Wolf at the Door: A Novel of Suspense

by JD Salyers

  Abel let his arms fall to the side and then balled his right fist and let fly. His punch connected with the side of her head. He heard her make a terrible growling sound, deep in her throat, and her eyes rolled back for a moment.

  Her fists slowed down a little, too, so he took the opportunity to punch her again.

  She listed to one side, giving him the opportunity to roll out from under her. He caught sight of the rifle and lunged for it on his hands and knees, but then he heard a distinctive click. He froze, his hand halfway to the rifle, and looked up.

  Cap was sitting against a nearby tree now, his back to it. He had the pistol trained on Abel’s head. “You need to back away, son,” Cap said. “You've done enough damage tonight.”

  “I ain't done shit,” Abel sneered. It was a lie, but he was justified.

  “You killed a man, best I can see.” Cap raised his chin and met Abel’s blurry gaze.

  Abel's eyebrows furrowed. He shook his head. “No, not a chance. I didn't kill that man...” Wait. Was the old guy talking about Rick or the husband, Ethan? Abel didn't know. He clamped his lips shut. His throat was tight. He nodded at Quinn, who was still on the ground, still glaring at him with the heat of hell. “Maybe she did it.”

  Cap rolled his eyes. His voice was scratchy. “Shut up.”

  “No way, man. I ain't taking the fall for that.” He felt trapped. Beaten. The pistol, aimed directly at his temple, felt like a nail in his skull. His chest hurt.

  He would not go back to prison.

  He lunged for the old man, landing hard enough to make Cap grunt. They both landed in the snow. The gun flew out of Cap's hand, but Abel didn't see where it went. He needed to find it, secure it, but the old man had more strength than Abel bargained.

  Cap pushed back, following Abel over in a heap. The back of Abel’s head smacked hard on a branch or a rock or something buried in the snow and the world swam sideways for a minute. He reached up and blindly pushed against the weight on his abdomen, but it wasn't enough. Cap was just pulling back to deliver a jarring blow when Quinn said, “Cap.”

  Both men looked over at her, and Abel’s eyes went wide. She was standing over them with both the rifle and the pistol in her hands. She looked tall and strong, much stronger than she had earlier. Abel had seen a woman look like that before - she had the stance of somebody who didn't give one damn about whether he lived or died.

  His wife had that look a couple of times, and it always enraged him, just like it did now. Women were weak, so when one looked like this it was just as if they were lying to him. Quinn Galloway might have a gun in her hand, but she wouldn't pull the trigger. She literally didn't have the balls.

  “Cap, get up. It's under control,” Quinn said quietly. Her shoulder shook a little, and her voice was breathy and tired.

  Cap pushed up off the ground, favoring his leg. Abel started to get up too, but Quinn stepped closer and aimed the gun at his head. “Not you.”

  Abel looked at Cap. Cap was studying his hand and smiling a little. His knuckles were covered with black.

  Blood. Abel felt his face and came away with red fingertips. A cut had opened up along his right jawbone. He winced when he found it.

  Only then did he realize how badly his head hurt. He was aching all over, his eyes weren't staying focused, and he thought he was gonna puke if he couldn't get some air. He looked at Quinn, looked at the gun, and got up anyway.

  Cap started to say something, but Quinn shook her head. “Would you go get some help?” she asked him.

  Abel watched the old man. Cap looked at her and then turned his head to Abel.

  Abel expected him to refuse, but he didn't. With an odd light in his eyes, he nodded at Quinn, looked at Abel and turned to hobble toward the ATV parked up the hill a little.

  Abel watched him for a moment, then turned back to Quinn.

  He would have tackled her right then, but the old man might have another weapon on the machine. She didn't seem to be in a hurry, either, so he was content to wait a few minutes. Then he was going to take away her guns and do what he'd set out to do in the first place - make her give up the goods. After that, well, he'd most likely kill her. She would never be the kind of woman he needed.

  She didn't move at all. She just stood there, her knuckles pale on the grip of the pistol, staring at him. She didn't blink or anything. Like a snake, Abel thought. Just like a damned snake.

