After the Thaw

by Therese Heckenkamp

  Not here.

  Nothing left for her here. She would go where she was wanted, where she could finally be loved.

  If she could only find her way. . .

  * * *

  “Tell me where my money is!”

  Her face smoothed. Oblivious. Serene.

  “Tell me, Raquel!”

  But she didn’t.

  She couldn’t.

  No!

  He kicked her, the force jarring her limp body, increasing the blood. He paced around her, boiling. She’d escaped after all, taking her secret with her.

  He scraped his fingers over his scalp. If he didn’t have the money, he had nothing. Nothing. He couldn’t live with the emptiness. He had to have something . . . he looked up and saw the girl running, past a dune, into the woods. Free.

  He shouldn’t have looked. Her spiral curls flashing in the moonlight, taunting and teasing. Tempting. Luring . . .

  He licked the corner of his mouth, tasted blood, felt the cut sting. Sharp and flaming, like his tattered hands and arms. She’d cut right through the nail tattoos. Destroyed them. His fingers curled, knuckles crackling.

  He had a choice. He could let her go, or he could make her pay.

  Really not much of a choice at all.

  Consequences.

  She needed to taste the consequences.

  * * *

  As Charlene charged off into the woods, she thanked God that Nails’s focus had changed, delivering her from his wrath. She tried not to think about the woman, Raquel, and what her fate might be.

  Her thoughts returned to Clay, urgency rekindling. She was still too far away. These woods too empty and quiet. She had to believe emergency personnel had found him. That it wasn’t too late. If not . . . her mind flashed a picture of him alone, bleeding to death in the black woods, if he wasn’t dead already.

  Don’t let it be too late.

  She had to hold onto that shred of hope. The alternative . . . She couldn’t face it.

  But as she progressed through the trees, she heard no distant wail of police cars, fire trucks, or ambulance. Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Terrible doubts assaulted her. Had the dispatcher not understood the directions?

  “Clay!” she cried into the shaky shadows. “Clay, answer me! Where are you?” She couldn’t be close enough, but she called his name anyway, as if she could draw him to her. She pushed aside the scratchy twigs, stumbling as she plowed ahead. Moonlight filtered onto moss and ferns like a weak night light.

  Where is he? God, where is he? Lead me to him. Let him be okay.

  The restless lake wind whooshed noisily above her in the chattery pine boughs. She rubbed her stinging eyes.

  Behind her, a branch snapped, and her hands stilled.

  A deep chuckle bounced through the air and coiled her spine.

  No. Raw fear jolted her body, seizing her muscles.

  “Leave me alone!” she screamed into the darkness. “I already called the cops. For Clay. They’ll find you!”

  “We’re not close enough,” came Nails’s rough voice. “And you’re too late. All they had to do was cart him off in a body bag. They’re long gone by now.”

  No, he’s lying.

  “There’s no one here now but you . . . and me. Sweetie.”

  Frantic, she flailed forward, shoving branches. Twigs lacerated her hands. But as she fled, the splintering and snapping sticks betrayed her location. “Help!” she screamed. “Help!”

  His voice was too clear, too close. “You may not have swiped my money,” he paused to pull in air, “but you’ve still gotta pay for what you did to me. I’ll catch you.” A branch cracked heavily, almost at her side. “And when I do, I won’t shoot you.” He heaved another breath. “But you’ll want me to.”

  Her panic exploded. Knowing it was just a matter of time till he reached her, she scrambled for a thick stick, a weapon she could use like a club. There. Perfect. As if it was sent by God. Dear God, let it be enough.

  How can it be enough? scoffed a despairing inner voice. Even the knife wasn’t enough.

  Still, she clutched the branch and ran, a desperate race for her life as every sinew of her body strained for survival.

  She wished Nails would speak again so she’d have a clue how close he was. If she could only find the cops—

  She stumbled. The ground suddenly loosened and slid. Arms whirling for balance, she tumbled off the side of a weedy embankment and thudded onto sand.

