The Door to January

by Gillian French

  The hallway stretched as long as a Pullman car. There was a faint creak as he shifted his weight on the parlor floorboards, only about twenty feet away from where she stood. Natalie touched the coat as if it might burn her. A canned voice crowed, “Yeah, man,” some swing orchestra tripping the light fantastic on the turntable. The keys. She felt the pear shape of the smallest matryoshka doll in her fingers.

  A shrill chime split the air, and Natalie gasped, turning, realizing too late that it was only the clock breaking into its hourly song. Her arm brushed the overloaded coats. As if in slow motion, they spilled across the bench and onto the floor with a clatter of buttons and clasps.

  Natalie shrank back. Impossible to tell amid the din of the music and the clock, but she knew he’d heard her. She knew he was standing quite still in the parlor right now, head cocked.

  Heavy footsteps started in her direction. She bolted. Behind her, the picture on the clock face stood at full moon.

  Natalie rushed back through the summer kitchen and would’ve blown through the workshop, too, if she hadn’t remembered Edith. She couldn’t lead him to her.

  She ran to the end of the room, threw open the door to the barn, and then ran back and hid behind the workshop door. She could already hear heavy footsteps in the summer kitchen. Her chest hurt; she couldn’t breathe. She closed her eyes, imagining a bear, a Kodiak, its wet, fist-size nose twitching, exploring the air. The bear only wanted to find her, that’s all. Only wanted to fit its jaws around her skull and crush, crush, crush . . .

  Natalie bit her lips together, blood thundering in her ears.

  Please let him see the open door and think I ran through to the back fields. Let him look for me while I reach the car. Please, Raisa, Irene, somebody—help.

  She heard the creak of his weight in the doorway. Vsevolod was using the stillness, probably studying the gaping doorway across the workshop. Time stretched on. Then he hit the lights.

  Bulbs strung along the beams burst into life. The last of Natalie’s breath wheezed between her lips.

  Vsevolod stepped through the doorway and immediately saw Natalie out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t whip around to face her; he turned his head slowly as if he didn’t trust his own senses, finding her standing there against the wall, staring back.

  Neither of them spoke. Vsevolod’s eyes were interested and his mouth crooked with a hint of puzzled amusement. He’d slicked the front of his hair with oil; the back waved and curled around the nape of his neck. He wore dark trousers, a collared shirt beneath a sweater. He’d been eating pineapple chunks and still held the can; now he remembered it and set it on the workbench, never looking away from her.

  “Well,” he said, and she flinched at the deep, all-too-familiar sound of his voice, “this is a fine how-do-you-do.” He spoke teasingly, as if aware that someone offstage was playing a joke on him. “And who are we?”

  A drop of sweat coursed down her temple. When she said nothing, he stepped forward.

  She slid back along the wall.

  “Do you want to tell me what you’re doing in my house?” This time he spoke with exaggerated slowness, as if she might be partially deaf or touched in the head.

  Think of something, any stupid lie. Words slipped through her grasp. Surely he’d taken in her dark hair and heavy build; she wasn’t his type. He might let her go. Her left hand squeezed around the knife, hidden behind her. The car keys were in her back pocket.

  “I’m lost,” a small, quiet voice said, and it took her a moment to recognize it as her own.

  Vsevolod continued to stare. The minute details of his person were overwhelming: the missing top button of his sweater, the light reflecting in his eyes.

  “I thought this was someone else’s house.” Her voice trembled and he smiled.

  “Nobody lives out here but me.”

  He moved closer and enjoyed seeing her recoil, ducking into a corner that was no protection at all. He couldn’t know why she was so afraid already, only that he was the reason. The smile widened into a grin, showing teeth yellowed with nicotine.

  “Now, are you sure it wasn’t me you were looking for?”

  She saw the change in him as he finally recognized what she wore.

  The smile dropped. His dark eyes snapped to her face, instantly wild. He grabbed two fistfuls of her sweater and lifted her until she stood on tiptoe. He began shaking her slowly. “We’ve caught a thief,” he whispered, his face in hers as she grimaced against his hot, sweet pineapple breath, “yes, we have. Fox in the henhouse.”

