The Fifth Element

by Jorgen Brekke

  He has more ammunition, she thought. It’s probably in his car. So I can’t go back to the cars. But I’ve got a head start because he has to go back there before he can come after me. She decided to make her way to the ski trail.

  For a moment she paused to look ahead, in the opposite direction from which she’d come. On the other side of the valley was the house she’d seen with lights in the windows. Could she make it all the way there with her injured foot? She doubted it. As desperate as she felt, she had an urge to simply sit down. But she knew she couldn’t give up. That was what he expected. That she would lose courage.

  A guy like him can smell defeat, she thought. She had no idea who he was. All she knew was that this kind of situation seemed to excite him. It kept him going. She was sure her assessment was true. She’d seen it in his eyes.

  She thought this must be her punishment.

  I deserve this, she told herself. I asked for this. Most likely he was a convict on the run. A lone, desperate criminal. Someone whose life had taken a bad turn somewhere, someone she just happened to come across. That was the only explanation. Even so, she felt like it wasn’t mere chance. This was happening for a reason, and he’d been waiting for her specifically. Of course that wasn’t rational. But she couldn’t get rid of the idea.

  Felicia found her way back to the ski trail. Again she used tree boughs to erase her footprints. It had started snowing again, coming down harder than before. If he wasn’t right behind her, if he had in fact been delayed because he needed more ammunition, it might be smart to do a better job of erasing her tracks this time.

  After a while she caught sight of a dark cabin in the woods, and she veered over to the edge of the ski trail. There she wiped away the last of her footprints and moved in among the trees. Then she trudged through the snow to the cabin.

  As she got closer, she saw with relief the electrical cord slung between the roof and a slender pole outside. Electricity meant the potential for heat. And heat meant she could sit still for a brief time to gather her thoughts, clear her head, and make a plan.

  When she was almost up to the door, she discovered footprints in the snow. They crossed the yard in front of the cabin and disappeared behind it. She leaned down to study them as best she could in the dark. They seemed fresh. Judging by the snow that had fallen on them, she guessed they’d been made after the worst of the blizzard had subsided a short time ago.

  Somebody was here in the woods. Were there others besides him?

  The tracks seemed to have been made by at least two people. One had a significantly shorter stride than the other. A child? What were they doing out here in the middle of the night, and in such terrible weather? They couldn’t have gone far, probably just over to another cabin close by.

  Felicia decided to follow them. It seemed more sensible than just wandering about at random. From the cabin the footprints led deeper into the woods. Then they suddenly changed direction and continued up a hill to the top where only a single birch tree stood.

  The storm was definitely beginning to let up. Again the moon emerged from the clouds, producing a sallow glow. Bare branches shone grayish-white, boughs stretched upward, thin and black like the fractures in an x-ray image of broken bones.

  Felicia headed for the top of the hill and the birch tree, following the footprints. When she reached the crest, she saw the figure at the foot of the tree trunk. A slight shape that seemed suspended, something that had seeped out of the tree itself, pus, black sap, a nightmare that the forest had dreamed, a small, lifeless human body. She moved faster, feeling the pain in her foot, but she didn’t stop until she reached the boy.

  She leaned down to examine the motionless child.

  His hands had been bound to the trunk. Maybe he’d originally been standing. But now he had slumped forward so he was sitting in the snow. His black pants were covered with a thin layer of snow, and there was frost in his hair.

  She pressed two fingers under his chin. His skin was warmer than she’d feared. She felt for a pulse. Found it at last, beating slowly, very slowly, like that of a torpid reptile. Felicia pulled the key ring out of her pocket. Her fingers were frozen and felt like they’d break if she pressed too hard. She chose the key to her old apartment in Richmond, an extra key she’d kept after selling the place, a sentimental talisman. It had the sharpest teeth.

  She used the key to saw at the thin plastic tie until it came off. A bloodred stripe was left on the white wrists of the boy.

