After the Thaw

by Therese Heckenkamp

  Ah, so there was a catch. His admittance of the fact soothed her tension slightly. This, at least, was the Grandfather she knew. Whatever the new development, she would deal with it in the morning, when she was recharged. For now, a mile-high luxury bed awaited.

  * * *

  The woman couldn’t hold back any longer.

  On her knees, she heaved and wretched, spewing her sour, curdled insides, bracing the toilet with one hand while the other hand shoved back her hair, trying to keep it from the line of fire.

  Oh, she’d been brought low, so low, but she would rise again. Stronger than ever.

  Ignoring the bitter taste of bile, she wiped her mouth and lifted her head, her eyes not seeing the here and now, but the future.

  She smiled at herself in the mirror.

  It will all be worth it.

  * * *

  Charlene followed the trail of tempting breakfast aromas into the grand dining room, her curiosity piqued.

  “Ah, Charlene.” Grandfather beamed. “The late sleeper has arrived. You may sit here, my dear.”

  Frank pulled out the indicated chair for her at the overly long table, then stood at attention. Grandfather sat at the head, of course. She sat beside him and faced an unknown gray-haired guest across the table. The man smiled widely while Grandfather handled introductions. Mr. Flemming was his name, and he turned out to be a visiting investor.

  At the end of the meal, she managed a few extra bites while Grandfather spoke in hushed tones with Mr. Flemming near the door. The man then left to attend to a business meeting via Skype in one of Grandfather’s offices.

  Grandfather approached her with an unusual smile and settled in a chair while she, uncomfortable under his scrutiny, forced down the remains of her last bite.

  “I trust you found your room comfortable and the meal more than satisfactory?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. I’d like you to stay and work for me.”

  This again? “I already told you—”

  “Not just any work,” he clarified, leaning forward and speaking low. “I’ll train you to take over my business. To run it when I’m gone.”

  She blinked. “Me? But—”

  “It was always supposed to be you.” He paused and looked past her, bitterness creeping into his voice. “After your father died, that is. Max could never handle it. Too hot-headed. But you, Charlene,” his eyes pinned her, “you can. With the right training.”

  Her mind skittered over the words, the implications. Me, a career-driven business woman? Me, in a fast-paced life of corporate power and wealth? So hard to picture, but when she tried, she went cold. “I’m not right for that. I’m sure you must have any number of qualified candidates—”

  “No one else is a Perigard.” A hint of color rose at the base of his neck. “No one else is my flesh and blood. Do you even realize what I’m offering? My business is worth more than you can imagine. Someday, all of it will be yours.”

  “On what condition?”

  “All you have to do is live here and work with me.”

  “But I’m getting married.”

  Grandfather snorted. “If you actually go through with that, fine. There’s room here for both of you.” He aimed a finger at her. “But you’ll be in charge. And you will keep the Perigard name.”

  Ben would never go for that. She gripped her linen napkin. “What do I know about running any business, let alone a multi-billion-dollar—”

  “You’re not ignorant, Charlene, though you’ve certainly made some poor choices. I remember what you’re capable of. You have a sharp mind. Like me.” Grandfather adjusted the cuff of his suit. “You don’t have to decide this second. Try it out. Spend the day in my offices. I’ll give you an overview. Show you the possibilities.”

  He stood and waited for her to join him. She imagined him dangling treasure before her eyes, luring her with glimmering gold and jewels. She knew how wealth could corrupt. She didn’t want any part of it. And yet . . .

  “My lawyers are even better than Vivian Fenwick.” The meaning in his casual words rang clear. An end to her case.

  She inched her chair back.

  With a nod, Grandfather exited the room, expecting her to follow.

  Dropping her napkin, she did.

  She was soon immersed in spreadsheets, graphs, and charts, learning about investors, holdings, projections, and profit margins. Despite herself, the work caught her interest. The day slid away.

  “You have a head for this, Charlene,” Grandfather said approvingly as he locked his office that night. “Start working for me now, then when it’s time to take over, you’ll be ready. What do you say?”

