After the Thaw

by Therese Heckenkamp

  She leaned into the safe. “That’s all of it.” A glimpse of something shiny pulled her eyes upward, where she spotted a flash drive taped to the roof of the safe. Squinting, she made out the word “Justice” written on a tiny label.

  The police just might be interested in this, she realized. If she ever got the chance to give it to them. She swiped the drive and palmed it as she backed out of the safe.

  Nails didn’t give her a second glance, merely grabbed the bloated bag and surveyed the safe to confirm it was empty. As he did so, she slipped the flash drive in her pocket.

  After swiftly zip tying her to the foot of a leather sofa, he shook the money bag in Grandfather’s face. “Thanks, Gramps.” He looked at her. “And thanks for your cooperation. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “You’ll let Brook go now?” she called after him.

  He grinned and snagged her car keys. “Thanks for the ride.” The study door slammed shut.

  She turned to Grandfather, pale and slumped in his chair, and said, “Thank you.”

  “Bah!” His head snapped up. “Now look what you’ve cost me. You’re always costing me. I’ll go broke yet because of you. If you’d stayed with me and worked for me, things never would have come to this. You have no idea the effort I put into making sure you were ready and disposed, everything I did to get you here, and you still couldn’t see the golden opportunity.”

  Exhausted as she was, the tirade of words jolted her. Making sure I was ready and disposed? Everything he did . . . An incredible realization surfaced, like sharp icebergs jutting up from a frigid sea, the bulk of danger shrouded beneath the depths. The deception.

  He had been ready for her. So ready.

  She met his eyes and saw a spark, like the memory of a flame. That’s when she knew. He’d smoked her out, driven her to him.

  “You,” she gasped. “You burnt my condo.”

  Grandfather snorted. “As if I would stoop to such a menial task.”

  “No, but you were behind it. You . . . you sent someone.”

  He didn’t deny it. She thought of Frank. The big, bulky henchman carrying out Grandfather’s dirty work. In fact . . . she recalled Vivian’s description of the person in the library parking lot surveillance video. That could have been Frank.

  “You had drugs planted in my car. So you could play rescuer and win me back. But that attempt didn’t work. So you burnt my condo. You wanted me in trouble so I’d come crawling back to you for help. Of all the low, conniving—”

  “If your mind moves that slow, it’s just as well you aren’t working for me after all. Need sharper minds than that.”

  “Devious criminal minds, you mean.”

  “I merely did what I had to do to get results. I tried contacting you by civil means, but you ignored me every time. Don’t blame me. You forced my hand.”

  “Were you behind all those other horrible things, too?” Trembling, she rattled off the threats: the note on her windshield, the cruel writing on her car, the sneaky photos, even the attack on Ben. She would put nothing past Grandfather now. Nothing. But he denied everything.

  Her teeth clashed. “You expect me to believe you, when you committed arson?”

  “Stop overreacting. No one got hurt and you got the insurance money, didn’t you?”

  I don’t know, they’re dragging their feet. The least of her worries. “Don’t try to change the subject. And don’t think for a minute I’m not going to tell the police about this.”

  “By all means, tell them any fanciful story you like. My lawyers will emphasize that being disowned and disinherited might make one inclined to be bitter enough to make such wild accusations. The little matter of proof will be a stumbling block, as well.”

  Indeed. For the arson and the drug operation, she had nothing. But when it came to justice . . . all she needed was the flash drive.

  Her mind spun into a headache as she fell silent and waited, wondering how long it would be before help arrived.

  Chapter Thirty

  Help came hours later in the form of the morning maid. Her scream ricocheted outside the study doors, and a disgruntled Frank and a slew of police officers soon flooded the study.

  Nails, of course, was long gone.

  “Why can’t they ever catch him?” Charlene lamented to Brook days later, when it looked as though, once again, Nails had vanished from the face of the earth.

  Or at least the country. Which, honestly, would have pleased her greatly if she could believe it was true.