  Now he began to stir. Moving like a sleepwalker, he crossed his arms and doubled over. Felicia sat down and put her arms around him. Then she pressed her lips to his ear and whispered:

  “We have to get out of here. We have to get you someplace warm.”

  When she raised his head, she saw the blood. His hair was stiff with it. A dark red trickle ran around his ear and down the back of his neck. A head wound. It didn’t look life-threatening.

  Then she stood up and saw the damage that had been done to the tree trunk. She recognized the dark patches. She’d seen the same thing a short time ago in the snow up on the road. Buckshot. This was his work. The man from the road had left these marks on the tree. For some reason he’d aimed above the boy’s head before leaving the poor child to an icy and lonely death, tied to the tree trunk.

  This was what he was hiding. This was the reason he’d tried to kill her. He didn’t want to leave any witnesses. He didn’t want to be seen on this stretch of road, not with the shotgun, not by anyone who would get suspicious and call the police. His plan was to get away unnoticed while the boy died here alone and the snow covered all the tracks. But why hadn’t he simply shot the boy? The more she thought about it, the stranger it seemed. Cowardly and pitiful. A killer who didn’t dare kill, but instead let the forest and the cold do the job for him. It was such a grotesque idea that she dismissed it, without any other explanation for why someone would do that. Instead she speculated how long the boy must have been out here in the cold. Not long, or he’d already be dead.

  The perp left him here, she thought, and went straight back to the road where I ran into him.

  How long ago was that? She wasn’t sure. She’d lost all sense of time.

  Now she took hold of the boy’s arm. It felt like an icicle as she draped it around her neck and lifted him up. She held him in her arms and began wading back through the snow to the cabin. Pain shot through her foot with every other step, and the high heels of her boots didn’t make walking any easier.

  She set the boy down in front of the door. He groaned quietly, the first real sign of life. A gurgling sound, like from a newborn baby. That gave her strength. She forgot about the pain in her foot, how exhausted she felt, and her own fear.

  She tried the door, but it was locked.

  She went over to a window in back and broke the glass of one of the panes. By sticking her hand inside she was able to lift open the hasp and open the window. She jumped up on the ledge and climbed in.

  She found herself in a tiny bedroom with bunk beds along one wall. Quickly she went into the main room and opened the front door. She picked up the boy and carried him into the bedroom. She’d noticed an electric heater on the wall under the window. She didn’t want to risk lighting a fire in the woodstove in the living room. Smoke from the chimney would draw his attention and lead him here even faster.

  He’s going to find us soon enough, she thought.

  There were quilts and pillows on the beds. Felicia lay the boy on the lower bunk and stuffed a pillow in the broken window. Then she closed the door to the bedroom and turned on the heater. Luckily the electricity was still working.

  On the top bunk she found a rolled-up sleeping bag tucked under the quilt. She unzipped it, then got the boy out of his cold, wet clothes and helped him into the bag. He had started moving now, though lethargically.

  Felicia whispered to him:

  “Let’s get you warm. You’re going to be okay.”

  After getting him to lie down inside
the sleeping bag, she went outside to take a look at the forest. She couldn’t see anything moving in the dark. No sounds other than from an occasional car on the road far off. She broke off a tree bough and tried to sweep away their tracks around the cabin. But it didn’t do much good. The snow had stopped, and he’d be able to see that they’d been here. There was little she could do about that.

  Then she went back inside and locked the door.

  Maybe he’ll give up, she thought. Maybe he doesn’t have time for this. He’s on the run from something. Maybe he’s supposed to meet someone and has to get going. She went into the bedroom and closed the door.

  What I need to focus on right now is getting the boy warmed up, she thought.

  For a moment she stood still, trying to recall the first-aid course she’d taken, and what she’d learned about hypothermia. She remembered something about gradually warming up someone with body heat. So she got into the sleeping bag with the boy. It was a tight fit, but the boy was thin, and she managed to zip the bag so it closed around them. Felicia put her hand on his forehead. There was still some warmth in his skin. If they didn’t get interrupted, everything should be fine.

