Cold Woods

by Karen Katchur

  She picked at her wrist, noticed her fingernails were chipped, ragged. She didn’t have time for a manicure. He would notice—of course he would notice—and this little imperfection in her appearance might set him off. If she was going to do this, if she could live with herself afterward, she had to make sure she didn’t do anything to purposefully provoke him. She searched the kitchen drawers for an emery board, found one in a junk drawer, filed her nails, soaked them in dishwashing liquid until they were soft, smooth. They would pass.

  She returned to the living room, poured herself a drink: two inches of vodka on the rocks.

  All that was left to do now was wait.

  Trisha sat on the couch, played with the pink lighter. She had a feeling of déjà vu. She’d once put a flame close to the living room curtains while sitting on this same couch: a kid with no hope of a future, an aching, desperate desire to burn the house down, with her in it. The desolate feelings had come and gone through the years. If Trisha had learned one thing about herself, it was that she was a survivor.

  Her skin itched. Her eye twitched. Another drink was what it would take to calm her nerves. But it would be stupid to get drunk, not when she was this close.

  She continued playing with the lighter, but of course it was out of fluid; the flame had long been extinguished. Hard to believe Carlyn had hung on to it all this time.

  Trisha went outside, sat on the porch chair, watched the snow falling. Her feet were cold within minutes, her toes cramped, shoved into the tiny points of the shoes. She missed the warmth of the fur-lined boots. It was funny how she’d gotten used to a simple comfort so quickly. She wouldn’t have allowed herself the luxury a week ago.

  Linda stepped outside, nodded to Trisha on the porch, joined her. The street was quiet. Their neighbors were either working, or the weather had kept them inside. Across the street Carlyn hammered a FOR SALE sign into the small patch of yard in front of Evelyn’s house. The snow came down in big fat flakes.

  “She came out when she was in college,” Linda said. “I dropped in on her one day unannounced and caught her with a girl in her dorm room.”

  “Were you surprised?”

  “Not really. I guess I always suspected. She told Dannie soon after that. I think Dannie always suspected it too.” She paused. “She had a couple of girlfriends over the years—nothing serious. When did she tell you?”

  “I’ve always known.”

  Linda nodded. They were quiet after that, watched Carlyn put the hammer she’d used for the sign into the trunk of her car.

  “My mom didn’t make bail,” Trisha said.

  “I heard. She called me earlier—used one of her phone calls.”

  This time Trisha nodded. “I’ve got money in a safe-deposit box,” she said, handed Linda a card with the bank’s name, the password. “If anything happens to me, I want you to take the money and get my mom a good lawyer.”

  “What could happen to you?” Linda asked.

  “Just promise me,” Trisha said.

  Linda stared at her. Then she finally said, “Okay.” She seemed to turn inward, lost in her own thoughts. After a while she said, “Your mom didn’t feel she had a right to go looking for you after you left. I think she believed she’d failed you and you were better off without her.”

  Trisha didn’t know what to say, but somewhere over the last few days in a place deep inside, she’d forgiven her mother. She’d stopped blaming her for being blind to the things Lester had done.

  Linda continued. “She told me once that the only reason she’d married Lester and moved here with him was to get you away from your father.”

  “You mean Frank?” Trisha asked. “Her plan didn’t work.”

  “No,” Linda said. “I guess it didn’t.”

  “He died, you know. Three months ago. In prison,” Trisha said. “Complications from the flu or pneumonia or something. Did you know I cried? I actually cried when I’d heard.”

  “Well, I’m sorry,” Linda said. “But you know, you don’t have to have the same blood to be family. Sometimes friends are your family. And if you haven’t figured it out yet, we’re your family, Trisha.”

  Carlyn crossed the street, joined them on the porch, pulled her jacket closed at the collar. The gray clouds huddled close. Christmas lights flickered; strings of blinking bulbs in windows turned on up and down the street.

