After the Thaw

by Therese Heckenkamp

  She sat up to sip from a water bottle on her nightstand, only to find it empty. With a groan, she slid on her slippers and, too tired to go downstairs for a new bottle, brought the empty one to the bathroom, where a plastic night light gave a sufficient glow. Tap water would have to do.

  The moment she stepped into the bathroom, her body seized. She snapped fully awake, blinking at the sight of the open toilet seat.

  To some, the observation would be a minor detail, but for her, who never left a seat that way, the sight sent a chill snaking through her bones. She grasped for a comforting, sane explanation.

  Max? But he’d been gone for days now.

  Had she cleaned the bathroom tonight? She rubbed gritty eyes. Why couldn’t she think clearly? She knew she cleaned almost too frequently, but she didn’t think she had tonight.

  What could she do? Call the police? What a phone call that would be. I think there’s an intruder in my house. Why? Because a toilet seat is up.

  Even in her mind, it sounded looney.

  If something like this had happened in the day, she doubted she’d think twice about it. Nighttime just made everything creepier.

  I really hate living alone.

  She hurried, too nervous to glance in the mirror or check behind the shower curtain, too afraid she might see something or someone.

  I cleaned the toilet and left the lid up. That’s all there is to it. So slow down, stupid heartbeat. The rapid, intense pounding felt borderline painful.

  She filled her bottle with a gush of water, then trotted nervously back to her room.

  When she climbed into bed, she couldn’t plunk her bottle onto the nightstand fast enough. At last, she tugged the bed covers up to her chin and curled up snugly.

  Sleepiness soon washed over her.

  A whispered rustle of movement barely registered in her foggy mind, but then a faint creak snapped her alert. She strained to hear something more, fearing she would. Fearing someone was in her room.

  So turn your head and look.

  Just a fraction to the right was all it would take.

  No, I’m imagining things. That’s all.

  Another creak.

  Her body lay petrified for a ghastly drawn-out second. Terror lodged in her throat, blocking her breath until air hissed through her teeth, too loud in the potent silence. She balled her fists and swiveled her gaze to the right.

  A dark presence lunged, landing on her with a crushing force. Her heart crashed against her ribs. Panicking, she thrashed, but the massive weight suppressed her efforts.

  A heavy hand clapped her mouth and nose, stifling her scream. The body drove her deep into the mattress, bedsprings protesting with muffled squeals.

  Her struggle to escape turned to a struggle to breathe. One of her arms managed to flail out and topple her water bottle. Glug, glug, glug, water flowed out rhythmically.

  The intruder’s smothering fingers finally slid off her nose, and as she pulled in air, she registered the scent of leather.

  An irrational part of her whispered delusions of hope, assuring her that this was all a sick joke. The lights would snap on any moment to reveal—

  Who? Who would do this? Only someone with terrible intentions.

  Reality returned.

  Desperation.

  Who are you? What do you want? But she couldn’t speak, only wait in blindness for the worst. And her imagination wasn’t kind.

  Dear God, protect me.

  No words came from the shadowed body restraining her, pinning her down. She fought to scratch and claw, but her nails were short and dull, and she couldn’t make contact. Apart from a few grunting breaths, her attacker’s efforts seemed to take no exertion at all. Was he enjoying this? Did he know that by not speaking, he was leaving her in a terrifying mental darkness?

  It occurred to her that he was waiting for her to wear herself out. Forcing herself to go limp, she inhaled rapid breaths.

  Warmth tickled her skin as a deep voice whispered close to her ear. “That’s right . . . be afraid.” A finger ran over her cheek. “It sounds good on you.”

  A whimper escaped her.

  “Shh.” While one hand remained over her mouth, cold leather-clad fingers crept over her neck, gently, delicately, then paused to press her throat. “I only want a little information. But if you don’t cooperate, I’m going to hurt you.”

  She racked her tortured mind, trying to catalogue the voice. It was unusually deep and raspy, intended to disguise, she suspected, but had she heard it before?

