A Cold White Fear (2 page)

“I
'll get the bandages as soon as I get us some light,” I replied, returning to the pantry.

I squeezed past the tree, endeavouring, albeit unsuccessfully, to avoid its sharp needles. On tiptoes, I reached up to the top shelf to retrieve a couple of oil lamps and then fumbled around on another shelf for the bottle of lamp fuel that was supposed to be there. It was proving difficult to see in the growing darkness. In another hour it would be pitch black.

It would remain so until the hydro trucks eventually made it to this remote wilderness, which likely wouldn't happen until the storm had stopped and all the downed lines and poles leading here were repaired. One time it had taken eleven days, but that was during an ice storm, when inch-thick ice toppled the hydro poles like dominos. With blizzards, the outages tended to be shorter. However, two years ago it took crews three days to turn the lights and heat back on.

I cringed at the thought of being trapped inside my house with these guys for longer than a few hours. Surely they would leave once the injured man was patched up.

Setting the lamps on the kitchen counter, I poured oil into both, adjusted the wicks, and lit them. The tattoos on the face of my unwanted guest sprang menacingly into view. Snakes, big ones, little ones, with long, flicking tongues, slithered over his cheeks, down his neck, and up over his forehead onto his bald pate. Not being a big fan of snakes, I stepped back.

Although he was slim, he held himself in a way that suggested he was all muscle. I suspected he could bench press considerably more weight than Eric could — though that wasn't a fair comparison. With his busy business travel schedule, my husband seldom had time these days to work out on the equipment he'd set up in one of the upstairs bedrooms.

“Take this lamp into your friend,” I said. “I'll get the first aid kit.”

As the lamp's glow headed down the hall, a jolt ran through the house from another strong gust. Snow scraped against the kitchen windows. I threw a couple of logs into the cookstove. Although the house was warm at the moment, with no electricity to fire up the baseboard heaters it would be freezing by morning. I made a mental note to stoke up the fireplaces in the living room and den too.

I was about to check on the boy when a voice behind me said, “My throat is feeling somewhat parched. I imagine you have a well-stocked liquor cabinet somewhere in this palatial cottage of yours. Bring me a bottle.”

There was no way I wanted this guy drunk in my house. Should I pretend I didn't have any? But that would only get him searching through my cupboards, and I didn't want him finding Eric's cherished bottles of single malt.

“There's some beer in the fridge.”

“Hardly. You must have something more in keeping with my palate.”

Thankfully, Eric kept a bottle of rye for a friend who only drank rye and ginger. I pulled it out of the cupboard.

His nose squinched up with disdain. “Nothing better?”

“No.” He wasn't going near Eric's Lagavulin.

He uncapped the bottle and sniffed. “I guess it will have to do. At least it is Crown Royal.” He greedily gulped down the burning liquid. “Aaaahhh, it's been too long.” He took another long swig.

If he continued to drink this stuff straight, he'd be drunk in no time. I passed him a glass and a can of ginger ale.

“It takes me back to my university days.” He poured a good measure of rye into the glass, followed by a lesser amount of ginger ale. “Ice?”

I gave him the ice tray in the hope that a good quantity would dilute the alcohol.

He dislodged a single cube and dropped it into his glass, but instead of heading back to his friend, he started leafing through yesterday's mail sitting on the counter.

He pulled out an envelope and read, “Mr. Eric Odjik. Your husband, I take it. Name sounds Native. Is he Algonquin, like Larry?”

“Yes.” He didn't need to know more, like the fact that Eric had once been the Migiskan band chief and was currently running for Grand Chief of the Grand Council of First Nations.

“Ms. M. Harris. What's the
M
stand for? Mary? Marilyn?”

“No, Margaret.” I wasn't about to give him “Meg,” the name used by people who were part of my life. He definitely was not.

“I'll call you ‘Red.' It seems more fitting.”

I shrugged. Cursed with a head of shocking red hair, though it was a tad faded now, it wasn't the first time someone had called me by that name, nor would it be the last.

