Cold Snow: A Legal Thriller (3 page)

"Your right or my right?"

"There's only one right, Jake."

Jake rolled his eyes and studied the paper. In the location Alex had referred him to, he saw an article with a 20-point headline: Top Canadian Agricultural Department Official Disappears.

"How is that not 'guy dies'?" Jake asked.

"He's not dead," Alex corrected, "just gone. And that's what makes it interesting. Politicians are important people—you don't just lose them one day. Something happened to make this guy drop off the face of the earth. And don't you think it's kind of awesome to know that something could be anything?"

"I've never met anyone better at finding meaning," Jake exhaled, "where none exists."

Alex was usually dismayed to see the sign for his home street. However, today the blow was greatly softened; and he felt a small thrill at knowing he was about to take matters into his own hands. "This is me," he said. "You know where to meet, right?"

"Only the tree I've spent the last month of my life in," Jake replied. "See you tonight!"

"And off to the great north tomorrow!" With that, Alex turned away.

He didn't spot the car until he was two gates away from his own. A white, four-door sedan, decidedly unfamiliar and almost looking as though it belonged in a bygone era, sat in the driveway with an almost furtive look, as though it knew it shouldn't be there. As Alex drew nearer he saw that somebody was sitting behind the wheel; a man with slick orange hair and a weak but trustworthy face. Upon entering the driveway, Alex was surprised to notice that the man appeared to be happy to see him.

"Alexander Orson?" the man said, rolling down his window using one of the cranks that Alex believed obsolete.

"Umm…yes." Alex gingerly walked up to the car. "Alex, if it's okay with you."

"Alex, right. Henry Machry." The man held out his hand through the window, and Alex tentatively shook it.

"I'm with the SPCC," Henry Machry said, holding a business card up to the window.

"SPCC?" Alex was beginning to get suspicious. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, I was planning to ask you." Machry smiled, but his eyes betrayed him—Alex could see that his parents had already managed to scare him. "Was it you who called me?"

"No." Alex said, glancing worriedly toward the house. He looked back at Machry, suddenly angry. "If you told them it was me—" he stopped.

"What?" Machry said, cutting him off. He could feel that he was getting close to the heart of his assignment. "What would happen then?"

Alex's face softened. "God knows," he said, resigned. "Every day that nutjob comes up with something new."

Machry was no longer smiling. "Tell me more."

"Well, the way it works here is, I have to ask to do anything. Unless it's something important, like the bathroom, I usually get a no. And even that's not always a guarantee." Alex suddenly paused. He had no idea what had possessed him to say these things to a complete stranger, but the fact that he was saying them at all was, in a strange way, liberating. "The phone is definitely out. So's the TV, the fridge, the computer, and everything that belongs to my mom or dad, which is pretty much everything." He took a deep breath. "I usually don't care, if I can get out. If I can't get out, I stay in my room. But, even that's not always safe…"

Machry held up a hand. "Hold on," he said reassuringly. "There'll be time for all of this. Tell me about what you usually do, on a typical day around here."

"Household chores." There was not a trace of sincerity in Alex's voice. He was stealing looks at the front door every few seconds now. Machry could see that he was obviously worried that he was under surveillance.

"Something more than that was specified."

"Well…" Alex looked around once more, then leaned closer. "Here's something to tell your friends at the SPCC. Tell them I have to wait on them. Tell them I've been the house indentured servant since the start of grade school. Tell them they must be breaking every one of those fancy laws in that house on any given day. I want them to know that."

Machry, taken aback, asked, "Is there a reason?" Keeping calm was difficult, and showing it was harder; he was filled with hatred for Roland Orson with every word he heard.

"If there is, they haven't told me. I've guessed a thousand reasons; they wanted a girl, they're insane, they're going to sell me when I'm eighteen." He sighed. "Each one's stupider than the last. And guess what happens when I decide not to do what they say. A day locked in my room with no food or water. Or worse. Have you ever been hit with a blunt object, Machry?" he asked darkly.

He paused for so long that Machry wondered if he was expecting an answer, but then Alex continued. If you haven't, don't. It's not a lot of fun. Tell the SPCC that!"

As Alex said this, a loud crack sounded from the direction of the house; the screen door swung nearly off its hinges, and Roland was standing in the front door, still dressed to intimidate, exemplifying the word furious. "You!" he shouted. "Get over here! Now!"

"Mr. Orson, please—" Machry started.

"And you, Machry," Roland's eyes narrowed, and his voice became icy. "I think you've been here long enough."

"Tell them that, Machry!" A perceptive ear—which Machry possessed—would be able to tell that Alex had shifted from commanding to imploring.

"Shut—up—you useless little snitch!" Roland was now dragging Alex toward the open door, Alex resisting all the way. "Sir!" Roland shouted at Machry, "If you knew who I was you would have thought better than to show up here!"

Machry's engine revved.

"Tell them that!"Alex called, just before the door slammed.

Catherine was conveniently absent when they entered. The moment the wooden shield was back in place, Roland set about searching for the hardest object he could find. Alex watched him coolly. Eventually, Roland turned to look at him.

"If you think," he snarled, staring directly at Alex, "that he's going to be able to touch me—"

"He can't," Alex said, and Roland was surprised to see him smiling. "But I think I could."

Roland said nothing, but continued glowering silently.

"I'll give you a gift," Alex told him. "Today you can hit me as much as you want. I won't run, I won't try to hide. Throw whatever you want at me. I'll stand right here."