  She swallowed and gave the only answer she could. “This isn’t the life I want.”

  “Are you sure about that? Take some time to think about it.”

  Her mind spun while she picked at her dinner. Grandfather spoke congenially with Mr. Flemming, but his eyes watched her, waiting for a definitive answer. He wasn’t forcing the issue, as if he knew doing so would scare her off. Instead, his nonchalance shook her.

  After dinner, she wandered the mansion, almost dazed, hardly realizing that Frank, silent and large, shadowed her.

  What am I doing? I need to call Ben and talk to him. But somehow, despite the money, she knew he wouldn’t like Grandfather’s proposal. She didn’t like it. It was nowhere near the simple life they’d planned.

  She found herself in the theater room. Absently, she flipped through DVDs. She came across a blank case tucked so far back under the shelf that it seemed purposely hidden. Inside the case, she discovered a generic looking DVD labeled with one word, “Justice.”

  Too curious to contain herself, she slipped the disk into the player and didn’t even notice Frank slip from the room. Dire background music played and the opening scene began.

  Chapter Ten

  As Charlene perched on the edge of her seat, she sensed by the mediocre quality that this was some sort of weird “home movie.” The first shot panned down from light snowfall onto skeletal trees, down onto a church cemetery, then onto a lone man standing beside a fresh grave.

  Her breath caught. She’d seen this before. Not on-camera, but in real life.

  There stood Clay in his black suit, at his mother’s grave, after all the mourners had departed. All but me and Ben, Charlene realized, as she saw herself step tentatively forward, Ben following slightly behind.

  She squinted at the screen. Someone else was caught in the frame, another man, out of focus and distant. Just like on that day long ago, her curiosity returned. Who was he and why was he lingering on the fringe of the cemetery?

  The camera zoomed in, losing the man, and her attention returned to herself and Clay. She figured the cameraman filmed from the street at the top of the hill. She puzzled over why Grandfather wanted this footage. Did it provide him some twisted, tangible satisfaction? Did he watch this to rejoice in the misery of his “enemy”?

  She and Ben departed from the picture. The last time I ever saw Clay. Something like regret twinged beneath her throat.

  Clay lingered, then at last made his way out of the cemetery, trekking up the sidewalk, coming closer, shoulders hunched, head tucked low, absorbed in his thoughts, careless of his environment.

  Too careless.

  She tensed.

  A sudden blur of action filled the screen. Two large men, faces hidden by black knit ski masks, rushed him. One man slugged him in the stomach. As he doubled over, the other man clamped his arm around Clay’s neck and hauled him from the sidewalk.

  The view from the camera flashed to darkness, then to vehicle doors opening. The cameraman was now filming from inside the back of a commercial van. Slow, deep-toned music was suddenly replaced by natural audio, a bumpy, scratchy sound of struggling. The two thugs shoved Clay into the van, then quickly followed, slamming the doors.

  One of the men slapped duct tape over Clay’s mouth while another twisted his arms back and bound his wrists to
gether.

  The scene cut off.

  Clutching her seat, Charlene’s fingernails dug into the plush fabric.

  She’d barely pulled in a breath when a new scene appeared: Clay slamming into a cement-block wall.

  The room was large, shadowy, and windowless. Metal shelves, cardboard boxes, support poles, and a dingy stained floor suggested an old warehouse.

  Momentarily stunned, Clay blinked, then struggled to his feet. His hands were useless, his wrists still taped together behind his back. Anger overrode the pain on his face as he turned to his assailants.

  He braced himself as the two men came at him again.

  And again.

  Two against one, and Clay bound, were terrible odds. Obviously, he wasn’t meant to have a fighting chance.

  While the attack wasn’t taking place in current time, Charlene still found herself silently mouthing, Dear God, no, please . . . make it stop.

  As the men came at him, fists striking, boots kicking, Clay’s arms strained instinctively to block his head, but it was impossible.