After another long draught, he sauntered back down the hall. Although he moved with a dancer's grace, I doubted he was a dancer. More like a viper poised to strike. The bottoms of his jeans were soaked, but I wasn't about to suggest he put on a dry pair of Eric's. He'd unzipped his black nylon windbreaker, which I thought rather lightweight to be wearing outdoors in such weather. But I imagined he hadn't planned on trudging up my long drive in a snowstorm.

I wondered where these guys were going when the accident occurred. The main road dead-ended at the reserve, but perhaps they were going to visit Larry's family for Christmas. On the other hand, neither had mentioned the need to contact anyone to let them know about the accident.

Once satisfied the tattooed man was in the den, I headed back to the pantry. I'd decided to send Jid on his way. Not only would he be safely away from here, but he could also alert Will Decontie. Though Will was the chief of the Migiskan tribal police force and therefore not responsible for the policing at Three Deer Point, I knew he would come. He could also send emergency personnel to take care of the injured man. But I'd no sooner stepped into the narrow room than I heard the tattooed man returning to the kitchen.

“Red, I need your assistance. My friend is out cold.”

I glanced out the pantry windows, hoping to catch sight of the boy to signal him to leave, but it had become too dark outside to see properly. Nonetheless, I waved in the direction of the reserve, hoping he would see it and understand its meaning.

From her crate in an out-of-the-way corner of my large country kitchen, Shoni whimpered and squirmed.

“Look, my puppy has to go outside.” I would use this chance to tell Jid to go straight to the police station.

“She can piss in the cage. My buddy needs you.”

T
he
black cherry panelling and floor-to-ceiling bookcases had never made the den the brightest room in the cottage, but with daylight almost gone, it was like a cave, except for the bright swath where the man had placed the oil lamp. Unfortunately, it didn't reach the injured man, so I moved it to the end table nearest the sofa.

Larry was still, almost too still. But the gentle rise and fall of his chest told me he lived. His hand had fallen away from where it had been gripping his coat. The blood soaked up by the coarse wool looked to be almost dry. Earlier I thought I'd noticed a tear in the fabric, but now I wasn't so certain. I wondered what kind of car accident would cause such a wound, particularly since he didn't appear to be injured or bruised anywhere else.

I removed his wet wool tuque to reveal a head of thick black hair in desperate need of a trim and a wash.

“We need to get this wet coat off him. Could you hold him up while I remove it? By the way, do you have a name?”

“They call me Professor.”

Professor? “Snake” would be more appropriate.

He wrenched the unconscious man up into a sitting position with more force than necessary, which caused Larry to groan. But it hadn't hurt enough to rouse him into consciousness.

I eased his arm out of the sleeve on the opposite side of the wound and carefully removed the coat from around his back, trying not to tug too hard when it became caught. When I started to remove the front part covering the wound, I realized the material had stuck, so I left it for the moment.

The coat's wetness had penetrated to his thin white T-shirt. I could feel the poor man shivering. When I finished treating him, I would replace it with one of Eric's and a heavy wool sweater.

“Okay, you can put him back down. But do it gently.”

His friend eased him onto the sofa with considerable more care. “Sorry, little buddy, if I hurt you.” He turned his yellow eyes in my direction. “Will he live?”

“I've no idea. I'm not a doctor. But I need to check the condition of the wound. For that I need better light.”

I got up and turned to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“To the kitchen to get a headlamp.”

I was hoping for another chance to tell Jid to run, but the man followed right on my heels. I could smell his perfumery aftershave lotion a little too intensely. “Look, stay with your friend to make sure he doesn't have a seizure.”

“Hell, is that likely?”

“I've no idea, but it's best to watch him closely, just in case.”

“Pour me another rye and ginger.” He slapped his empty glass into my hand and strode back to his friend.

Jid was no longer on the back porch. Through the waves of blowing snow I could barely make out the indentations left by his snowshoes. They were heading in the direction of the old hunting trail, though when I saw the rate at which they were being filled in, I was worried I'd sent him into a maelstrom that was more than he could handle.

Yet he was a very determined and very resourceful young man. He might be only twelve, but he'd grown up in these woods, knew the dangers, and how to handle them. Generally it took him about forty minutes to walk to my place from the rez, thirty if he ran. In this weather it could take him close to two hours. Give the police chief a half hour to corral enough skidoos, another half hour to get here, and I could expect rescue in three hours.

