Thin Ice Page 4

  Of course, the scar was both my most interesting and most horrific feature. It had been stapled together nicely, but Dr. Genero said the hair was sure to grow out funny around it. With her constant optimism, she’d said something like, “But cowlicks help with styling sometimes, don’t they!” I hadn’t responded, though I did appreciate her saving my life.

  I moved out of the bathroom and grabbed my typewriter. I placed it on the desk and wished I’d brought more paper. Maybe the Mercantile carried some. I opened and turned on the laptop, and then switched on my own satellite hot spot; one that was untraceable and guaranteed to give me access to the Internet, even out in the wilds of Alaska, hopefully even under cloudy skies. It wouldn’t be blazing fast, but it would be able to handle emails—without attachments, but that was okay. The hot spot had been an online purchase, something Dr. Genero hadn’t even known she’d helped me with. Cash for the gift card in the gift shop and then a request to use her name for a delivery (because I would be harder to find in the hospital) got me the tech items I’d needed and the Chicago Cubs baseball cap. No one would expect someone from St. Louis to be wearing a Cubbies cap.

  Once everything was fired up and running, I set up a new generic email. Only four people would know the address: Detective Majors, my agent, my editor, and my mom. I’d think about giving it to Dr. Genero. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her. I did, but she was so exposed to the public that I didn’t want to do anything to put her in potential harm’s way. I sent similar emails to my agent and editor, keeping the notes simple. I wasn’t in the hospital or in St. Louis anymore. I sent my agent, Naomi, our new code word, letting her know things were okay.

  Naomi and I had come up with two code words, one to use to signify that everything was okay, one for when things looked to be headed or had already gone south.

  I’d been on the phone with her when Levi Brooks had knocked on my door. She’d heard the ruckus of him taking me, and then she’d called 911. It was all too late. Levi had me gagged and in his van in what felt like seconds in my fuzzy memory, the bouquet of daisies a strange bread crumb–like trail from my door to the van, and a pattern I was remembering more and more. No wonder I thought I was seeing daisies by the side of a road in nowhere Alaska.

  Naomi hadn’t recovered either. She was nervous, and even though she’d said the right words to me when we’d talked last week, they’d been clipped and lined with trauma. I’d asked her if she was okay, and she’d sighed and said she would be eventually. I was glad she hadn’t lied, told me she was already fine. She would be relieved I decided to hide away, disappear for a while. I could write anywhere if I could still write at all, and knowing Levi Brooks couldn’t get at me easily would hopefully give us both more restful nights, and me more words.

  It wasn’t that I thought Levi could somehow read my emails, but I had become convinced that anything was possible, and it was always better to be careful, wary, even too much so. He’d stalked me for months, maybe years, leaving me strange gifts, appearing at places I ran errands, showing up at signings. I hadn’t noticed most of those incidents as they’d happened, but I had noticed some of them, chalking them up to coincidences or the fact that we probably lived in the same neighborhood. Hindsight and the flashback memories helped me now see them for what they truly were—scenes of a stalker on the prowl.

  I sent a quick note to Detective Majors, letting her know I was safe. Hopefully, she would have some good news regarding the police’s search for Levi. I wasn’t sure if she’d admit to her superiors that she took me to the airport or if she’d pretend she didn’t know where I’d gone. She might be in trouble because of her assistance but when I’d asked her about it she’d said she’d be fine. As I sent the email, I hoped for a quick return. I could make my trip to Alaska a vacation instead of an escape if Levi was found quickly. I could be home long before Freeze-Over.

  Finally, I wrote to my mom. Undeniably, her world had been rocked when I’d been so hurt and violated, but she was made of tough, steely stuff. She’d been glad I was going to be okay, but her life’s motivation hadn’t been altered much. Revenge and retribution had long been on her to-do list. A part of me had wondered if she’d now start looking for Levi more than trying to discover what might have happened to my father. Would Levi become her bigger obsession, or just an add-on?

