Amos leaned his head toward the driver talking on his phone. “He’s not from around here. Cuttin’ through from a job in Memphis. Lives in Franklin. Thought he could beat the weather. Didn’t know this is a nasty spot.”
Amos had already set out the orange markers to let drivers know this bend was trouble.
He pointed. “Herb Taylor’s Bronc in the ditch over there. He walked on home.”
Canon had assumed as much, recognizing the Bronco. Herb only lived a half mile down the road. Even the locals had a hard time here when the pavement was slick. He studied the banged up nose of the Franklin man’s Jetta. “He okay?”
“Cussin’ plenty for the inconvenience, but he’s fine.”
“You mind stayin’ ‘til the wrecker comes?”
“Don’t mind a bit.”
Canon checked his watch. “Things ought to quieten down, but I just got a call Tim Drexler hit a tree near his waterin’ hole.”
“From drinkin’ or the roads?”
“Combination. I’ll get him home then write this one up when I get back to the station. Let me know when you leave.”
Peering into the window of the Explorer on the way back to his car Canon made sure the man on his phone didn’t match the description of the prison escapee from Turney Center.
He didn’t.
* * *
As she sat in the bath and watched smoke rise from the candles Maggie tried to remember if she had flipped the window switch back up when she came in after her run that morning. Darkness had fallen now.
Worried she might have forgotten, she stepped out, wrapped in a towel, and padded to the living room. Sure enough it was down. She flipped the switch and rechecked the locked door, then headed back to the warmth and comfort of the water.
Thonk!
Maggie froze. In three days she had learned most of the cabin’s noises. This was different. This was a hard knock that sounded like it came from the woods behind.
The fireplace provided the only light in the room. Straining to listen, Maggie eased to the kitchen window and peered out into the woods. It was hard to trust that no one could really see inside with the switch up, even after testing it.
As Maggie tiptoed from window to window she saw a thickening blanket had covered the ground, the Subaru, the front and back steps of the porches, and the trees all around. But nothing seemed out of place. She replayed the noise in her mind, like the whack of an axe or a piece of wood hitting against a tree trunk, the thud amplified in the frigid air.
It didn’t make sense, though. This place was so isolated. No one should be in these woods at night, especially not a night like this. Maybe it had been a buck knocking its antlers against a tree. But…no animal should be out of its shelter either.
The wind didn’t appear to be blowing to have knocked tree limbs together. Or could the ice have caused a dead tree limb to fall? That seemed plausible…that a heavy tree limb could have fallen nearby. Although there had been the faintest something. An oomph? Or was it only the wind’s howl?
But the wind wasn’t blowing. When a mind tried to replay the unexpected it was tempted to fill in the cracks with imagination. Maggie wished now she had not started reading that true-crime novel.
Her body trembling from the cold, Maggie made her way back to the bath and eased into the warmth again, adding a few drops of lavender oil. A woman alone in a cabin needed every relaxation trick she could find, especially with an unexplained thonk in the air, and her eyes playing tricks on her as she peered into the snowy night over the side of her porcelain tub.
The snow picked up. Maggie watched it fall until the water went tepid. By the time she pulled the drain plug the land was a postcard. Robbie didn’t exaggerate the weather. Pellets of ice mixed in the snow continued to plink against the roof and windows.
Maggie told herself it would be beautiful in the morning. It was beautiful now. But she still felt uneasy about the noise she couldn’t place. She wondered if she should have headed on home to Nashville when Robbie called. Had she been foolish to think she could ride out the storm alone?
She was tempted to call Mr. Thompson, but hated to ask him to get out on such a night with no more cause than a single thonk. If it had been a tree limb falling, it didn’t cause any damage that Maggie could see. She would call Mr. Thompson tomorrow…unless she heard the noise again.
Maggie wondered how old Mr. Thompson was and if he could really be a help to her. Then she remembered she had Cal’s gun under the bed. That was some small comfort.
