A Cold White Fear (4 page)

“N
o
way you gonna dig around inside me,” Larry squeaked, placing his hand over the wound. He grimaced at the touch. In his other hand he gripped a tiny leather pouch hanging around his neck as if his life depended upon it. It looked to be similar to the amulet Eric wore.

“P'tit Chief, you're going to die if I don't,” Professor said almost in a whisper.

“So … my life ain't worth shit.”

“We've gotten through worse shit than this. You're going to make it. Here, drink this down.” He passed his friend what remained of his drink and then turned to me. “Get the bottle. We have to get him drunk.”

Larry turned his head away from the glass. “No way. You know I go crazy when I get smashed.”

“It's going to hurt like hell. Get drunk and you won't feel a thing.”

Larry grabbed the glass and downed it, but a little too quickly. He coughed and sputtered, which caused him to wince in pain. “Jeez, that hurts.” He closed his eyes as he waited for the pain to subside. Then he took another sip, slower this time. “Sure feels good, eh? Been a long time.” When he finished the drink, he passed Professor the glass and then gingerly ran his fingers over the wound. “Pretty small hole to hurt so much. How'd I get shot?”

I tensed, dying to know the answer myself. I'd been nervously tossing around a few scenarios, none of which fit the definition of law-abiding.

Instead of answering, the tattooed man cast an angry scowl in my direction. “Get the damn bottle.”

“Okay, but are you sure it's a good idea?”

“Do you want my help?”

“He's your friend, not mine.”

“Right, so go get that goddamn bottle.” He slammed his fist down onto the coffee table, which sent me scurrying.

By the time I reached the kitchen door, I could hear feverish whispering. I turned around and tiptoed back to try to catch what they were saying, but the voices stopped abruptly when I stepped on a particularly noisy floorboard.

When I returned with the half-empty bottle of rye and a couple of cans of ginger ale, Professor was gently pushing down on Larry's abdomen.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Trying to see if I can feel the bullet.”

“Is that a good idea? It might cause more bleeding.”

“It's okay. I've seen them do this in the infirmary.”

Infirmary? Sounded like the military to me, but he didn't strike me as being a soldier. “Where was that?”

“No place you'd be interested in.”

Maybe he didn't want to tell me, but I was beginning to have my suspicions.

I noticed an old scar, possibly from the removal of his appendix, on the opposite side of the bullet wound, and another smaller, older scar farther up on Larry's chest. This one appeared too jagged to be from an operation.

“Looks like you were shot once before, Larry.”

He fluttered his eyes open. “Yeah, almost died. Long time ago.” He smiled a faint half smile. “Just a kid, doing something I shouldna been doing.”

“Was this on the rez?”

“Yeah, I was sticking my nose where it don't belong. My uncle thought I was a bear, and wham. Got a bullet in me. But he saved me too. Loaded me onto his Ski-Doo and hightailed it to the nurse. They got me to the hospital in Ottawa pretty quick. Almost died in the ambulance, though.”

“I have a feeling you're going to be okay this time too. Professor, I'm wondering, since the bleeding has stopped, if the injury is as bad as we think. Maybe you don't have to get the bullet out now but can wait until the roads are cleared and you can take him to a doctor.”

Larry grew quiet as he waited for his friend to answer.

“You have a point. I've seen guys bleed a lot worse than this and survive. But rather than waiting, let's get this sucker out now, okay, little buddy?”

Larry nodded numbly, then yelled out “Jesus!” when Professor pushed a little too hard on his abdomen.

“Sorry, P'tit Chief. You better have more rye. It's going to get a lot worse.”

“Ya sure you need to do it now, Professor?” Larry squeaked. “Like the lady said, maybe it can wait until later.”

“I have to do it now. But the good news is since the wound is on one side of your abdomen and not in the middle, the damage to your internal organs could be minimal.”

“If you say so.” Larry squeezed his eyes closed and held on to his amulet as if seeking strength.

I didn't blame him. I wouldn't want to be awake while someone dug around inside of me either.

“Red, you don't happen to have some forceps or something similar with which to extract the bullet?” Professor asked.