  My dad had disappeared, fallen off the face of the earth, it seemed, when I was seven years old. Since then Mom had been driven by one goal: find out what happened to him. I suspected he was dead. She’d come to hope he was dead; she couldn’t face it if he’d chosen to leave us. Maybe it wasn’t hope, maybe it was just a way to preserve her diminishing sanity.

  He’d been a salesman, the kind that knocked on the doors of houses in small Missouri towns, selling cleaning supplies. Before he’d disappeared, we were just a small family living in a two-bedroom, post-WWII clapboard house in an Ozark town where my grandfather was the law. But after Dad disappeared, Mom became unhinged, according to Gramps, who raised me more than anyone else had.

  I finished high school early, having skipped middle school altogether, so I’d graduated at sixteen and wanted a job. I hadn’t been marked with the burden of being any sort of genius, but I’d managed school more quickly than my peers. With no desire for college and no one pushing me to make that choice, I’d happily become Gramps’s secretary. I saw myself at that job forever, saw me working with Gramps and the other officers all my life. But when I was eighteen, Gramps died—his heart just stopped—ruining my forever plans. Writing took over, giving my head somewhere to go when all I kept noticing were the empty places he’d left behind. I’d worked with him for two wonderful years, and then I became a bestselling author, first book out of the chute had sold millions of copies. And the other five books since had only done better.

  Mom and I had always gotten along, but ours was more a friendship, a partnership—sometimes just a trusty companionship, more than a mother-daughter loving bond. I didn’t know any different, and I wasn’t bothered by whatever we lacked. Gramps had more than made up for anything that might have been missing.

  I didn’t know quite what to say to her in an email though. I kept it simple for now.

  I’m okay. I ran away, directly from the hospital. More to come. Email me if you need me. I’ll text soon. Be safe.

  I’d send her a text later, one that would get her to a phone she could use securely. I wasn’t ready to talk to her yet. If Levi ever figured out my real name was Beth Rivers, he could track down my mother, but she’d already told me she wouldn’t care.

  Yeah, well, he knocks on my door I’ll castrate the son of a bitch and then I’ll kill him, so let’s hope he finds me. Fucker’ll get what he deserves.

  As much as I believed her words and as much as I hoped he got what he deserved, I didn’t want her to ever experience his evil. It wasn’t something even the toughest person I’d ever known could handle. Some evil is otherworldly, incomprehensible, even to people who’d seen bad things. I didn’t remember all the details of my time with him yet, but, yes, I remembered the pure evil of Levi Brooks. It was the only thing he was made of, and I still couldn’t shake it all off me. I could still taste it in the back of my throat.

  Mom had been with me every day at the hospital, until I’d discharged myself. I’d called her early and lied, telling her I was already on my way home and would call her when I got there. I hoped Detective Majors had somehow let her know I was okay.

  I didn’t write to anyone about the rest of it—that I was still in a daze made of leftover fear, hours of air travel, snow-covered peaks, a vast ocean, and a place so distant from the world I’d known that its downtown was made only of a corner. I didn’t share how suspicious I was, how more things were coming back to me, or how relieved I felt to be so far away. I didn’t mention the potential murder Donner had told me about. But these things were all running through my mind.

  I really did hope I wouldn’t have to hide for long.

  I finished t
he emails and a gigantic wave of tired came over me. It was something I hadn’t felt so completely for three weeks. It came with a sense that I might be able to close my eyes all the way, give in to a deep sleep without figuratively or literally keeping one eye open, or having nightmares. I turned off the equipment and crawled under the quilt. Then I got up and checked the lock and put the chair in front of the door before I returned to the bed. Then I got up one more time and packed the equipment back into the backpack. I brought the pack to the bed with me and got comfortable again.

  It took less than another minute before I was out cold.

  Four

  I hadn’t meant to sneak up on them, but they were headed toward the dining room and I left my room just after they passed by.

  “You are such an opportunist, Willa,” a woman I hadn’t met yet said. She wore clothes that didn’t seem warm enough for the temperatures, but I still had only my T-shirt and windbreaker. What did I know?