  It was the not knowing that tortured her.

  “I mean, seriously, they’ve got his fingerprints, his name, his picture . . . why can’t the police just catch him and lock him away forever?”

  All they’d found so far was Charlene’s car, abandoned on a highway. They returned it to her, no worse for being stolen, but she detested the thought of living her life in fear of when Nails might next appear. For the millionth time, for one of a million reasons, she wished Clay had never served time.

  Grandfather was, of course, newly fired up to see Clay sent back to prison, once he learned the connection; but the police didn’t go for it after releasing Clay and grilling them on the entire incident. No one was charged. Charlene gave the police Grandfather’s flash drive, though, so that was something.

  “Just breathe, Charlene,” Brook said now. Charlene was impressed with her resilience. She’d been snatched from their parking lot, blindfolded, and held in captivity in the trunk of a car. Never even saw her abductor. Many hours later, she was dropped off in a ditch along the side of the road. When she heard the car drive off, she worked her ropes and blindfold off and began walking. The police eventually picked her up.

  Despite her traumatic scare, both she and her baby were, thankfully, found to be in perfect health.

  Charlene regarded Brook with a fondness that crept up on her. “You’re the one who’s going to need to ‘just breathe’ soon enough. Labor’s getting close.” If she were her, she’d be worried about that.

  Brook smiled and rubbed her rounded belly. Although she and Charlene had grown closer since the robbery, there were some things they didn’t speak of, topics they still avoided—Clay being the main one.

  * * *

  Fools believed anything. He had no partner helping him, as he’d told them. The only partner he’d ever considered was the kid, back before he’d blown his chance. Nails had easily kidnapped the pregnant girl himself, then turned her loose after the job was done.

  Now with the money stashed, it was time to lay low again.

  Time to pass time.

  He opened a drawer and drew out the necklace. The strand slipped and slithered, the pearls rolling under his fingers like fat rosary beads. They were valuable, but he twisted them. Couldn’t help himself. They were important to her? All the more reason to destroy them.

  He heard her begging for them. That voice . . .

  He flung the necklace away, focused on something else. Anything else.

  Cans and boxes of bland food sat in his cupboards and on the grimy counter. If he had to eat one more meal of ramen noodles, he’d puke.

  The hiding and waiting was the hardest part of what he did. It didn’t usually get to him. Not like this. Not like tonight. The rain and the cold and the emptiness converged, pressing in on him.

  He swept the cheap food from the counter, banged open a cupboard and yanked out a bottle.

  It was that Charlene’s fault. Always reminding him of Beth.

  Beth.

  Normally, it was only once in a while that she crossed his mind. Lately, it was all the time. He ran fingers over his close-cropped head, rubbed his prickly scalp. He didn’t want her in his brain, in his thoughts. He didn’t want her anywhere.

  He didn’t want to look her up or track her down. He probably wouldn’t recognize her even if he saw her. She was probably fat and ugly now. He swilled the whiskey, then slammed the bottle on the table.

  Twenty-two years ago. He cursed. She woul
d have married some upstanding church boy long ago. Raised a bunch of brats. Forgot he existed.

  Good.

  ’Cause he knew what she’d think of him now. She’d look down her pert little nose and shrink away. Repulsed.

  He grabbed the bottle and threw more whiskey down his gullet.

  Drown the memories. Drown them all.

  * * *

  The woman stared at the rosy liquid in her glass, remembering, considering. The cravings were bad tonight. She’d been through too much lately. She deserved the taste of a real drink. Just a taste. One glass.

  She’d abstained so long, and she still had so many weeks to wait. Her fingers reached out and encircled the glass.

  The baby kicked.

  Releasing the drink, she put a hand on her squirming belly, searching for the lively contact of a little foot or hand. The child was growing strong. Pride—and something else too elusive to name—shimmered within her.

  She closed her eyes. Once her man saw the amazing thing they’d created together, he’d never look back. When he was all hers and only hers, and they were a real family, they would toast and drink champagne together while their baby slumbered nearby.

