A Wicked Snow

by Gregg Olsen

  Even though she had sounded defiant and confident, inside Hannah was anything but sure about anything she was saying. Louise Wallace could be Claire Logan or she could be the Brownie Troop leader she remembered from Rock Point. She could be anyone. Her features had been pinched and sanded to oblivion. Nothing about the woman seemed all that familiar, not in the sense that she could be sure she was or wasn’t her mother from so long ago. She even took in a deep breath, knowing the power of the sense of smell to recall a memory.

  “You are, aren’t you?” Hannah said more as a statement than a question. “You are my mother.”

  Louise Wallace, or whoever she was, would have no more of it.

  “I’ve reached my limit. Get out of here. Look for your mother somewhere else. Try Mexico… that’s where I’d go if I was Logan. Someplace warm.”

  “I’ve looked for you for my whole life. Since you betrayed my father. Since you betrayed Marcus Wheaton.”

  Again, was there a flicker of recognition? Emotion in the cold blue of her eyes?

  Wallace stood. “I want you to get off my property.”

  Hannah wasn’t ready to go. She wanted answers. She grabbed the old woman’s arm. It felt muscular and strong, not like some old lady who spent her days cross-stitching. This was the arm of a woman who chopped wood. Dug trenches. In that instant, feeling the pulse of the woman who could be Claire Logan, Hannah could feel herself losing control. She wanted to throttle Louise Wallace, just as she’d wanted to lunge at Joanne Garcia back in the hospital room in Santa Louisa. What was with these women? These so-called mothers?

  “I hate you! I’ve hated you since the day you left me!”

  “Stop! You’re hurting me.”

  “You don’t know what hurt is. Hurt is burying your dad. Your two brothers. Waiting for your fucking evil mother to come back and get you and hating yourself because you still loved her. No matter what she’s done. That hurts.”

  “I don’t know… what…”

  “You do. I know you do.”

  “Please. Let me go! Marge! Call the sheriff!”

  Wallace struggled to get away, but Hannah yanked hard and felt a pop. God, I’ve done it now. I’ll be arrested for assault. I’ll lose Amber. Ethan will know I’m no better than Claire Logan, mother or not. Headlines would roll across the country. But I don’t care. I don’t care, she thought.

  The sprinkler spun and the two women wrestled for a moment in the gazebo, one trying to get away, the other trying to hang on as if she could squeeze the truth out of the other by wringing it out of her. In truth, it was all Hannah could do to keep from strangling her. The sound of a teacup shattering on the gazebo floor, pieces scattering like a mosaic under their feet. The noise, harsh and sudden, was like a gunshot. It brought Hannah out of her rage. What am I doing? What in the world?

  “I’m sorry,” she said, crying now, “I hurt you.”

  Wallace’s eyes were full of terror by then. “Yes, you did! Look what you did. Those were my best Belleek. I think you broke my shoulder! Let go of me.”

  “I saw Marcus Wheaton in prison,” Hannah blurted, not ready for their conversation, their fight, to end. “He told me where to find you. Marcus is the reason I’m here. He’s the reason the FBI is here… why Marcella Hoffman is calling you. You really played him, you know. Twenty years later, he still loves you.”

  With a surprisingly powerful swipe, Wallace pulled Hannah’s hand off of her, and she rushed down the path toward the house, never once looking back. “Go bother someone else. Better yet, get some help. I’m not who you think I am; who you apparently want me to be.”

  The crunching noise of breaking china under her feet distracted her. For the first time, Hannah looked down at the shattered cup. A portion of a cup had fallen next to her purse. A half moon of winy, red lipstick frowned from the rim. She returned her stare back to Wallace. She refused to let the old lady get the last word.

  “I don’t know how you sleep at night,” she called out as she hurried across the gravel driveway to the pink car.

  Wallace was at the front door by then. “Nytol and a shot of brandy,” she muttered, glancing back at Hannah, and hurrying inside without bothering to put on slippers. Hannah could see Marge Morrison looking busy wiping down one of the windows. Her friend had been listening to every word.

