Cold Woods

by Karen Katchur

  From what Parker had gathered online, Cal’s store had moved three times since Lester had worked there. It was a miracle the family business had survived at all. Most small businesses in the area had struggled once online shopping and supersize megastores began luring customers away with their promise of lower costs and faster deliveries. But the bigger stores and their so-called conveniences lacked a personal touch: the care and attention the old mom-and-pop shops had provided. Or that was Parker’s take on it anyway.

  The parking lot was mostly empty. Parker pulled into the closest space near the door of the carpet store. Maybe the snow had kept people away. The temperature was close to freezing. A bell clanged when they stepped inside, announcing their arrival, but no one was on the showroom floor to greet them. A male’s voice came from the back of the building. They headed in the general direction, Geena in the lead.

  They found a guy with wire-rim glasses on the phone behind a cheap metal desk you could pick up at any office-supply store. He held up his pointer finger, signaling them to wait. He was younger than Parker had expected. He’d hoped for someone much older, someone who’d remember Lester.

  The guy hung up the phone. “How can I help you?” He looked back and forth between them. His gaze flickered back to Geena. He looked a little nervous: maybe it was her height, or quite possibly her striking good looks.

  Parker opened his mouth to speak, but Geena beat him to it.

  “I’m Detective Brassard, and this is my partner, Detective Reed.”

  The guy looked to Parker. “Is there a problem?”

  “We’re looking for the owner, Cal Rawlins,” Parker said. He’d looked Cal up on the internet. Nothing online had indicated the old man had passed. As far as he could tell, the business was still owned and operated by Cal.

  “I’m Eric, his son. What’s this about?” he asked Parker, clearly avoiding looking Geena’s way again.

  “We have some questions about a former employee of his. You were probably just a kid around the time.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Okay. He’s in the back. If you give me a moment, I’ll go and get him. He doesn’t get around as good as he used to.”

  Eric disappeared behind the closed door that apparently led to the back office.

  “Did you notice how he completely ignored me and directed his questions at you?” Geena asked. “Why do men do that, just assume you’re in charge because you’re a man?”

  “Personally, I think it’s because he’s intimidated by you.” Parker glanced around the desk—business cards, order forms, calendar, stapler, credit card machine, computer, phone—nothing out of the ordinary.

  “And why do you think that?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Some guys are intimidated by a woman in a position of power.” He purposely left out the part that some guys might also be intimidated by a very attractive woman in a position of power. He didn’t want her to take it the wrong way when, in his mind, it was a simple fact, nothing more.

  She snorted. “Jerk-off.”

  “I didn’t say I was one of them.”

  “So defensive.” She smiled, and he realized she was kidding with him. Then she poked around the aisles, looked through carpet samples, wandered to the back of the store, where the warehouse was located. When she returned, she motioned to two cameras mounted on opposite walls.

  The office door opened. Cal shuffled toward them gripping a cane. The store’s name was stitched on the pocket of his faded blue shirt. His khakis frayed at the cuffs. “What can I do for you?” he asked. Eric came to stand by his father’s side.

  “We have a few questions for you about a former employee, a Lester Haines,” Parker said.

  Cal nodded. “I remember him. Haven’t seen him in years. I heard he went missing.”

  “Tell me what you remember about him,” Parker said.

  “I fired him sometime in December. It must’ve been in ’86. I can’t remember when exactly, but I remember we were busy. Folks like to remodel before the holiday. If I recall correctly, he didn’t show up for work around that time for over a week. How was I supposed to know something happened to him? I had a business to run.”

  “No one is accusing you of anything, sir,” Geena said.

  “Do you recall the last time you saw Lester?” Parker asked.

  “No, I can’t say I do,” Cal said.

  “You never had a falling out? Argued with him about not showing up for work?” Parker asked.

  “No, not that I recall. He worked in the back warehouse loading trucks and taking care of inventory. I don’t think he liked the work, though. He wanted to be on the floor selling. But I couldn’t have him talking with customers with alcohol on his breath. Lester liked to drink. Things were different back then. You gave people second chances. When he was here, and he was sober, he worked hard. I cut him a break when I could.”

