"You're a social worker, Mr…however you pronounce it?"
The man nodded. "Henry Machry. That's Mack-ree. Most people get it wrong."
Catherine sighed, and decided she'd better open the door. "Why are you here?" she said bluntly.
"I'm sorry to tell you we received some reports about you," Machry replied, entering and looking around the living room. "Anonymous calls reporting some incidents of abuse. It's most likely nothing, but we have to make sure."
"Just a minute. I think it's my husband you want to talk to."
Catherine vanished into a hallway branching off to the right of the living room, which, Machry had to admit, was quite tasteful—painted in dark green, with hardwood floors and large windows across the left wall. She eventually returned, trailing her husband. His business suit helped him cut an imposing figure, but though he was tall, he was not large. His hair was dark, the same color as his wife's, but flecked with more gray. Machry knew, the instant he caught sight of him, that there was much more to this man than the typical deadbeat dads he was used to dealing with.
"Welcome!" he said, with a surprising show of hospitality. "Machry, is it? Nice to meet you. I'm Roland Orson." He clenched Machry's hand and shook it firmly. "Can I get you anything?"
"No, thank you. I'd rather we get down to business. I am, technically, at work."
"I understand," Roland replied, "but you are a guest in my house. I'll be back in a minute." He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Machry to sit down gingerly in the chair Catherine had recently occupied. If he saw her shooting daggers at him, he either didn't care or had borne enough of the hatred of strangers to become numb to it.
Roland returned a few minutes later with three mugs of lukewarm coffee on a tray. "Do you take sugar, Mr. Machry?"
"No thank you. I take it black."
Roland shrugged and handed him a cup.
Dispense with the pleasantries, Machry almost shouted. It's not my job to sit in living rooms and drink coffee. If someone thinks you're hurting your kid, you are, and if you are abusing a child, you hardly deserve to have this crappy brown water spat out in your face.
Roland took the second cup and Catherine took the last one, still glaring at Machry. They both took spots on the couch.
"All right." Roland said, in the businesslike manner he communicated with vendors in. "Tell us why you are here. From my wife, I understand that you are with the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children."
"Yes. I am."
"And you are here on whose report?"
"The one who requested I pay a visit to your home prefers to remain secret." Machry coughed and went on. "I'm sorry, but when somebody requests anonymity, we have to give it to them. It's society policy."
The kid, thought Roland, annoying as ever.
"Now, to business," Machry said, taking a small sip from his cup to avoid the inevitable questions about the coffee and why he wasn't drinking it. "I'm going to assume that you're innocent until proven guilty, but the party who called me here accused you two of overwork, undernourishment and certain physical harms. Is any of that true?"
"Hell, it's not true!" Machry was almost impressed at how quickly Roland managed to shed his exterior of faux hospitality. He stood up violently, nearly upending his coffee cup. "We provide food for the little wretch. We put clothes on his back. We pay his expenses, we work for him, we entertain him, and we're going to put him through college, through an Ivy League school, and all we ask in return is a little work—"
"Mr. Orson! Please restrain yourself!" In his work, Machry had seen it all, but was still unprepared for parents blowing up in his face. He never understood it, no matter how many times it happened—his job was to help people.
At last, Roland seemed to have ranted himself dry, and lowered himself onto the sofa beside his wife.
Machry exhaled deeply. "I'm going to ask you a few questions. Please remain calm, I'm not here to arrest you."
This served only to infuriate Roland more deeply; he was enraged, and wondered if this man even knew who he was condescending. He forced himself, though, to remain calm.
"What is the name of your son?"
"Alexander Matthew." Roland said.
"How old is he?"
"Thirteen since September."
"Do you have any children besides the one in question?"
Catherine answered, "One daughter."
"Her name?"
"Lauren."
"Is Alexander your first-born?"
"Yes. Lauren's only one year old."
Machry, as usual, regretted the end of the easy questions. "What have you done that the caller could have interpreted as child abuse?"
"We make him do a few chores."
"Are you sure that's all?"
"Yes," Roland said, raising his voice.
"You don't think your idea of housework might be a little more extreme that somebody else's?"
"No," Roland almost shouted. He exchanged a nervous glance with Catherine. "Are we finished?"
Machry shifted in his chair. "That's enough for me to go on, yes. May I have your permission to speak to Alex?"
"He's at school."
"When he returns?"
"You have my permission. But…" Roland glowered, "Outside. I'd like you to leave my house."
Woodsbrook in winter, to Alex, was a nice enough town for the minority who enjoyed cold weather; to the rest of the population, it was only months to wait through before summer appeared again. Summer was Alex's least favorite season and Woodsbrook in summer his least favorite place in the world. Temperatures, forgetting that they were supposed to ease gradually through the seasons, swung wildly from freezing to the eighties and nineties in the course of a few weeks in April or May, leaving the citizens who had waited for this to retreat into their homes and wait for winter again. That was Woodsbrook, Alex knew—perpetually waiting for the time when they could finally wait for something else.