  “I—” She said the first thing she thought of: “Raisa knows what you did to those girls.”

  A flux of emotion passed over his face. He faltered.

  She threw her knee into his groin. She wasn’t exactly on target, but still he grunted and doubled forward, releasing her. She hesitated for a half-second, her arm raised, before driving the knife into him.

  She felt the blade sink into his shoulder. He roared and swiped out at her, knocking her sideways. The knife was gone—still in him.

  Natalie ran through the darkness of the barn, out the rear door into the storm. Snow slanted into her face.

  She beat a path toward the milk house. Hiding behind it, she wailed silently into her cupped hands.

  It wasn’t long before Vsevolod came through the back doorway with one hand to his shoulder checking for blood, his expression savage. He made toward the east side of the barn. Checking on Edith.

  Hollow bangs echoed across the fields as he smashed his fist into something again and again, probably the barn door. Natalie rocked until silence fell. His footsteps came back around the house and the door slammed shut.

  Could she still reach the car in time? She had the keys. A vision of his arms closing around her was enough to stop her from trying it. Every place he’d touched burned with a livid, unpleasant heat.

  Where were the girls in this world? How could they leave her here alone? “What do I do?” she cried. “Help me!”

  Behind the milk house, there was nothing but an expanse of fields. Beyond that, woods, promising confusion, misdirection, as night fell. It would be suicide in a storm. But somewhere, miles off, there was another farm, wasn’t there? The Page Farm.

  She would take her chances in the trees.

  By the time he came through the back door, she was only a flash of movement disappearing into the wilderness. Hoisting his lantern, he gave chase.

  CHAPTER 36

  She flew through the woods, giddy with her speed and luck, swatting aside branches, pushing through drifts. He should be right on top of her, but he wasn’t. Vsevolod seemed to have blended away into the storm.

  Soon, the darkness thickened. She couldn’t judge proportion anymore. Wind buffeted her with endless grainy curtains of snow. She fell and fell.

  She wasn’t escaping. Vsevolod was tracking her from a distance, following the sounds of her crashing through the snow like a wounded deer. Even with his limp, he’d catch her.

  Run, run, until you pray for release. Then you’ll welcome my strangler’s embrace, you’ll all but beg me for it—

  “No!” She sprawled, chafing her palms and chin on the icy crust. Moaning, she moved deeper into the labyrinth.

  Full night pressed down on her. She wove through a bramble patch she couldn’t see. By the end, she was calling out for Mom and Dad, Teddy, Lowell. She remembered with dull shock that none of them existed here.

  She turned, raising her fists. “Do something!” Nothing answered but the wind. “Come on and do something!” She screamed threats and curses until her voice cracked. Her blind eyes played tricks on her, producing flashes in the darkness, amorphous shapes. She fled.

  The snow was deeper now, above her knees in places. Natalie’s hair was tangled with sticks and brambles, and her skin, windburned scarlet. Instinct assured her that Vsevolod was stil
l close. She’d stolen his prize. As far as he knew, Edith had reached help by now, and the police were on their way. Irrationally, madly, he’d hunt Natalie to the end.

  Without warning, the ground dropped away. Natalie pinwheeled down a slope and hit bottom hard. After a stunned moment, she stood—something crunched—and she fell through ice.

  Water surged around her. Huffing, she flailed, fragments breaking off in her hands as she tried to grab hold. December ice, thin as candied glass.

  Her toes scraped bottom. She could touch. Grinding her toes into the silt, Natalie pushed forward, grunting, finding the embankment little more than an arm’s length away.

  Elbow by knee, she crawled out of the stream. She was shuddering violently. An option materialized—slipping back into the water, sinking, letting go—but, defeated, she simply lay there.

  This is what Edith felt when she was locked under the barn, forcing herself to walk in circles. Natalie began coughing. Her own time running out.

  The wind rose. She lifted her head . . . and for a moment, something flickered in the storm. The eyes of an animal? Maybe she’d imagined it, seeing fireflies in a snowstorm. She stood, swaying.

