by Lou Allin
“He won’t leave us alone, will he?” For the first time, she looked at me woman to woman. It was my fault that she was growing up far too fast.
“No. You are absolutely right.” I wouldn’t lie to her when our lives were in jeopardy.
“What are you going to do? Can you get a gun?” Her small jaw clenched in worry. “What about taking off tonight? I could be packed in half an hour. Even less. We don’t need much.”
A thousand escapes. A thousand new towns. Who could live like that?
“It’s way too late. You’re not to worry about me. If it’s one thing I know, it’s the bush. Your dad taught me well.”
When I dropped her off, I hugged her like there was no tomorrow. Part of me was rational, and part was running on adrenaline. What would happen to her in the worst scenario? I shut my mind to any possibility other than success. That was what Joe would have done.
Joe had enough money to buy help, maybe from out of town. But I knew he would come alone. His pride ruled him. That’s why he drove the suv, like a signature stallion in battle. I counted on that assumption.
I hoped it would not be my last mistake.
I was the bait, not the prey. For once he wouldn’t be in control, even if he thought he was. He’d lived his life counting on the trust and innocence of others, like his first wife. Forewarned is forearmed, my grandpa once said.
The weather was my friend. It had been unusually warm for March. Temperatures had nudged above freezing. Snowmelt from the mountains swelled the streams. The lakes were on the verge of channeling at the edges before break up. But the ice was still almost a meter thick in places. Sometimes daredevils snowmobiled until the end of April. Not this year. Everyone jokes about snowmobile soup, but it’s a sad fact of northern life. Usually alcohol is a factor. And speed.
I’ll say one thing for Joe. He had taught me to plan.
We had our flotation suits. And I’d added a pair of emergency ice picks, to be worn on a leather thong around the neck. Without them, you couldn’t climb back on the ice. It would keep breaking until you lost consciousness from hypothermia. Five dollars saved your life. Ounces of prevention. Those who called them “sissy” were fools. When seconds counted, precision was important. I thought about Jack London’s story “To Build a Fire.” Stranded in the bush, a man used his last match to light a life-saving blaze.
He didn’t count on the snow falling from a branch far above.
Flame out. Game over.
This was not going to happen to me.
Sounds funny, but a fast sled can travel over water as long as it keeps going at top speed. That was the irony. My safe old machine went far too slow. I was counting on that. And on Joe’s triumph in catching me.
I almost laughed when I remembered what Bonnie had said. “You chase after a man until he catches you.”
Had she really died in her sleep? Without suspicious circumstances, there had been no autopsy. Her heart had stopped.
Stopped? I wondered now. Or been stopped?
No time to think about it.
Holy Cross Lake was about 32 kilometers by 16. The last ice hut had been hauled off two days ago. Only the tracks of the sled skis remained.
My vehicle was waiting at the head of our road. I left a few things on display. A familiar sweater, scarf, paperback mystery. For sweetening. I could imagine the feral growl he would give upon seeing them. Then he’d notice that there was no way to drive in the final 5 kilometers.
At the dealership he would rent the best and largest. No one needed lessons on those machines. Pull off the kill switch. Push-button start. Snowmobiles had no gearshifts, regardless of their size and speed. Brake handle on one side, a strong thumb on the other.
But he was no bushman. Overconfidence and unfamiliarity with the rules would be his weaknesses. So I hoped.
I undid my faithful Ski-Doo from the tree I’d chained it to and chugged my way to the cabin. Hill after hill. Untouched fresh snow showed that he hadn’t come yet. Some innocent person at the post office or library would have helped this smiling man. They’d tell him where I lived. A woman alone and a young girl. Arrived not long ago. How many of us could there be? Would he be carrying a wrapped present, a “surprise” for my birthday? He was good at surprises. But so was I.
I parked the sled behind of the house, checked the oil and gassed up. Then I went inside and grabbed something to eat. A can of tuna, a chocolate bar. My stomach was knotted and protesting, but I shoveled in the fuel anyway and gulped hot tea.
I checked my watch. Six and dark already. When the clouds scudded aside, the full moon illuminated the paper birches. The lofty spruce and pine stood sentinel.
I knew exactly where to take him. The weak spot on the lake where the creek comes in. It had been gurgling since the beginning of the melt. Fresh snow dustings made it look pristine. All I had to do was get him to follow me. Instead of fleeing, I was leading him to his death.
I waited a long time. Jane would be in bed at her friend’s by now. They’d planned to watch scary movies after dinner. The trust Jane had placed in me kept me from screaming my rage to the heavens. I blamed myself for sending us into the clutches of this calculating monster. What good was guilt now? Action was the only answer. I thought of the happiest moments in my life. Saying “I do” to Andy. Holding Jane in my arms for her first meal, a tiny bubble on her rosebud lips. Watching with glowing pride every step that she took.
At last it turned midnight. Joe knew I never stayed up after eleven. The quilted suit was bulky. My feet were going to sleep in the heavy boots. Sweat had soaked the long underwear beneath. I took another drink of cold tea. Then my ears twitched like a rabbit’s.
A big machine charged along the main road. Its huge bright eye filtered through the trees. Slipping out through a back window, I crept to my Ski-Doo.
Joe pulled up in front of the house and left his engine running. Brrrrap. Brrrrap. Making a loud and aggressive entrance pleased him.
Inside the house, two lanterns burned. It was obvious that I had no electricity, no landline nor cell coverage. To him, I was alone and helpless.
A leg cramp from tension dropped me to my knees. I bit my lip and tasted the coppery blood as he clomped up the front steps. Would this be like a nightmare where I would try to run but find my body paralyzed?
“Sandra!” he called. “I know you’re in there. All I want to do is talk to you. Be reasonable. I’ve come a long way.”
