Alone in a Cabin

by Leanne W. Smith

  He knew the curves of the county roads well, taking them at a careful pace, the only tracks his and the deputy’s. Once he got out onto the highway he picked up speed, keeping his front tires in the two gray ruts glistening wet in the sun.

  The police radio on the dash hummed. It all sounded like static to Maggie’s untrained ears, but every now and then Canon would reach over and turn the volume up, listening. Then he’d turn it back down, she assumed out of respect for her. They didn’t talk, but each time Maggie turned to watch the passing scenery she could feel him studying her.

  Her mind rolled over what she’d learned from Mr. Thompson: Zeke as a teenager, roaming the woods around the cabin. Getting his head turned by Tandy Wilkins in high school. What did Tandy look like? Where was she now? Traditional church wedding? What was the timeline? Irene’s sickness. A trial.

  “Sheriff?” asked Maggie.

  Canon had reached to turn up the volume on the regular radio, a country station to cover the static, but turned it back down again.

  “Why was Zeke Thompson in prison?”

  “Ollie didn’t tell you?”

  “No. He said it was because of Zeke’s wife, Tandy, but he didn’t say what it was.”

  Canon sat quietly a minute before answering, as if trying to decide if Maggie could handle the news. “Zeke was convicted of killing Tandy. And a man from Trenton, the man she was cheatin’ with at the time.”

  Silence ballooned and filled the patrol car. Zeke was a murderer?

  “He couldn’t have,” whispered Maggie.

  “He did it. I was the first one on the scene.”

  I’d kill him if I thought it’d make you feel better, Maggie. But it wouldn’t. Trust me.

  Maggie thought of how she had pictured Tom dead in a coffin. If I wrap my hands around his trachea—cut off his windpipe below his larynx—could I squeeze hard enough to shut him up? Forever? In those initial moments after Tom had told her, Maggie thought he deserved to die for his betrayal…and Bethany.

  As Canon turned the car and they entered town Maggie asked, “Just so I’m not caught off guard, there’s not any chance you think I killed the man behind the cabin, is there?”

  “Of course not.” Canon scowled. “There’s no evidence that points to that.”

  So he could have conceived of her as a killer if there had been evidence? This was not a comforting thought. “I suddenly feel like I’m being brought in for questioning. Is that the same thing as making a statement?”

  “Not by my way of thinking.” Canon could be as matter-of-fact as Zeke. “If I was bringing you in for questioning you’d be behind the cage in cuffs, and I’d card you the minute we got in the door.”

  The sheriff’s uniform…his hip radio…the gun on his belt…now his words bouncing off the cage behind her head sent a chill tickling up Maggie’s spine. If the sheriff thought she was guilty of something, he wouldn’t be swayed by her charm…if Maggie had any to claim. So she didn’t need to be thinking about how thick his arms were, or wonder if those creases around his eyes indicated potential feelings for her. The sheriff was just doing his job.

  She decided not to ask what ‘carding’ meant. Fingerprints?

  Maggie craned her head to peer through the hard plastic mesh separating the back seat from the front. Was Zeke cuffed and carded? What did squad cars look like in Marston County thirty years ago? Same mesh screens separating the back from the front? Was it always called a cage? Like for animals?

  “I guess that makes me feel better,” she muttered. Canon patted her arm above the wrist. She wondered if the sheriff had been taught this was a safe place to touch a woman. Non-threatening.

  “This is just a statement for the report,” he said.

  We’re both writers, me and the sheriff—he writes fact and I write fiction. What exactly was fact? And what exactly was fiction? If facts led to conclusions of truth, what did it mean when facts didn’t add up?

  Maggie could think of more than one life moment she couldn’t explain, like two especially close calls in traffic. Both times she had been daydreaming. Both times she had her foot on the gas to pull into traffic and didn’t see the trucks barreling down on her—one a black SUV, the other an eighteen wheeler on the interstate. Something she still couldn’t explain moved her foot to the brake each time—mashed it to the floor and saved her life.