  A short, sharp yelp made him turn his head. The dog came limping out of the trees, moving slow, looking for its master. Quinn saw it too, and a soft smile parted her lips. “Retro,” she crooned. “Good boy.”

  The dog's fur was matted and black with blood. Abel had shot him twice. How was the animal still moving?

  He glanced to the spot where Cap had disappeared, then looked back at Quinn. “You're gonna have to put him out of his misery,” he said, feeling a small twinge of glee at the thought of hurting her, even with just his words.

  She looked at him. “I know.”

  “He ain't good for nothin' now. Just a mangy, useless mutt.”

  “I know.”

  Beyond the edge of the trees, the Gator started up and roared away. “You think the cops are going to get here anytime soon?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  He pulled his chest up and grinned at her. “You just gonna stand here and try to keep from freezin' till somebody saves you? Stupid bitch.”

  “Nope.” Quinn dropped the rifle on the ground and put her hand on the dog. It nuzzled her hand with its nose and sighed. Good - that would make it easier to disarm her. “Like you said Abel - why try to save a useless, mangy old mutt? I'm going to put him out of his misery.”

  Abel shook his head. What the hell did she mean?

  But then she raised the pistol and he understood. He only heard one shot, the first, but there were three before she stopped, all of them buried in his skull and throat.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Abel, for all his sour hatred and false bravado, fell silently. No screams or groans or any words at all. Quinn watched, amazed, as he toppled into the snow. Blood bloomed on the white, rushing outward, as if to get away from the dying man. The ragged hole in his forehead looked bottomless to Quinn. Part of his throat was torn away, too, but she didn’t let her gaze linger there.

  When he hadn't moved for a long, long time, she finally tore her eyes away and looked at Retro. “Good boy,” she said, reaching for him. “I thought I'd lost you.”

  She wanted to cry. Needed to, probably. But though her eyes burned, the tears wouldn't come. She knelt down and hugged her dog, ignoring the blood, and they still didn't come.

  Retro leaned into her for a while, absorbing her warmth. Eventually, when she didn't move, he dragged himself over to sniff at the dead man.

  She would say that she sent Cap away because he was old and hurt. She would say that Abel tried to take her gun. She would say that it was self-defense. Would it work? She didn't know. She didn't know anything about the law when it came to things like this. All she knew was that there was no one to testify otherwise, and that was all that mattered.

  Retro whined up at her. She smiled and went to hug him again. His body was warm against hers, but she knew she needed to get him in out of the weather, same as she had done with Cap. “You'll keep my secret, won't you, boy?”

  He whined.

  She gathered the flashlight and the rifle, put the pistol in the waistband of her jeans, and tried to lift Retro. He was such a big dog, she knew immediately that it was impossible. “You want to stay put, boy? I'll go get the four-wheeler.”

  She didn't like leaving him here, but she didn't know what else to do. She rubbed his ear and turned away, but he stood, stumbled and tried to follow her.

  She opened her mouth to tell him to stay, but then she didn't. The walk back to the house was just going to be a slow one. Together, they started making their way through the woods.

  The trip took a good hour, and Quinn remained numb the whole way.
She didn't let herself analyze what had just happened, didn't even let herself admit it. There would be time for all that later. Right now, she just wanted to be home. She didn't know what to do about the damage to Retro's side, where he'd been shot. The bleeding had apparently stopped, but by the time they were halfway home it started again. He was tearing at it a little with every step. She cringed when she heard how ragged his breathing was, but she didn't know how to help him besides a few soothing and encouraging words. Please let him live, she prayed, harder than she had ever prayed for anything. So hard that her chest burned with it. Please. I'll do anything.

  When she caught sight of the lights of home, glinting through the trees, she let out a long breath that she didn't know she'd been holding. “Almost there, boy. Just a little bit farther.”

  Retro huffed at her and kept going, one slow, loping step at a time, his eyes fixed on the house.