“I'm not exactly an infirmary, but let me check in the kitchen to see if my husband has something that might work.”

“Speaking of husband. You still expecting him to get through in this stuff?”

I froze. I'd forgotten I'd told him Eric was coming. “Yeah, he should be here soon. If he can't get through in his Jeep, he'll borrow a Ski-Doo.”

Maybe this would entice the man to take his friend and leave. I had a feeling he wouldn't want to meet up with Eric any more than he wanted to meet up with paramedics.

“Like I said, I can't wait to meet him.”

“I'm sure he will be interested in meeting you too,” I answered, moving toward the door.

But my way came to an abrupt halt when I stumbled over Larry's coat lying where I'd tossed it onto the floor. I slung it over the back of the armchair Professor had been sitting in. The light from the oil lamp brought the bloodstain into sharp relief against the light grey wool. It covered most of the lower half of the coat and had penetrated deeply into the fabric. I figured the garment was ruined, but maybe it wouldn't matter to Larry. He could get a lot of mileage out of it with his beer-drinking buddies, maybe even free beer.

Then I realized I was looking at the back of the coat.

“Professor, check his back. I think the bullet might have gone through.”

He slipped his hand underneath as Larry hollered, “Hey, watch it, that hurts.”

“Yes, there's a hole back here.” He pushed the wounded man onto his side a little too roughly, causing Larry to yell out again.

“Jeez, what are you trying to do, kill me?”

My headlamp lit up another bullet hole, this one larger and more ragged around the edges, with more tissue showing through the hole. Like the front entrance wound, this one was no longer bleeding.

“Your lucky day, P'tit Chief. I don't have to go digging around inside you.” He slapped his friend on his backside before lowering the man back onto the sofa. Larry groaned with pain.

“Be careful,” I warned. “Just because he doesn't have a bullet inside him doesn't mean that he hasn't been seriously injured. We don't know the extent of the damage it left behind.”

“You're going to live, little buddy.” Professor ruffled his friend's thick black hair before pouring himself another stiff drink. He sat back down on the chair without bothering to remove the coat underneath him.

“Hey, what about me?”

“You don't need any liquor now, P'tit. Besides, you said it makes you crazy, and we can't have you going crazy on us, can we?”

I was more worried about it making the tattooed man crazy. Though he'd already drunk almost a half a bottle, I couldn't detect any change in his behaviour, not even a hint of drowsiness. So maybe I would be lucky, and he would remain relatively normal until he finally passed out.

I noticed threads stuck to the side of the abdominal wound. “We need tweezers, which are upstairs. I'll go get them.”

The man started to get up.

“I don't need any help. It's better if you stay here to make sure Larry doesn't go into a coma again.”

He nodded and slumped back with the glass firmly clenched in his hand.

I
slipped upstairs before the tattooed man could change his mind. I didn't want to lose this chance to call the Migiskan police. I stopped when I reached the door to my room and listened carefully. Apart from the sound of the trees arguing with the wind and the snow creeping across the bedroom windows, I couldn't detect any other sound, especially footsteps coming up the stairs.

I tiptoed into my room, crossed the carpet to the bookshelf, pulled out the phone, and checked to ensure there was still a dialtone. I hastily dialled the phone number for the detachment. Dialling 911 wasn't an option. It would direct my call to the police force that handled the policing for my area, the Sûreté du Quebec in Somerset, forty-five minutes away on a good day. In this storm, easily double that time.

“Get the hell away from the phone!”

I jumped and almost dropped the receiver but managed to hang on as I yelled, “Will, it's Meg!” while praying like hell that I'd completed dialling.

The tattooed man twisted the handset out of my hand, yanked the cord from the plug, and flung the phone against the wall with such force the dial came loose. “Who in the hell are you calling?” He shone the flashlight into my eyes, blinding me.

I turned away from the light and concentrated on rubbing my sore hand while trying to settle my spiking nerves before blurting out, “I was calling the Migiskan Health Centre.” The minute I spoke the words, I knew it was a bad move, almost as bad as telling the truth.

“Do you not understand the word ‘No'? I said no paramedics, no doctors, no nobody.” He brought his snakes within inches of my face.

