Wolf at the Door: A Novel of Suspense

by JD Salyers

  His hands had fallen away from the rifle. The right one, which was closer to her, was flung out to the side. His hand lay curled in the snow. She should have been able to see it from the house, but then again, maybe one of the coyotes had tugged it out that way. His left hand was laying on his belly, like he had a simple stomach bug and would be all right in a minute or two.

  She looked away for a moment. Then she stood up and took the time to spread out the blanket as close to him as she could.

  She wanted nothing more than to go back into the house and pretend that none of this was happening. She wanted to yell at him to get up, that he was scaring her, and this wasn't funny. She could do those things, but none of it would matter.

  She swallowed a sob and went back to work. She took the out-flung arm and gently tugged it. His body tipped to the side a little, but not enough. It was because his legs were crossed - his knees blocked a smooth transition from sitting to laying. She went around and straightened them. First one and then the other. They were stiff, from cold or death she couldn’t tell. She brushed the snow from his jeans.

  His toboggan had shifted a little with the movement, showing more damage underneath, but she made sure to keep her eyes averted. There was nothing she could do about it - no cleaning, bandaging or praying would help Ethan now. Deep down, there was also the thought – if you don’t look, it isn’t real.

  The idea had been to lay him onto the blanket, wrap him up, and pull him to the house. That wouldn't work now, because of the way he'd fallen. Touching him as gingerly as she could, she got her hands under his arms and, inch by inch, shifted him to where she needed his weight to be. She was holding her breath again, and sobbing again, but she ignored all of that, turned off her head and heart, and did the work that needed doing. He was stiff. And cold, so cold.

  He was heavy enough that she almost couldn't do it. It took a lot of strength, inch by inch, to get him completely onto the blanket. Burns stood by, watching the woods where the coyotes had gone. Once in a while he let out a little whine, and she would say something to soothe him, but afterward she couldn't remember what. Later, all she could remember was the feel of Ethan’s lifeless body against her hands, and she would have nightmares about this for months.

  By the time she got Ethan situated on the blanket and his rifle laying alongside his arm, pointing away, her hands and feet were numb and her hair was a wet mess in her eyes and plastered to her cheeks. She’d lost the ponytail somewhere along the way.

  She gripped the edge of the blanket, but she couldn't feel it. When she tightened her grip, the satin edging slicked out of her hands. When she tried again it tore away. Just an inch, but she had to completely change her grasp. She got hold of the corners, twisted them around her hands and began to pull.

  The way she held the blanket raised Ethan's head from the ground, but the rest of him seemed to fight her, as if he didn't want to come inside. “I don't want you to come inside, either,” she told him, feeling a tick of anger through her fear and shock. “But you'll get eaten by something if I leave you out here.”

  It was true - the thought of sharing the house with her husband's dead body in the next room made her skin crawl. Yes, she had loved him, and yes, he was dead. She still didn't like the idea. In normal circumstances, she supposed that an ambulance would take him away, and she would come later to identify him and make arrangements. In these circumstances? These terrifying, dismal circumstances?

  Well, she was doing the best she could.

  It felt to her tired, shaking muscles that every bump of uneven ground caught his body's angles. She had to fight for each foot of progress, wrestle with every hump and rock. His heels left deep furrows in the rough snow, marking her effort. The snow piled up ahead of the blanket where his shoulders widened so that she was forced to stop and clear it out of the way every couple of feet. The entire time, with Burns's help, she kept an eye on the road and the tree, looking for either coyotes or the return of Abel Welch.

  Every few feet, she tripped under the weight of her load and fell to her knees. She would struggle upright again and keep going. She was certain that this awful journey would never end, that she was condemned to pull her husband across the snow for eternity. It felt like hours before she got to the driveway and cut across it toward the house. It felt like weeks until she was within range of the outdoor lights. And then the yard began its slow slope upward, making her struggle even harder. The whole time, she wanted to look away from the bone and black of Ethan’s destroyed head, but she had to make sure he didn’t bump off the blanket. She didn’t have the ability to pick him up again.

  Burns stayed close, but every so often he would circle out and check the area around her, as if he knew to play bodyguard. Meanwhile Retro, finally realizing he'd been left behind, scratched at the wood door, sending her nerves into overdrive every time she heard the clawing on wood. It made her want to hurry before he did too much damage, but of course she couldn't hurry. Ethan was heavy, the ground beneath him was uncooperative, and she was nearing the point of collapse. Also, she couldn’t begin to care about the stupid door.

  At this point it would be easier for her to go get a shovel and bury him here, than to get him back to the house - and she still wasn't sure how she was going to get him up the stairs.

  The people who owned the house before - an elderly couple who went to live with their children, had planted the strangest arrangement of flowerbeds that Quinn had ever seen. Ethan had joked that they were creating a pinball effect, and that every flowerbed in some random spot was the bumpers they used to get them to the car in the driveway. She could almost agree - the beds were all different shapes and bordered by whatever happened to be handy - bricks, rubber piping, wood planks, and even a set of tires cut in arcs to look like black, knobby rainbows. Worse, they were all over the place - one five feet from the corner of the porch, another right in front of the concrete parking area, still another a foot from the walkway. There was no rhyme or reason for the way the yard was laid out, and one of the first things Ethan had done when he caught a warm day was transplant everything and remove all those silly borders, leaving the ground to resettle into a proper lawn.