Most likely a tree branch falling.
After dressing in her flannel pajamas, robe and slippers, Maggie opened the cabinet doors and dripped water in the faucets. Best to be on the safe side. Finally, she settled on the couch beneath a blanket, a flickering candle on the table near her head, and opened the true-crime novel.
The pinging of ice pellets on the roof after the soothing lavender in her bath soon lulled her to sleep.
5
An artist must prepare for the unexpected. Entering a new realm is frightening, a risky proposition with a real chance of failure, including the chance of harm and damage to your soul.
Canon saw a man talking to a tree as he pulled up. Tim Drexler was likely scolding the maple for his own bad choices. Or did he think the tree was a person?
Tim was a regular. Canon had resisted the urge to tally up just how much Tim cost his department on an annual basis, but knew it was a sizable figure. The man had plenty of ghosts in his closet, like most folks from Marston.
Canon got out of the cruiser, slid down the bank and reached for him. “Come on, Tim.”
Tim slurred his words, trying to hug Canon, happy to see him, pointing to the tree and his pick-up. Canon didn’t see how Tim’s old truck would keep driving after this one. It didn’t take an ice storm for Tim to end up in a ditch.
Hauling him up the bank, Canon got him into the back of the cruiser, where Tim lay over and cuddled the seat like a lover. He reeked of alcohol and unwashed armpit. The snow had doused him pretty good, but not enough to dilute Tim’s natural odors. Tim was raised on Lick Creek. His family didn’t have running water for a long time. When Tim finally got it, he conserved it in bathing to save more for the stills.
Twenty minutes later, with the low hum of the scanner and Tim’s snores making background music, Canon pulled in front of an old farmhouse missing a front shutter. Still, it looked pretty in the falling snow. After several knocks, Tim’s wife, Tina, came to the door, looking like she’d gone to sleep in her waitress outfit.
Tina took Tim’s arm without saying anything, long ago having given up on scolding him. Canon stood at the door until she got Tim settled inside and returned, looking older than she really was. “I’m sorry you had to get out on such a night, Canon. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Tell him the truck’s on Lick Creek. And it’s probably not going to drive home this time.”
Tina shook her head, her eyes cast down, and closed the door. Canon felt bad for her, and made a mental note to call Seth Jenkins tomorrow to see if Seth could pick it up in his tow truck. No telling when Tim would get to it. Maybe Canon would tell Seth to go on and fix it if it was fixable, and send him the bill without saying anything to Tina.
* * *
Maggie woke with a start to banging on the door. Fear shot through her. The candle flickered on the side table. She never should have gone to sleep with a candle burning.
Straining, but not hearing anything but the hard knock of her own heart, she decided she must have only dreamed the banging on the door. Then it came again—a hard pound!
She lay still on the couch, not sure what to do, reaching for her cell phone but it wasn’t on the table. She must have left it in the bedroom. No one should be at the door.
More banging. Maggie jumped.
She thought of Cal’s gun, but groped toward the closer phone in the kitchen, squinting to see Mr. Thompson’s number on the wall. More banging! She dropped the pho
ne receiver then set it back in its cradle, deciding it had to be Mr. Thompson at the door, come to check on her.
What time is it? Where was her cell phone?
A moan stole through the walls followed by a hard thump at the base of the door as if someone kicked or threw their weight against it.
Maggie willed her feet toward the front window. A heap lay at the door. She had to open it. She couldn’t. But she had to. The thermometer outside read eight degrees. She looked for Mr. Thompson’s truck, but the only vehicle outside was her own.
With trembling hands she turned the lock.
A man lay curled on the porch shivering, wearing only a light jean jacket. No hat. No gloves. His hands stuffed under his armpits. His thumbs red. His head and clothes dusted in snow and ice. When Maggie cracked the door open the man slowly twisted and looked up at her.
“Help me,” his blue lips mouthed.