  Considering the circumstances, the thought that now occurred to her seemed strange, even inappropriate.

  Why haven’t I ever thought about having a baby?

  With Odd, of course, it would never come into the picture. He was approaching retirement. And besides, they were always careful with birth control. It was only their first night together that he hadn’t used any protection, but nothing had happened. Now she realized that she’d never had the urge to have a baby. Naturally she’d thought about it. But she’d never had a desire to have Odd’s child. Nor with anyone else before she’d met him. She’d never pictured herself as a mother, not even when she was younger. Why not? she now wondered.

  She was suddenly struck by a thought that should have been worrisome, but it wasn’t. They hadn’t used a condom that night in Oslo. She’d had unprotected sex on that black, sweaty night with the lawyer from the bar. And it was right in the middle of her cycle. The likelihood that she was pregnant wasn’t great, but it still existed.

  What would that mean for her and Odd? And what should she do if she turned out to be pregnant? Felicia noticed she was holding more tightly to the boy’s hair than she ought to, so she let go.

  If that happened, she and Odd were finished. It wouldn’t matter if he forgave her for running away, or for cheating on him. They wouldn’t be able to live with something like that.

  Felicia didn’t remember much that her mother had told her when she was growing up. She wished she could recall more, but the memories had faded, like the wreath that she and her father had placed on her mother’s grave every spring. But there was one thing she did remember. It was something her mother said while standing at the kitchen counter. The bread machine was kneading dough for a loaf of bread, or maybe rolls, white flour with lots of butter. One of her grandmother’s recipes. Felicia had written it down somewhere but never tried it. Maybe it was still back home in the attic, the notebook bound in gray, with a few recipes from her maternal grandmother. Her mother had thought Felicia should have them, back when they still thought that someday they would understand each other. In spite of the noise from the bread machine, Felicia heard very clearly one of the few things she remembered her mother saying to her. Back then she hadn’t understood what it meant. The words were abstract and strange, and she didn’t recall the context, or what they talked about before or after. All she remembered were two peculiar sentences:

  “Life is a series of missed chances,” her mother said. “Replaced by rare moments that actually mean something.”

  What if what happened in that Oslo apartment was just such a moment that actually meant something? What did that say about her and Odd?

  She brushed the thought aside. Of course she wasn’t pregnant. And I love him. Don’t I?

  She lay there listening to the boy, his breathing irregular and slow. Every once in a while he seemed to be whispering something, but the words were too quiet. She couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  Then she noticed how exhausted she was. Her head ached, she had a faint churning sensation in her abdomen. She needed a cigarette. She wanted coffee, a beer. Her muscles ached, she felt sick to her stomach. She was still wearing her jacket, but there were no cigarettes in the pockets. She’d left the pack in her bag in the car. The cars. He must have gone back there long ago and reloaded the shotgun. Thoughts began whirling through her mind.

  I’ve done this before, she thought. Once before, a long time ago, I shared a sleeping bag with a boy about his size. But back then he wasn’t smaller than me. And the boy wasn’t shaking with the cold and fear.

  * * *

  He wasn’t afraid of anything. Brad Davis, the boy who lived next door to Felicia Stone. That was what he’d told her. He’d never been afraid of anything his whole life, not even that time when he was five and a strange dog came into their yard and attacked his family’s dog.

  Their dog, Rudolf, was a mutt, a mixture of pit bull and everything else, Brad had boasted. Not much pit bull and a lot of everything else. Felicia remembered him as a sleepy old dog with shabby fur. He was a terrible watchdog.

  But back when she and Brad were both five, Rudolf was young and frisky. One night, a dog, a furious boxer that had gotten away from his owner, came rushing into the family’s yard.