It was winter now, though, and Alex was enjoying February as much as he could. He would escape the house as often as possible, through his bedroom window if necessary, to see the fields of snow and the frozen rivers, and wander the streets of the town for hours. He knew that every minute he spent away from home was maximizing the punishment he would receive when he returned; but to him, it hardly mattered. Snow—some pristine, more often dirty—was piled by the sidewalks and buildings, and Alex Orson's life, though far from good, was about as close as it could get.
On that day, he and Jake were walking along one of the streets that led between the city center and residential Woodsbrook, Alex navigating by the sliver of ground he could see below the world section of the Woodsbrook Courier.
"You're going to kill yourself," Jake told him.
"What am I gonna do, step on a land mine?"
"I don't know. There's a million ways to kill yourself on the average sidewalk."
Alex laughed. "Are you trying to scare me?"
Jake pretended to be overcome with frustration, ruining the illusion by smiling. "It's always going so well until you figure out what I'm doing."
"I'll play along next time."
"Hey, what are you reading that's so interesting anyway?"
Alex dropped the newspaper and folded it along the center crease, carrying it in his right hand. "Have you ever noticed how there's only six or seven different news stories?" He counted on his fingers. "Guy dies, something blows up, somebody loses money, everybody loses money, government screws up, lots of people die…" he paused to think. "I'll think of number seven later. Anyway," he went on, unfolding the paper again, "every once in a while you get one that breaks the mold." He stopped and angled the paper so Jake could see it. "Bottom of page four, right corner."
"Your right or my right?"
"There's only one right, Jake."
Jake rolled his eyes and studied the paper. In the location Alex had referred him to, he saw an article with a 20-point headline: Top Canadian Agricultural Department Official Disa
ppears.
"How is that not 'guy dies'?" Jake asked.
"He's not dead," Alex corrected, "just gone. And that's what makes it interesting. Politicians are important people—you don't just lose them one day. Something happened to make this guy drop off the face of the earth. And don't you think it's kind of awesome to know that something could be anything?"
"I've never met anyone better at finding meaning," Jake exhaled, "where none exists."
Alex was usually dismayed to see the sign for his home street. However, today the blow was greatly softened; and he felt a small thrill at knowing he was about to take matters into his own hands. "This is me," he said. "You know where to meet, right?"
"Only the tree I've spent the last month of my life in," Jake replied. "See you tonight!"
"And off to the great north tomorrow!" With that, Alex turned away.
He didn't spot the car until he was two gates away from his own. A white, four-door sedan, decidedly unfamiliar and almost looking as though it belonged in a bygone era, sat in the driveway with an almost furtive look, as though it knew it shouldn't be there. As Alex drew nearer he saw that somebody was sitting behind the wheel; a man with slick orange hair and a weak but trustworthy face. Upon entering the driveway, Alex was surprised to notice that the man appeared to be happy to see him.
"Alexander Orson?" the man said, rolling down his window using one of the cranks that Alex believed obsolete.
"Umm…yes." Alex gingerly walked up to the car. "Alex, if it's okay with you."
"Alex, right. Henry Machry." The man held out his hand through the window, and Alex tentatively shook it.
"I'm with the SPCC," Henry Machry said, holding a business card up to the window.
"SPCC?" Alex was beginning to get suspicious. "What are you doing here?"
"Well, I was planning to ask you." Machry smiled, but his eyes betrayed him—Alex could see that his parents had already managed to scare him. "Was it you who called me?"
"No." Alex said, glancing worriedly toward the house. He looked back at Machry, suddenly angry. "If you told them it was me—" he stopped.
"What?" Machry said, cutting him off. He could feel that he was getting close to the heart of his assignment. "What would happen then?"
Alex's face softened. "God knows," he said, resigned. "Every day that nutjob comes up with something new."
Machry was no longer smiling. "Tell me more."
"Well, the way it works here is, I have to ask to do anything. Unless it's something important, like the bathroom, I usually get a no. And even that's not always a guarantee." Alex suddenly paused. He had no idea what had possessed him to say these things to a complete stranger, but the fact that he was saying them at all was, in a strange way, liberating. "The phone is definitely out. So's the TV, the fridge, the computer, and everything that belongs to my mom or dad, which is pretty much everything." He took a deep breath. "I usually don't care, if I can get out. If I can't get out, I stay in my room. But, even that's not always safe…"
Machry held up a hand. "Hold on," he said reassuringly. "There'll be time for all of this. Tell me about what you usually do, on a typical day around here."