  “I’m going to move my hand off your mouth so you can answer me. Not so you can scream. Got it? If you scream, I’ll get angry. You don’t want to make me angry, do you?”

  She shook her head, but as soon as his hand freed her mouth, she couldn’t help herself. Survival instinct took over. She let out a deafening scream.

  A sharp blow across her face severed her cry. Two more stinging strikes followed in rapid succession.

  “No.” He grasped her lips and squeezed hard. “I need you to shut your mouth and listen. Got it?”

  Dizzy, she tried to nod, tried to say yes, but only managed a muffled sound.

  “Good.” He yanked her hair, wrenching her head back.

  She stared up into a silhouetted face. Straining her eyes, she made out only the vague shape of his head and broad shoulders, not enough to identify him. The room was too dark. She’d been proud that she’d kicked her bedroom night light habit, but she decided right then and there to return to it.

  If she survived this.

  The man’s breath, close to her face, reeked stale and acrid as he spoke. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

  A million thoughts tumbled through her mind, a million implications and repercussions. Fear fired from her eyes, shooting pointless pleas into the dark. Her voice refused to work.

  The man gripped a chunk of her cheek. “Answer me!”

  “He’s . . . in the hospital,” she said, hating herself for possibly putting Ben in harm’s way.

  “Which one?” His rough fingers ignited a burst of adrenaline. She tried to fight, but couldn’t even manage a kick.

  “Saint Mary’s,” she gasped, fairly spitting the lie. “He’s at Saint Mary’s.” Lord, give me time to warn him.

  The man leaned closer, his facial scruff scratching her cheek as he whispered, “You’d better not be lyin’ to me.” Hand on her neck, he shoved her deep into the pillow, almost crushing her windpipe, and she thought this was it. She was dead.

  Then he shifted his weight and she sucked air greedily, frantically.

  He lifted his hand. She saw it coming. Her oxygen disappeared as he pressed a wet cloth over her nose and mouth. She fought to turn her head, but couldn’t. Suffocation overwhelmed her. Her lungs screamed for air and she gasped, filling her nostrils with a fruity chemical smell.

  He seemed to hold the cloth on her forever. Her skin tingled hot and cold until a thick fog filled her mind and at last she fell from consciousness.

  * * *

  She’d put up a decent struggle for someone her size. Nails could still smell her. Her stupid strawberry scented lips. And that hair, reeking of some kind of sickly sweet shampoo. He’d finally gotten to touch the strands, though. Every time he saw her, he wanted to thrust his hands into all those twisted, wild curls. Shining, glinting, taunting.

  Like Beth’s.

  He yanked a whiskey bottle from his bag.

  Pretty Beth, the perfect daddy’s girl. Perfect. Too perfect for him.

  The glass bottle felt chill in his grip. He swigged the drink, felt liquid fire roll down his throat and pool in his gullet. But it didn’t warm him. Didn’t satisfy. Not even close.

  He never should have used the name Lance. He thought it had been long enough.

  Clunking the bottle onto a side table, he dropped onto a ratty chair and willed away the tremble in his hands. He remembered Beth perched on an overstuffed sofa, her younger siblings clustered around as she read them fanciful Bible st
ories. He’d always found reasons to linger near, doing stupid chores like dishes or sweeping. Women’s work, but they all had to take turns in that crazy Callaghan house.

  All those stories about Jesus. He liked to argue with Beth about Him. The man was supposed to be God, but let Himself be hurt and humiliated and killed. What a wimp. “Weak,” he’d scoffed. He could still hear her voice . . .

  “Weak? Oh no, Lance,” Beth’s cheeks pinked with the heat of passionate belief. “There’s never been anyone tougher than Jesus.” Her wide eyes flashed. “They drove nails through him. Nails. Can you imagine?”

  He hadn’t wanted to picture it, but the awe in her voice was hard to forget.

  “Nails. Can you imagine?”

  That night in bed, in the nicest foster room he’d ever had, as he lay awake staring at the ceiling, he did imagine. Nails, hammered right through his palms, through his feet. Would hurt like hell.

