Marty Kennesaw couldn’t believe his luck. Just an hour ago, he’d been sitting at the kitchen window, his morning coffee cooling at his elbow. Gloomily, he’d stared at the cold, gray lake, contemplating another miserable day in Northwood, another bitter Wisconsin winter. Number forty-one.
Life had been passing him by without a single prospect, unless handyman qualified for such a thing. He’d learned his trade as a kid, keeping the Kennesaw Inn in rentable condition. He’d become so capable, in fact, that his parents had been glad to keep him around, instead of packing him off to Minnesota State. And he hadn’t known any better. He’d had free room and board, a decent wage and use of the pickup when he wasn’t buying supplies for the Inn. Poor Dutch, his older brother, had been in college studying his butt off. And why? To spend his life behind some desk? He’d had much better plans. Specifically, taking over the inn when his parents retired, then building more cabins, filling them with eager guests and, in the process, getting very rich.
Things hadn’t quite worked out as planned. Back then, the Inn’s business had been at its peak, with Route 2 being the primary road west from Chicago, Milwaukee and Green Bay. And there’d been plenty of tourist attractions, with Lake Superior and the Ottawa National Forest nearby. His parents had been raking it in. His father drove a big Buick, and his mother shopped in Duluth’s fancy stores. They’d belonged to the country club and eaten dinner out three nights a week at Jillian’s Steakhouse. The inn had seemed like a cash machine that ran itself and in his sunny dreams, one that would belong to him some day.
But a few weeks before construction was to begin on the inn’s five new cabins, plans were announced for I-94. Paul Kennesaw, seeing the handwriting on the wall, had quickly shelved his own expansion plans. Then I-35 had opened. Routes 2 and 51, that had once brought the guests in droves, were suddenly obsolete.
The inn’s occupancy rate was cut in half. To save money, his mother released the staff and assumed the daily chores herself, while his father worried over the books, as if the solution lay somewhere in the numbers.
Large hotel chains soon found opportunity on the scenic lakeshore, and with their vast resources and more efficient operations, were able to offer lower rates than the smaller independents. Again, the inn’s occupancy dropped. And Paul Kennesaw finally found the answer in his numbers, although not the one he’d hoped for. He’d made the discovery the night his wife found him slumped over his books, the victim of a massive heart attack.
Poor Emma had never recovered and a stroke took her own life a year later. And Marty, at age thirty, was left alone to contend with an empty inn, mounting bills and worse, no prospects for a dreamer without skills or education.
Forced to find work, he drifted from one contractor to the next, each growing tired of his arguments with foremen who were paid more, but knew less. Finally, he’d ended up doing things his way as a self-employed handyman — not nearly as lucrative as he’d once thought. But maybe now that he and Dutch were warming up after a decade of silence, his brother would help him start his own contracting business.
Dutch made six figures as a St. Paul ad executive, lived in an expensive high-rise and had babes drooling over him. Fortunately, as Marty had just learned, he’d broken up with the one invited on the cruise, and with the fare paid, there’d been no reason not to ask his brother to tag along. Now instead of bitter cold Wisconsin, Marty would spend Christmas basking in the warm Caribbean sun.
Returning to pack, Marty quickly inventoried: underwear, flip-flops, shirts, slacks and swim trunks. Dutch probably had a dozen pair of Jantzens and matching terrycloth robes. Some decent sandals might be nice, too, and one of those wide-brimmed straw hats. He’d never score with the babes unless he looked right. Hopefully, there’d be time to shop in Miami before the ship left.
When he was packed, he hauled his suitcase out to the Trooper. His flight from Duluth was at noon, and with the road conditions it’d take twice as long to reach the airport.
As he hurried back to the inn, a tractor-trailer groaned away from Lacey’s Truck Stop below the ridge. Trucks and local heaps were all that used Route 51 anymore. No one knew that better than a Kennesaw.
He stopped and contemplated the ten cabins overlooking Lake Superior. Once handsome and proud, they now drooped from neglect as much as from the heavy mantles of snow, their cockeyed shutters squinting in the sun. How long had it been since the last rental? Two... no, three years now.
Returning to the inn, he went from room to room, checking window latches and door locks. Why he feared burglars, he hadn’t a clue. There was nothing here he wouldn’t sell for a buck at the Northwood flea market. He couldn’t even call it a... He froze suddenly at the sight of a tall young man in the front office, his eyes concealed by dark glasses, his strong, even face chapped by the icy wind. His hat was tilted Clint Eastwood style, his coat shabby, boots scuffed. Drifter, Marty concluded. “Can I help you?” he inquired.
“I’d like to rent one of your cabins.”
He looked at the man as if he were insane. “We... I mean, I haven’t rented them out in years. Besides...”
“The sign out front says the Kennesaw Inn. Isn’t this the place?”