  Felicia still vaguely recalled what happened. Maybe it was her first real memory, but it was just images, not sounds or smells. She saw it happen from her window. The two dogs barking at each other out on the lawn under the tree in the backyard, the spot where a few years later she and Brad would build a hut out of tree branches and she would have her first kiss. Brad came storming out and threw himself between the two snarling dogs. He landed on the ground, with them towering over him, their jaws wide, looking like the wolves who were their ancestors. The little boy was nothing but air to them. They barked, growled, and clawed at each other, paying no attention to the fact that Brad was trying to separate them. It went on for a long time. Every time they moved, Brad followed like a silly puppy, unthinking and unafraid. Time after time he landed in the middle of the furious dance of muscles and claws, bloodstained fur, staring, dark eyes, their bodies moving to a rhythm only they could follow. The whole time it seemed as if the small child didn’t exist.

  Suddenly Brad stood up, grabbed Rudolf’s collar, and pulled him aside, managing to make eye contact with the agitated dog. And he calmed down. Gave a few halfhearted barks, as if snapping at the air, and then lay down in the grass.

  Brad turned around and glared at the other dog, standing there motionless and staring back. Several seconds passed as the animal took the measure of this new adversary. Felicia was terrified that it might leap at him and tear him to bits. Instead, the intruder turned away and ran out of the yard.

  Brad talked about that incident for years afterward. He claimed he wasn’t scared.

  He’d felt perfectly safe sitting between two dogs. It was like being inside a tent, with a storm raging outside. He had simply waited for the right opportunity to grab Rudolf’s collar. He knew he could control the dog once he got hold of him.

  Felicia listened to him tell the story every time without mentioning that she’d seen the whole thing. It took a long time before she got tired of the story. But that day finally came. The episode had almost faded from her memory that night when they shared a sleeping bag some years later. They must have been eight or nine. Nine. It was 1985. Felicia had never kissed a boy when that day began.

  * * *

  “I got it from Eddy.” Brad held up a brown box with a couple of knobs on top.

  “Eddy in the sixth grade?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You mean you talk to people like him?”

  “Sure. Look what he gave me.”

  “Is that something for a stereo?”

  “It’s a pirate decoder. Eddy s
ays it works. His brother got it somewhere, and they’ve been watching HBO for free for months now, and their parents don’t know about it. Cool, huh? I got it because they have a new one. This one is a little broken, but it works if you stick this card in the slot and wiggle it.”

  “Wiggle it?”

  “Yeah. Back and forth like this, Eddy says. And it’s true. It works. Want to try?”

  “I’m not allowed to watch HBO. Mamma says it’s nothing but bad movies, the kind kids shouldn’t see.”

  “Your mamma? Come on. You’ve got a cable hookup in the wall, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, A Nightmare on Elm Street is just starting.” Brad began attaching the cable. He’d done it before.

  “Is it really scary?”

  “Scary? I’d call it gory. And terrifying.”

  “Shouldn’t we watch cartoons instead? Mamma and Pappa said we could watch cartoons until they come home.”

  “So what? They let us watch cartoons when they’re here.”

  “Is there any blood in this movie?”

  “Tons.”

  Brad had finished hooking up the box. He turned on the TV. A grainy picture appeared on the screen. Freddy Krueger’s hoarse voice filled the room. Brad wiggled the card, and soon they could see Freddy’s steel claws.

  Felicia hid her face behind a big sofa pillow. That was where she stayed until the movie was over.

  “Did you like it?”

  She nodded.

  “You weren’t even watching.”

  She shook her head and laughed.

  “Let’s sneak outdoors tonight,” said Brad. “After your parents come home and go to bed. Let’s stay awake and then sneak outside.”

  “Isn’t it good enough that you get to stay here overnight?”

  “I know about somebody,” said Brad.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Marijuana growers.”

  “What about them?”

  “They’ve got a place over by the river where my father and I sometimes fish. I’ve seen the house where they grow the stuff. One day when we were out fishing, I needed to pee, and I happened to look in the window. They’d forgotten to cover the glass, so I saw all the plants. I know what those kind of plants look like. There were lights and foil on the walls, and everything. I’ll bet they go over there at night. We could report them and be heroes. Maybe even get our pictures in the newspaper.”