  Cap was waiting for them in the driveway. Quin was so surprised that she stumbled.

  He climbed down and headed their way. He seemed haggard and stooped, as ready to be done with this night as she was.

  She looked at the ground when he got to her. “You knew,” she said. It wasn't a question.

  He fell in beside her, walking just as slow and favoring his damaged leg. “Of course I knew. It was fitting.”

  They were silent until they got to the house. Cap looked at Ethan and then bent to cover his face. Quinn looked away, helped Retro up the porch steps.

  Cap followed her through the half destroyed door, into the house. Retro immediately flopped down into the rug in front of the fireplace. There were only a few small embers left. The room was cold. “You'll be sick later,” he said. “When you warm up and think about it. That happens.”

  She nodded. “OK.”

  “I want to help with the dog. I'll need some things.”

  He told her what he wanted and she went through the house - the cold, foreign house - to fetch supplies. Needles, fishing line from Ethan's tackle box in the closet. Aspirin. Rubbing alcohol. A shot of whiskey. A pair of tweezers.

  Cap popped an aspirin and gave two to Retro. Then he drained the whiskey, told her to get herself some, and started arranging the rest on the small side table beside Ethan's chair.

  Quinn turned away. She didn't want to watch. She busied herself while Cap worked, going out to the barn to find a tarp, heavy and green, and then using the staple gun to attach it over the front door. It cut down on the cold air pouring in. Then she built up the fire in the fireplace again and set to work sweeping up the mess, the wood splinters and the glass. The door and its frame would have to be completely replaced. When she was finished she went back to the living room.

  “Help me up,” Cap said. “My knees are old.”

  “Your ankle might be broken, too,” she said. “You need to sit.”

  He did. She brought him another shot of whiskey. “To warm you up,” she said, handing it over.

  He took it, but this time he simply sipped, his eyes closed, exhaustion deepening the lines on his face.

  She knelt down beside Retro, who had borne Cap's work nearly silently, and ran her hand down his flank. “Will he be OK?” she asked.

  “I think so. Watch him for a while. You might want to get him to a vet as soon as you can.” He chuckled. “I've taken care of cattle, not dogs.”

  “No -. You probably saved him. Thank you.”

  “He's a good boy.”

  “He is,” she agreed, and then the tears finally threatened. She held them back. “He's all I've got left, and I almost lost him.”

  “You didn't.”

  “Thank you.”

  This time he just nodded and changed the subject. “You got any pie?”

  Her head came up. The absurdity of the question. “What?”

  “Pie? Do you have any pie?” He opened his eyes. “That's why I came here. I just wanted pie.”

  She bit back her laugh, but then let it out. “You came all this way, through a snowstorm...for ...pie?”

  “Well, half, anyway.”

  “I think I've got pie,” she said, getting up out of the floor and shaking her head. “I'll get you some.”

  She didn't believe for a minute that he came out in a snowstorm for a slice of, as it turned out, apple pie. Her best guess was that he wanted her to stop thanking him.

  When she came back into the room, it was much warmer. The tarp was doing its job. “Here you go.”

  He took it with quiet thanks and she went back to Retro. The dog was asleep, looking more peaceful that she thought was possible.

  He's with his human,” Cap said. He'd been watching them. “That's all that matters to him.”

  She nodded. “I feel bad for leaving him behind,” she said. “I thought he was dead.”

  “Don't matter now, does it? He ain't. You ain't. Most importantly, I ain't.” He grinned.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Quinn shook the young woman's hand awkwardly and stepped aside to invite her into the cabin. Then she smiled at each of the three children that followed. They didn't smile back. The little girl - Quinn had learned that her name was Angel - simply looked at her shoes and filed in behind her brothers Lyle and Cody. Cute names, cute kids. She closed the brand new front door against the heat of the summer afternoon and sighed.

  Patty Fuller was a thin woman who carried an air of despair wherever she went. Quinn didn't know if this was new, or if she'd always been that way. “Please, make yourselves at home,” she said, waving toward the sofa. “I'll get us something cool to drink.”