Three hours to keep Professor sober. Three hours to keep myself safe. Three hours to keep Larry from dying, for I had no idea how Professor would react if his friend died.

My optimism rose when I saw that the boy had taken Eric's headlamp from the drawer. Though he knew every twist and turn of the trail, snow can change the landscape, especially in the dark. Light would help keep him from getting lost.

I let Shoni do her business on the porch where the snow wouldn't bury her, then gathered up some firewood for the den. When I walked into the room with the puppy pattering behind me, Professor was leaning over his friend, watching him intently.

“You must be good friends.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The way you're worrying about him.”

“He's such a little guy, he's an easy target. So I look out for him.”

“Were you on your way to visit his family?”

“Pardon?”

“To spend Christmas with them. That's your reason for being in this area, isn't it?”

He took a gulp of his drink and stood up. “Stop asking your fucking questions and do something about him.”

His windbreaker swung open to reveal the head of a cobra stamped in red on the front of his black sweatshirt. He padded over to one of the leather armchairs bookending the chesterfield and sank into the soft cushions. After another mouthful of rye, he slammed the glass onto the end table, sending a scared Shoni cowering into a corner. After a few seconds she summoned up the courage to gingerly approach him for a pat. Without thinking, he reached down and gently patted her.

What was with this guy? One minute he was as polite as by your leave and the next as rude as a mindless boor.

T
he
fire flared with the fresh logs, bringing renewed warmth into the den. I switched on the headlamp and surveyed the coat where the blood was drying. I worried that if I removed it, I might cause the bleeding to restart. But if I didn't, it might lead to infection.

I slipped my fingers under the coarse wool and inched them toward the wound. The T-shirt was stuck to the coat where the blood had collected. I gently pried the two fabrics loose. They parted slowly. At one point I thought I felt fresh bleeding, but when I pulled my fingers away there was no sign of new blood.

I was concerned about Larry's continuing unconsciousness. Since his clothes weren't drenched in blood, I didn't think it came from blood loss. Internal bleeding could be another cause. But I had no idea what symptoms to look for, though I knew enough to realize that if he was hemorrhaging, he could die without prompt medical attention. The coma could also be the result of a head injury, which was equally life-threatening.

“Did Larry's head hit something during the accident, like the dashboard?” I asked, though I didn't see any obvious marks on his face or bumps on his head.

“Not that I noticed, but I was too busy trying to keep us from being killed.”

“He could be seriously hurt. He needs proper medical attention.” I stood up. “Since we can't call, one of us should go for help.”

“You're staying right here, as am I.”

“But he could die.”

“It's up to you to make sure he doesn't.”

“If you're expecting me to save him, forget it. I don't know the first thing about first aid.”

Not quite true. Twice before, I'd been involved in trying to save someone's life. The first was when I was eighteen and doing lifeguard duty at a local pool. It had been a busy day with lots of kids, making it difficult to keep track of them all. Suddenly someone shouted that a girl was at the bottom of the pool. Frantic, another lifeguard and I dove in and brought her to the surface. She wasn't breathing. Gloria and I worked on her until the paramedics arrived. She never revived. I blamed myself for her death. I hadn't been vigilant enough. A short while later I quit lifeguarding altogether. Although I learned months later that she'd died from an unsuspected heart condition and not from drowning, I continued to blame myself and still do to this day. Irrational, I know. But that was me. I didn't handle guilt well.

As for the second case? That person died too.

Not exactly a stellar track record, was it?

I continued to work my fingers between the two fabrics. Fortunately, the blood hadn't melded them into one. Finally, the coat came free. I carefully lifted it from his body, removed his arm from the sleeve, and set the bloody coat on the bare wood behind me, away from the oriental carpet, one of Aunt Aggie's prized belongings, though somewhat frayed from years of use.

The puppy was being a little too quiet. I looked around to discover her nestled in the lap of Professor, his long fingers gently stroking her.

“It's been awhile since I had my own dog.” He smiled, revealing a mouth of surprisingly white and well-cared-for teeth.