  There was a light. A flame hovered several yards away, casting shadows across the snow. She went to it, her body and mind at the end of their resistance.

  A lantern hung from a branch, swinging gently as she watched in an exhausted stupor. A trap. She couldn’t rouse, couldn’t run. He’s baiting you; you swallowed the hook—

  Footsteps crashed toward her. The rough shape of him broke the lantern’s glow, hands outstretched. Two polished bronze discs for eyes, a quicksilver flash of teeth below. He was grinning. In the end, her own animal scream broke her paralysis and let her run.

  He struck a double-fisted blow between her shoulder blades. She went down.

  He wrenched her over and straddled her. She couldn’t kick, could barely move. The struggle was wordless, grunts and screams. Natalie punched him until he cuffed her wrists in one hand and watched her writhe for a while, his expression one of softness and distance, his cologne scent choking her. Then his hands found her throat and bore down.

  Air stopped. She clawed his face, felt sandpaper stubble, the slickness of his teeth as he mockingly snapped at her and laughed.

  A gray tide rose, dulling everything, even the pain, but she registered a stick or rock jabbing her backside—poke, poke—insistently. An image of the tiny matryoshka doll drifted before her, a piece of string noosed around its neck. Back pocket. She worked one hand down. His nose was touching hers. The keys were in her hand now, between thumb and forefinger. She stabbed at his face. He didn’t have time to recoil before she struck something very tender.

  His sound of pain was horrible. Natalie sucked air as she wriggled between his legs, crawled across the snow, her vision tilting like a funhouse tunnel. Trees—the lantern hanging—

  Vsevolod wailed something in half-English, half-Russian, and then he was crawling up her. She bit his hand and lurched to her feet. The lantern. She ripped it down and swung it out in a wide arc.

  Vsevolod’s great, cold hands were inches away, his eyes metallic discs again in the light. The lantern struck his temple like a mallet.

  He dropped.

  “Come on!” she rasped, ready to hit him again. He didn’t move. She backed away, coughing, spitting. “Come on, dammit!”

  There was blood on his teeth, much more at his temple. Strange, seeing him at rest, eyelids fluttering. She’d cut him beneath his left eye and across his cheekbone and lips with the car keys. He’d prepared well for the stalk through the woods, wearing his heavy coat with a scarf knotted into the collar and a watch cap. He groaned softly, gloved fingers working the snow, and then he went still. Maybe died. She didn’t know. She only wanted to run.

  Natalie raised the lantern and did just that.

  It snowed harder. Adrenaline kept her going another fifteen minutes, but eventually her limbs grew leaden. She was spent. Her thoughts were muddled, trying to reason out which way to go. Free of Vsevolod or pursued by him, she was still lost in these woods. The blizzard was worsening. She saw nothing but white even when she closed her eyes. A poem she’d read in English class returned to her, whispering serenely, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

  Natalie fell. No internal voice told her to soldier on; perhaps it had gone to sleep, too. The lantern landed in the snow but the wick continued to burn. There was almost no oil left.

  Small, iridescent eyes observed her from the edge of the lantern’s reach. It was a cat. She watched in fuzzy bemusement as it backed away and slipped through the trees. Perhaps it was never really there at all.

  She believed she was dead, interred under feet of warm soil. What sort of flowers would grow from her? Wild roses? Goldenrod? What would her body look like six months gone, two years, sixty years?

  She became aware of a light. She forced her eyes open. It hovered over her in the driving snow.

  “—hear me?”

  She tried to scream, producing a croaking noise through the swollen tissues of her throat.

  “Oh, Lordy. You hold on, dear. Hold right onto me.”

  Hands went under her arms. She would’ve fought if she’d had the strength. This voice wasn’t his, but somehow it would always be him, and it would always be these woods, a never-ending chase through blinding snow. Vsevolod around every tree, reaching for her.

  She fainted.