  “Did you know the word ‘excruciation’ comes from ‘crucifixion’? Because it’s the worst torture,” Beth had claimed. “Jesus chose that. To suffer for us, to wash away our sins with His blood. One pinprick droplet could have done it, but He chose crucifixion. Can you imagine that kind of love?”

  No, he couldn’t. Not then, and not now. Choosing suffering wasn’t love, or bravery. It wasn’t tough. It was stupid.

  Stupid.

  Seizing the bottle, he downed another swig of whiskey.

  Chapter Eight

  The sun burned high when Charlene finally awoke. Groaning, and with her head aching, she fumbled to the bathroom to be sick.

  Still nauseous, she found her phone beneath her bed. The police responded promptly to her call. They took down her story, and she even told them about the toilet seat being left open. They searched, but found no evidence of forced entry, no footprints outside her window, nothing stolen.

  Unfortunately, the fact that the entire incident took place in the dead of night, in her bed, with no witnesses, made them skeptical. She could read it on their faces.

  “I didn’t dream it,” she insisted, “if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  She could hardly blame them, though. It did sound like a nightmare, and she was very prone to those.

  Additionally, she hadn’t reported the incident till late morning, though she assured them the intruder had knocked her out with chloroform or something to make his escape.

  While of course she was thankful for the lack of physical evidence on herself, it would have helped back up her claim. She couldn’t even find any bruises on her neck, where she was sure she would. For all the police knew, she was merely the victim of a fantastically convincing bad dream.

  They were aware of her pending case. She was under a lot of stress lately, after all. Was she taking any medication? Could she think of anyone she’d had trouble with lately? That question made her pause. It was disheartening to realize just how many people probably disliked her. She mentioned the cruel flyers, the random calls, and the strange knife guy from the library, but she couldn’t remember his name and she’d thrown his card away.

  To her relief, the authorities took her seriously enough to set a guard on Ben at the hospital as a temporary precaution.

  Once the police left, she talked with Ben on the phone for over an hour. He had no idea whom the intruder could have been. He sounded steaming mad and frustrated that he couldn’t come comfort her. She heard his mom in the background, pleading with him to calm down.

  He ignored her. “You can’t stay there by yourself anymore, Charlene. I won’t let you. It’s not safe. He got in once. He could do it again.”

  True. She ran a hand over her neck, prodding gently at the sore tendons and muscles. She had no desire to stay here alone or even sleep in her bed again, but where could she go? In a hotel, she would still be alone, and she wasn’t sure she trusted their security. But she couldn’t very well stay at the hospital with Ben.

  And Max? She didn’t want to keep making him fly back here to babysit her. Because she knew, if she called him, he would.

  “You can stay with my family,” Ben offered, perceptively sensing that she had nowhere to go.

  “Thanks, but shouldn’t you talk that over with them first?”

  “No need; they’d insist.”

  Did his mom just say something?

  “Still,” Charlene attempted, “that’s a lot to ask, and we don’t know how long I might need to stay.”

  “Don’t worry, the police will catch the guy.”

  But she couldn’t imagine how. They had nothing to go on.

  “Don’t worry,” Ben repeated. “How long till you can get over here and I can actually see you again? It’s been too long. I’m having Charlene withdrawals. They can’t treat that here, not without you.”

  She smiled, appreciating his effort to lighten her mood. He always knew just what to say.

  An hour later, with one bag of luggage in hand and a still-warm batch of Ben’s favorite chocolate chip cookies steaming up a Tupperware, she headed out the door, wondering when she’d be back. But as she turned the key, she had the oddest feeling she’d forgotten something.

  With a shake of her head, she stepped back inside. Better to pop through each room than to worry all day. She saw no forgotten items downstairs, so she headed upstairs. She already had her countless hair-taming tools, toothbrush, floss, and toothpaste. From her bedroom, she’d already taken clothes and school books. That should be enough. She didn’t want to make herself unwelcome at the Jorgensens’ by hauling in a truck load.

