Thunder shattered the darkness, and once again Tyler was missing. Springing up, Mayson knocked over the table, sending clutter flying everywhere. Directly overhead, the chopper’s thunder shook the walls; they’d discovered the hideout. Then, just as her heart stopped with this reality, the chopper streaked away. She pulled on her pants and seeing her misting breath, hobbled out to check the thermostat - forty-two degrees and falling.
Opening the cabin door, she anxiously scanned the inn’s grounds. The last storm had covered their... Her eyes lifted suddenly as the chopper returned! Slamming the door, she thumped back to the bedroom as two patrol cars glided up to the inn. A trooper and a Fed emerged from each as the chopper touched down. Climbing out, two Feds joined the group and they quickly descended the slope.
A white-haired trooper unlocked the first cabin and the group disappeared inside. Why did he have a key? Had Kennesaw contacted him?
They soon reappeared; two Feds, their collars braced against the wind, started towards the next cabin. They were going to search them all.
Frozen at the window, Mayson watched them enter the second cabin. Minutes crawled by until they emerged, the others greeting them with shaking heads and fingers that pointed at the smooth, trackless snow. Yes gavonnes, listen to your lazy comrades - there are no tracks, she thought to herself. No fugitives unless they have wings instead of feet. Unconvinced, the stubborn Feds started for the third cabin.
The sky darkened, the chill deepening as they completed their search and moved on. Nearby, the others remained huddled, each icy gust forcing them to hunch their shoulders and dip their chins into their coats. Clearly, their patience was fading. Emerging from the fourth cabin, the Feds were met by ridiculing cackles, yet they moved on. Why won’t you listen, she thought, as she watched them enter the next cabin. We’re not here!
She waited anxiously at the window as they completed their search and again moved on. Her leg throbbed more by the minute. Something was terribly wrong, she realized, as the young trooper climbed the slope. Ducking into his unit, he stuffed something into his coat and returned. Soon a whiskey bottle was being passed from one gloved hand to the next.
It was a merrier band that greeted the Feds as they moved on to the next cabin. Was Tyler watching this tragic comedy from an inn window? Or was he...? Tears she’d been fighting now slipped down her frozen cheeks. The group’s taunting laughter rose, and the empty whiskey bottle was tossed into the snow as the Feds moved on to the eighth cabin, then, minutes later, the ninth. Pausing on cabin nine’s stoop, they glanced over at ten, eyes darting from snow to window to door. Did they see Tyler’s tracks? Heart pounding, Mayson waited until finally they entered the cabin.
Sinking to the floor, she shut her eyes against her leg’s deepening throb. They’d be coming for her soon. She’d die alone in this icy hell, a dark reality that settled over her minutes later as cabin nine’s door opened and the Feds’ boots crunched again on the snowy ridge, their voices reaching her: “Nicholas said search every inch of space between Stevens Point and Duluth, and that’s what we’re doing,” a voice said. “Someone’s bound to get lucky sooner or later.”
“I hope it’s sooner,” the other Fed grumbled. “I’d like to be home by Christmas.”
Keys jingled as they passed the window above her. Terrified, her eyes shot to the end of the hall as she waited for the door’s creak. Instead, the silence was broken not by a creak, but by a siren suddenly screaming over the ridge. The Feds, voices agitated, boots crunching, returned past the window. “Look at that damn fool flying over the ice; let’s pray it’s a fugitive report.”
Mayson cautiously peered out to see the men huddled around a flustered female trooper who’d just arrived. Her mouth twisted furiously, her arms slashing the air as she answered a dozen questions at once. Had the Russians invaded Northwood?
Two Feds returned to the chopper and quickly thundered away in it as the other pair squealed off in the closest unit. The female trooper, joined by her white-haired companion, followed in her car as the young trooper climbed into the last unit. Its engine roared, then quickly died. Cranking again, he stubbornly persisted until it flooded. In a rage, he jumped out to kick snow and tires before dropping back behind the wheel.
Now what? Didn’t the unit have a radio? Or would he just sit there until the others returned? The wilderness silence deepened, the sky blackened and the chill sunk deeper into her bones as she waited. Sinking with despair to the icy floor, Mayson envisioned a roaring fire, a snifter of brandy and Tyler’s embrace. A Castlewood Christmas, cinnamon scenting the halls, the air dancing with carols, the grand rooms filled with joyful people who welcomed her as she drifted through on his arm... An engine’s roar suddenly jerked her back from her daydream. Rising, she watched a patrol car approach, its headlights aglow in the darkness. Reaching the inn, its doors flew open and silhouetted figures passed through the lights. The unit’s engine was quickly resurrected. Relief surrendered to confusion, however, as the party left with the young trooper remaining behind.