Maybe I'd misjudged these guys and had overreacted in sending Jid after the police. Regardless, Larry still needed medical attention. Sending the boy was the only way to get it, since this man wasn't about to do it. The mantel clock pointed to a quarter after five. Jid had been gone about thirty minutes. Another two and a half hours before help would arrive.

Night had closed in, leaving the world outside an ominous black hole. Judging by the reduction in sound, the wind's intensity had lessened. Flakes, however, continued to tap incessantly against the den windows.

Larry moaned but remained in a coma. I took this to be a sign that he might be coming out of it.

His T-shirt was caked in mostly dried blood in the area above the injury. A little pressure confirmed that it was stuck to the wound. I felt the best way to remove it was to cut the fabric around the area and gently pry it loose.

I stood up.

“Where are you going?” Professor asked, brushing Shoni aside with a shove, sending her tumbling to the floor. Confused, she ran to me. I picked her up.

“Relax. I'm only going to get a pair of scissors and my first aid kit.”

“Get me another drink.” He tossed me the empty glass.

Taken by surprise, I almost missed it but managed to hang on to it, and with the puppy under one arm, I headed to the kitchen, where the first thing I did was put her in her crate.

Although most of her fur was black, her muzzle was silvery grey. Eventually her coat would turn completely silver. I'd chosen this colour so she wouldn't remind me of my old companion, who'd been a rich, inky black except for a dusting of grey on his muzzle that had appeared in his later years. Eric had named her, appropriately,
Shóníyá,
the Algonquin word for
silver
, which was quickly shortened to Shoni.

I left her quietly munching another bribe while I went upstairs.

I'd no sooner switched on my headlamp and placed my moccasin on the first step than Professor called out again, “Where are you going?”

This was getting boring. “To get the first aid kit in the bathroom.”

“I'm coming with you.”

What was it with this guy?

He creaked up the wooden stairs behind me.

“Red, this is a remarkably fine cottage you live in. You aren't pinched for money, are you?”

I didn't like where this was going. “I don't have a bean. I inherited what little you see here.”

“Hardly little. I've seen millionaires' cottages in the Charlevoix smaller than this.”

Our footsteps echoed as we followed the funnel of light from my headlamp up the stairs. I could feel the cold air rushing down to greet us.

“Much cooler up here,” he remarked. “With a house this old, you must have a fireplace in one or two of the bedrooms.”

“I do.”

“You need to get them going to keep your pipes from freezing.”

He had a point, but I'd worry about it later. My only desire at the moment was to get what I came for and return downstairs as speedily as possible. It unnerved me being up here alone with him in the frigid darkness.

But he had other ideas.

“How many bedrooms do you have?” he asked, stopping to glance through the open door of the room we were passing. I shone my light onto the sparse furnishings to get the message across that I wasn't rich.

Aunt Aggie hadn't bothered to furnish the spare rooms properly, and I hadn't either, which invariably sparked complaints from Jean on the rare occasions when she visited. For the coming visit I was attempting to head off her complaints with new linen, goose-down pillows, and goose- down duvets for the four beds they would be using.

She and her husband didn't share a bed, she'd told me on their first visit not long after Eric and I were married. “We can't be bothered with that nonsense,” she'd said with one of her judicial stares, doubtless of the variety she directed at the poor victims in her courtroom. I'd merely replied that there was nothing like a good romp, which got the outraged reaction I'd intended.

“Six bedrooms,” I said as I continued walking to the next room, the bathroom.

“Good for lots of kids.”

I could feel his eyes on my back, querying where mine were. There weren't any. Eric's daughter was the only offspring we had, and this was going to be her first visit, though not through our choice. Her busy broadcasting schedule and move to the Northwest Territories hadn't permitted a stay until now.

“That's how they built them a hundred years ago,” I said.

“I figured this was built in the late 1800s.”

“In 1891. My great-grandfather built it.”

“My great-grandparents could have used a place this size. They had eighteen kids. But they were poor French Canadian farmers with only a four-bedroom farmhouse, not rich like you English.”

I didn't reply, knowing any answer I gave would lead to places I didn't want to go.