* * *
Canon finished the last report and looked at the scanner. Quiet. Finally. Then he hit the blinking light on the voice machine.
“I knew you wouldn’t come get that stew, but I saved you some and I’ll bring it tomorrow. I would have had Jack run it over to your place, but I’s worried about him gettin’ stuck and keepin’ you out longer. I hope you’re not workin’ past midnight. Go home.”
Even as a kid Shirley had leaned toward bossy.
Canon checked his cell phone. No messages. 12:58. Close enough. He would tell Shirley it was midnight. She worried enough about him.
He reached for his jacket, turned off the lights and was out the door by 12:59. So he didn’t see the single line of text that rolled across the bottom of the scanner at 1:00: Man spotted on foot near Patterson Road.
* * *
Maggie flung the door wide and pulled the man inside, dragging him by the back of his jacket toward the fire. He was heavy and yelped at the harsh treatment, as if his limbs had begun to set in a curled position and she was torturing him by trying to straighten him out.
“I’m sorry! I’m trying to get you closer to the fire.” She reached for a quilt from the rack and threw it over him, using it to rub his frozen limbs.
“Easy!” he hissed, jerking his body away. “It’s too much.”
“I’m sorry.” Maggie felt of his hands, stiff and bent as frozen boards. “Tell me how to help you.”
His face clenched like his body. “Just let me lie here.”
She stepped back to study him, wondering if this was really happening or if she was in the middle of a vivid dream. The man began to shake. Maggie pulled another quilt from the rack and tucked it around him. Feeling the cold herself, she closed the cabin door, locked it and stood to the side marveling at the sudden change to her evening, still wondering if it was real.
* * *
Canon’s patrol car left tracks in the winding drive. He stamped his snowy boots on the back porch of the farmhouse and flipped on the lights in the kitchen.
He could smell the Pine-Sol clean of the counters before he saw them. That meant Thelma, a neighbor down the road, had come even though it was a holiday week. Canon was a little surprised, but knew she needed the money. Thelma came every second and fourth Wednesday. He was thankful she brought in the mail and thumbed through it as he opened the fridge, making a mental note to drop a check in Thelma’s mailbox on his way into the office tomorrow. In case her family was low. Thelma’s husband, Frank, worked at the plant and this was their slow season.
The shelves of the refrigerator were bare, Shirley’s leftovers from Christmas long gone. Canon opened the freezer next and stared at the plastic selections, his stomach rumbling at the thought of Shirley’s stew. Oh well, she’d bring him some tomorrow.
None of the bags looked appetizing, so he closed the door and went up the stairs.
* * *
Maggie’s heart thumped wildly as the man continued to shake on the floor, more violently now. Had she waited too long? Tom never once talked about hypothermia! How should that be treated?
“I’ll call an ambulance,” she offered, stepping toward the kitchen.
“No!” He tried to rise. “No ambulance.”
“Okay. Okay.” Maggie came back and knelt beside him, her brain flailing for solutions. “Hot coffee?”
He groaned. “Soup?”
Maggie had brought some tomato soup from home. “I’ll go warm it.” She hurried to the kitchen. Where did he come from? And what was he doing out in this weather? She was anxious to put the questions to him, but felt she should help him get thawed out first.
Think, Maggie!
When the soup was on the stove, she pulled cheese and butter from the refrigerator and sliced the homemade bread. She would make him a grilled cheese sandwich, too. That was good with tomato soup. Maybe two sandwiches. How long had it been since he’d eaten?
Maggie watched the man through the cutout then stuck her head back through the door to the living room. He was still shaking, his limbs rattling against the floorboards.
“How about a hot bath? That would be the quickest way, wouldn’t it? To get you warm?” She knew from recent experience.
The man moaned like an animal. What had he been through?
“Yes,” came the whisper from where he lay curled on his side.
Maggie ran to fill the tub. With the water running and the soup simmering, she came back to help him up. A tear slid off the end of his nose. His pain-filled gaze pierced her. She could see his eyes were blue and his grizzled cheeks gaunt. His hair, matted with ice and snow, light-colored underneath.
