After the Thaw

by Therese Heckenkamp

  Now he sat up on the edge of the mattress, his head murky. His arms rubbery. Belly so starved it felt like it was eating itself. Pitiful. Weak. But he wasn’t dying after all. Just as well. He had big plans before he’d be ready for hell.

  He pushed aside the musty quilt, then rubbed his jaw and found a stubbly beard. How long had he been out? He stumbled to the window and saw sludgy snow, dripping branches.

  His tongue felt like it was growing fungus. He scraped it against his fuzzy teeth, then moved to the cupboard and rummaged for food. He chomped down on a stick of jerky and ripped it in two. A few days to get his strength back, to make arrangements, then time to uncover his money, time to leave the country.

  Time to start living at last.

  * * *

  “Miss, you’ll need to turn your phone off now,” the flight attendant said pleasantly as she paused near Charlene’s seat. “We’ll be taking off momentarily.”

  Complying, Charlene powered her phone down. She’d seen no messages of importance, anyway, just more missed calls from Ben.

  Sighing, she settled back in her seat, thankful she was getting away. Not running away. There was a difference. Taking a break. Gaining perspective. This California trip couldn’t have come at a better time. Saying goodbye to the cold, snowy Midwest and hello to the sunny West Coast was just the therapy she needed.

  The one and only thing she had to worry about in California was reconnecting with Max.

  He still didn’t know she was coming, or that she would be sitting in the audience tomorrow night when he debuted his new trick, but she planned to surprise him by visiting him backstage after the show.

  In the shuttle from San Francisco International, she popped on her large movie-star shades and took in the sights. Tall, top-heavy palm trees and countless historic buildings flashed by, and she was glad she wasn’t the one navigating the steep roads, where drivers zipped and wove brazenly through congested traffic.

  If Max had known she was coming, he might have sprung for a classy beach hotel, but she was content with what she could afford, a small one-room place with a view of a brick wall. She’d mainly be using it for sleeping, anyway.

  That night she found that the street her motel was on didn’t settle down at dark. A steady din of honking horns, revving motors, and loud voices thrummed through the night. The dingy drapes didn’t prevent lights from flashing into her room and across her bed, either. Though she preferred a night light, this glare was too much. It made her realize what a sleepy little town Creekside was.

  And when she thought of Creekside, she thought of Clay. And those feelings were nothing but conflicted. Despite Ben’s certainty, she had no intention of pathetically turning to Clay.

  She hadn’t seen him in over a month—the night he’d told her he loved her. And she still didn’t know what to do with that.

  Having just ended a long, serious relationship, it was too soon to think about starting another. Clay deserved more than a desperate rebound. She couldn’t do that to him. He already thought he loved her. If she couldn’t follow through and commit, it wouldn’t be fair and she’d end up hurting him even more.

  The pain she’d seen a month ago was already too much.

  She needed time.

  She tramped down her internal mess and closed her eyes. Someday, if Clay was still waiting for her, then maybe . . .

  But she wouldn’t blame him if he wasn’t.

  Lying in bed, she rubbed the blue beads of her rosary between her fingers as she murmured prayers.

  When she closed her eyes, she saw herself, years and years from now . . . never married. Spending her days as a librarian, the storytime kids her children for an hour. She’d fill her nights peacefully, reading, sewing, praying. Stability. Safety. More blessings than many had in life. It would be enough. She would thank the Lord and be content.

  * * *

  Nails bit his cheek. Something wasn’t right. The dirt under the rock looked suspicious, almost freshly disturbed. He flung off the earth, ripped off the bucket lid, looked inside the ten gallon space, and cursed.

  The money was gone.

  Enraged, he plunged his hand into the emptiness, scrabbling his fingers through the mocking traces of dirt, refusing to believe the cash was missing.

  But it was.

  All of it.

  Nothing here but a hole and dirt.

  Pawing feverishly through the surrounding soil, his eyes caught a bright fleck of blue. He plucked it up and studied it. A ragged crescent of some kind of tough fibrous material. Like a . . . fingernail. A broken, painted fingernail. What the . . . ?