“Well yeah, but...”
“How much are they?” The man withdrew his wallet.
His eyes popped at the thick wad of bills. What had the cabin rates been? He couldn’t even remember. “Look, I have a plane to catch. There won’t be anyone here for two weeks. You’ll just have to find another place.”
“My car’s stranded five miles west,” the man explained. “I froze my ass off just walking here.”
“You want to call a tow?” He nodded at the phone.
“No, I want a cabin. Why’s that so much to ask?”
Marty picked up his drawl - Georgia maybe? “Look, why not call a tow, get your car fixed and go on to Duluth?”
“Look, all I want is a bed, heat and some running water.”
His eyes fell again to the wad of cash. Panama shirts, Jantzen trunks, new sandals. What difference did it make if he left Eastwood here alone? He couldn’t do more than burn the place down.
“Only three cabins are in rentable condition.”
The man smiled. “That’s not a problem, since I only want one. Now how much?”
“They’re oil heated. Hot water, lights...”
“How much?” Eastwood repeated.
He glanced at his watch. Precious minutes were slipping away. “How long do you plan on staying?”
“You’ll be away two weeks?”
“Yeah,” he squinted warily. “So what?”
“I was thinking I could watch the place while you’re gone.”
He was about to ask why, when Eastwood stuffed the wad of bills in his hand. “Six hundred bucks for the cabin, plus I’ll guard the place for nothing.”
Fresh visions of a Miami shopping trip swirled in his head as he now gave Eastwood the key. “This opens the office. Get what you need – towels, sheets, whatever. And use the phone if you want. Only no long distance calls. I don’t want to come back and find myself stuck with a thousand-dollar phone bill.”
“What about the cabin key?”
“Oh yeah.” He retrieved #10 from the counter drawer. Starting for the door, he turned, “Hey, you’re not related to... ah, never mind,” and he slipped out.
Related to whom? Tyler wondered, watching the Trooper disappear over the ridge.
Returning outside, he loped after Mayson, who was slumped against a tree, her crutches beside her in the snow. With his stocking cap, Sister Cook Rebecca’s coat and scarf, Sister Maid Ruth’s sweater, thermal underwear and socks, she was heavily bundled, yet still shivered as much from her fever as from the Arctic chill. Tucking the spittle-stained scarf in her collar, he hoisted her over his shoulder. “Come on,” he said as he grabbed her crutches and started off. “There’s a warm bed waiting.”
Since abandoning the Nova, their world had been one dank trailer after another, brutal cold and constant fear. There’d been no choice but to keep changing trucks. Who knew when the driver might inspect his cargo, check a suspicious noise, hear a report or worse, send one? No wonder Mayson had developed the flu. She’d barely uttered a word since leaving St. Cloud — the same time the vomiting had started.
The next three days had been an endless hell of truck rides over snow-crusted highways, across Minnesota, then Wisconsin, just to avoid the lurking patrol cars and hovering choppers. They had to keep moving. Stop and they’d surely die.
In the process, he’d become a master burglar. Give him a crow bar or decent knife and there wasn’t a truck anywhere he couldn’t break into. Not to steal, but survive; another minute, another ride. There’d been no hope beyond that.
Between rides, they’d rested in the woods and abandoned buildings. Once in an Elk’s Crossing farm shed, until the hounds had chased them off. They’d slept little in that time. Hopefully this would change at the isolated Kennesaw Inn.
The cabins loomed as he crested the ridge. Number ten, like the others, slumped beneath a mantle of snow, its sagging shutters protesting their heavy burden and years of neglect. Using Mayson’s crutches, he brushed away the snow and dense dead vines, then groped for the key. “I’ll need to do some pruning before we have company. A little painting, too. The windows, I’ll leave to you. I don’t do them.”
Pushing inside, he scanned the musty room, cluttered with dust-coated furniture and cheap paintings that portrayed the lake and surrounding wilderness. The kitchen was an equal disaster of rot and neglect. “Maybe the back rooms are better,” he suggested.
He soon found himself on the threshold of a large bedroom, with full bath, canopied four-poster and stone fireplace. “Now we’re talking,” he said. He opened the drapes to Lake Superior and its awesome majesty directing the earth north, into the gray horizon.
Careful not to disturb her healing ribs, he laid Mayson across the bed. Her lush, dark hair sprung out as he slipped off the cap, its natural wave relaxed after weeks of growth. He removed the scarf and coat next, then Brother Captain Jeremiah’s donated khakis, split to accommodate her cast. Removing the sock, he examined her toes. The circulation was better, the swelling down.
As Tyler settled her into the covers she moaned, then in seconds slept again. And he inhaled deeply, his shoulders instantly relaxing, his strain fading. Seconds drifted as he indulged the small pleasure of her slumber. He hated to see her suffer, even more because she tried to hide it, as if his worry was less tolerable than the pain. Mayson was a good person. Whatever he’d sacrificed for her was well worth the price.