  “Did he ever argue with a customer? Or any of his coworkers?” Parker asked.

  The old man leaned heavily on his cane. “Lester was an odd duck. Did he get along with the other guys? Not really. Mostly, he kept to himself. I suppose when everything was said and done, it was just easier on everyone at the time to let him go.”

  “Any idea where he went when he didn’t show up for work? Who he might’ve gone out with?”

  “Like I said, he kept to himself. He wasn’t the kind of guy who’d hang around after work and shoot the shit.”

  Geena made a point to look at Eric when she spoke, a fact that amused Parker. “Can we get a list of the employees’ names who had worked with Lester?” she asked.

  Cal answered for Eric. “I remember some of their names, but not all of them.”

  “Did you keep records?” Geena asked, again directing her question to Eric.

  “Yes,” Eric said. “It’ll take some time to dig through the old files. Nothing was computerized back then.”

  “Can you send them to us? Thanks. What about these cameras?” Geena asked and pointed to the two she’d spied earlier. “When were these installed?”

  “About five years ago,” Eric said. “Some of the other stores in the strip suggested we get them. I guess there were some problems before we set up shop here.”

  “Did you have cameras when Lester worked for you?” she asked.

  “We were in a different location then. Security was pretty lax in the eighties.” Eric looked to his father.

  “No cameras back then,” Cal said.

  “Okay,” Geena said and handed Eric her card. “If you can send those names to me by the end of the day, I’d appreciate it. Mr. Rawlins, thanks for your time.”

  “I have one more question,” Parker said. “Mr. Rawlins, did your employees happen to play on a baseball team? I know a lot of businesses have teams that play in local leagues.”

  “No. We didn’t have any team.”

  “Okay, thanks again for your time.”

  Geena waited until they were out in the parking lot, getting into the cruiser, when she asked, “Baseball team, huh?”

  “Just trying to figure out who might’ve been walking around carrying an aluminum baseball bat.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Trisha slipped on the one jacket she’d packed, another designer label, the thin leather meant for desert nights, not Pennsylvania winters. But it was the closest thing she had to outerwear. She shoved a large wad of twenty-dollar bills into her jeans pocket along with her photo ID that she’d used to get into VIP rooms at the casinos. Next, she wrote down Sid Whitehouse’s name on a scrap of paper and stuck that in her pocket too. Her ID would help the handsome young detective identify her body if she happened to turn up dead alongside the road; the scrap of paper with Sid’s name on it would hand him the name of her killer.

  Sid was never far from her mind. He was with her, always, his presence lurking in the shadows around every corner, hiding between her cracked, bruised ribs, a reminder with every breath she took. And yet there was a small part of her, a sick part, that ached to see hi
m, touch and hold him. No matter how bad things had gotten between them, when the fighting was over, he would pick her up, clean her off, put her in that big fancy bed of his so that she could rest her battered head.

  She often wondered why she’d put up with it. Maybe it was a Stockholm syndrome kind of thing, where she’d developed feelings for her captor. She didn’t know. The best she could come up with was that a part of her believed she deserved to be punished, the flirty, dirty girl who had needed attention, good or bad, right or wrong. It was all she’d ever known. Don’t leave me, her younger self had begged Sid. Don’t forget about me.

  It was an awful thing she’d gotten used to, the very thing her younger self had sworn she’d never let happen, and yet, here she was.

  She stepped onto the porch to find her mother wrapped in a puffy winter coat, a cigarette in one hand, a can of beer in the other, a knit hat on her head.

  “Isn’t it kind of cold to be sitting outside?”

  “Not for me it isn’t,” her mother said. “Besides, look at that moon. Evelyn would’ve loved that moon.”

  Trisha looked at the night sky, the moon on center stage. The stars sparkled along with the neighbors’ twinkling Christmas lights. Her mother used to wrap white lights around the front porch posts and hang an evergreen wreath on the door. But her mother hadn’t put up holiday decorations yet. Trisha would like her to, but she wouldn’t ask her. She wouldn’t ask for anything other than a roof over her head.