  “I have never forgotten what you made me do. Never!” Hannah screamed and slumped behind the wheel and turned her car around for the Northern Lights, feeling sick to her stomach. Tears rained. What have I done? What kind of daughter doesn’t know her own mother? Then she thought of Amber and wondered what kind of mother would leave her little girl at home while she chased ghosts that she had prayed didn’t exist. She turned on the radio to distract her from her thoughts. When she thought she was lost halfway to the island’s biggest town, she found she didn’t care. She was on an island, for goodness’ sake.

  How lost can you get on an island? she thought.

  But a second later, a news report jolted her like seeing a kid dart in front of a speeding car on rain-soaked pavement. It couldn’t be. Hannah slammed on the brakes and pushed the volume control to its loudest setting. The reception on the remote island crackled. At first she thought she misheard it, but as the piece wrapped up, she knew her ears had not played tricks on her.

  “Paine was best known for her role as the prosecutor in the infamous Claire Logan/Marcus Wheaton murder and arson case. Her assailant is still at large.”

  “Oh God…” she said, “Not Mrs. Paine. …Notnow.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  If there was a god to thank, it was for the fact that no one recognized Hannah Griffin as the media began its swarm of Alaska’s ruggedly gorgeous and now mysterious Kodiak Island. Two affiliates from Anchorage and one of the syndicated tabloid magazine shows had already begun their descent on the island, and it wasn’t even a ratings period. Claire Logan was vintage, albeit sinister, Americana. She was the boogie woman. Even if she wasn’t around. Or if she had died twenty years ago. The murder of the Oregon prosecutor who had put her away was the cherry on top of the sundae. And if Louise Wallace had made good on her threat to call the sheriff on Hannah, well so much the better for the reporters circling the island.

  As she approached, Hannah saw Bauer talking to a woman in front of the motel office. She wore a hideous faux-leopard print that was more Frederick’s of, than merely Hollywood. Even before she turned around, Hannah knew it was DF.

  She barely acknowledged the author/reporter. “Isn’t there some other motel on this island?” Hannah asked Bauer.

  Bauer cracked a nervous smile. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  Hoffman snuffed out her menthol with a sharp twist of her calf-length boot. She didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, hi, Hannah! Isn’t this exciting?” she said. “We’re all together. I haven’t told anyone but my producer that you’re here. I’ll stay away,” she said, making the motion across her collagen-soufflé lips, “for the exclusive.”

  “Fine, Marcella,” Hannah said, though she had no intention of ever going on camera with DF or any other reporter.

  “Doug!” Hoffman called out to a young man slumped over by his rusted-out van. He was weighted down with spools of wire and a camera the size of a microwave. Clearly annoyed, Doug Jackson nodded. Hoffman continued, “We’re going up to First Methodist to see if we can shake loose some of Louise Wallace’s old friends. For balance. My whole career has been built on balance.”

  Hannah barely glanced at Hoffman. “I forgot,” she said.

  “I thought we were getting along. I don’t know why you have to be so harsh.”

  Bauer did his best to brush off Hoffman. “Well, sorry I can’t talk. You’ll have to go through Portland PR. But, of course, you’ll be wasting your time until after the investigation concludes.”

  “Still so ethical,” Hoffman said. “And so handsome. You’ve really grown into your skin since Rock Point.”

  Bauer turned a shade of pink that matched H
annah’s rental car. “Good luck, Ms. Hoffman,” he said, while wishing more than anything that the overburdened cameraman would drop the camera on Hoffman’s head.

  Bauer followed Hannah inside the office.

  “I think she likes you,” Hannah said.

  “Like a cobra.”

  Hannah asked the front clerk for any messages. None from Ethan; two from Ripperton. She folded them and tucked them inside the front flap of her purse.

  “There something I want to talk to you about,” she said as they walked toward the hallway.

  “I know you went and saw her.”

  “Yes, but that’s not it. That isn’t really what’s on my mind.”

  Bauer was puzzled. “What do you mean? You just went and saw Louise Wallace. And it isn’t on your mind?”

  Hannah kept a step ahead of Bauer as they walked the long dark hallway toward their rooms in the minuscule no-smoking section of the motel—just four rooms. Bauer put his hand on her shoulder and turned her around. Her eyes were weary.

  “What do you think? About Louise?”