  Then he saw something else . . . something that made him forget all about the nail, something plastic—a red tube of familiar lip balm.

  Strawberry.

  * * *

  The surging river of anticipation swept her with the crowd into the huge building, above which Max’s name blazed in lights. It still seemed like a huge joke that he had somehow pulled this off, duping everyone into paying money to see him, her ridiculous brother, perform illusions on a stage. That was the greatest trick of all.

  Judging from tonight’s turnout, he was doing well. His initial success, it couldn’t be denied, was primarily due to the fact that he was a survivor of the shocking Perigard kidnapping. But five years later, she figured something more drew them, or he wouldn’t have lasted this long. He’d always had enough charisma and personality for the two of them, and as his twin, she’d often suspected he’d somehow snatched her share right from birth.

  Inside the grand auditorium, an usher led her to her seat in the center of a distant middle row. Settling in, she scanned the room. Old ornate lighting cast a honeyed glow. Balconies swooped from the walls. A dusky stage curtain hung in thick folds.

  The air of expectancy in the large space was palpable as she waited to be amazed and mystified as promised. Lights dimmed, the steady hum of audience voices hushed, and the curtain spread open with a soft wing-like flutter, much like her heart fluttered in nervous anticipation. Even knowing Max had performed countless times, she still felt stage fright for him.

  An eerie dry-ice mist hung low on the empty stage. Deep, mysterious tones of music swelled. A wide spotlight settled mid-stage.

  “And now,” a loud voice boomed, “the amazing Max Perigard!”

  Poof, a plume of smoke appeared. As it dissipated, there stood Max, finely dressed and exuding a presence that owned the stage. He flung out a silk handkerchief that grew into a huge rippling satin sheet. The second he released it, he disappeared in a burst of smoke. The fabric floated down over the empty stage, but as it did, a large form of something appeared beneath it.

  With a startling vroom, a Lamborghini burst from the fabric. The driver’s door opened, and out stepped Max, to wild applause. He flung out his arm, directing attention to the passenger door. It opened, and out stepped his sparkling assistant.

  An array of impressive illusions followed, including a levitation trick, a box pierced with daggers, and Max passing through a mirror, till at last the time came for the highlight of the show: Max’s first-ever performance of what he called the Glass Casket.

  After presenting the long, clear casket from all angles for the audience’s scrutiny, Max climbed inside and lay down, deathlike. His wrists and ankles were handcuffed by his beaming assistant, who then closed the lid of the casket and locked it.

  Charlene didn’t like it.

  Next, four muscular hooded “pallbearers” marched solemnly onstage and upended the casket so that Max was upside down, and the audience now saw him standing on his handcuffed hands.

  While the pallbearers moved off to the side of the stage, his assistant attached a tube to the top of the casket, and everyone watched as blood red liquid pumped in.

  Charlene squirmed. Max took one last breath right before the liquid covered his face. At that point, she held her breath, her timer for how long he could go without air while he worked his escape. Of course, she realized he’d traine
d to increase his breath-holding endurance, but the thought didn’t comfort her.

  Tense, somber funeral-like music played. Time ticked, her lungs burst for air, and the red liquid now reached halfway. Max moved and turned, splashing as he did so. She gave in and gasped for breath.

  When liquid reached the top of the casket, the tube was removed. Everyone waited.

  For dramatic effect, his assistant picked up a sledgehammer and handed it to one of the pallbearers, who stepped forward and poised as if ready to smash the glass and set Max free.

  Charlene wished he’d use it.

  Her knuckles came to her lips, where she pressed them against her teeth.

  The beat of the music intensified to an agitating extreme while the entire audience stayed hushed.

  Too long. It’s taking too long.

  Like an alarm going off in her lungs, she felt her chest burn.

  Something’s wrong.

  Just as she was about to shoot to her feet, the pallbearer smashed the glass. Shattering sounds rang out amidst audience gasps. The red liquid spewed onstage, revealing—no one.

  Two pairs of empty handcuffs lay amidst the shards of glass. Max was gone.