  The whole operation left small indentations in the grass here and there, wherever the beds had been. It was one of these that she fell into, backwards, smacking her head sharply on a small stone. She'd been pulling so hard that she wasn't able to catch herself.

  For a moment she just lay there in the snow. Her head spun and she considered just passing out right there, giving up and joining Ethan in whatever afterlife he'd found. She was wet, cold, and so tired that she couldn't think straight. But the rock hadn't even cut her, and after a moment or two her vision cleared, so she forced herself up and kept going.

  By the time she got to the steps she was sweating, which made it worse when she bent over and the wind blew up the tail of her coat. She moaned in pure misery every single time and thought about going inside to warm herself in front of the fire.

  There were only three steps, but they were steep. She stopped and sat down on the bottom one, near Ethan's head, and brushed the accumulated snow gently from the good side of his face. After that, she decided that she couldn't look at him anymore or she would give up.

  She gave up the fight and went inside to bake in front of the fire before beginning the next round. This time, Burns shoved past her before she even got the door fully open. Retro was of course standing on the other side, so she had to step over the tangle of dogs before she was able to feel the warmth of proper shelter.

  Her heart ached more than her body. She sank to her knees in front of the fire and let the flames warm her hands and face for a few moments. Then she turned her mind to getting Ethan inside. She didn't think she could lift him, even one step at a time. He would just slide back down when she moved him from step to step, and she would have to start over again and again.

  She didn't think she had the fortitude for that, no matter how much she loved Ethan
. She already felt ashamed of her earlier anger with him, but she was also exhausted.

  At least the logistics of it all kept her panic at bay. When this was done, she didn’t know what would happen to her mind.

  Once she was warm, she let herself out the back door and went to the barn, looking around for anything that might give her an idea. She thought she remembered Ethan coming home with new rope last week sometime. She wondered where he had put it. Flipping on the bare light bulbs that hung from the ceiling, she saw that the tractor had a winch. She didn't know how to use it, though. She stood and stared at several tangled, oily ropes and pulleys, but she didn't know if she could rig up anything that might help her. The wall to her left was lined with useless tools. What was she going to do with a crowbar or a garden rake?

  Farther back, in the partition that held the small tractor, she found something that might work. It was a full sheet of plywood. If she could brace it at the bottom and slide Ethan up to the porch with the rope, if she found it, she might be able to manage. Looking at the broad sheet of yellow wood, her failing muscles ached even worse. She wanted to give up.

  Behind her, from the door she just came through, a voice said, “Whatcha doin'?”

  Chapter Eight

  Quinn spun around, almost tripping over a big bag of deer feed, and gasped. She caught herself with one hand against the rough wood wall.

  Abel Welch was back, and the grin on his face wasn't exactly friendly. He blocked the door.

  Only then did she realize that the dogs had been barking in the house. She'd been too busy thinking to pay attention.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice sharp in the cold air. He looked drunker than before, if that were possible. He also looked mean. Suddenly everything about her surroundings stood out in sharp relief - the dust floating in the dim bulb light, the smell of hay and sweet feed, the mustiness of old hay, and the shadows that filled every corner of the small stall. The wood of the barn popped and cracked in the freezing air.

  He came inside, his steps heavy and shuffling. She stepped back the same distance, reeling from the alcohol on his breath and clothes.

  Immediately she knew that was a bad idea - men like Abel could smell fear a mile away, and the way his eyes lit up, he was no exception. Her mind went to the contents of the barn behind her - what could she use as a weapon? Because the booze would make him brave, wouldn't it? Because she was completely alone right now, and he knew it. If he was here, he had to walk right past Ethan's body, so of course he knew.

  She thought about Ethan, thought about the rifle laying by his side, and wished she had it here with her.

  But she didn't, and a bag of corn wasn't going to get her out of this. Neither was the tractor, or a sheet of plywood, or locking herself in a stall, although she considered that one for a few moments. She just didn’t think she could get past him to do it.

  Then she remembered the crowbar. It was hanging on the other side of the barn, and she would have to work her way around the tractor to get to it. She thought that maybe she was faster that Abel Welch, and definitely more sure of her footing. If he had to run he'd most likely fall flat on his face.

  That would be funny, if he didn't mean her harm.

  But he did - she could tell by the way his body leaned in toward her, the way his glazed eyes followed her every move. The way he was practically licking his lips and looking her up and down like she was more dinner than human.

  So she could outrun him well enough, and she could get to the crowbar. But she would still be trapped in here with him unless he fell on his face. It could happen, but she wasn't about to count on it.