  CHAPTER 37

  When Natalie awoke, she was dry. She simply lay there, eyes closed, savoring it. She rolled onto her side, smelling a woodstove fire burning nearby.

  She was in the house again. The copper kettle sang and the dishes were spread willy-nilly and the bear was sniffing her out, room to room, down endless passageways of night.

  Natalie lurched forward, gasping at the pain. This kitchen was unfamiliar. Small, with busy wallpaper and the odor of baked beans and bread in the air.

  “She’s up,” said a man’s quiet, elderly voice, and Natalie looked at the three people who stood from the kitchen table to face her.

  She began to cough, spitting up phlegm and clots of blood. Somebody put a rag to her mouth. Natalie felt her swollen, puffy throat. It hurt to breathe.

  “There. You get that nasty stuff up, and you’ll feel better.”

  A warm hand brushed her head and she jerked back; the woman tsked mildly.

  “Look at that. Somebody throttled her. Those are finger marks if I’ve ever seen them.”

  Natalie recognized Mrs. Page. She’d drawn a chair over to her cot and held the rag in one hand, her expression unperturbed. Her eyes were brilliant behind horn-rimmed glasses, and she reached back to the table, producing a teacup.

  “Take a little sip. Might burn at first, but get it down anyway.”

  It did burn, mightily, and Natalie spit most of it back up.

  The others exchanged looks. There was a tall, horse-faced gentleman with white hair peeking out from beneath his plaid cap—Mr. Page, no doubt. He was dressed in work slacks and a chamois shirt with suspenders. A young man with a beard stood a few feet back. He fiddled with a cloth napkin, turning it over in his hands.

  “What’s your name, dear? Hmm?” Mrs. Page rubbed her arm soothingly. “Where’d you come from?”

  Natalie spoke, her voice wheezing and rough. “He tried to kill me.”

  “Who?”

  She realized no one would know Vsevolod’s real name, and searched for his alias. “Dawes. The man who lives on the hill.”

  Heavy silence fell. Mrs. Page pursed her lips and sat back, exhaling.

  “Well, there.” She looked at her husband significantly, who studied his boots. “You better tell us all about it.”

  Natalie tried to sit up again. “He’s got two more girls in the barn. One’s still alive. Her name’s Edith Souc
y, and she’s hurt. Worse than me. She needs help right away, or else she—”

  She broke off coughing.

  “Holy Jesus,” the young man breathed, and Mr. Page frowned at him.

  Mrs. Page lifted the bottom of the teacup, urging Natalie to drink some more.

  “Well, you’re with friends now. My name’s Elizabeth Page, and that’s my husband Owen, and our youngest son, Jim. You’re in our kitchen and nobody’s going to lay a finger on you.” She sighed. “It was a providence Owen spotted you in this storm.”

  “Looked out the barn window,” Owen said slowly, shaking his head. “Don’t know why. Don’t make a habit of looking out the window when I’m tending the cows, I can tell you, but tonight I did. And there you were, in the woods.”

  “I was trying to get here.” Sleep was threatening again, heavy and irresistible. “What is this?” she said, looking down at the teacup, now nearly empty.

  “Hot toddy. Good for the chills.” Mrs. Page cleared her throat. “So George Dawes is the one who put his hands on you?” When Natalie nodded: “He chased you through all them woods?” Another nod. Mrs. Page smoothed the top of the blankets. “You from town? I don’t know your face, is all.”

  “Somebody’s got to get up there. I don’t think he’ll go back to the farm. I think I killed him, in the woods.”

  Natalie was barely aware of the change that came over their faces, of Mrs. Page’s eyes widening behind the lenses of her spectacles.

  “Somebody’s got to help Edith, or she’ll die.”

  Owen said, “Jim, get on the horn to the sheriff and Doc Brower.” His son started toward the hall. “I’ll get the truck warmed up.”

  “Owen Page!” Mrs. Page half-stood. “You taken a peek outside lately?”

  “If there’s somebody up there hurt, I can get there a lot faster than the law or Doc.”

  “And suppose Dawes shows up? He’s a big son of a buck, and if he’s been carrying on like she says—”