As she slept, he explored their new world, starting with the inn. The ground floor consisted of the front office and supply rooms, and in back, the well-stocked living quarters. The remaining floors were devoted to the guest rooms: empty, orderly, beds crisply made, bathroom towels neatly hung, unopened soap boxes on the counters — all for guests who’d never arrived. Finally, he reached the cluttered attic with its racks of moth-eaten clothes and musty boxes of memories — a ghostly museum of the inn in its heyday.
Back outside, the chill tightened its grip on the gray afternoon. Dipping his hands into his pockets, he continued his exploration along the snowy ridge. He was weary, yet restless, his muscles aching after weeks on the run.
His gaze was drawn north to the frigid lake, where police cutters waited but posed no threat, as long as they didn’t attempt a reckless escape to Canada. To the east, the forest hemmed the jagged coast for miles. Beyond was a cold, barren wilderness, a narrow strait and, on the northernmost point, Copper Harbor, where they’d rested briefly before stealing a ride south to Merrill. Or was it Wausau? They’d left few towns untouched in the last days.
Duluth lay to the west; his eyes drifted along the coast. They’d gotten as close as Monegha Falls before heading east again. Snow Peak lay a hundred miles beyond Duluth, a place they had to reach, but never would. At least not while an army of Feds waited for them to try.
Descending the ridge, he glimpsed Lacey’s Truck Stop and desolate Route 51 below. How long until a suspicious patrol car crept up the inn’s snowy drive?
Night fell, then deepened before Mayson finally woke to her strange new world, where light came from a crackling fire, its shadows swaying on the wall. The soft bed was foreign, too, but quite welcome, as was Tyler’s concerned face over her.
“I heated some soup,” he said, motioning at the bedside tray.
“I’d rather have a shower. Do we have one?”
He pressed his palm to her forehead. It was still warm, but dry, at least. “I can’t believe I broke the thermometer.”
“Then you shouldn’t have put it in your back pocket. Any fool would know it’d break the second you sat down.”
“You’re feeling better,” he smiled.
“Tyler, where are we?”
“The Kennesaw Inn. It’s just above Lacey’s Truck Stop, where we last hopped off. Don’t you remember?”
“Just you lifting me from the truck, then hobbling up the hill. It’s fuzzy after that.”
He explained the deal he made with the inn’s proprietor. “A Kennesaw who hung around after the place closed, I guess. And he was strapped for cash, obviously.”
“How much do we have left?”
“Twenty-five hundred. But I don’t think we’ll be spending much more.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s nowhere left to go.” He watched her crawl gingerly from the bed. “Where are you going?”
“To take a shower, if it’s all right.”
“Well it’s not. You still have a fever. The shower will have to wait.”
“It can’t wait! My skin’s crawling with vermin from those rancid trailers and rat-infested farm sheds. Can’t you hear them?”
“No. Now be polite, and try the soup I made.”
Shrugging, she nibbled on a Saltine, then sipped her ginger ale. “There. Maybe I’ll feel more like eating after my shower.”
“Try the soup. It’s tomato.”
“So?”
“You don’t like it?”
“Why should I? Because I’m Italian?”
“We’ve done this with pizza, remember?”
“Which you obviously didn’t learn from, since you still suffer from your brainless stereotypes. Like all Italians are dark-haired, dark-eyed meatballs who love tomatoes.”
“I should’ve gone with the chicken noodle.”
“Yes, you should. And so you’ll remember next time: I don’t like tomato soup. I’ve never liked it, and I never will. Is that clear enough?”
“Perfectly,” he nodded. “I’ll eat the goddamn soup myself and enjoy every spoonful.”
“Now?”
“Why not? You’ve insisted on taking a shower. So take the damn thing.”
Hopping after her crutches, she stubbed her toe on the cedar chest. “Shit!” she swore. “Who in their right mind puts a chest in the middle of the floor?”
“You know, it was really peaceful when you were asleep. You’re awake five minutes and already bitching about everything under the sun.” Tasting the soup, he said with satisfaction, “Excellent!”
She hopped into the bathroom, then quickly returned. “What’s the matter now?” he asked.
“You know perfectly well I can’t take a shower by myself!”
Thumping back into the bathroom, she slammed the door and, still trembling, gazed at her reflection in the mirror. The flu had left her so weak. Her face was pale and drawn, her eyes, heavy. The only positive was her hair. Weeks of growth had relaxed the waves.