  Before she did anything, she needed to get her heartbeat under control. Right now, it was pumping so hard that she was dizzy, and that was no help at all. Her muscles were tightening up. She didn’t dare even blink. As she looked at him, she let a tiny movie play out in her head. It was a trick her old therapist taught her as a way to ward off a coming panic attack. It was a ridiculous movie - one where she was able to jump on top of the tractor, kick him hard enough to take him down, jump over him and run out the door. Back to the house where the guns were. Then she could hold him hostage until the authorities arrived, which might be...when? Never? In the spring?

  She shook the movie away, but it had served its purpose - she felt a little calmer now. Not that she could do those things, but she could do something.

  She moved a step or two toward the tractor. “You need to leave.”

  Abel didn't answer. He shuffled forward a step or two, keeping his eyes on her. He snorted, then he sneezed.

  Frantic laughter caught in her throat, just because this entire situation was absurd. She was trapped in the dark with a guy who might be taken down by allergies. If she had known he was going to do that, she would have made her move then. As it was, he recovered fairly quickly and came even closer, until he was leaning on the big steel grill of the tractor. She was beside the rear tire. That left only the tall fender and the long nose between them. She needed to back up and get over the brush hog, which was a six-foot square mower hitched to the back of the tractor. She stood very still, trying to decide when to move.

  She didn't dare look at the wall, where the crowbar hung. That would give her away. She'd never known many angry or dangerous drunks. Most of the people she knew didn't get drunk, and the ones that did tended to simply talk too much. She and Ethan weren't regular drinkers, either. Ethan only drank on special occasions, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd had a drink at all. For all she knew Abel here was getting ready to pass out.

  Except that would be too easy, and nothing about this night was easy. Her husband was dead in the front yard, the dogs were in the house, and now this moron was trying to cause trouble when she could least afford it.

  Her anger at Ethan bloomed again, but this time she focused it on Abel Welch’s forehead.

  Of all the people who had to die today, God had picked the wrong one. Why couldn’t this man have fallen into the river and drowned, instead of coming here and threatening her. “Get the fuck out of here!” she yelled.

  His nostrils flared, but he cocked an amused half-grin. “I don't think I need to do that.”

  She pivoted on her left foot and turned toward the rear of the tractor. She needed to hop over the hitch - it was about knee high, but lots of pins and bolts stuck out in several directions.

  Of course she caught her pants leg on one. Of course she did. She cussed again as she went down on one knee, narrowly missing one of those pins with her eye. Only a quick hand stopped her from getting seriously hurt. She reached for her pants leg, but the pin had punched through it. She jerked and heard a rip, and then Abel was around the front of the tractor and grabbing at her.

  He could only half stand up, and under less insane circumstances she would have admired his determination. As it was, she jerked at her pants again and used her free hand against his chest, trying to push him back. He loomed over her and knelt down, bending her wrist the wrong way.

  From this distance she could see every black pore on his face and every wiry hair on his head. He reeked of booze and body odor. She gagged.

  Her pants leg ripped free, finally, but now she had to finish scrambling over the hitch without getting caught again. She gave the sneering man a hard shove and dove for it. Her belly scraped hard across the frozen steel, and she nearly landed on her head, but she was across. Abel was coming over now, too, grunting about it but close behind her.

  She got to her feet, belly still burning, and reached up. Her fingers scrambled, found the nail, the wood beam and then the crowbar that hung there. She grabbed it.

  It was a big one. To her abused muscles it felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, but she knew better. Ethan had been teasing her for a couple of months now about getting in shape for all the farm work ahead of them, and she had laughed it off. Now, if she could have a do-over, she would have started working out years ago.

  She wrapped her
hands around the crowbar and hefted it. Cold steel burned her palms. She took aim at Abel's head, but then hesitated. Stupid. She realized that she was crying again.

  This was gross, and her stomach turned at the thought of using the tool against hard bone and sallow flesh. She didn't want to kill anybody, and this crowbar could easily cave in a skull. Was it worth it, even if her life was on the line?

  In that instant, he looked up at her and grinned. His eyes lit up when he realized that she had stopped running. He didn't notice that she couldn't have run if she wanted to, that effectively she was cornered.

  She gritted her teeth, closed her eyes, and brought the crowbar down across the side of Abel's head. She pulled her strength at the last minute - he was just a drunk, he didn't deserve to die over this, her mind kept repeating. She just needed to stop him. The crowbar landed hard enough, even so. She let out a little scream when she did it, and thought for sure that she was going to puke all over herself. A muffled thud reached her ears, and the metal vibrated back through to her hands and forearms, making them sting so much that she almost dropped the thing. The crowbar caught and ripped at his head, then glanced off near his ear. Blood poured down onto his cheek. The tool’s momentum spun her sideways.

  She tightened up and held onto it, just in case. In case she didn't do the damage she imagined, in case the damage didn't stop Abel Welch. Hadn't she read somewhere that drunk people didn't get hurt the way -?

  She watched him slump over the hitch like an old rug, his filthy, sweat-soaked shirt pulling tight enough to keep him from falling over onto his head.