Wrapping herself in a blanket, Mayson remained at the window. Minutes crept by, each heavy with the same questions: Why was the trooper still here? If Tyler was alive, wouldn’t he have returned by now? Did he lie injured somewhere waiting, like she waited?
A long hour passed and still the wilderness didn’t deliver him. The patrol car remained, dark and still, in the drive. Should she go find Tyler, she wondered? How far could she get in her condition? Stubbornly she remained at the window, huddled in her blanket as the silence grew heavier. Her numb fingers clasped the drape. Tyler, please come back, she wished. Tears returned to her eyes.
The night deepened, as did the cabin’s chill. The window frosted, obscuring her vision. Each minute became a struggle with her throbbing leg. If she survived, would it be as an amputee? She sank to the floor again, certain it was for the last time. Hadn’t their fate been determined long before this moment? No one eluded the police forever. Sooner or later everyone’s luck ran out. Tonight was their turn.
Car doors opened in the distance. Were they finally coming for her? It no longer seemed to matter.
Step, fill the track, smooth the snow; then again and again. Tyler raced against time and the choppers, which could light up the sky any second.
Reaching the cabin just before dawn, he rushed down the hall, stopping at the sight of her huddled in blankets beneath the window. Picking her up, he laid her gently across the bed. Her face was pale and her lips were parched. Slipping off the sock, he grimaced at her swollen toes.
Mayson’s eyes opened and she sprang up to embrace him. “Tyler! I thought you were dead! They were at the door... then the siren screeched and they scrambled off - except the one. But then they came back. I knew... I mean, I thought...” Tears rushed out as she clutched him tightly.
“It’s all right,” he said as he held her. “They’re gone.”
“But what sent them away?” she asked.
“The trucker’s call, I guess.”
“What trucker?”
“The one out on 94,” he answered. “How long have your toes been swollen?”
Were they? She could hardly feel them. Madonna mia, they were! “I... don’t know.”
“Does your leg hurt?” he asked. When she nodded, he said, “I need to know, Mayson.”
“Were you at the inn last night?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Then you should’ve left a note.”
“I did.” Spotting it beside the overturned table, he snatched it up.
Reading it, she realized that once more, she’d doubted him. Again he’d come through.
“The furnace died,” he said. “It’s out of oil. We’ll move up to the inn tonight when the choppers can’t spot us.”
“What if our friends return?” she asked.
“They won’t; not for a while anyway.”
“How do you know?” Her eyes narrowed. “And about the trucker’s call? Who did he talk to? And what did he say to make those men take off?”
“He called the Northwood Sheriff’s Office to report leaving Lacey’s an hour earlier. Only he didn’t detect the strange rattle until reaching the 94 junction.”
“The strange rattle?”
“One suspicious enough that he pulled over to check it out. That’s when he spotted the fugitives. Going back to check the trailer, he caught them fleeing into the woods; a man and a woman in their mid-to-late twenties. The woman was on crutches and thumping as fast as she could - a darn pretty thing, too. Then he found the crowbar used to break into the trailer, most likely at Lacey’s, his last stop. They’d jumped on there and when he stopped again, bailed out to avoid detection. They fled west, which by the way, is in the opposite direction of Northwood.”
“And also the Kennesaw,” she added. “Did this trucker happen to identify himself?”
“Barney Bodelski. The last name he had to spell twice. He was about to give the carrier’s name when the line went dead.”
“And did this create suspicion?”
“Hell no, the dispatcher was much too pumped. Twice during the call, she tried reaching the sheriff but couldn’t because he was out here searching the inn, with Deputy Ichabod and the Feds. No doubt that was her who barreled up the drive last night. If she’d arrived a second later, they would’ve found you.”
“But they didn’t, Tyler. That call saved my life.”
“I should’ve thought of it sooner. I felt so helpless watching those pricks move from cabin to cabin. If something had happened...”
“It didn’t.” She kissed him gratefully, then wrinkled her nose. “Have you been drinking?”
“I found a couple six packs in Kennesaw’s refrigerator.”
“You drank twelve beers!” she exclaimed.
“I was up there a long time,” he shrugged defensively. “How does your leg feel now?”
“Do you plan on asking me that every five minutes?”
“I need to know, Mayson.”
Not because he could relieve her pain but insisted on sharing it, she fully appreciated. “So besides guzzling beer, how else did you kill time up there?”
“I made some calls to Snow Peak with that cell phone I bought in Wausau, hoping to pick up a few scraps about Dale Markham.”
Wrapping herself in the blanket, she crawled up beside him. “I hope you disguised your voice?”
“Dick Jessup, from Dallas,” he drawled Texas-style.
“Longbridge country; how poetic,” she smiled. “Who did you call?”