“Look, I'm sorry, but I'm worried about internal bleeding. I think we should know what signs to look for and if there is anything we can do to treat it.”

“Is Will a doctor?”

“Head of the health centre.”

“Did you get through?”

“No,” I said.

For several long seconds his amber eyes seemed to bore through me, as if seeking the truth. I tried not to flinch.

“You said you had no working phone.”

“I forgot about this one.”

A sudden thud against the side of the house had us both whirling around.

“What the hell was that?”

“Probably a branch.” I shone my headlamp through the window and onto a broken branch lying half buried in the white expanse covering the verandah roof. The snow had drifted against the bottom quarter of the window, which likely meant more than double the amount on the ground.

“Why did you stop me from calling? I thought you were worried about your friend.”

“We can fix him up.” A tic sprouted in his right eye.

“He can't be that good a friend if you're willing to gamble with his life.”

The tic worsened. “Shut the fuck up!” A knife suddenly appeared in his hand. I could feel its icy point pricking the skin under my chin.

“Look, you don't need to do that. I'm not going to do anything.”

“Get downstairs and work on Larry. He is my special friend, you hear, my ace man. Anything happens to him, and I will kill you.”

F
or
the first time since these strangers had barged into my house, I felt my life could truly be in danger. Until the knife appeared — a hunting knife I recognized to be Eric's — I'd been assuming, somewhat naively I realized now, that they would leave when they could without causing me harm. I no longer thought that.

Maybe I shouldn't wait for the police. With Jid gone barely an hour, it was still another couple of hours before I could expect them. Anything could happen in two hours.

I decided to leave.

But I'd have to wait until Professor was asleep or occupied in another part of the house, which was unlikely, given the man's penchant for keeping me in his sights. I'd also have to make sure the puppy was away from him. I couldn't leave her behind. I didn't trust him.

I didn't think I had ever felt so alone. If only Eric were with me. He'd know how to handle a man like this. Ever the diplomat, he'd convince him to let the paramedics come and take Larry to the hospital. And he'd convince the man to give himself up from whatever the two of them were running from, for I suspected they were running from something and not on their way to visit anyone on the reserve. It was the only explanation for Larry's gunshot wound and their unexpected arrival at Three Deer Point. My house had become their hideout.

But Eric wasn't here. And given his anger when we'd parted, I wasn't sure if he was coming back.

The only way I knew to survive was to obey this man's demands and wait for the right moment to escape.

With the tweezers in hand and Professor on my heels, I returned to the den considerably more nervous than when I'd left. Larry lay on the couch, his eyes closed, with the blanket pulled up to his chin. He'd managed to prop himself up with the sofa cushions to keep from lying fully on the exit wound.

“Larry, I'm back,” I whispered, not wanting to startle him.

His eyes snapped open. “Am I dead?”

“No, you're very much alive. I'm going to remove some threads that are stuck to your wound. It might hurt, so be prepared.”

I knelt beside the sofa and lifted the blanket away. He was shivering, so I kept his legs covered. Since his forehead didn't feel abnormally warm, I doubted he had a fever.

“Professor, do you mind adding wood to the fire? It's cooling down in here. There's more on the back porch if you need it.”

I waited until I heard his footsteps echoing along the hall to the kitchen before beginning to work on Larry. It bothered me having the man watching my every move.

I sterilized the tweezers first in the pot of boiling water I'd left near the heat of the fire and then in rubbing alcohol. Steeling myself, I brought my hand to the open wound. Larry sucked in a breath, making me even more nervous. Once again he gripped the tiny amulet hanging around his neck as if his life depended on it. I tried to steady my trembling as I plucked first one and then another fibre. Larry's stomach quivered.

“I'm almost finished.”

The next threads were easy to remove, until the last one, which had become stuck in the blackened edges of the opening. I tugged as swiftly as I could.

“God!” Larry cried out when it finally broke free.

The wound started to bleed, but only a trickle.

“What in the hell are you doing?”

I could feel Professor's hot breath on my neck.

Larry smiled weakly. “It's okay, Professor. It's just me being a sissy.”

“You hang in there, P'tit Chief. You're going to be okay.”