  In her room, she double-checked drawers and came across her irreplaceable pink pearl necklace, a sentimental treasure that had belonged to her mother. It was one of the very few things Charlene had to remember her by. She slid it into her purse.

  Still, a nagging feeling lingered. She caught sight of her Bible. Hefting it under her arm, one other thing gave her reason to pause: Margaret’s letter to Clay—that pesky letter that she couldn’t get rid of without searing guilt.

  She never should have made a deathbed promise without being certain she could keep it. It haunted her mercilessly. No matter how much she told herself Margaret would understand if she didn’t deliver the letter, her conscience refused to be convinced.

  She snatched the letter and stuffed it in her purse. Okay, Margaret, but you’re going to have to help me find him.

  Soon, Charlene imagined her whispering. Soon.

  Charlene shook herself and hurried from the room. She’d kept Ben waiting long enough.

  * * *

  At the hospital, Charlene left her luggage in the car, shouldered her purse, and wrapped an arm around the cookie Tupperware as she made the familiar trek to Ben’s room. She gave the partially open door a cursory tap before peeking in.

  Ben rested against the back of his inclined bed, cushioned by pillows. Color had returned to his face, a reassuring sight.

  Mr. Jorgensen wasn’t in the room. Mrs. Jorgensen excused herself and brushed past Charlene, while Lucy remained in the chair by Ben’s bed.

  “Hi,” Charlene said. “I brought you something.” She tried to set the container on the bedside table, but there was no room. The surface was already crowded with flowers, cards, and another Tupperware.

  As if noting Charlene’s curiosity, Lucy peeled back the lid of the container, pulled out a cookie, and took a big bite.

  Charlene smiled. “I guess you can never have too many cookies.” She deposited her batch on another table farther away.

  “Nope, you know me. Thanks,” Ben said. “Chocolate chip?”

  She nodded.

  “Kate’s are chocolate chocolate chip.” Lucy’s tone clearly implied that more chocolate meant better, and Charlene couldn’t argue with that.

  “Want one?” Lucy extended the container.

  “No thanks,” Charlene found herself saying, though the large moist cookies looked tempting. The chips still looked melty, too. A muscle near her eye twitched. “So Kate brought those?”

 
“Yep,” Lucy answered, “for Ben.”

  Charlene turned to him with a stiff smile. She pulled up a chair and sat near his legs, since Lucy still sat munching near his head.

  “Only because she’s at the hospital a lot anyway. We talk about her emergency and fire calls.” Ben cocked his head. “That doesn’t bother you, does it?”

  Charlene drew her hair out of her face as if to put it in a ponytail, then realized she had no band to secure it. “No, of course not.” She let her hair drop.

  Ben’s smile widened. “I’ve never seen you jealous before.”

  She felt herself reddening.

  “Looks cute on you. But seriously, you have nothing to worry about. You know you’re the only one for me.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes while making a gagging face.

  “And you, kiddo,” he addressed his sister, “why don’t you go find Mom and give me and Charlene a chance to talk?”

  With a longsuffering sigh, Lucy stood, swiped Kate’s cookies, and left, banging the door shut.

  Ben and Charlene talked for a good hour. He needed reassurance that she was really okay, that the intruder truly hadn’t hurt her any more than she’d told him.

  “I’d love to get my hands on him,” Ben said angrily.

  When they finally moved away from that uncomfortable topic, they moved to another unsettling one. He still couldn’t feel his legs.

  “But I will,” he insisted. “It might take weeks, maybe even months, but I will.”

  She nodded. “You will.”

  Maybe if they said it enough, believed it enough, they could make it so.

  When he told her he’d be transferred to the rehab center soon, she wondered fleetingly if Kate would find a way to visit him there, too. But she refrained from asking, knowing she would definitely sound jealous. She didn’t want to be that kind of girl, insecure and clingy.

  After a goodbye kiss, Ben told her to go get settled in at his parents’, assuring her he’d talked to them and it was all no problem.