  On the floor now, he doubled over and tucked his head to his chest, an attempt to shield himself in the only way possible.

  She wished for the somber music again, to cover the sound of the flesh-thudding blows.

  Blood trickled onto the floor, and she covered her mouth.

  When the pounding stopped, Clay lay still.

  And still, the thugs weren’t satisfied.

  They hauled him up roughly and dropped him on a flimsy folding chair, shoving him up against a crude table. He slumped against it and didn’t move.

  Charlene’s hand lifted. She wanted to reach into the screen and help him, tell him he was going to be okay, but she didn’t know if he would be, if he was, if—

  A knife flashed and she clutched her throat, but the blade merely slit the duct tape on Clay’s wrists. His arms immediately fell to his sides. A man seized them and slammed them onto the table, which she now noticed had tools of some kind laid out, as well as paper, and—

  The image froze. Someone behind her cleared his throat.

  She whirled to find Grandfather holding a remote, Frank standing beside him at the open theater door.

  “Charlene, Charlene, always so curious.” Grandfather nudged the door closed. “Do you like what you found?”

  She turned back to gape at the screen, still trying to process the cruelty she’d just witnessed, and all she could manage was a strangled sound.

  “I always told you he would pay,” Grandfather said. “His token prison sentence was nothing. Nothing like what he deserved. For all that boy did to my name and reputation and company; and to you and Max, for that matter—no matter how you both deny it—that beating was a more fitting punishment than anything he could have endured in the luxury prisons of today.”

  Bile rose in her throat. “That’s not justice, that’s cold-blooded revenge. You hired thugs to beat him up and film it, too?”

  Grandfather smiled. “Would you like to keep watching?” He aimed the remote.

  She forced her voice through her throat. “No!”

  “A pity.” Grandfather clicked off the DVD, and the room went black. “By the end, he was practically crying like a baby. What do you think of your precious hero now?”

  “I think you’re a monster.” Waves of horror washed over her, crashing, crashing, never receding. “And what do you mean by the end? Did you kill him?”

  Grandfather snorted. “He was merely a little worse for wear.” He puffed out his chest. “But he won’t dare cross me again. I ensured he would be out of my town and out of my life—and yours—for good.”

  The words triggered a thought. The letter, the odd, short, abrupt letter Clay had sent. How had he even known her address? The answer fell into place. “You forced him to write me that letter, didn’t you?”

  “Indeed. I knew how you pined for him, you silly girl.”

  “I did not—”

  “So I ended it. I gave you concrete closure so you could move on.”

  She shook her head, tears sliding down her cheeks. “You had no right to touch him, to torture him. And right after his mother’s funeral—how could you? You think you can do anything, get away with anything, just because you’re rich. Well, you can’t. And that DVD, that’s evidence—” Shut up, Charlene. Just get the DVD and bring it to the police.

  Lights flicked on, curtesy of Frank, and she saw Grandfather now held the disk in his hands. With a grin, he cracked the evidence in two, then cracked it again. “Easy to dispose of. I suppose I’ve watched it enough times. It will have to suffice.”

  You have another copy somewhere. Charlene was as convinced of this as she was of Grandfather’s hatred for Clay. Sickened to the core, she couldn’t believe she’d considered partnering with him for a second.

  “You weren’t supposed to find it, Charlene, and I’m sorry it’s upset you, but don’t let this taint your decision. And don’t waste your tears on that boy. He’s nothing but a worthless convict.”

  Her emotions charged into overdrive and she couldn’t control them. She shoved her face into her hands, wishing she could destroy the reality of all Clay’s suffering as easily as Grandfather had destroyed the evidence of it.

  “Now, now, you just need a good night’s rest. You’ll feel much better in the morning.”

  She shot up and marched forward, her emotions tattered and raw. “No, I won’t. I won’t be here—here with you and your cruel, inhuman scheming—” Going slightly insane, her arms itched to fly from her sides and she felt herself on the brink of physically lashing out.

  He sensed it, and gave something like a signal to Frank, and the next thing she knew, Frank seized her.