  A celebration.

  The girl would be forgotten, left out in the cold to wallow in rejection.

  Thrilled at the thought, the woman bundled herself for the weather and stepped out to visit him.

  * * *

  Charlene’s life settled into a steady, though slightly numbing, pattern. Thanksgiving and early December came and went without any drama or danger more pressing than her spending days with Ben’s family and navigating ice-slicked roads and vision-impairing snow.

  When a Christmas card from Max showed up in her mail, it was the highlight of her week. His hastily scrawled message settled her worries as she read between the lines. He wasn’t holding a grudge, just booked solid with shows. He was sorry he couldn’t get away to visit over Christmas, but promised to see her in the new year.

  She sent a card back, and they exchanged a few brief texts, but Charlene couldn’t bring herself to call him. She knew if she did, she’d spill everything, the robbery, her near-death . . . and Max would insist she move to California; and this time, he would talk her into it. She wouldn’t be strong enough to resist. She’d do it. She’d run . . . losing everything she’d worked for. She’d become dependent and cowardly, always wondering if she’d only stayed and been strong, what her life could have been.

  So she didn’t call, and she stayed in Creekside, making frequent visits to Woodfield and Ben. They perused wedding reception locales and finally chose a hall near a lake. Waterside trellises strung with little white lights would twinkle like stars, and it would be beautiful. Perfect.

  The day after Christmas, she tried hard to picture the summer scene as she sat at the kitchen table. Instead, all she saw was the rosary making supplies spread out before her. Then the lock clicked, the door opened, and Brook stepped into the room.

  Charlene’s hands froze on a half-completed rosary. “I didn’t know you’d be home this early.” She felt guilty, like she’d been caught gorging on a gallon of ice cream.

  Brook shrugged out of her coat, which didn’t button all the way shut now that she was close to her due date. “Work was slow. My manager let me go early.” She studied Charlene and the table, the bag of black beads and crucifixes, the roll of cord. “What are you doing?”

  Charlene tugged a knot tight. “Making rosaries.”

  “Black ones.” Brook’s expression registered the truth. “For prisoners. Clay told you about . . . that.”

  She nodded.

  Brook pulled out a chair and settled across from her. “Can you show me how?”

  Charlene looked up, surprised. “You had a long day. Wouldn’t you rather rest? The knots are kinda tricky and they’re really tiring on your hands.”

  “I don’t care. Sitting is resting. Might as well be productive.”

  Indeed, Charlene understood the desire. Along with the hope of easing someone’s suffering by sharing the love of prayer. She measured out a new length of cord, then leaned forward and explained the process.

  Brook caught on quickly, and she chatted as they worked. “So what did Ben give you for Christmas?”

  “A winter coat.” Charlene caught a bead from rolling off the table. “And a pair of opal earrings.”

  “But . . .” Brook leaned forward and scrutinized her ears. “Your ears aren’t pierced.”

  “That can easily be fixed.” Charlene touched a lobe and her lips hinted at a smile. “His way of encouraging me. How was your Christmas?” Since Charlene had been in Woodfield the entire day and night, she had no idea what Brook had done.

  Brook beamed. “It was great. I spent it with Clay and Sam.”

  Of course. Charlene lost count of the beads she was stringing as she pictured the scene, the warmth and laughter, the fireplace crackling. A real cozy, down-home country Christmas. For some reason, she imagined Sam cooking, in an apron, and the picture was priceless.

  She and Brook worked on in a peaceful rhythm, and she thought with a trace of wonder, This is what it would be like to have a sister.

  Brook’s chair squeaked as she shifted her weight. “So you bring all these rosaries somewhere yourself, or send them, or what?”

  “I send them. Usually in batches of fifty. I found a prison ministry address online.”

  Brook picked up a bead and rolled it between her fingertips. “It was nice of you to think to do this, Charlene. Real nice. Most anyone else would hear Clay’s story and not—”

  Charlene glanced up to see Brook’s lips pinched and throat working.

