Cold (33 page)

Though she wasn’t listening carefully, she was sure Warren was lying.
 
If not outright lying, then embroidering his story to conceal something, or perhaps simply leaving some important detail out.
 
He was explaining why he and the constable followed them here to the lodge.
 
“I knew he was armed,” Warren said, when he had the new logs aflame.
 
“I had to go along.
 
There was Lorraine to think about, Norman.
 
And Noel.
 
He’s the law—what does the law care about them as long as they bring you in?”

Norman seemed preoccupied, standing by the cabinet.
 
He’d heard his brother’s stories too many times.
 
It took Noel a long time to figure Warren out; now that she had, she understood Norman better as well.
 
When the constable first sat on the couch he made fists, trying to warm his fingers.
 
He wore no rings, which was the first thing she would have noticed if he checked into the motel.
 
If he came into the office on a bad night—freezing rain turning to sleet—he would ask what the rate was for a single, and when she’d tell him thirty-six, he’d say fine, though they both understood that he wasn’t about to go out and look for a better deal.
 
She was already giving him the deal, that a lot of singles on a night like this—when the weather was lousy and it was after nine o’clock—would start as high as forty-four.
 
He would understand the unspoken.

 
“Question is,” Warren said finally, “what now?”

Norman took his weight off the cabinet and went to the picture window.
 
“Nothing,” he said.
 
“Not right now.
 
Not in this weather.”

“You want to just stay here?” Warren said, his voice coaxing, skeptical.
 
“What if the sheriff here has been in touch with someone?
 
Suppose they
know
he’s out here—they don’t hear from him after a certain point, they’re bound to come looking.”

Norman turned around and studied the sheriff a moment.
 
The constable continued to gaze into the fire.
 
He was remarkable in his ability to maintain such a neutral expression.
 
Norman went into the kitchen, yanked the quarrel out of the doorjamb and returned with the constable’s coat.
 
He went through the pockets—there were quite a few—putting their contents on the coffee table in front of the couch:
 
wallet, keys, Swiss Army knife, notebook with a short pencil tucked in the spiral hinge, binoculars, handcuffs, worn leather pouch, cellular phone.
 

The constable observed these items on the coffee table as though he’d never seen them before.

Opening the leather pouch, Norman said, “Bullets.”

Then he picked up the cellular phone and studied the buttons.
 
It occurred to Noel that something like a cellular phone would be entirely foreign to Norman.
 
The realization filled her with a sudden, deep sense of regret.
 
Norman pushed a button that caused the phone to beep and held it to his ear.
 
“Nothing,” he said.
 
“No dial tone.”

“Might be out of range,” she said.
 
“You got to try and move around.
 
Sometimes if you just walk a few steps, it’ll work.”

“Thanks.”
 
He put the phone down on the coffee table and went back to the cabinet.
 
Putting the gun back in his right hand, he said, “For now we just stay put.”

The constable’s expression didn’t change.
 
He continued to gaze into the fire.
 
But somehow Noel was certain that he knew it was the smart choice.

Warren took the constable’s coat and inspected the hole made by the arrow.
 
Tossing the coat on the back of the couch he shook his head.
 
“Yeah, but is it bulletproof?”

He continued talking, but Noel tuned him out and concentrated on the flames leaping off the logs in the fireplace.
 
She had to admit that something about the constable appealed to her.
 
Warren often accused her of staring at men, older men.
 
He said she had a Daddy-thing about older men, but when she reminded Warren that he was about five years older than she was he said
That’s not what I mean by older.
 
I mean old old.

She knew it wasn’t so much age she was looking for; it was a quality, something she could only describe as The Perfect Stranger.
 
New yet familiar.

Noel sat up in the chair.
 
Warren was standing in front of her, looking concerned.

“What?” she said angrily.
 
“What?”

“Food.
 
How’s the food supply?
 
Now that we’ve embarked on this little family reunion, we might be stuck here together a while, and I was wondering what we have out there to eat.
 
Get it?
 
Eat?”

“I’ll check.”
 
She stood up quickly.
 
The constable turned his head away from the fire and considered her for a moment.
 
He seemed concerned, grim.
 
He appeared anything but hungry.

Warren hit the side of his head with the palm of his hand.
 
“I don’t know, Norman.
 
Sometimes she just drifts away like that.
 
Maybe it’s the loss of hearing.”

“Shut
up,
Warren.
 
I hear your shit just fine.”

He smiled, first at her, then at his brother.
 
“See what married life has done for her?”

Norman’s stare gave away nothing.
 
It was as though he had raised some invisible shield that was intended to deflect Warren’s cracks, his jokes.
 
She remembered that about Norman, that he could do that—just let Warren go on and on for a long time, and it would seem not to have any effect.
 
She started for the kitchen, wishing she had developed that ability.
 
But she hadn’t—Warren still had an effect on her.

•

Warren followed Noel, walked past her, his shoulder brushing against hers, and led her into the kitchen.
 
He began looking in the kitchen cabinets, slamming each door shut.

She stopped in the kitchen doorway, and looking back into the Great Room, she explained, “He needs something to drink.”