  Heaving herself up, she reclaimed the branch and realized in horror that she’d lost the merciful shelter of foliage. Moonlight illuminated her, spotlighting her on the beach. Her eyes swept up and down the stretch of sand, but there was no rescue in sight.

  Nails crashed out of the woods and came for her, his menacing figure growing larger by the second.

  Sheer speed would be the only thing keeping her from him now. But her adrenalin waned, begging her to rest. The lakeshore stretched like a race track before her, smooth and endless. Endless as this nightmare. How could she, with her small muscles and low stamina, ever outrun powerful Nails?

  But he was knife wounded. Even if it hadn’t been fatal, it was something. He’d lost blood. He had to be drained and weakened.

  Clay’s words rushed at her from the past. “You survived Abner. You can survive anything this world throws at you.”

  Maybe she could, maybe she couldn’t.

  But she had to try.

  She set her teeth and took off, still gripping her stick, though she wondered if she should drop it, if she could run faster without it. Her calves and thighs clenched and burned, strong from so much bike riding. Her feet pounded the beach, but the loose grains tugged at her shoes, slowing her. Kicking up sand, she aimed for the firm wet traction near the water.

  She didn’t reach it.

  As if out of nowhere, Nails leapt in front of her. A bloody cut gleamed clear across his cheek to his chin. His eyes smoldered and his voice came out ragged. “Time to finish what we started back at the cabin.”

  With all she had left, she drew back and cracked him with her stick. Something dropped in the sand—his gun? She couldn’t tell. The blow stunned him.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  Not nearly enough.

  “Why you—” He grabbed the stick, wrestled it from her, and downed her with a shocking wallop to her side. Doubling over in pain, her hands and knees plowed into sand. Grains flew up and peppered her eyes.

  He flung her to her back, knocking the wind from her. His hands circled her throat and pressed till she gagged. Her fingers clawed at the sand.

  The heat of his breath hit her face. “You’re dead.”

  She wheezed for air, sure she was about to pass out, almost welcoming it . . . the stars swam above like ice chips in a midnight sea. Then the vision was blocked by a big, venomous face. Nails. He leaned close, red eyes bulging. “I’ll teach you—”

  Her hands whipped up, flinging fists of sand into his wild eyeballs.

  With a roar, he pulled back to rub at the gritty grains cutting his vision.

  It bought her a moment, one precious moment.

  She scrambled for the thing that had fallen . . . was it? Could it be? Yes, it was. His gun!

  She clutched it and wobbled to her feet, retreating countless stumbling paces back. With a shaking hand, she lifted and aimed.

  Already, he was up, lunging toward her, roaring like a bloodthirsty barbarian.

  Eyes flinching closed, she fired.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  She missed.

  The bullet zinged past him like a playful sprite, shooting up a distant, harmless sand spray.

  Charlene ran, gained some precious distance, then turned to see him charging. She had time for only one more shot, if that. Her trembling hands faltered. I can’t do it.

  “Yes, you can.” It was as if she heard Clay speaking to her. From the dead.

  She choked on a sob.

  “Be strong.”
<
br />   She heaved in a shuddering breath.

  “Focus, Charlene. Use both hands. Steady.” It was like his hands came over hers, calming and guiding. “You gotta really aim, just like you practiced. That’s right. Keep your eye open. Put the pumpkin on the fencepost.”

  Ludicrous laughter bubbled.

  “Focus, Charlene.”

  Swallowing hysteria, she planted her feet and braced her stance.

  “Ready?”

  She lined up her sights and whispered, “Ready.”

  Both hands firm on the grip, her finger squeezed the trigger.

  Her arms and shoulders absorbed the recoil as the bullet burst forth. With a blast of ferocious speed and beautiful precision, the lead bullet buried itself in Nails’s chest.

  * * *

  Like a plunging needle from his nightmares, the pain pierced him, then exploded, agony flashing through his body. Tearing out his breath.

  He fell to his knees, broken. Rattling. Gasping.

  Dying.

  He wasn’t invincible.