  “—not get this out of it.”

  Charlene shook her head, feeling Brook was blowing things out of proportion.

  Brook sniffed. “It’s easy to forget about people in prison. To think they’re less than us. But . . . ‘as long as you did it to one of these my least brethren, you did it to me.’”

  Charlene dropped a bead, and it ping, ping, pinged across the table.

  Brook handed it back, her eyes shimmering. “You care, Charlene. You have a big heart. You . . . I . . .” Her voice wavered.

  Charlene put her hand on Brook’s, sensing she wanted to say something more. “What is it, Brook?”

  “It’s nothing.” She bent her head. “I just . . .” She looked back up and heaved a breath. “I’ll go with you tomorrow, if you want. To get your ears pierced, I mean.”

  “Oh. Okay, thank you.” Charlene squeezed her hand. “I’d really like that.”

  * * *

  He burned with fever. He dropped onto the flimsy mattress and couldn’t get up again.

  Out of nowhere, Mrs. Callaghan’s round face bobbed above him. “You poor boy.”

  He wanted to spit at her. Cuss her out for calling him that, but he didn’t have strength to do anything but groan.

  Then she was gone, and it was Beth, sweet Beth, caring for him, laying a cool washcloth on his fiery forehead. He relaxed then, and slept, though he wanted to stay awake and look at her, talk to her.

  Maybe she would tell him one of her lame stories. He wouldn’t mind. Had nothing better to do. What was that one? The one about . . .

  “The Good Thief,” whispered Beth.

  Right, even the title was lame. The good thief. As if there could be any such thing. He was either good, or a thief. Couldn’t be both.

  Beth’s voice began the story in her harmonizing way . . .

  “The soldiers crucified two robbers right next to Jesus on Calvary. One on His right, and one on His left. They didn’t use nails for the robbers, only ropes. Jesus got the nails.” Beth always paused at that part, like it was supposed to mean something profound.

  Then she went on, quoting her Bible as she did so well. “One of the robbers mocked Jesus, saying, ‘If thou be Christ, save thyself and us.’

  “But the other man, the good thief, rebuked the first. ‘Do you not fear God, seeing thou art under the
same condemnation? And we indeed justly; for we receive the due reward of our deeds. But this man hath done no evil.’

  “Then the good thief spoke to Jesus. ‘Lord, remember me when thou shalt come into thy kingdom.’

  “Jesus replied, ‘Amen I say to thee: This day thou shalt be with me in paradise.’”

  A thief in paradise? The story was as stupid as they came.

  Still, it stuck with him.

  “Remember me . . .” And he drifted into sleep, where the fever couldn’t burn.

  * * *

  On a Tuesday evening in early January, Charlene ventured out to a specialty baby store, part of a row of old-time storefronts built of yellowed brick and featuring fabric overhangs and large window displays. All the after-Christmas sales and slashed prices called to her. Even when she’d had plenty of money, she’d always enjoyed the thrill of a good bargain.

  With Brook’s baby overdue, it was high time she bought a gift, but when she stepped into the store, she knew why she’d put the chore off for so long.

  The modest sized place was literally crammed floor to ceiling with the cutest array of pastel items she’d ever seen. From car seats and cribs, to tiny outfits and shoes, to books and toys, it was more than overwhelming. At the same time, the downright adorableness of it all pricked her heart and awoke a yearning for a baby of her own.

  She wound her way past a young couple wielding a registry scanner, a grandmotherly lady piling her cart with toys, and an obviously-pregnant blond woman frowning at a price tag. Reaching the clothing racks, Charlene fingered an ultra-soft outfit that looked like a miniature bear costume, complete with paw feet, and marveled that any human could be born this small.

  After taking much too long to decide, she chose three outfits, a stuffed duck with a soft tuft of fuzz on its head, and a classic board book that had always been a library favorite.