  Linda got up, plugged in the lights Trisha had hung on the posts.

  Dannie emerged from her mother’s house, paused to lock the door before making her way over. The four of them stared at Evelyn’s dark, empty home.

  “I can’t imagine anyone else living there,” Dannie said and leaned against the porch railing.

  Linda reached out, squeezed Dannie’s hand.

  No one spoke. They didn’t have to. Linda was right. They were family. Trisha had been foolish to think otherwise. She couldn’t replace the years she’d lost since she’d left, but their being together now was proof that some bonds couldn’t be broken.

  They sat in silence, watched the snow cover the slate roofs, the sidewalks, the street. Trisha was aware of time slipping away, the pressure closing in.

  Carlyn touched Trisha’s sleeve, rubbing the soft fabric between her fingers. “What about you?” she asked. “What’s next for you?”

  “I wait,” Trisha said.

  “You think he’s coming for you,” Carlyn said. She must’ve put it together: the change in Trisha’s clothes, the lack of a drink in her hand. Carlyn was always quick to catch on.

  “Yes,” Trisha said. “He’s coming for me.”

  Dannie remained quiet, making the sign of the cross, whispering her silent prayers.

  “You can stay here with us,” Linda said. “You don’t have to go with him.”

  “I’ve got things worked out.”

  “You’ve got what things worked out? What are you planning to do?” Carlyn asked.

  “It’s probably best you don’t know.”

  A black sedan pulled onto Second Street.

  “You better go,” Trisha said. She was calmer than she’d expected. “All of you. Go.”

  “I don’t understand,” Dannie said. “What’s going on?”

  The car pulled into a parking space in front of the house. The first thing Trisha noticed was that his henchman, Heinrik, wasn’t with him. Other than the driver, Sid was alone. He must’ve dropped Heinrik off at the airport first.

  “Go,” Trisha said again. “You don’t want to have anything to do with this. This is something I have to handle on my own.”

  Carlyn took Dannie by the arm. “Whatever you’re planning, Trisha, don’t do it. Whatever he’s done, he’s not worth it,” Carlyn said and dragged Dannie across the street to where their cars were parked.

  Sid stepped out of the back of the black sedan, stood on the sidewalk. He was wearing a long wool coat, charcoal gray, to match the silver of his hair. Snow covered the tops of his shoulders. His scarf whipped in the wind.

  Linda clutched Trisha’s arm. She leaned in close, whispered, “You make sure it’s self-defense. Do you hear me?” she asked. “Make sure it’s self-defense.” She let go of Trisha’s arm and hurried away. She kept her head down, avoided looking at Sid, disappeared inside her house.

  Trisha stood. It was time she became her own Lady Luck, turned things around, shined some light her way. She walked into the house, left Sid standing outside in the cold.

  He’d take it as an invitation to join her.

  She’d taken the first step.

  There was no turning back now.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Parker went back to the station after leaving the courthouse. Something about his conversation with Trisha had left him with an uneasy feeling.

  He logged on to his computer, checked the airlines. A private jet was scheduled to fly out of the Lehigh Valley International Airport later this evening. He bet Sid Whitehouse would be on it. Would Trisha really be with him?

  He didn’t belie
ve she would just up and leave her mother. Not now. From what he’d seen of them together, he’d say they were working through everything that had happened. And you didn’t just take off in the middle of something as big and important as a pending murder trial. In cases like these, the family tended to hang around, hold out hope, stick together until the end.

  Nothing about Trisha’s leaving town added up. And why had she asked about the injury to Lester’s head? It seemed an unusual thing to bring up. The evidence in the case was pretty clear. The person who had struck Lester was right handed. Was Trisha’s mother? Had he missed something?

  Parker sat in front of the video they’d shot the previous day of all four women in the interview rooms. He watched the clip of Sharon first. She’d smoked with her right hand. She’d signed the statement with her right hand. He breathed a little easier. He hadn’t made a mistake. She was definitely right handed.