  “I’ll tell her, Loretta,” Willa said.

  “If I don’t give you money, you’ll tell on me. Oooh, I’m so scared,” the other woman, Loretta apparently, said.

  “You should be. It’s a parole violation,” Willa said.

  The two women stopped, and Loretta grabbed Willa’s arm, none too gently. The kitchen was on the other side of the lobby, around a corner. They still didn’t see me, I stepped backwards, hiding on the other side of the corner again, as I listened. I knew their conversation was none of my business, but I was curious, and I didn’t want to let them know I was there.

  “Listen to me, that’s blackmail, extortion, plain and simple. Who’s going to get in more trouble? Me for my petty parole violation or you, the blackmailer?” Loretta said.

  A long moment later, Willa laughed. I was bothered by the confidence in that laugh.

  “Chill, ’Retta. Chill,” Willa said.

  Loretta didn’t answer, but made a sort of quick growl noise before they continued into the dining room.

  I gave it another second before I moved to join them. Once around the corner, my foot kicked something that bounced off the baseboard next to the door. I crouched to gather it.

  A tiger. A small plastic tiger. A kid’s toy. I stood and turned around again. I hurried to the lobby and put the tiger on the corner of the front desk. I could have taken it into the dining room, but it didn’t seem valuable, and I didn’t want Willa and Loretta to think for a moment that I’d heard them.

  Finally, I headed back to the dining room, now completely curious about my fellow Benedict Housemates.

  * * *

  “All right, Willa, have at it,” Viola said.

  She hadn’t been joking, she really did have the cooks test the food first.

  I did catch a look between Willa and Loretta when I came in, as if they wondered if they might have been overheard, but I acted like this was all new to me. Viola did some quick introductions and told me to sit down. I did.

  I’d slept hard, dead to the world until Viola had pounded on my door announcing that breakfast was being served.

  I’d sat up in the comfortable bed, confused and needing a moment to figure out where I was and how I got there. Had I really escaped to Alaska? It appeared I had. After throwing on my inadequate clothes and the baseball cap, I’d left my room to join my fellow housemates in the small dining room next to the small but modernly equipped kitchen.

  There were three felons; all of them had not only come from Anchorage but they said they were originally from there too. Willa, Loretta, and Trinity. Willa now kept her words brief, and the sour expression on her face continual. She was the cook for the rest of the week and didn’t have much to offer to the introductory conversation beyond yeps and nopes. Cooking duties were for breakfast and dinner. Everyone was on their own for lunch. The felons were required to attend the prepared meals, but I could make my own choices. Had Viola said I was required to be there, I would have obeyed. She was a force to be reckoned with, and another small part of me relaxed because of the power she exuded. So far, she was on my side. Something in me wanted someone else to be in charge of something; meals and a sense of protection were a good start.

  I sat next to Loretta. For breakfast she had chosen the attire of a tank top and cutoff denims. It was summer after all, or so she’d stated when Viola questioned the outfit as the food was being served. She was either in her forties, or had had a rough run-up into her thirties. Lines around her pretty eyes and around her mouth were deeper than they seemed they should be. She’d put on more red lipstick for breakfast than I thought I’d worn in my entire thirty years. Her voice was big, but not quite as big as her chest. Behaving as if the contentious moment with Willa hadn’t stayed with her, she’d licked her long-nail-adorned finger, given me a critical frown, and then tucked a stray piece of my hair back under the cap, ending her inspection with a smile and a hug. I liked her, even though I’d already witnessed a tougher side to her—or maybe because of it. However, I wondered if she would have taken my money if it had been in one of my pockets when she hugged me. As it was, I had to push away the urge to pat the money belt around my waist.