Warren opened the cabinets under the sink.
 
“This place needs to be upgraded to primitive.”
 
He kicked the door closed.

“You’re going to wake Lorraine.”

He knew that tone of voice.
 
She leaned against the doorjamb and he studied her cocked hips a moment before he gazed around at the walls, looking for more doors, more shelves, more hiding places.
 
Nothing but rough-hewn logs, a mounted ten-point buck, fly rods and creels, a two-man handsaw.
 
“Stuff looks like it was hung in honor of Teddy fucking Roosevelt,” he said.

“Try over the refrigerator,” she said.

“Show me.”

She kept her back against the doorjamb, watching him.

“That big sweater does wonders for them,” he said.

She came into the kitchen, reached up and opened the cabinet doors above the refrigerator.
 
Stepping back, she said, “The crackers and cereal have been there since last spring—they’re all stale.
 
We have lots of soup, canned ham, tuna fish, stuff like that.”

“What’s that in back?”

“I don’t know.
 
Take a look.”

He pushed aside a box of Saltines.
 
In back there was a fifth of vodka, two-thirds full.
 
“Ah,” he said, taking the bottle down.
 
“Popov.
 
Jesus.”
 
He unscrewed the cap, took a pull and swallowed.
 
“Not exactly Absolut or Stoly, but it’ll do the job.”

“Happy now?”
 
She started to turn for the door to the Great Room.

He grabbed her upper arm and pulled her close to him.
 
“Happy?
 
Is that what this is about,
happy?”
 
She tried to yank her arm free but he held her closer and whispered, “It was those letters.”

“What about the letters?”

“You wrote back.”
 
She glanced toward the door and then twisted so that she could lean away and stare up into his face.

“What if I did?”

 
“So the two of you planned this whole thing.”

“We didn’t
plan
anything.”

“How he’d get away and come for you and the kid.
 
You know, they catch you—and they will eventually—they could put you in prison too, as an accomplice.”
 
He pushed her away.
 
“It’ll be just fine, Noel.
 
I’ll look after Lorraine and I’ll write you
plenty
of letters.”
 

•

Norman tucked the pistol in the front of his pants and went to the fireplace, blocking the constable’s view of the flames.
 
“You came out from Yellow Dog?”

The constable nodded.
 
He raised his eyes up to Norman’s face for a moment, but he seemed intent on watching the fire.

“Why?” Norman asked.

“Somebody has to.”

“How’d you know which way to go?”

The constable raised his head again.
 
“You left a trail.
 
Think you wouldn’t?”

“The truck, the eighteen-wheeler, that wasn’t my fault, you know.”
 
The constable nodded but he didn’t seem convinced.
 
“I’m telling you, that guy, the driver—Eldon was his name—he was—he was like some guys inside.
 
You know?”

The constable hardly moved.
 
“The van.
 
What about the guy who owned the van?”

“It was too bad.
 
I didn’t ask him to stop.”

“His name was Rodney Aaberg.”

“Yeah, he was in the cab and I was going around the front of the rig to push this driver, Eldon—the guy was
huge—
when the whole thing goes up.
 
I thought of taking off but I didn’t.
 
I was going around to help, I’m telling you.”

“You’re lucky.
 
Not a scratch, no burns.”

 
“It was hot,” Norman said.
 
“Hotter than this fire.
 
The truck went up like
that.
 
My problem seems to be that people who can back up my story tend to disappear.”

The constable appeared not to be very interested.
 
He stared through Norman’s legs at the fire.

Norman stepped away from the fireplace, leaned over and picked up the constable’s wallet.
 
Opening it, he studied the badge, the driver’s license.
 
“Delbert Esa Maki,” he read.
 
“All I wanted,” he said and he waited, but the constable didn’t seem to hear him.
 
“Delbert, all I wanted was to walk away.
 
Not to hurt anybody.
 
That’s all, really.”

“Del,” the constable said, without raising his eyes.
 
“People usually call me Del.”
 
Leaning back, his expression changed.
 
He looked Norman full in the face and seemed to be inviting him into some confidence with him.
 
“Norman,” he said slowly.
 
“Sure, it’s one of those names like Delbert, but not quite as bad.
 
It starts in school, during recess or maybe some jerk sitting behind you in class.
 
And it never really goes away—even grown men, sometimes you see it in their eyes, the humor of it.
 
Your name’s a joke, so you must be a joke.”

“Yeah, I know that look.”

“Which do you prefer, Norman or Norm?”

“Norman.”

“Good for you.
 
Sometimes I wish I had gutted it out too, but it’s too late.”
 
Del nodded his head as though he were agreeing with something.
 
“Norman, if you didn’t want to hurt anybody, why’d you leave her in the snow?”

Norman straightened up quickly.
 
He walked over to the corner and leaned against the cabinet.
 
He could smell something from the kitchen—some kind of soup that Noel was cooking on the stove.
 
His brother was in there with her and he was talking quietly.
 
Fine.
 
Let him talk.
 
Norman wondered how anybody could be hungry.
 
“You found her?” he said.