  Wasn’t tough as nails.

  His desperate eyes found her, tried to hold on. She was a vision, wavering moonlight glimmering on curls.

  Beth . . .

  So sweet and innocent. He tried to reach for her. She could save him.

  Her voice was urgent. “Have you been baptized yet, Lance? It’s not too late. It’s never too late until—”

  No. It wasn’t her. Couldn’t be. She held a gun. His chest throbbed. She wouldn’t have done this to him. His head dropped to the sand.

  He still heard her voice babbling on. “. . . the martyrs’ souls were washed clean with baptism of blood.”

  Blood? He almost laughed. Plenty of blood here. But he was no martyr. Not even close.

  His mouth gaped, but he couldn’t breathe. Wheezing, guttural noises clogged his airway, so deep in his throat, choking a silent sob.

  Why had he pursued her? Why had he thought it mattered?

  His soul was ripping from his body. If he could only hold on . . . but he had nothing. Nothing to hold on to.

  No strength. It was gone. What good were muscles when his blood was draining?

  He’d never really had anything.

  All the vengeful retaliation—it gave him no satisfaction. And all the money, all the accursed money that meant everything to him. Now he knew. With harsh, acute, blinding clarity.

  It’s nothing.

  He couldn’t bring it with him. He knew he was going, and it wasn’t the money he’d burn with desire for.

  The hole in him grew, opening, cavernous . . . a gaping crater that couldn’t be filled. Not ever. He’d had his chance.

  “Actions have consequences.” Mr. Callaghan’s stern voice echoed from the past. Curse the man. He’d known. He’d warned him.

  Consequences.

  He felt it coming.

  Judgment.

  Fear—that weakness he thought he’d long ago exterminated—returned. Raw and real. Trembling, he tried to swallow, but couldn’t. Tried to hide. Couldn’t. His eyes squeezed shut.

  The hole in him swelled. Black and deep. It ached and throbbed and burned with unquenchable pain. Excruciation. Excruciation.

  Oh, he could feel, after all.

  He could feel. So much. Too much, and too late.

  I’m sorry . . .

  * * *

  His ghastly noises faded. His writhing stilled.

  The gun once again trembling in her hands, Charlene grappled with it and backed away from the sight. From the blood. Oozing and spreading, the dark liquid slowly saturated the sand around Nails’s body.

  He lay, a bulky mound of flesh and bone, blood and muscle. She stared at him for the longest time, thinking nothing, just making sure he wouldn’t get back up. He wouldn’t fool her again.

  He flinched.

  She aimed the gun.

  His head twitched. Her sweaty hands clutched the gun grip, unable to end the traumatic standoff. Her teeth clamped till her jaw ached.

  Her mind recoiled from wrapping around the reality of everything that had happened, and where it left her.

  Alive, but alone.

  And now that she’d allowed the thought, tears coursed down her face and she dropped to her knees, her delayed relief tempered by pain. An agony of loss.

  She had sensed Clay with her so strongly, that now she knew. She had no doubt . . . he had passed on. It was as if God had allowed him to help her, one last time. A final farewell.

  The sacrifice of his life, for hers.

  Tears slipped hot over her cheeks as pulsations of sorrow wracked her body. Near her, lively waves lapped and surged and retreated. Reliable. Steady. Washing the sand, refining the grains.

  She and Clay had come so close . . . but some things were never meant to be.

  I’ll never see him again.

  Not in this life, anyway.

  Each beat of her heart was a stabbing pain. Mocking her with vitality. She had her life, but she didn’t have him to share it with. Please, God.

  Sometimes the answer is no.

  No.

  The moonlight covered her with a silvery shroud of mourning while the waves continued their constant shush-shush, as if to soothe and comfort her.

  But she couldn’t be comforted. She couldn’t. Not now. Perhaps never.

  She knew what love was.

  She knew it, too late.

  A lonely life stretched out ahead of her, bleak and unbearable. How could she go on? How could she possibly—

  You’re stronger than you realize.