  Trinity was the mousiest felon I’d ever seen, and I’d seen a few back in that Missouri police department. Tiny, with a sad smile that would melt even the hardest of hearts (probably not Viola’s though) and small bony fingers that made me wonder how she could steal anything bigger than a stick of gum. Her skin showed signs of what I thought was drug use, but it could just be that she had a bad complexion. She didn’t behave as if she was under the influence of anything except anxiety; she seemed a little jumpy.

  Willa, without the jacket she’d worn the day before, was even smaller than I’d thought. She was also in the best shape of the three parolees, with toned, muscled arms and what looked like a firm six-pack under her tight T-shirt. She had to be in her forties at least, but she must work out all the time for that shape.

  She took a bite of the pancake Viola held on the plate, and then a bite from a slice of bacon. We all watched for signs of poison, though I watched everyone else too. They took this moment seriously, particularly Viola, who, in fact, did wear a gun holstered around her hips. I wondered if she’d ever had to use it.

  A few moments after Willa’s successful swallows, Viola startled me with a fist pound on the table and declared that it was time to eat.

  The dining room was paneled in the same cherrywood as the lobby, the two round tables and four chairs institutional and stark compared to the rich walls. One chair was brought over from the other table so we all sat together, not overly crowded but with little elbow room. The pancakes and bacon were either the best I’d ever had or I was hungrier than I’d ever been. My stomach had turned into a never-ending pit.

  “Take it,” Viola said as she saw me eye the last pancake on the serving platter. “Willa made more. They’re under the warming lamp in the kitchen, but we’ll bring them over.”

  “It’s the fresh air, sweetie pie,” Loretta said. “And you slept good and hard. We knocked last night for dinner.”

  “You did?” I said with a mouth full of pancake. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

  “We figured,” Viola said. “Happens all the time. Not to worry.”

  “Yes, we did,” Trinity said quietly. I had to strain, lean closer, to hear her. “You put a chair by your door. We thought you were either tired or had killed yourself.”

  I’d missed some excitement. “You tried to get into my room?”

  “Yes,” Viola said. “Just me.”

  The pancakes and bacon in my stomach moved to an uncomfortable position, but I told myself to remain calm. I didn’t trust my reactions to know if being bothered by Viola checking if I was alive was appropriate or not.

  “I understand. I’m sorry I didn’t hear you knock. I was very tired,” I said, too evenly, almost eerily.

  Four pairs of eyes looked at me with furrowed eyebrows above. I strained a smile, but I probably just looked maniacal. I cleared my throat and took a sip
of coffee, causing the others to resume eating.

  “Viola told us you’re from Denver. What do you do, Beth?” Loretta asked.

  “I’m a consultant. I help businesses organize their file storage structures.” After all, that had been my first victim’s job. Fictionally speaking, of course. 37 Flights had introduced Hailey Boston, who was attacked inside a corporate building where she was working one evening. The entire book had been one night of cat and mouse as she tried to get out of the building alive. Of course, the attack and subsequent chase had given her the chance to think about her jaded past and forgive herself for the mistakes she’d made, figure out ways to right the wrongs she’d done. If she could get free, she’d apologize to those she’d hurt, never regret anything, ever again, including the things she’d been forced to do that night.

  “My goodness, that sounds boring,” Loretta said.

  “Loretta!” Viola rolled her eyes.

  Willa and Trinity sent Loretta disapproving frowns.

  “We should all be so boring,” Willa added.

  “It is methodical. I like tedious and methodical.” I didn’t mention that Publishers Weekly had loved the book, saying, “You’ll hold your breath the whole way through.”

  My lies kept piling up, but they were necessary, and this one had been one I knew well. In my head, Hailey was a three-dimensional person. Taking on her career was like borrowing a sweater from a good friend. And, I wouldn’t have to work too hard to remember the details.

  “Whatever,” Loretta said.

  “You’re doing that in Alaska?” Trinity asked.

  “No, I do most things via email, Skype every now and then. I don’t need to visit offices in person much. I’ve done this for so long that I can make the appropriate suggestions via a written report. Clients only have to pay for the consult, not get a personal visit from me unless they want one. They prefer it that way.”