She turned as Tyler entered. Turning on the shower, he cupped his hand under the warming spray. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
This had become their ritual since her first shower at Dr. Stanley’s clinic. He held her waist as she wriggled out of her clothes. The last shower had been days before in Chicago, and she was embarrassed now, not by her nudity, but her body’s neglect. Besides, he never opened his eyes, an honorable practice over which she teased him unmercifully. “See,” she said as she tossed her panties to the floor. “I told you there’d be little creatures crawling on my skin. Yuk, just look at them!”
“I don’t see anything.”
“Honestly, Tyler, we both know you’re a Peeping Tom!”
“Mayson, get in the goddamned shower.”
“How do you know I’ve finished undressing unless you’re peeking?”
“Mayson, I’m losing patience here.”
“You’re right though, I have finished. I’m naked as a jaybird. Oh look, my rib bruises are fading. Go on, Tyler, I know you’re dying to. And after all the...”
“Get in the goddamned shower!”
Instead, she studied her breasts in the mirror. They were small, but well formed. Like apples, she often thought. Why didn’t he want to look? “Tyler, are my breasts too small?”
“Mayson, for the last time...”
“They are, aren’t they?”
Scooping her up, he deposited all but her casted leg in the shower. “Now hurry up.”
“Tyler, does Kara have large breasts?”
“I can’t hear you,” he said while he held her leg securely.
“Are large breasts... Fanculo!”
“Now what?”
“I dropped the soap.”
She always dropped the soap, he thought, groping blindly in the tub. “Here. Now be more careful.”
“Tyler, is that what attracted you to Kara? Her breasts?”
“Hardly.” He envisioned a bare-chested, six-year-old playing in the James’s gentle surf. He’d known Kara long before she had breasts.
Singing cheerfully through her lather and rinse, Mayson then whined, “There’s no shampoo!”
“Then rinse off.”
“I’ve already rinsed off. I need to wash my hair. There must be some shampoo somewhere.”
“Nope,” he said, looking in the cabinet. “Now get out.”
“How about the bedroom?”
“You’re one huge pain in the ass, you know that?” Irritated, he left on his forage. He returned quickly with a dusty shampoo tube, passing it through the curtain. “Now hurry up!”
When she was done, he took his turn, then joined her by the crackling fire. Her cheeks glowed with fresh color, her casted leg stretched comfortably across the carpet. “You’re recovering quickly,” he said.
“I have a good doctor. Tyler, I’m sorry about the soup.”
“Forget it. Oh, when it’s time, your medicine’s in the bathroom cabinet, with your... the...”
“Tampons?”
He nodded. “There’s just one box left. Will you need more?”
“No thanks,” she smiled. “I’m almost finished.”
In his eagerness to go to bed, he crawled in on the wrong side, a mistake she quickly pointed out. “I’m right, you’re left. The precedent was established in your apartment, then followed in Naples, and later at Eagle’s Nest.”
“I can’t say I’ve ever noticed.” He rolled over.
“Nor the extra pillow you require,” she said as she stuffed it in his gut. Joining him, she shut off the light.
Before long, the fire’s last embers popped in the oak-scented darkness. Its lingering presence reassured her, as did the warm bed, and the man she shared it with. But beyond the bed, they shared little. He remained emotionally distant and Kara, the mysterious icon he so jealously guarded, was the reason. She’d broken his heart and Mayson wanted to mend it. Yet neither circumstance mattered. As safe as they might feel at this deserted inn, they’d eventually be captured. Perhaps a raid was underway at this very moment, its patrol cars en route to the Kennesaw. This possibility haunted her as the sheets rustled. “Tyler, are you awake?” she asked.
“I just remembered something. Before leaving, Kennesaw was about to ask if I was related to someone. Then he stopped himself.”
“You think he recognized you?”
“I doubt it. He was in too much of a hurry.”
“What if he sees your picture on the news and makes the connection?”
“What do you think I’m lying here thinking about?”
“Then should we stay or go?” she asked.
“There’s nowhere to go in this weather. We stay — and pray.”
“Let me do the praying,” she sighed. “As much as you take the Lord’s name in vain, I doubt He’s inclined to listen with much sympathy to anything you have to say.”
“Your destination, exactly, until you find a more suitable way to express your anger.” She shivered in a darkness growing colder by the minute. “I thought you said this cabin was heated.”
“Oil. I’ll turn it up in the morning.”
“It’s almost that now.”
“Mayson, I’m not getting up to adjust the heat.”
Not yet maybe, but certainly after a few minutes of guilt. “I hope you’ve noticed my compliance with your stupid gag order.”
“Kara. Yes, I’ve noticed.”
“You still haven’t explained the reason for it.”
“I wasn’t aware I was obliged to.”
“Is it because she’s too painful to discuss?”
“Go to sleep, Mayson.”
“If you’re still getting over her, I suppose any reminder would be like reopening...” The covers flew off her as he suddenly sprung up. “Where are you going?” she demanded.
“To turn up the goddamned heat!”