Roland glared for a long moment. Finally, he said, "You little bastard," and swept out of the room.

His alarm, as loud as he could safely set it, punched through his fitful dreams.

Alex sat up in bed and checked the clock: 12:00 exactly. He had slept fully clothed, not wanting to waste any time. He carefully folded down his sheets and rolled into a sitting position, stepping silently onto the floor. Checking under the bed, and lamenting the fact that he needed a flashlight to find his flashlight, he rolled the cylinder across the wooden floor and into view.

He fumbled a moment for the button, then realized that it was a switch that had to be pushed. He found it and projected a radiant disc onto the opposite wall, which he quickly extinguished. Stashed in the corner was his backpack, a blue one built for hikers. He swung it onto his shoulder and pushed his other arm through the other strap.

Everything's working so far.

Opening the drawer below the alarm clock, he found his watch, a cheap sports brand with a corporate logo that he'd bought himself. He strapped it onto his wrist. Then, he stepped through his open door and into the hallway, wondering why it was so easy.

He took tentative steps across the floorboards, looking out for the several that squeaked. He had studied them and noticed that it was in a fairly precise alternating pattern, although certain boards were out of sync with the rest. He arrived at his sister's door with a checked sigh of relief, which he quickly sucked in again.

The door's closed!

This came as a surprise; they rarely slept with the door closed. How would he get in without broadcasting himself to the entire house?

This is not going according to plan.

The loudest door in the house was blocking the way to his food supplies. Swearing in his head with every word he knew, Alex reached for the knob.

Here goes nothing.

The door, made of unpainted wood that was splintered in places, had apparently been stolen from a condemned apartment building. The moment Alex opened the door, a creak sounded with the decibel level of an exploding bomb. He drew his hand back as if from a hot stove, and examined his handiwork.

Great. Half an inch.

He pushed again, and mercifully, it didn't seem so loud the second time. His senses prickling for any stimulus, ready to dart back into bed at a moment's notice, he moved the door forward until there was a space wide enough for him to step through with his bag.

As he trod on the carpet, Lauren, in her crib, stirred.

Damn
, Alex thought.
If she cries I'm dead.

Shining his flashlight on the carpet ahead, Alex walked his memorized route to the toy chest. It was an old, plastic thing, painted to look like a pirate's treasure chest. Alex's room was too small to have anywhere to hide food; he had no closet and the space under his bed was too large. The idea of the toy chest crossed his mind when he considered, ironically, that Lauren's room would be the easiest to sneak into. Alex had seen to extensively checking and rechecking the chest, making sure it would open silently. He had left nothing out of his extensive preparation.

Except for that stupid squeaky door.

He opened the lid without hesitation, and began loading in the food: bread, meat, and other non-perishables, looted from the usually-locked pantry the night before. His backpack filled with the necessities of life, he returned to his room and scooped several sets of clothing into the large back section.

That's everything.

Alex zipped up the backpack and took it out of the room, traversing the hallway again and descending the stairs. The living room was eerily dark; he rarely went downstairs at night, but had still taken care to learn how to navigate.

He was almost at the door when he remembered another item from his mental checklist. Quickly, without thinking, letting his feet carry him, he moved through the house toward his parents' bedroom. At the door he stopped, hoping to avoid another ordeal.

Open. Good.

Stepping through the doorway, he began tiptoing as an extra precaution, even though he was walking on a rug and a floor which, as far as he knew, was docile. The breathing of his hated parents, added to the sound of Roland's soft snoring, made him even more sure he would do what he set out to do. He knew they would not be hurt when they woke up to find him gone; but would have his last act of defiance.

There wasn't much more to do, and then he would be out of the house forever. His objective was to break into Roland's safe and empty it. He had puzzled for a long time over how to pull this off; and finally resorted to waiting for the house to be deserted and trying every possible combination. Daring to use his flashlight, he held the tip against the tumblers and read the numbers: four zeroes. He flipped the wheels into the correct locations, and opened the door with a booming click.

His head darted around. His parents remained asleep.

After finally managing to spring the safe, he had counted the money: 294 dollars in total. He swept it all into a separate compartment.

Only one thing remained now.

He reached for a large shadow in the back of the safe, and brought out his father's pistol, stashing it behind the money in the already loaded backpack. He didn't know why he felt that he would need it—but he knew that having it would be preferable to not having it and desperately needing it.

At the front door he paused one last time. He began thinking again.

If I pass this door, if I am nearly killed or fully killed, if I die or if I live, I will never return. That's my vow.

Then Alex took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway and over the threshold.

CHAPTER  2

The Orphan

Sarah hated her home.

It wasn't even her home, really, just some empty shell of the home it had been once—and it would never be her home.

True, Woodsbrook Orphanage had been some tycoon's mansion originally. He had died a few years after he bought it, and his wife had sold it to the city, and it had been made into an orphanage.

Sarah didn't even know what her home was, just that her parents had died several years ago of a foreign disease while traveling abroad. The story seemed rather unlikely to her, and she was sure that the orphanage knew no more about it than she did.

But they supported the story, shaky as it was, and Sarah came to believe it herself. It was definitely better than brooding over it day and night.

Obviously, the old tycoon's wife had lost a lot of money in estate tax. Since before the city bought it, the building had been shoddily and continuously repaired and was falling into disrepair.