  Two houses down, Carlyn and her mother stepped outside. They headed in their direction. Trisha was surprised to see them together. Linda sat in the chair next to Trisha’s mother. She plucked a can from the six-pack that lay on the ground between them, a routine their mothers must’ve established in Trisha’s absence. Carlyn stood on the sidewalk, stared up at Trisha, hands shoved deep inside her winter coat.

  Trisha walked down the three steps and stood in front of her, a little closer than what convention dictated. “I hear the new owners of the hotel bar classed it up with linen napkins and tablecloths. I thought I’d check it out. Do you want to join me?”

  “Okay,” Carlyn said.

  They walked single file, Trisha in the lead, the shoveled path on the sidewalk narrow and icy in spots. Their mothers watched them go without a word. They turned the corner at the end of the block, and Trisha slipped, her high heel catching a patch of black ice. Carlyn caught her with sturdy arms. Her muscled thighs kept them upright.

  Trisha laughed, relieved. Imagined the pain in her ribs if she’d gone down. As it turned out, Carlyn had squeezed Trisha’s waist, but not hard enough to make her wince. They separated.

  “Your shoes are ridiculous,” Carlyn said.

  “Four hundred dollars’ worth of outrageousness.”

  Carlyn shook her head. “Here,” she said and pulled off her gloves. “Put these on. You must be freezing.” She handed them to her.

  “Thanks.” Trisha took the gloves, tentatively, trying to figure out what Carlyn was up to: whether she was just being kind or whether she had some other motive. But Carlyn’s kindness wasn’t going to break Trisha down, so she did the only thing left and slipped the gloves on, the insides soft and furry and warm.

  They continued walking at a slow pace for another two blocks. Trisha teetered in heels, Carlyn prepared to catch her, until they reached the bar on the corner.

  Carlyn pulled the door open. “After you,” she said.

  The warm air smothered Trisha’s face the moment she stepped inside. The smell of fried food wafted from the kitchen. The sparse crowd at the bar lifted their heads to see who had walked in but quickly turned away from the cold Trisha and Carlyn had carried in with them.

  Trisha poked her head into the dining room. The lights were turned low. Candles flickered on top of white tablecloths. A Christmas tree was on display front and center. She followed Carlyn to the far end of the bar, away from the other customers.

  They sat on stools. The bartender wiped down a splash of beer, then flipped the towel onto his shoulder. “What can I get you?” he asked, smoothing his goatee. Tattoos covered his arms like sleeves.

  “Vodka on the rocks,” Trisha said. “From the top shelf.” She pulled off the gloves and dropped them next to Carlyn.

  “Ketel One okay?” he asked.

  She nodded. It was as top shelf as she was going to get here. The bartender looked to Carlyn.

  “I’ll have a glass of merlot.”

  They waited to speak until their drinks were in front of them. Carlyn offered a toast. “To old friends,” she said.

  “To old friends,” Trisha said and winked.

  Carlyn smiled, lifted her glass to her full lips, which were the softest shade of pink. Her hair was straight, cut in a bob that framed her face nicely. She’d aged well, a few lines by her eyes and mouth, but overall, Carlyn looked good in her black jeans and turtleneck sweater.

  Trisha finished her drink and signaled the bartender for another. She expected Carlyn to tell her that she ought to slow down. She was prepared to lash out, tell her to mind her own business, when Carlyn asked, “So what have you been up to?”

  Carlyn was full of surprises tonight.

  “Not much. You?” she asked.

  “Nothing changes around here—you know that,” Carlyn said.

  Trisha sensed a certain strength in Carlyn, a self-assuredness she’d lacked when they were kids. She seemed more confident, comfortable with herself. “Something must’ve changed. There’s something different about you,” she said.

  “Time has a way of doing that to you,” Carlyn said. “I work with kids who have a lot of problems. It tends to put your own life in perspective.”

  “What kinds of problems?”

