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“Did he just fall out of the tree?” Apparently, Peter found that idea exciting.
“I think ... maybe.” Bob was already so far ahead of them that he was out of sight.
Peter took off, and Sandra, much to her dismay, brought up the rear. Hadn’t this been her investigation in the beginning? She lost sight of Peter, and her heart tightened in panic. “Peter!” she called out, even though that probably wasn’t smart given that they were in pursuit of a murderer. “Wait for me!”
Seconds later she realized she’d run out into a clearing and looked up to see both Bob and Peter standing still staring at a small hunting camp. “Is this his?” she said breathless.
“I don’t think so.” Bob pointed to the cabin. Her phone light followed his pointing, to a giant sign over the door that read, “Welcome to Lewie’s Lodge.” Who on earth was Lewie? And did it matter? Probably not, as he didn’t appear to be home. There was no vehicle in the unplowed driveway and no tracks in the pristine snow. There were no lights on inside or smoke coming out of the chimney. They heard a bang and all turned to see a small shed standing on the edge of the clearing. Then they heard the whine of an engine. At first, Sandra thought it was a chainsaw, and her blood ran cold with fear, but then Otis went whizzing by on an ancient snowmobile. Relief washed over her in a blissful wave. But this relief was quickly replaced by a renewed fear for Otis’s safety. He really was trying to freeze to death. She’d never forgive herself if he died trying to get away from her.
“I can keep up with him.” Bob disappeared, leaving her and Peter standing in the snow. Despite all their movement, her hands, especially the one clutching the phone, were going numb.
Peter took off for the shed at a full sprint, and Sandra, assuming he was hoping for some warmth from the meager shelter, went after him.
She entered the small space and shone her light around its walls, nearly jumping out of her skin when her light passed a giant moose head jutting out of the wall. “Let’s go into the house, Peter. There’s probably a wood stove, and maybe some blankets.
“I’m not looking for blankets.” He ripped a tarp off a mound near the edge of the shed. “I was looking for this.” He looked up at her with wide eyes. “You want to drive?”
Not really. But she sure wasn’t going to let him do it.
Trying to hide her trepidation, she approached the relic. Despite having endured many a Maine winter, she had no idea how to drive a snowmobile. She didn’t even know how to start one. Pretending she knew what she was doing, she swung one leg over the seat and sat down, almost bouncing off the old plastic as her blue-jeaned rear end realized just how cold that seat was. The key was in the ignition, and she turned it, but nothing happened.
“Watch out, Mom.” Peter pushed her right knee out of the way and reached down and grabbed a black plastic handle with both hands. She leaned out of his way as he yanked for all he was worth. The machine beneath her belched, but then went back to silent. Peter let the cord slide back into the machine and then yanked again, grunting this time. The machine roared to life, violently vibrating every cell of her body, but then died.
“Maybe it’s not going to work.” She wished it wouldn’t. What was she going to do with this thing once Peter got it started?
“It’ll work. You’ve got to give it some gas. As soon as it starts, push the throttle—”
“What throttle?” she cried.
He pointed toward a small black button on her handlebar. Desperate to not have her son think she was completely useless, she slapped her hand over the handle and nodded. He yanked again, and as soon as she felt the vibration, she gave it some gas. The engine roared, as did her adrenaline and for a brief second, her pride. But then the snowmobile lurched ahead, narrowly missing the shed wall, and almost throwing Sandra off the back of it. She held on, accidentally tightening her grip with the only hand she had on the sled and giving it even more gas.
Precious seconds later, she realized the error of her ways and took her thumb off the button. The engine sputtered, and she panicked that it was going to stall, so she pushed the button again and gave herself whiplash. At least by now she had the good sense to hang on with two hands, but this was quickly getting old. Maybe she should have let Peter drive.
She hadn’t realized Peter had been running after her until he jumped onto the back of the sled, wrapped his hands around her waist, and screamed into her ear, “Go, Mom, go!” Absurdly, this reminded her of the Dr. Seuss book she’d read to Peter seventy thousand times during early childhood. What had it been called? Oh, the Places You’ll Go? Was that it? She tried to remember as she and her son picked up speed and headed toward the icy trees.