  What had been Trisha’s point? Then he remembered Carlyn clutching the car keys in her hand, tried to remember if it was the left or right hand. He fast-forwarded the tape. And there she was, playing with the lighter in her left hand. He had no idea where he was going with this. Maybe Trisha just had to be sure it was her mother who had done it. But she wouldn’t have confessed otherwise. People didn’t confess to crimes they didn’t commit.

  And then there was Sharon’s face at the arraignment, one of resignation. Although Parker hadn’t needed to be there, he’d wanted to be. It was a sad affair: Sharon standing alone next to a court-appointed attorney, one Parker had recognized but hadn’t known personally. Trisha had been the only one to show up to support her mother.

  He checked the time on his phone. Trisha’s flight wouldn’t be leaving for another few hours. It was possible she’d already left, en route to the airport or close to it.

  He grabbed his car keys, told Geena he’d be back. He had a quick errand to run.

  “What about this paperwork?” she asked.

  “Feel free to finish it,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Jerk,” she called back, making him smile. Then she got up and followed him out.

  “Where are we going?” she asked once they were in the car.

  “I want to check up on Trisha,” he said.

  “Because of her husband?” Geena asked, and Parker nodded.

  The snow was coming down at a good clip. What had started out as big flurries were now small, furious flakes. Parker turned the windshield wipers on. It was hard to see the stretch of road in front of them, slowing their progress: an impediment against an unexplained sense of urgency.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Trisha stood by the side of the couch, her leg pressed against the torn cushion. The front door flew open, and Sid stepped inside. He glimpsed the suitcase near her feet. The corners of his lips twitched. He gazed at the rest of the tired house with its shabby furniture, the end table with the drinks.

  “Do you like slumming it?” he asked. “You must. I mean, why else would you stay here when you could’ve stayed with me at the casino?”

  She chose not to say anything. Nothing she said would change where this was going.

  “Maybe you want to show me around.” He motioned to the back of the house. “Since you like it here so much.”

  “You’ve already seen it,” she said and willed herself to keep her eyes on his face.

  “Yes, I guess I have,” he said and cracked a smile. “The little present I left on your bed—the poker chips.”

  “Would you like a drink?” She forced her legs to take her across the room, away from the couch cushion. She picked up the glass, dropped ice into it. Her hands trembled.

  “No, I wouldn’t like a drink,” he snapped.

  She set the glass down and picked at her wrist as he paced the room, fingered the lampshade, ran his hand over the top of the armchair. He wiped his palms as though he’d touched something vile.

  “I see you’ve packed,” he said, glancing at the suitcase again.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “And your mother? Where is she?”

  “Jail.”

  He raised his eyebrows at that. “Well, I’m sorry. That must be very upsetting for you.” He made another lap around the small room and stopped. “We have a little time before our plane leaves,” he said and took off his coat, dropped it onto the chair. Then he unwound the scarf from around his neck, tossed it on top. He was dressed impeccably, his suit tailored, a subtle pinstripe in the pants and jacket. He shrugged the jacket off, laid it on top of the scarf. He loosened his tie, tugged his collar open. “How would you like to do this?”

  She shook her head before she could stop herself. No. She wanted to scream, No!

  “You never make it easy on yourself, do you?” He stepped closer to her, close enough that she could smell his cologne and the gel in his slicked hair.

  He took a deep breath through his nose, inhaled her scent like an animal. “But that’s what makes you so damn exciting,” he said. She tried to run to the couch, but his hand shot out and grabbed her by the hair. He was fast for an aging man, agile like a gray fox. He smashed her face against the wall. Blood dripped from her nostril into her mouth.

  “You didn’t think I’d let you come back without paying for what you did to me, did you? You think you can leave me?” he whispered into her ear, pulled her hair so her head snapped back. Then he rammed her head against the wall again, pinned her up against the plaster with his body. “You think you can walk out on me?” He pressed up against her, his nose in her hair, on the back of her neck, breathing her in.