  When she told Tom about each incident, he said, “Lucky you saw it in time. Lucky your instincts kicked in.” But Maggie knew it wasn’t her—her instincts never kicked in.

  The facts she was about to share with the Marston County Sheriff wouldn’t add up, either. Did it mean those facts weren’t true? Had they never really happened? And if they had, how could she ever explain them?

  Sometimes Maggie lost track of time. That was a true statement. But her pride didn’t want her to admit it to Canon. Could that have happened at the cabin…with Zeke? Did Maggie lose track of time?

  But her phone said today was Saturday. And how could her vision of Zeke look exactly like an older version of the picture in Mr. Thompson’s cottage? How was that explained? That the man she spent the past two days with was the same man who froze to death on the steps of her cabin thirty years ago?

  That first day she walked down to Mr. Thompson’s before the snow started, hadn’t they had a brief conversation on his porch? Had she seen into his den that day? To the picture on the console?

  Maggie and Canon arrived at the station, a low-roofed, red brick building off the square.

  When they stepped inside, no one else was there. “It is a holiday,” mumbled Canon. “And Shirley has the weekends off.”

  Amos must still be at the coroner’s. Maggie was glad. An audience of one and a voice recorder was more than she really wanted.

  Canon showed Maggie into his office at the back of the station, dragging a chair in to sit beside his desk. He was at home—master of the ship—and set right into acting like it, hanging his coat on a hook by the door, straightening a stack of mail on the edge of his desk, starting a pot of coffee.

  “You drink coffee all day?” Maggie hoped her voice sounded steady.

  “Only on days I don’t get enough sleep.”

  He took her coat and hung it next to his then poured two cups without asking, handed her one, and set the other on the desk before inching around her in the small office. He was respectful, and only lightly placed his hands on either side of her hips as he slid past, but Maggie felt them. Then she watched as he rolled his sleeves to his elbows, changed the setting on his phone to record and laid it face-up on the desk in front of her. He had nice forearms.

  Guilt stabbed her. So what if he has nice forearms?

  She looked away from Canon’s arms and concentrated on his nameplate instead—block letters carved in wood—hoping the solidity of it would help bring her heart back into its regular rhythm. It wasn’t every day a woman’s statement was needed. It wasn’t every day she got an up-close look at the dead.

  Next Maggie’s eyes landed on the phone he had laid in front of her. A Samsung. In a black case. On a brown desk. The desk was well-worn, the finish rubbed off the two corners nearest to her. Was it from guests having gripped each side with their hands during interrogations? Did Canon make everyone nervous…or just Maggie? Was it his title…or those forearms?

  * * *

  Canon watched Maggie inspect his office, noting how she avoided his eyes. He couldn’t blame her. Tough day. But he had a hard time keeping his off her. Maggie Raines wore an elegance not often seen in Marston County, even in those worn jeans—the kind that hugged her curves and went down into her boots.

  He marveled at the miracle that she was standing in front of him and wondered what she saw, wondered what she thought of him, hoping once again the cleaner he had used on the back seat of the cruiser had gotten Tim Drexler’s stench out. It never occurred to him that the woman from his dreams would materialize and be the next one to ride in it.

  Just before she sat down, he i
nched her chair toward his desk. He wanted her closer.

  * * *

  Not knowing what to do with her eyes in the close quarters of Canon’s office, Maggie peered through the window looking out over the larger front office instead. She suspected Canon pulled her chair closer so he could pat her arm if she needed encouragement.

  How do I know this about him already? She just knew.

  “Nobody’s going to listen to this recording but me,” he said. “I want to be sure I get the facts straight when I write the report later. This lets me listen to you instead of taking notes.”

  Thoughtful of him. Or was this some kind of trick? Maggie couldn’t think straight.

  Canon’s gaze was as calm as the hands folded in front of him. Had he always been this patient? Or had he learned it over time? Did that uniform affect him when he put it on, or did it only affect others when they observed him in it? What was it about a man in uniform?

  No…it wasn’t the uniform. Canon Dale simply had a way about him. He was obviously used to dealing with the traumatized.