  I’m not, I’m not.

  You are.

  * * *

  At last, Charlene wiped her tears and lifted her chin. Finally convinced that Nails wasn’t going anywhere, she picked herself up.

  The gun hung heavy in her hand, but she didn’t let it go. It was all she had left to hold onto.

  So this is how it ends.

  Desolate, with dry salty tear trails itching her cheeks, she turned and trudged up the sand, toward the embankment of tall prairie grasses. The stalks sashayed in the cool night breeze, calling to her.

  She even heard her name.

  “Charlene!”

  A silhouetted figure cut through the graceful grasses with an unstable, crazy haste and skidded down the hill to her side. A hand clamped her arm. “Charlene, thank God! Are you okay?”

  Her lips trembled as she drank in the sight of him. Living. Breathing.

  Clay.

  The moonlight in his desperate eyes revealed guarded relief mingled with worry. “Tell me you’re okay.”

  “I am,” she breathed. “So much more than okay. Unless I’m dreaming . . .” Don’t let it be a dream. Let it be real. She almost reached for him, then stopped short at the sight of his left arm tight at his side, strapped securely immobile in a black sling.

  “The bullet got me in the shoulder. Thanks to you sending help, they patched me up at the hospital. I’ll live.”

  His stance faltered. She peered closer at his drained face and saw a sheen of sweat. “Shouldn’t you still be there? And how did you get here?”

  “A cab. I wasn’t supposed to leave.” It looked like he was trying not to wince. “But I had to . . . find you . . . I saw your car.” His eyes looked over her to Nails’s inert form and his voice dropped. “You did that?”

  She nodded and looked down at the gun, suppressing a shudder. She’d done what she had to. The corner of her lip tugged with emotion. “You taught me well.”

  He wrapped his right arm around her and pulled her close, speaking into her hair, his voice cracking. “I’m so glad you’re all right.” There was amazement in his tone, displaced by angry regret when he added, “I should have been here to help you.”

  “But you did help me. You were with me.” She leaned back just enough to place her hand over her heart and whisper, “Right here.”

  Looking in his eyes, she finally spoke the words that had been trapped, frozen within her for far too long. “I
love you, Clay.”

  A funny look came over his face, as if he was trying to smile, but his eyes went wonky. He started to sway, and she heard him mumble something as he rubbed his head, obviously dizzy.

  She shoved her shoulder under him. “Here, lean on me. We’ve got to get you back to the hospital.” She braced herself under his weight as his arm dropped around her. With difficulty, they plodded, staggering, slipping in the sand until they made it up over the grassy rise and on through the trees, past the dunes, and through more foliage.

  She drew up short, and Clay stumbled, as her eyes fixed on a sight she didn’t want to see. Raquel’s lifeless form lay sprawled, mostly hidden in the weeds, but Charlene had known where to look. She shivered. Lord have mercy.

  Lurching in relief up to the road at last, Clay and Charlene slumped inside the waiting cab. “To the hospital. Hurry!” she ordered the driver. “Hang on, Clay. Just hang on. What were you thinking leaving the hospital like that?”

  “They told me—you called me in,” he said woozily, his head dropping back against the seat. He inhaled a deep, painful sounding breath. “They—couldn’t get ahold of you. To let you know they’d found me.” Perspiration beaded his brow. “I knew—you’d come back looking—if you could—”

  “Shh,” she stopped him from laboring on. “Just rest.”

  She looked at the cab driver. “I need you to make a call.” Hearing her account, he obligingly phoned in the body on the beach, as well as Raquel, while transporting them to the hospital.

  Once there, nurses chided Clay for leaving without the doctor’s approval. Charlene doubted he registered the scolding, but then he grinned at her before passing out.

  Hours later, after police had been in and out of the room countless times with questions and concerns, he awoke groggily, looked around, found her sitting beside him, and rasped, “Say it again.”

  “What?” She leaned closer.

  “Say it again.”

  Suddenly, she knew. Her lashes lowered shyly. “I love you.”