  The pallbearer whipped off his hood, and there he stood. Calm, jubilant. Successful. Max.

  Relieved, Charlene released a wavering breath. Sweat chilled her body while the audience went crazy.

  Now she knew why she didn’t watch his performances. Way too nerve-wracking.

  When she finally found her way to him after the show, she attacked him with a hug.

  * * *

  So she was on vacation, was she? The boy Nails had paid to inquire at Fannie’s Fabrics gave him that much at least, which explained why he hadn’t been able to spot her no matter how long he staked out her apartment. Of course, with that kind of money, why not go on vacation?

  He squeezed the lip balm. Had she left it on purpose to taunt him, or dropped it by accident? Either way, a stupid move.

  A deadly move.

  He scratched his newly shaven face. Her Corolla still sat in the lot. But when she came back, when it moved, he’d know, and he’d follow, and then she’d never come home again.

  Fresh rage filled him, as it did every time he thought about her sneaking onto his territory. Her betrayal.

  They’d had an understanding. He’d spared Cissy for her, and she dared steal from him? And the trailer was no good to him now. He couldn’t go back. She might have talked. She’d taken everything from him. Everything.

  He wouldn’t be merciful again.

  Never make the same mistake twice.

  * * *

  “You were right. Ben wasn’t the one,” Charlene admitted. “I broke up with him.”

  Max could have taunted, “told you so,” but he didn’t. He hugged her, said, “Man, I’m sorry, Char,” and left it at that.

  She stayed with him for a month. They made up easily for lost time, and when he wasn’t performing, they spent time wearing ball caps and concealing sunglasses while enjoying the San Francisco sights.

  As they walked the Golden Gate Bridge one damp, misty morning, Max admitted he hadn’t dated anyone in over half a year. A record for him.

  On Fisherman’s Warf, they ate soup out of bread bowls as they had as kids. Then they toured the acclaimed wax museum on Jefferson Street, though she could have done without the chamber of horrors.

  When Max couldn’t convince her to visit Alcatraz, he settled for the Ghirardelli Chocolate Factory, then took her out of San Francisco, cruising coastal roads in his McLaren convertible. The wind tangled her hair into hopeless snarls, but it was worth it when they ended up at a beach.

  Sitting on the sun-warmed white sand, she filled Max in on the craziness in her life, and he shared his unfiltered opinions on it all. Especially when it came to Clay.

  “He told you he loved you?” Max’s tone sounded angry, but for once, she read him wrong. “What took him so long?”

  She scooped up some sand and let it trickle out, a dry waterfall through her fingers. “Come on, Max, seriously. I don’t know what to do.”

  “What’s the big problem? Go see him. Talk to him. You want to, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know.” She brushed her hands clean. “I mean, I wasn’t sure about Ben, and look how that turned out. How can I be sure with Clay?”

  “You kidding me, Char?” Max turned an exasperated expression on her. “You don’t have to be sure. Not right now. You haven’t even dated the guy. If he ever proposes, that’s when you need to be sure.”

  She watched the frothy waves and considered his words until he interrupted. “I guess what it comes down to is, you’ve gotta ask yourself if it’s worth the risk.”

  The risk? Her stomach whirled. She gazed out at daring surfers riding the waves. She’d never been one to take risks.

  Max rotated a Frisbee in his hands. “So much for convincing you to move out here. Guess there’s no chance now. Not with Clay waiting for you back there.”

  She opened her mouth, but she couldn’t honestly protest.

  And Max knew it. He nudged her and grinned. “So I’ll just have to find a way to make time to visit you. Which reminds me. You found the perfect girl for me yet?”

  She rolled her eyes. “That’s a tall order. Give me a couple more years. At least.”

  “I’ll give you twenty. I’m in no hurry.” He jumped up. “Come on, let’s go toss the Frisbee.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Charlene returned to Creekside with a decent tan and the hope that Max might visit soon. The last of the ice and snow had melted in her absence, and recent rain greened the grass. The air was laden with the scent of spring and new beginnings.