  Is that what I am?

  * * *

  Canon watched Maggie run a finger along her bottom lip, then chew on the finger as her eyes wandered around his office one more time before landing back on his. Then, looking self-conscious, she pulled her hand from her lips and laid it on the desk.

  “Deep breath.” His gaze never strayed from her eyes—the eyes of a doe caught in headlights. His chair creaked as he leaned forward and touched her arm, seeking to reassure her. “From the beginning. Day you arrived at the cabin.”

  “I arrived the day after Christmas. About noon.” She stopped and cleared her throat.

  “To be clear, this is the cabin on Patterson Road past Ollie Thompson’s place.” Canon needed that on the recording.

  “Correct.”

  * * *

  Maggie cleared her throat again, giving courage to her vocal cords. Everything about the sheriff was starched and crisp, strong and solid, including his voice. She tried not to let it intimidate her.

  Ollie must be short for Oliver. Maggie studied Canon’s eyes. Straight on. Unblinking. Brown like hers. Zeke’s eyes were blue. Does Canon have that in his files?

  She laid a hand on his arm above the wrist this time.

  * * *

  Canon looked down at Maggie’s hand on his arm, thinking of his dream, the part where the dark-haired woman undressed him.

  Do your job, Canon.

  “It started with Tom,” she said. “In August. That’s what sent me to the cabin in the first place.”

  “Okay.” Afraid of her touch but trying not to show it, he covered her hand with his own. “Start with Tom.”

  16

  “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?” 1 Corinthians 15:55, NIV

  When Maggie finished talking—telling Canon each detail exactly as she remembered it—he continued to stare at her. She heard the clock ticking on the wall behind him. In one slow but fluid motion he reached to stop the record button on his phone, raised his brows, and leaned back again causing his chair to creak.

  “That’s quite a story, Mrs. Raines.”

  “What happened to ‘Maggie’?”

  Canon’s eyes flashed. “This mean you’re going to call me ‘Canon?’”

  Was this the first time the sheriff had asked Maggie a direct question? And not worded his question as a statement?

  Maggie looked away. She had already begun to think of him as Canon rather than Sheriff Dale. He studied her in silence so long she began to grow uncomfortable. What did he mean by story? Did he think she was making this up? All this detail?

  Canon picked up his phone and turned it over absentmindedly. “Zeke Thompson died thirty years ago,” he finally said.

  “So how did he know about cell phones?” wondered Maggie. Now that she had gone through it again, laid it on the table for Canon, Maggie’s mind was free to explore some of the particulars, and why it might have happened. She had been handed a gift. Zeke could unlock her way forward as a writer…free her to be who she was meant to be all along…liberate her from a captivity she had allowed herself to crawl into.

  Turn the prism a quarter to the right, Maggie.

  If Tom hadn’t had the affair with Bethany, Maggie never would have gone to the cabin in the first place. She would never have met Zeke Thompson. Can I do Zeke’s story justice?

  She realized Canon was staring at her. Maggie longed for him to believe her, even as her mind raced through inconsistencies. She didn’t need the sheriff to point them out to her. “He did act like he’d never heard of a ‘text’ before,” she said. “But then he knew how to put a code in—he knew a code was needed.”

  “I didn’t see any evidence there was anyone in that cabin but you.”

  “Or computers! How did he know the laptop was my computer? When did personal computers come out?” He ate food! Borrowed my toothpaste. His leg bled. I bandaged it.

  Canon’s hand was back on her arm above the wrist. “Forgive me for asking, Maggie, but is there any chance you dreamed this?”

  His doubt punched a jarring hole in Maggie’s musing. “He was there, Canon. It didn’t feel like a dream.”

  “Neither did Dorothy’s.”

  That stung. “But two days passed. How you do account for that?” She realized as she said it that Canon only had her word on the time. There was no one—nothing—to back her up. From all appearances Maggie had been alone in the cabin.

  The sheriff rubbed his neck. It seemed an absentminded gesture, but absentmindedness didn’t fit him any better than his nervous talking when he first met her.