  “Most are behavioral. I can’t talk about any of my cases specifically, but I help kids and their families work through their negative behavior, the kind that escalates above and beyond what is considered normal. Although I’m not a fan of the word normal, but don’t get me started.”

  “You work with violent kids?”

  “Sometimes, yes.”

  So Carlyn helped troubled kids. Well, wasn’t that wonderful. But she’d never bothered to help her best friend. That was what they had been back then. It should’ve meant something, but obviously it hadn’t. Carlyn had given up on her, abandoned her. Trisha tossed back the rest of the drink and waved to the bartender. “Keep them coming,” she said. The alcohol settled in her stomach, a hot, prickly comfort. Soon it would cloud her thoughts, numb the anger piling up in the back of her throat until it was nothing more than a dull taste in her mouth.

  The bartender set another drink down in front of her. She wrapped her hand around the glass and brought it to her lips. It wouldn’t be long now.

  “I was surprised to see you with your mother tonight,” Trisha said. “I didn’t think the two of you got along.”

  “I think we’ve reached a place of understanding,” Carlyn said. “It’s not perfect, but we’re trying.”

  “Good for you.” Trisha’s fingers and toes tingled. Soon she would feel nothing, zip, zilch, where not even Carlyn’s wonderful life would be able to touch her.

  Trisha put down one drink after another. Carlyn sat quietly, sipping her single glass of wine, her silent disapproval thrashing in the space between them. Trisha didn’t know how long they’d sat there, or how many drinks she’d had. She had to pee. Where the hell was the bathroom anyway? She tried to stand and knocked over the barstool. She stumbled. Carlyn caught her before she fell to the floor. The bartender yelled, refused to serve her, cut her off.

  “Stupid shit!” she hollered back. Did he think she was an amateur? This wasn’t her first rodeo.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the bartender said.

  Carlyn’s hands were clasped around Trisha’s upper arms, holding her up. “Don’t touch me,” she said and pushed Carlyn away. She tripped. Carlyn caught her again.

  “Get her out of here,” the bartender said.
<
br />   “I have to pee. Can I at least fucking pee first?” she shouted at him.

  “Get out,” he said.

  “Come on.” Carlyn squeezed Trisha’s arm, pulled her across the room and out the door.

  The bitter cold hit her face, but she barely registered it. That was what was so great about being drunk. You just didn’t care about things like below-freezing temperatures. She pushed Carlyn off her. Carlyn raised her arms and stepped back to prove she wasn’t touching her anymore.

  “Where were you? When I needed you, where were you?” Trisha hollered, staggered toward her. “You were supposed to be my friend.” She hit Carlyn’s shoulder. “We were fucking friends!” She shoved her, but Carlyn was strong, and her treaded snow boots kept her from slipping on the icy walk and toppling over. Trisha swung her arm to land another blow, but the ice beneath her stupid three-inch heels sent her to the ground. Her hip smacked the cold pavement. A warm gush spread between her legs, soaked her jeans. Her ribs ached, but the pain was dulled from the cushion provided by the alcohol. She pushed herself up to her hands and knees.

  “Let me help you.” Carlyn reached down. Trisha batted Carlyn’s hand away. A siren chirped, and a police cruiser pulled alongside them.

  “That’s just great,” Trisha said, falling to her butt. The bartender must’ve called the cops. She looked down at her jeans, where they were torn at the knee. Cinder and salt stuck to the scrape on her skin.

  She was surprised when Scott got out of the car. He was taller than she remembered. His once-dark hair was now more salt and pepper. She was too drunk to feel ashamed, too fucked up to care that she was sitting on the cold sidewalk in her own urine.

  “What’s the problem here?” he asked.

  “Ask her,” she spat and pointed in the general direction of Carlyn. There were three of her.

  The bartender appeared. Scott talked with him briefly before he disappeared back inside. The street was mostly dark, definitely blurry. Circles of light from the lamppost floated in front of her eyes. She could lie down. Here was as good a place as any. Scott’s voice jolted her upright.