’ll disinherit the both of you—and you’ll be out on the street.”

  His head whipped around to face Joy and Gwen, who had crept into the room but stood mutely near the china cabinet. “I know two very perfect candidates who would be more than grateful to receive your inheritance. Don’t think you’ll be missed. These two never give me trouble. They understand the value of money more than you two ever have. What do you think of that? Who’s it going to be, the criminal, or me? Choose wisely.” The cold intensity of Grandfather’s bulging, bloodshot eyes reminded me of Abner.

  Steadying my nerves, I stood. “I choose to do what’s right.”

  Max rose as well and put an arm on my shoulder. “I’m with her.”

  “You ungrateful, spoiled brats. All these years I’ve supported you, and this is the thanks I get?” Grandfather’s mustache quivered. “Get out. Get out now.” He pointed to the door. “The newspapers want to write garbage about me? Fine, let them rave about this. ‘Grandfather Disinherits Worthless Grandkids.’ See if I care!”

  As I reached for the math textbook, Grandfather’s hand slapped down on it. “Nothing! If you leave, you’ll take nothing! No clothing, no books, and certainly not the new Lexus. I own it all.”

  I nodded. “But you don’t own us.” I crossed to the front hall and reached for my coat.

  Grandfather scuttled after me and snatched the coat away. “I said nothing! That means no coats. If you don’t change your mind and support me in prosecuting this case, you can leave now and freeze to death, for all I care. It’s no worse than what would have happened if you’d stayed with your precious kidnapper.”