  Blood rushed to her head, buzzed in her ears, seeped from her nose to her lips, ran down her chin. She felt herself slipping away, leaving her body to a place he couldn’t reach her, to a place where she could leave him behind. No. She had to fight to stay here, to be present for every ache and pain and degradation. She had to remember her plan. She had a plan.

  His hand reached under her sweater. She elbowed him hard in the gut, used the wall to propel her body backward, pushing him off her. She lunged toward the couch, her arm outstretched for the torn cushion, toppling the suitcase. He grabbed her waist, wrestled her to the floor. Her cheek pressed against the stained carpet, the fibers reeking of mold and dirt and cigarettes. He kept his knee lodged between her shoulder blades, his hand on the back of her head. She kicked, but otherwise she couldn’t move. Tears blurred her eyes.

  “Not like this,” she said. Hair and dust and blood stuck to her tongue. She tried to flip over. He punched her ribs. For a second everything went black. When the haze cleared, she said again, “Not like this,” searching for a way out, finding one.

  “What?” He pulled her up, slammed her against the wall again, pressed his body against hers. She was barefoot. When had she lost her shoes?

  “Binds,” she managed, her disgust backing up in her windpipe.

  He moved away from her, giving her an inch to breathe. He laughed. The sick motherfucker laughed.

  “You dirty girl,” he said, not bothering to hide his excitement as he grabbed her by the hair, yanked her away from the wall, and threw her to the floor. “Get them.”

  She pulled herself up to her hands and knees, not trusting her legs to stand. She licked the blood from her lips, the taste sharp on her tongue. Pieces of plaster fell from her hair from where her head had put a hole in the wall. Her nose was no longer centered but pushed to the side of her face. She opened the suitcase. His foot slammed against her rib cage. She grunted. More blood spilled from her mouth.

  “Don’t try anything stupid,” he said and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He was just getting started.

  She pulled out clothes, toiletries, placed them on the floor, but she was too slow for him.

  “Move,” he hollered, pushed her out of the way to search the suitcase himself.

  She crawled to the couch, reached underneath the tattered cushion, the one with the foam oozing out, found the grip of the gun.

  She pulled herself up, aimed the
barrel at his head.

  He looked at her. Surprise registered on his face. Fear colored his eyes.

  “Get up,” she said.

  He stood. “What do you plan to do with that?” he asked.

  He had to step toward her, to come after her. There could be no mistake once she pulled the trigger that he was going to kill her.

  Her hand shook. But she wouldn’t miss her target, not at close range. “I’m not coming with you. I’m never going anywhere with you again.”

  He was panting, glaring, his rage building.

  “You can walk out that door now,” she said. Blood and spit dripped from her mouth. “And never come back.”

  He stared at her as though he was trying to decide if she was serious. Then he shook his head and smiled, a cold, heartless smile. “You know I can’t do that.” He lunged at her. He was quick. She wasn’t expecting it. She didn’t have time to react. His hands wrapped around her throat.

  She tried to breathe, but it was as though her windpipe had collapsed. He squeezed harder, his fingers digging into her neck.

  Her eyelids fluttered. She was losing consciousness. She pointed the gun at what she hoped was his head.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Parker pulled onto Second Street, parked two cars behind a black sedan. “Must be the car service,” he said. “Her husband either sent it for her, or he’s in there with her.”

  “Yup. What’s the plan?” Geena asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I hadn’t thought that part through.”

  “We have to think of something. We can’t just say we stopped by to meet her husband—” She broke off at a popping noise that sounded like it had come from inside the house. “That was a gunshot.”

  Parker threw open the driver’s side door. Geena was already out of the car, racing down the sidewalk. He caught up to her, sliding on the slick, snowy surface, gun drawn. The driver of the black sedan stepped out of the car.