"Household chores." There was not a trace of sincerity in Alex's voice. He was stealing looks at the front door every few seconds now. Machry could see that he was obviously worried that he was under surveillance.
"Something more than that was specified."
"Well…" Alex looked around once more, then leaned closer. "Here's something to tell your friends at the SPCC. Tell them I have to wait on them. Tell them I've been the house indentured servant since the start of grade school. Tell them they must be breaking every one of those fancy laws in that house on any given day. I want them to know that."
Machry, taken aback, asked, "Is there a reason?" Keeping calm was difficult, and showing it was harder; he was filled with hatred for Roland Orson with every word he heard.
"If there is, they haven't told me. I've guessed a thousand reasons; they wanted a girl, they're insane, they're going to sell me when I'm eighteen." He sighed. "Each one's stupider than the last. And guess what happens when I decide not to do what they say. A day locked in my room with no food or water. Or worse. Have you ever been hit with a blunt object, Machry?" he asked darkly.
He paused for so long that Machry wondered if he was expecting an answer, but then Alex continued. If you haven't, don't. It's not a lot of fun. Tell the SPCC that!"
As Alex said this, a loud crack sounded from the direction of the house; the screen door swung nearly off its hinges, and Roland was standing in the front door, still dressed to intimidate, exemplifying the word furious. "You!" he shouted. "Get over here! Now!"
"Mr. Orson, please—" Machry started.
"And you, Machry," Roland's eyes narrowed, and his voice became icy. "I think you've been here long enough."
"Tell them that, Machry!" A perceptive ear—which Machry possessed—would be able to tell that Alex had shifted from commanding to imploring.
"Shut—up—you useless little snitch!" Roland was now dragging Alex toward the open door, Alex resisting all the way. "Sir!" Roland shouted at Machry, "If you knew who I was you would have thought better than to show up here!"
Machry's engine revved.
"Tell them that!"Alex called, just before the door slammed.
Catherine was conveniently absent when they entered. The moment the wooden shield was back in place, Roland set about searching for the hardest object he could find. Alex watched him coolly. Eventually, Roland turned to look at him.
"If you think," he snarled, staring directly at Alex, "that he's going to be able to touch me—"
"He can't," Alex said, and Roland was surprised to see him smiling. "But I think I could."
Roland said nothing, but continued glowering silently.
"I'll give you a gift," Alex told him. "Today you can hit me as much as you want. I won't run, I won't try to hide. Throw whatever you want at me. I'll stand right here."
Roland glared for a long moment. Finally, he said, "You little bastard," and swept out of the room.
His alarm, as loud as he could safely set it, punched through his fitful dreams.
Alex sat up in bed and checked the clock: 12:00 exactly. He had slept fully clothed, not wanting to waste any time. He carefully folded down his sheets and rolled into a sitting position, stepping silently onto the floor. Checking under the bed, and lamenting the fact that he needed a flashlight to find his flashlight, he rolled the cylinder across the wooden floor and into view.
He fumbled a moment for the button, then realized that it was a switch that had to be pushed. He found it and projected a radiant disc onto the opposite wall, which he quickly extinguished. Stashed in the corner was his backpack, a blue one built for hikers. He swung it onto his shoulder and pushed his other arm through the other strap.
Everything's working so far.
Opening the drawer below the alarm clock, he found his watch, a cheap sports brand with a corporate logo that he'd bought himself. He strapped it onto his wrist. Then, he stepped through his open door and into the hallway, wondering why it was so easy.
He took tentative steps across the floorboards, looking out for the several that squeaked. He had studied them and noticed that it was in a fairly precise alternating pattern, although certain boards were out of sync with the rest. He arrived at his sister's door with a checked sigh of relief, which he quickly sucked in again.
The door's closed!
This came as a surprise; they rarely slept with the door closed. How would he get in without broadcasting himself to the entire house?
This is not going according to plan.
The loudest door in the house was blocking the way to his food supplies. Swearing in his head with every word he knew, Alex reached for the knob.
Here goes nothing.
The door, made of unpainted wood that was splintered in places, had apparently been stolen from a condemned apartment building. The
moment Alex opened the door, a creak sounded with the decibel level of an exploding bomb. He drew his hand back as if from a hot stove, and examined his handiwork.
Great. Half an inch.
He pushed again, and mercifully, it didn't seem so loud the second time. His senses prickling for any stimulus, ready to dart back into bed at a moment's notice, he moved the door forward until there was a space wide enough for him to step through with his bag.
As he trod on the carpet, Lauren, in her crib, stirred.
Damn, Alex thought. If she cries I'm dead.
Cold Snow: A Legal Thriller Page 2