He patted his friend on the shoulder and then dropped the logs he was carrying into the rack and threw one onto the fire. He resumed his seat in the armchair. As I knelt over Larry to examine the bullet hole, I caught the sound of ice tinkling.
Good, drink until you pass out.

“Larry, it looks very clean now, but I'm going to put some hydrogen peroxide on it as a disinfectant. Brace yourself. It's going to hurt.”

“Okay,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes closed.

I dribbled some of the clear liquid onto a sterile pad and dabbed the area as gently as I could.

He whimpered, “Oh … oh … oh,” and then slowly let out his breath.

I felt the puppy's muzzle against my thigh. When she started sniffing at the peroxide bottle, I picked her up. “You're not supposed to be here, little one.”

“She was getting lonely,” the tattooed man answered.

“She needs to be in her crate. Could you please return her?”

“She's staying with me. I'll keep her out of your way.”

“Make sure she doesn't go to the bathroom.”

“Already done on the porch.”

Enough with this jousting. It was as if he sensed my intention. I'd have to wait for another opportunity to separate the puppy from him.

I leaned back on my heels. “I'm worried about the house cooling down too much. Do you mind checking the fire in the living room and adding more if it needs it?” I stood up. “Just so you know, I'm going to the kitchen to wash my hands after touching Shoni.”

As he rose from the chair, he brushed his jacket aside to reveal Eric's sheathed knife tucked into his belt. His lips creased into a thin warning smile before he scooped up the puppy and headed out the door.

Though the kitchen was comfortably warm, I added more wood to the firebox of the cookstove to keep it that way. I heated up a basin of cold water with hot water from the kettle simmering on the burner and plunged my hands in. While I washed them with antiseptic soap, I ran my headlamp around the kitchen in search of ideas for transporting Shoni.

The glossy white paint on the wooden cupboards glimmered in the light's brilliance. Dating from Aunt Aggie's time, I'd never bothered to replace them, believing solid pine, even if it was painted, and not vinyl-covered plywood, belonged in a century-old kitchen. The polished chrome of the cookstove gleamed, although not with the same intensity as it used to in Aunt Aggie's time. Keeping everything spotless and shiny wasn't exactly my thing.

Several grocery bags hung on the knob of the door into the pantry. I imagined Shoni could fit inside one, but my arms would feel like lead after carrying her a short distance. She might be only ten weeks old, but she wasn't exactly a featherweight. A bucket wouldn't work either, for the same reason. Besides, she could jump out of it.

Finally, my light lit up Eric's backpack hanging on a hook next to the dripping Christmas tree. Perfect. My back could handle her weight without any difficulty, and my hands would be free.

I was finishing washing my hands when Professor arrived with Shoni trotting behind him. The puppy jumped up against my legs. “Sorry, Shoni. Pats will have to wait. Why don't you put her in the cage?” I might as well keep trying.

He ignored me.

“You have quite the antique collection in the living room,” he said on our way back to Larry.

Pretending I hadn't heard, I continued walking.

“I should check out this room too.” He stopped at the archway and shone his flashlight into the dining room.

As luck would have it, I'd recently polished the silver tea service, the candelabra, and the other silver pieces in anticipation of my sister's visit. They didn't hesitate to advertise their worth in the glare of his light. Many of the pieces dated from Aunt Aggie's marriage to a German baron a few months before the First World War. Given how the marriage had worked out, I was surprised she hadn't tossed them into a pot and melted them down.

Professor whistled, and then whistled again when he saw the painting of a forest at sunset over the buffet. “Amazing. That's a Lawren Harris. I've only had the pleasure of enjoying his paintings in a museum.”

It would appear that he knew his Canadian art. Too bad. Doubtless he'd also recognized the value of the paintings hanging in the living room, several by other members of the Group of Seven and other well-known Canadian artists. Aunt Aggie had had a keen artistic eye. Unwilling to leave Three Deer Point, she'd tasked my father, when he was alive, to acquire them when they had come up for auction.

Though I enjoyed living with these family heirlooms, they were just things. Maybe if I wasn't able to escape or the police didn't come, I could use them to persuade Professor and Larry to leave.