  Patty's nod was barely there.

  Quinn went into the kitchen and got a pitcher of tea from the refrigerator. She had infused it with the juice of fresh peaches, the way Ethan always liked it.

  When she carried the pitcher and a set of matching glasses back into the living room, Angel was curled up on her mommy's lap, nearly asleep.

  “I don't know how to thank you,” Patty Fuller said. “I mean...”

  Quinn stopped her by waving a hand. “You need this more than I do.”

  It was true. In the quiet after the police had come and the commotion had died down, Quinn had discovered a few things. First, she hated the cabin, now that Ethan wasn't here to share it with her. The place was poisoned with terrible, bloody memories, and she wanted nothing to do with it. Second, she learned that she wasn't afraid anymore. She wanted to move back to Atlanta and build something that was hers now. She had already bought a new house in the suburbs, not far from where she and Ethan had lived. Today she was attending to the last bits of business here.

  Ethan had forfeited any claim to the rest of her life, and she was still angry about that. The therapist said it was normal, and Quinn had stopped feeling guilty about it. She would forgive him eventually, she supposed, but she wasn't forcing it.

  Patty's boys had found the body of their father a week after Ethan died, caught up in brambles along the bank of the river, a half-mile downstream from their house. The boys had been fishing. Quinn had gone to - and paid for - his funeral.

  As it turned out, she suddenly had more money than she knew what to do with, and Patty had nearly nothing. Both women had lost so much, Quinn wanted to ease the younger woman's burden. Maybe doing so would serve to ease her own.

  The boys were bored already. They pulled out identical phones and started playing games, leaving the adults to talk.

  Patty looked more than exhausted now. She looked ready to cry. “I still don't know why you are doing this,” she said.

  Quinn smiled. Patty, she had learned, came from the kind of background where every gift had a price and every good carried something bad right along behind it. She had fought hard for everything she had, but nearly all of it had been lost the night Abel Welch killed her husband. She had fallen apart, according to Cap, who got his gossip from Sunday morning services at the First Baptist in town.

  Not three months after Quinn had buried Ethan, she was attending Cap's funeral. His leg had heale
d from his night in the woods, but his lungs were never quite right after that. Quinn hung all the blame on Abel Welch for his death, and she didn't feel a bit ashamed to do it. She visited his grave once a week with Mary.

  Ethan had been cremated, as he requested in the will she didn't know he had, and so there was no grave for him. She hadn't asked to keep the ashes - she didn't want them. He wasn't there anymore, and she had no use for a guilt shrouded urn.

  And there was guilt, along with the sadness and anger. There was plenty of guilt. What had she done to make him think he couldn't come to her? Why hadn't she noticed that something was wrong? Had she missed the signs? Had he tried to tell her and she didn't listen? These questions circled her mind for days at a time, until she realized that she was wallowing and put a stop to it. There were no answers, so dwelling on them only hurt her.

  Patty pulled the familiar blue envelope from her glossy black purse and held it in both hands. “I just don't know what to say.”

  “I don't want you to say anything. I want you to live here, enjoy your home, love your kids, and try to forget.” Quinn had told her this a hundred times. “The paperwork is done. This is all yours.”

  She turned away and dug into her own purse. She pulled out a jangling ring of keys and handed them over. “The four-wheeler,” she said pointing. “The tractor. The truck. The barn, and the garage here.” She paused, then shoved the set into Patty's cold hands. “I'm sure you'll figure it out.”

  Patty nodded. “The boys will be so happy.”

  Quinn glanced at them. “Have you told them yet?”

  Patty shook her head. “I wasn't sure...”

  “All of my things are gone, so you should be good to go,” Quinn said, standing up.

  Patty was staring hard at the keys. It took Quinn a moment to realize that she was crying. It took the kids another moment, but when they did, they jumped to attend to her.

  “Momma?” Angel said, looking up.

  Her tone of voice got the boys' attention. “Hey, Mom?” the older one, Cody, said. “You all right?”