  “I don’t know. I feel incredibly foolish. I don’t know if she’s my mother or not. But that’s not what’s on my mind, Jeff. I want to talk about something I’ve never shared before. Not even with Ethan or my Aunt Leanna. No one.”

  They started walking again. “I guess I feel honored,” he said.

  “Reserve judgment. Once I tell you, you might not feel so inclined.”

  It was after 2 p.m., too late for lunch and too early for dinner. “Want to talk in your room?” he asked.

  “You’ve got the honor bar.”

  He laughed. “Nope. No honor bar at the Northern Lights.”

  “I could smell it on you this morning.”

  Bauer stuck the key into the lock and turned the knob. “All right,” he said. I have a bottle in my room. Come on in.” He poured them both a shot of Wild Turkey and took a seat on the sole chair in the room outfitted with a TV, a nightstand, and twin double beds. Hannah sat on the bed closest to the window. Light from outside cut through the split between the dark green curtains. Her eyes were puffy. And for a moment, Bauer was back in Rock Point, Oregon. He could see the frightened little girl who had grown into the beautiful and accomplished woman. He remembered how her hair had hung in her eyes, a shield from what was going on around her. He recalled how quiet she was at first, then how she talked in an endless stream without coming up for air.

  Bauer had never forgotten what had happened. And the moments he had counted as the most meaningful of his life were those weeks before the Wheaton arson trial when he had comforted the young girl. Not chasing Claire Logan because she had killed twenty people, but because she had left behind a terrified and lonely little girl who would have no choice but to live with the sins of her mother for the rest of her life. He felt as though he had been her protector. He never could forget the little girl.

  As she sipped her drink, she started to talk. Before she was finished, Hannah Logan Griffin had downed the rest of Bauer’s booze and unleashed the Pandora’s box of demons and nightmares that had haunted her for twenty years. Hannah wasn’t like the girl who had been raped by a family friend and kept her mouth quiet so long that she suppressed what she knew to be true. The imprint on her brain was so indelible that Hannah just compartmentalized it. Stored it. Locked it up. It was always there ticking, reminding her like a slit wrist that never healed.

  She remembered it was about half an hour before midnight when the noise outside and the chill of the December night awoke her. She remembered hearing her mother’s and Marcus Wheaton’s voices.

  “I wasn’t frightened when I went back to sleep,” she told Bauer, sitting on the edge of the bed in his motel room. “But I’m frightened now.” Bauer could see her trembling hands attempt to mimic steadiness as she rested the glass of liquor on her lap.

  “What is it, Hannah?” he asked.

  She held her fingers to her lips. She looked fragile, wan. She was a splinter, ready to break. Without warning, the motel room seemed to contract like the wheezing lungs of an old man. It was spinning and heaving. Hannah groped for something to steady herself. To reach for Jeff Bauer. Blood drained from her face. For a split second, she thought she might vomit. She was white.

  “You okay?” Bauer held Hannah’s hand, but it was limp and warm. Unresponsive. Her eyes were impassive, staring into something far away. He moved his hand to her shoulders and gently rocked her.

  “Hannah, can you hear me?”

  She shuddered. She was far away. Long ago.

  It was a scene in black and white, first snow, then the dark of smoke. The triggers of the strobbing images were the sweet smell of the Wild Turkey, her father’s favorite drink. Hannah could hear ice cubes tinkle in cut glass tumblers. Icy. Clear. Feeling his presence just then brought a rush of emotion. How she missed him. How Amber would have loved him. Hannah gasped for air and the face of her father faded. Suddenly, her mother’s image came into view. It was clear. It was her. Cold eyes, a tight, bitter mouth. Hannah tried to shake it away. Something else took her back to the farm to the night that changed everything; that ruined everything. Teacups. It was a set of Belleek, creamy white with a chain of shamrocks around the rim. They sat in a semicircle around a teapot on the dinning room sideboard. They had been her mother’s prized possession, the first thing she’d bought when she’d made a little money off the farm. She had always loved fine things. She’d always told Hannah that exceptional belongings were the payoff for hard work and sacrifice. Her teacup collection was her first treasure, greater than the love of her children, her husband, even Marcus Wheaton. Sitting in the gazebo, wrestling for memories—for truth—the shattered cup of the same design and the way Louise Wallace’s eyes flashed disappointment, not fear. It took her to a dark place.