“Thank you,” he whispered. His face broke into a sudden smile. “I must have scared the bejeebies out of you.”
Maggie laughed, from relief not joy. “I was asleep. Not expecting anyone.”
“I guess not.”
Putting her hands under his arms, she helped the man stand. He yelled again, tensing. The quilts fell off. That’s when she noticed the blood on his leg.
He must have felt her stiffen. “I fell on the ice. Into a broken post. I don’t think it’s bad.”
Fear trickled up Maggie’s spine. A stranger…in her cabin…in the middle of the night…injured…nearly frozen. And now she was helping him to the bath. But…she couldn’t leave a man writhing in pain…freezing…on her porch.
She walked him slowly toward the bathroom thinking about the gun beneath her bed.
Lowering the lid on the toilet, Maggie helped the man sit while she checked the water. “I hope it’s not too warm.” The faucets squeaked as she twisted them off. “You can add more hot as you can stand it.”
From where he sat curled tight the man nodded. Maggie wondered if they would ever get him straightened out again. His hands looked useless. He tried to move them, but they didn’t appear to be working. She told herself there was nothing to be alarmed about. This man was docile as a kitten, and seemed genuinely grateful for her help.
“I hate to ask you this,” he said.
“It’s okay.” Maggie knew what he was going to say and almost added I’m a mom, but thought better of it. This wasn’t a child she was about to undress. It was hard to tell the man’s age. It was hard to even get a good look at him, the way he sat hunched and shaking.
First Maggie peeled the jean jacket off his shoulders, taking care in pulling the sleeves over his frozen hands. He groaned as she moved his stiffened limbs.
“Like knives!” he said, with a grimace. She knew he was talking about the blood flowing back.
When she had the jacket off of him, Maggie unlaced his shoes, old canvas Converse, and peeled off his icy socks. His clothes were ill fitting and no match for the weather.
Where was his car? Why was he on foot? Why was he not dressed to be out in this weather? Where had he come from? And where was he going?
The man’s feet were well shaped and masculine, as ice-chilled as his hands. Maggie stood and pulled his shirt from the waistband then leaned in to unbutton it. The only man she had ever undressed was Tom, and Tom was not this tall,
not this muscled…nor had he ever shaken like a leaf while she unfastened his clothing.
She worked the man’s arms out of his shirt, then his undershirt, and peeled the latter up over his head. A thin tattoo ran under his collarbone, from his right to left shoulder, the word “everlasting” in rolling scroll. Maggie tried not to stare at the letters or hairline that reached up to encircle them.
Violent spasms shook his body. They needed to get him in the water. She helped him stand. The only thing left was his pants.
“The shower might have worked better,” Maggie said. “I just thought—”
“No, you were right.” His breathing jerked, as erratic as his movements. “That would have been like icepicks.” His hands groped the clasp of his jeans, but his fingers were wooden. “If you’ll just get me started,” he whispered, “I think I can manage from there.”
“Okay, but shouldn’t we get you closer?” Based on his mobility, she didn’t see how he could get himself to the tub.
He glanced at it several feet away in front of the large windows along the wall. “You’re right.”
Nudging her shoulder under his arm, Maggie inched him over.
“Get me started,” he whispered again, his mouth near her ear. She felt his face break into a grin. “Just don’t take advantage of me.”
“Of course not.” Maggie avoided his eyes and unfastened his pants, sliding her hands along his quivering sides, inching the trousers down until the bones of his hips showed. She tried not to notice, but from all indication, the lower part of his body was as well defined as the top.
His breath stirred the top of her hair. “That should do.”
Without looking up again, Maggie made sure his arms would hold him to the side of the tub, then she left the bathroom and closed the door. She stood in the hallway some minutes with her back to the wood trying to calm the rapid drum of her heart.
Alone in a Cabin Page 4