  “There was an empty bottle of wine on the counter,” he said.

  That stung, too. “I only had one glass at a time.” Again, who could back her up on that? Or had it been two? Yes, last night she had two glasses, but Maggie chose not to correct herself.

  “Are you a regular drinker?”

  “No…I mean…what does ‘regular’ mean?”

  “Daily.”

  “No, I don’t drink daily.” Once or twice a month. Well…except for this week.

  “How does alcohol typically affect you?”

  “I do not have an alcohol problem, Sheriff!”

  “Is there any chance the lines blurred between fact and fiction, then?” Maggie’s eyes flashed up at him. He looked a little embarrassed. “And I thought we agreed on ‘Canon.’”

  “I had one glass of wine before I fell asleep on the couch Wednesday night.” That was a true statement, best of her recollection. “One glass of Chardonnay.”

  “So there were two bottles of wine.”

  Maggie clamped her mouth shut.

  “You ever blacked out from drinking?”

  “No!”

  “And you never heard of Zeke Thompson before? It was a long time ago, Maggie. Isn’t it possible you read it in the papers at the time, about the murders and conviction, saw his picture then and simply dreamed it?”

  Maggie shook her head. She had been finding Canon Dale attractive in his brown uniform, with his satisfied and sheepish looks, but now she reconsidered. “Does that not seem like an incredible coincidence, Sheriff?” He gave her a look. “Canon.”

  “I don’t know, Maggie, but isn’t it worth asking the question? I’m on your side here. I don’t not believe you. I’m just trying to find a plausible explanation!” Canon seemed as frustrated as her. “Could your subconscious mind have known you were at that same cabin? That, married with the glass of wine…”

  The question, much as Maggie’s better judgment tried to resist it, burrowed in and planted a seed of doubt. Oh, who was she kidding? She’d been doubting since she woke that morning. She’d been doubting for the past two days. Could she have dreamed it? Like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz?

  Was it possible she had awakened that first night, or the next morning, in some kind of writer’s trance? Had she really only had one glass of wine? Or was it two? Did she sleep thr
ough a whole day? Is that what got her days off? Or had she gone straight to her computer and lost track of time that way? Did hours fly by without her knowing?

  No…that was crazy! Maggie wasn’t crazy. She knew what she had seen and heard. Zeke’s blood was red!

  Today was New Year’s Eve. That meant two days had passed. And, by God, she did not use the word swimmingly! But the way Canon looked at her now, she knew better than to say so. He was not convinced.

  Maggie’s face flushed hot. Once again she was glad they were the only two in the office.

  Canon reached for her arm above the wrist again. She almost jerked it away. But she knew this wasn’t his fault. The sheriff was only doing his job. It was right for him to get the facts straight.

  “Why don’t we get a bite to eat, then ride back out to the cabin?” he suggested. “You can walk me through it again when we get out there. Step-by-step, just like you remember. Maybe it will lead us to something. I believe Shirley said The Local Café was going to be open for lunch today.”

  Maggie didn’t answer. She didn’t see the point of trying to eat, and she didn’t see the point of rehashing the story. Canon obviously didn’t believe her. It did sound crazy, even to her own ears.

  She tried to focus on her jacket as the sheriff held it out to her. She knew she shouldn’t be mad at Canon for acting like a sheriff. And he didn’t have to believe her for Maggie to know what she had experienced. Zeke’s presence in that cabin had changed her. It was kind. Tender.

  Maggie numbly followed Canon to The Local Café and took a seat across from him.

  Zeke’s story was a blessing. While Maggie had questioned whether she should ever have gone to the cabin in the first place, going had been a blessing. And Zeke’s story—whether Zeke’s ghost had handed it to her or she’d pieced it all together from subliminal remembrances or a dream—Zeke’s story was a gift for the unwrapping.

  Noises filled the café around them, but none of the sounds really registered. Trust in the gift, Maggie, and don’t overthink it. Wasn’t that what Zeke would say? Isn’t that what he had tried to teach her? What a person believed was the important part.