  “Get your hands off me—” She felt a sharp prick of pain in her arm, and her words floated away, impossible to retrieve. Her limbs weakened and her eyelids drooped.

  She felt someone leading her away, felt herself float down onto something soft, and then . . . she was aware of nothing.

  * * *

  Her head buzzed. Her dry tongue sat heavy and tasted bitter. Nausea made her wretch.

  Charlene opened her eyes to darkness, a desperation stretching her mind, pulling her here, pulling her there.

  She stumbled up from the bed.

  Have to. Get away.

  She rubbed her aching eyes.

  Think. Think.

  Her hand grappled for her phone, but couldn’t find it. He took it. Her body wanted to crash back onto the mattress, her head wanted to burrow into the down pillow. Using every ounce of will, she stumbled to the bathroom and threw cold water on her face. It sloshed all over her body. She moaned, feeling sick, scared, giddy, guilty. Poor Clay. Poor Margaret. If it weren’t for me . . . I’m sorry, so sorry.

  She tried to sling her purse over her shoulder, but dropped it. She frowned at the unexpectedly complicated strap before wrestling it into place. Stay.

  The droning in her ears didn’t let her know how quiet she needed to be, but she tiptoed from the room and didn’t see Frank.

  She put a hand to her pulsing temple. Could she navigate the maze of the mansion fast enough in her befuddled state? She was aware enough to know someone would be after her soon, but if she could get a head start . . .

  She swerved down the hall. Doorways, doorways. This one? No. This one? Maybe . . .

  Ah, into the garage where Grandfather kept his fleet of shining luxury cars. The room smelled of rubber and oil and faintly of gas.

  She pulled open the door of a Rolls Royce and glanced inside. No keys, of course, but her brain was too foggy for her to take control of a wheel anyway. She snagged the electric garage and gate openers, and her lips stretched into a smile. No need to attempt climbing a twenty-foot high fence.

  She opened the garage door. While it rose silent and smooth, it didn’t smother the sound of a yelled curse as she dodged under the rising door and out onto the lawn.

  Security lights blazed on. On a dizzy high, she bounced f
rom sparse shadow to shadow.

  “Charlene, get back here!” Frank roared.

  She chortled. Did he really expect such a request to work? If that was the genius she was up against, she wasn’t worried.

  Her foot snagged on a low bush and she sprawled onto grass. Gathering herself up, she heard steps pounding close. Hiding in shadows wasn’t enough.

  She darted under a low tree. Noting the bumpiness underfoot, she reached down and grasped a nice sized stone, about the size of a small baseball. Perfect. She hurled it in the opposite direction from where she was heading, striking and rustling a bush. Her next rock thumped a tree.

  She glanced back, hoping the noise had been heard. Yes, she saw Frank hurtle in the direction she’d aimed, not down the hill to her. She’d bought herself a moment, maybe.

  Close enough to the gate now, she pressed the remote button and watched the metal bars swing wide, offering escape.

  “Hey!” Frank bellowed as she shot toward the opening.

  Seconds from freedom, a figure appeared in her path, blocking the exit. The guard from the gatehouse. She tried to dodge, but he caught her arm.

  “Let me go!” She strained for freedom.

  Huffing, Frank grabbed her, clamping down on her kicking legs and swinging arms, her purse tangling between them. He forced her back up to the mansion, a hand jammed against her mouth.

  Grandfather, arms crossed over his bountiful middle, met them at the front door.

  Mr. Flemming, in a robe, suddenly appeared at Grandfather’s side, squinting at the crazy scene before him. “What on earth is going on here?” He turned to Grandfather, who shot a snarly glare at her before facing the investor and trying to explain away the ugly situation.

  “Enough.” Mr. Flemming sounded disgusted. He pulled out his phone. “I don’t care if she is your granddaughter. Let her go immediately, or I’m calling the authorities.”

  Frank waited for Grandfather’s response. Silent rage trembling his jowls, Grandfather gave the slightest of nods.