I clapped my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. Reasonable was the last thing he was. I’d learned that on the wrong end of his anger.
He pounded on the locked door. Bam! Bam! Then he kicked at it. I didn’t care. It would put him into exactly the right mood for his adventure. I hoped Jane wouldn’t panic and make them bring her back tonight. That’s a large load to leave on a child, but this wasn’t a perfect world.
“And you pawned Granny’s ring,” he said. “That hurt. But I’m a big man, Sandra. I can forgive you. We can make a fresh start.”
I said nothing, just braced myself and gripped the pull handle, counting down. Timing was everything.
“Jane? Where’s my little girl? I have a present for you.” All was silent except for the pulse of blood in my ears. From far away, I heard a wolf howl. Then the door burst open. Glass shattered. My heart was in my throat.
Thumps and crashes sounded as he moved like a bull through the house. Everything smashed in his wake. He would have been pleased to think that we were hiding, shaking, anticipating his justice.
A howl of anger rose from inside the cabin.
Why had I waited so long? I pulled the throttle.
Nothing but resistance. One tug usually did it.
A hot fist clutched at my chest. I hadn’t counted on this. “Come on, baby. Do it for Mother,” I said. I closed my eyes. Pulled again.
And she kicked in.
Snow flew in my wake as I rocketed down the trail. I knew every last meter. He’d follow my fresh tracks on the packed sno
w. I’d thought about stringing a thin wire across the trail to behead him. As fast as he’d be going, he wouldn’t see it. But putting it up beforehand might have injured someone else.
“Who cooks for you?” asked the barred owl from its perch high above. The owls were safe in their nests, raising their chicks. Would I ever find sanctuary for mine?
We took the circular trail around the lake. Up and down, around corners. He couldn’t gain on me with those twists and turns. And yet at the ice, I wanted him closer. About 6 meters behind. I had thought about it a thousand times, playing and replaying the tape in my head.
Finally I hit the approach to the lake. It plummeted down a steep hill. And 30 meters out was the bull’s-eye I wanted to strike. From a distance, the surface looked fine and glassy. Some ice was six inches and some was half an inch. Eroded from currents fanning out below. Hard to tell unless you were standing near it.
As he closed in to 15 meters, I gunned the machine and swept down onto the lake. I could hear him raging. He knew that he could catch me. I threw off my helmet and it bounced behind, cannonballing off his windshield.
He roared in triumph, as if I had tossed it from desperation. The rush he was feeling would outweigh common sense. Despite his intelligence, he was operating on adrenaline alone. Or perhaps those pills. On the level of a wild beast.
Just as he closed in on the straightaway, the ice broke. I went into the water, the machine sinking below me as I kicked free and swam for my life. It wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. The suit protected my core. For a moment my lungs threatened to seize. Four meters deep on the maps. Two would be more than enough. As long as he was in over his head.
Buoyant, my face and ears stinging with cold, I clambered to the edge of the jagged hole. With the helmet gone, I wasn’t disoriented. In the panic, he might not get his off at all. I was counting on that. Straps and snaps were impossible to work with heavy mitts or frozen hands.
Following so closely, he wouldn’t be able to stop. An experienced rider might have gunned the machine over the water like Jesus walking. Joe panicked and braked. The machine flipped 180 degrees as it slid toward 10 meters of open water. The heavy back end went in first, trapping him beneath. The windshield closed over his head as the machine dropped like a stone. It must have been like wrestling a refrigerator.
Somehow he bobbed to the top. Joe was strong.
As he thrashed, I pulled the picks from around my neck and hauled myself out with a groan. All the activity at the cabin had made me strong. I wasn’t the same grieving woman he’d met at the bluffs, slipping into a patch of nettle. Happy to be helped to her feet.
One hand, another, left, right. Precious inch after inch to where the surface held. On my knees, then crawling.
At last I struggled upright and staggered 12 meters to a safe section. A rush of energy gave me the surge I needed as I looked back at the man who had put me and my daughter through hell. My feet were icy blocks, but I kept walking. Call it the life force. Or maybe Andy’s smile was pushing me forward.
Joe’s gloved hand flipped up his visor as he splashed.
“Help me! For god’s s-sake, S-sandra.” City people never think about flotation suits. Or ice picks. Knowledge is power. Especially in a killer environment. He was wearing a monster down coat that had become an icy coffin. His boots were probably filled with water.
“God has not said a word, Joe. Don’t you find that interesting?”
At -15°C, it wouldn’t take long for the ice to refreeze.
In the moonlight, I walked to the edge of the lake until I couldn’t see him. Or hear his weakening screams. My teeth were chattering, but I was moving.
I started up the snowmobile trail and noticed a set of rabbit tracks. The moon had never been so bright. A white arctic hare hopped past me to the shelter of a cedar. We’d both survived tonight.
I retrieved a set of warm clothes and boots from the bush where I had left them in a garbage bag. I broke open several sets of hand warmers for my hands, feet, neck and groin.
No one would blame me for saving myself. They would take it on faith that I made it to the cabin despite being soaked. Northerners did that. They had to.
In ten minutes Joe would be dead from hypothermia. My one sorrow was that he wouldn’t suffer. His systems would shut down quickly and painlessly. I thought of his first wife.
This was sweet revenge for Chrissie.
I started humming “Home Sweet Home” as I began my trek. Joe, Joe, you taught me so much. But where was your contingency plan?
LOU ALLIN is the author of the Belle Palmer mysteries set in Northern Ontario. Now living on Vancouver Island with her border collies and mini-poodle, she is working on a new series featuring RCMP Corporal Holly Martin. That Dog Won’t Hunt was Lou’s first title in the Rapid Reads series from Orca’s Raven Books imprint.