  “Hannah, can you hear me?”

  It was Jeff Bauer’s voice, bringing her back. Slowly. The room continued to spin. The Wild Turkey. The cup. The faces of her brothers, her mother, her father, Marcus Wheaton. All spun around her, mouths moving, explaining, crying, demanding.

  Only one asked for forgiveness. It was Hannah’s own voice.

  The room came into focus. Jeff Bauer’s penetrating eyes looked at her with even deeper compassion. “Are you sick?”

  She shook her head and swallowed hard. The Wild Turkey. The shattered cup. The memory was no longer buried. Tears rolled, but she did not make the sounds that come with crying. She was too scared, too full of resolve.

  “It wasn’t the smoke that woke me up the second time,” she said, the memories now crystallized. “Oh, Jeff, it was Marcus Wheaton who woke me.” Her body shivered and her vocal cords constricted, but she didn’t stop. The dam had been broken. “He stood over my bed and put his hand over my mouth. I didn’t know what was happening. I thought he was going to hurt me.”

  Bauer touched her knee. Hannah didn’t recoil, but allowed him to comfort her. “What did the son of a bitch do to you?”

  She shook her head and steadied her drink. “It wasn’t like that,” she said. “Marcus told me to be quiet, very quiet.”

  “Dear God,” Bauer said. He put his arm around her. “I’m sorry,” he said gently.

  “Jeff,” she said, “that isn’t it. That isn’t it at all. Something happened today. Now I remember. I know she killed my brothers. I knew it, and I didn’t do anything about it.”

  The words didn’t compute. In twenty years Jeff Bauer hadn’t imagined that Hannah had any real knowledge of what had really happened that night. She’d never said so. She’d held it together so damn well that everyone back in the Portland field office thought Claire Logan’s daughter escaped the horror of Rock Point by not seeing anything at all. They all thought she was lucky. Some of the younger ones said she was better off. Clean slate. Living with really knowing would be too much for any of them.

  “What are you saying?” He hated himself for pushing her. Bauer hadn’t pressed her hard enough when she was twelve, and t
hat thought also made him sick. She was just a girl, for crying out loud. How hard should he have pushed?

  “Marcus led me out of the house. I didn’t… I didn’t get out of the house alone—I was with Marcus. I didn’t call for my mom because he told me to be quiet. He said that I’d die if I said a word. There was flocking everywhere and he poured kerosene as we walked past Mom’s and the boys’ rooms.

  Hannah brushed her dark blond hair from her eyes. Bauer could see that her brown eyes had welled with tears, but she had kept herself from crying.

  “She flat out killed the boys with her bare hands,” she said. “Marcus was supposed to handle me because I was a girl and… get this…”

  Her voice trailed off, and she found herself back on the tree farm. The white of the snow. The sick smell of the kerosene. All was there. A tear fell, and she moved to wipe it away. She wouldn’t allow her mother to get the best of her.

  “What?” the FBI agent asked. “What?”

  Hannah nodded. “It would be easier to suffocate me than Erik and Danny. But my mom, yeah, she could multitask like nobody’s business.”

  But there was something else.

  “I’m sure she killed Didi, too. I saw her mother on one of those shows on cable. It was long after it happened. But I know that after my mother questioned me and my brothers about some jar of teeth she’d kept, and Didi took the blame.”

  “Teeth?”

  “You heard me.”

  Hannah’s eyes, dry by then, got huge.

  “These were from the days before DNA was even really thought about. I think my mother bashed out her victims’ teeth with a hammer. And she saved them like a ghoul. Like what she was.”

  “Those were Didi’s teeth?”

  Hannah sipped her drink and shook her head.

  “No, I don’t think so. I mean, no. It was after my mother confronted me with the jar that Didi disappeared. I heard my mother talking on the phone, and I knew she was lying when she said Didi had left the farm ‘weeks ago.’ She boxed up some of her things and gave them to Rock Point St. Vincent de Paul. She burned the rest. Didi’s mom kept calling… she was sure my mom had done something to her. She just didn’t know that Didi was one of many. I guess I knew. Marcus knew.”