  While Charlene recounted her trip and snuggled Gabriella, Brook sat cross-legged on the carpet, folding burp cloths, blankets, sleepers, Onesies, and an impossible array of miniscule socks.

  “If Max ends up coming to visit on a regular basis, maybe he’d like to rent this place with you,” Brook suggested.

  Puzzled, Charlene stroked a finger over Gabriella’s petal-soft cheek. “But you and Gabriella—”

  “We can’t stay here much longer.” Brook smoothed a flannel burp cloth and proceeded to fold it excessively into a compact square. “I want Gabriella to have her own room eventually, and a yard, and my aunt in Bloomington invited us to come stay with her. My uncle died last year, and she’s lonely. She never had any children of her own. She even said she would take care of Gabriella so I can go back to school.”

  “But—”

  “I think it’s best.” Brook looked up with a steady smile. “Gabriella’s real dad lives here, but he’s no good for us.” She swallowed, her smile slipping slightly. “Also . . . it’s only a matter of time before you and Clay—”

  Charlene tried to shake her head but couldn’t quite manage it.

  “It’s okay, Charlene. And anyway, I think . . . I think you loved him first.”

  Charlene’s lips parted, but no words came.

  “It’s okay,” Brook repeated. “I’m okay with it. I . . . I just don’t want to be here to see it.”

  An ache in her heart, Charlene cradled Gabriella tighter and buried her face in her sweet baby-shampoo scent, relishing it.

  Memorizing it.

  * * *

  Leaving nothing to chance, the woman stuck a GPS tracker on the bottom of the girl’s car. Like a fat boxy beetle, it held tight. Right next to the other one.

  Inside her apartment, she settled near her window, a pillow plump and heavy in her lap, sewing it shut with precise, tiny, strong stitches, and imagined the future. So close now. So close.

  Countless stitches later, she stabbed the needle through the fabric one last time and pulled the thread taut before biting it off with a satisfying snap.

  The girl was finally going to get what was coming to her.

  * * *

  On a shiny April day, after finishing an early work shift, Charlene walked out to her bike to find Ben i
n the parking lot leaning against the hood of his car.

  “You up for a hike?” he asked nonchalantly, as if they hadn’t parted on bad terms over two months ago.

  Amazed at his persistence but dreading a confrontation, she merely reached to unchain her bike. The weather had been so mild ever since her return, she hadn’t even used her car yet. Ben stilled her hand. “Come on, Charlene. Just talk to me. I hate how we left things.”

  She wiggled her hand out from under his. “I have nothing left to say. That’s why I didn’t answer your calls.”

  “But I need to apologize. I’m sorry I let my temper get the best of me. I want to make it up to you. For all we’ve been to each other, can’t you give me that? A little bit of your time? You don’t have anything else planned right now, do you?”

  She should have made something up, but instead she admitted she had no plans besides cleaning her apartment.

  “Knowing you, it doesn’t need it.”

  She almost laughed. He had her there.

  “So let’s go on a hike. For old time’s sake. Just this one last time, please. No strings attached.”

  She squinted into the sun, pretending to debate. His request was so solemnly heartfelt, she didn’t have it in her to refuse. Besides, if humoring him for a final farewell was what it would take for him to accept they were over, she was willing to give him that.

  Reading the answer in her eyes, Ben opened his car door, and she slipped in as she had so many times in the past. He tossed her bike in the trunk, and they were off.

  She wasn’t expecting him to take her all the way to Sunset Lookout, though. She didn’t know what he was thinking—if he still thought he could rekindle their dead romance, or if he was just oblivious to the last time they’d hiked this path to the rocky outcropping. Either way, it wasn’t a place she wanted to revisit. Yet he led her to the same ledge he’d proposed on.

  “You’re not going to push me off for some kind of crazy revenge, are you?” she quipped, and he looked stricken.

  “Don’t joke like that, Charlene. I brought you here to show you something.” As he spoke, he produced a harness and rope from the bushes. He preceded to strap the harness on, then attach the rope securely around the base of a tree.