“The Chamber of Commerce. A woman there gave me the information I needed to move my business to Snow Peak. You know, cars, trucks, anything on wheels.”
“But each one you touch breaks down.”
“She didn’t know that. I gave her a phony address to send brochures and took down all the names and numbers of doctors, lawyers, real estate and insurance agents she’d give me.”
“Don’t tell me you called them all?”
“I didn’t have to. I hit the Snow Peak Insurance Agency halfway through the list. It’s amazing what you can learn by asking the most basic insurance questions, especially if you get the town gossip.”
“The town gossip works at the insurance agency?”
He nodded. “You remember that Chatty Cathy doll? That’s her. One question and she starts rambling. I figured if she rambled long enough, something useful might stumble out.”
“And did it?” Mayson asked.
“Well, we now know that Markham owns the agency, and that he’s attending a property and casualty underwriter’s convention in St. Paul. I haven’t been able to reach him yet at his hotel.”
“What makes you think he’ll talk to you? And haven’t the Feds already asked the same questions?”
“I know they’ve asked questions,” he replied. “Just not the right ones.”
“But you will.” She looked at him skeptically. “So what else did Chatty Cathy say?”
“That Markham bought the agency from his boss’s estate four years ago, and that it currently has five agents, including him; all are close friends, as was the previous owner. Big fishermen, too. Each spring and fall they take a week off and drive up to Copper Harbor, where they rent the same cabin and fish from the same boat they began with twenty years ago. Chatty says they do as much drinking and poker-playing as fishing. His kudos took up a good quarter-hour. He wasn’t just the best insurance man around, but the best golfer, fisherman, etc. Apparently Markham and the other agents thought so, too. When he died, they renamed their boat in his honor; they even kept the lease at the Copper Harbor Marina in his name.”
She vaguely sensed a connection to be made suddenly - the fishing pact or something else? As he finished, she fell back against the pillow. “Let’s take a nice, long nap.”
Kicking off his boots, he joined her in the blankets. “I found some pain pills in Kennesaw’s medicine cabinet and a bottle of decent bourbon in the pantry.”
“I see.” She stroked his jaw. “So then after the beer, you plan on spending the rest of our odyssey snockered?”
“That’s not a bad idea, but I was thinking about your leg.”
“It doesn’t hurt that much,” she said.
He knew better, and also knew the likelihood of it getting worse. “We’ll leave for the inn at dark.”
“How much time do you think Barney’s lead has bought us?”
“A day or two,” he replied. “And the search area has shrunk dramatically. His call puts us between Northwood and the 94 junction. Imagine a thousand cops concentrated into a twenty square mile area and you’ve grasped our situation.”
“Won’t they try to confirm where the call came from?” she asked.
“I’m sure. Let’s just hope they exhaust Barney’s lead first.”
As the gray morning drifted, they fell into a weary silence, the wilderness asleep outside. But for how long, he wondered, his nose settling in her perfume-scented hair? L’Air du Temps — he’d never imagined enjoying its fragrance again.
“You can kiss me if you want,” she smiled lazily.
He studied her face instead. More than beautiful, it was perfect, just like her slender body that molded perfectly to his. It terrified him suddenly to imagine the world without her.
Their kiss was a deep one that carried them beyond the threatening clutches of the cold, gray world outside. Breathlessly she clung to him. “If you want, I thought, well... you might want to go shopping.”
He smiled. “For apples and pears, I suppose?”
“Whatever you’re in the mood for,” she smiled seductively as their eager lips met again.
Not a chance. He held the reins on all but his hungering fingers, which slipped beneath her shirt to envelop her soft breast. The nipple hardened instantly and he imagined its sweetness, his lips brushing over it. His fingers then slid slowly down her spine and inside her panties, clutching her delicate buttocks, their soft swells suiting him perfectly. Forcefully she moved against him, her fingers urgently scraping his back. He’d struck a passionate chord, lifting her to a plateau of pleasure she’d never known. The cabin was like ice and yet she was melting, a furnace burning out of... She shriveled suddenly as he broke their last kiss.
Gazing into her bruised eyes, he sighed, “Don’t you think I want the same thing?”
“Obviously not,” she said, and turned away.
“Mayson, you’re the most important person in my life.”
“Because Kara has chosen not to be?” she asked.
“It has nothing to do with choice.”
“Then what?” she persisted.
“Fate maybe,” he sighed in frustration. “I don’t know.”
“Tyler, people determine their own fate.”
“Not always.”
“Then I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I, so let’s change the subject.”
Instead they slipped back into their gloomy reflections, the world outside a million miles away, quiet and lifeless, the same as the hump they formed in the blankets.
He envisioned Castlewood’s giant Christmas tree, fully dressed, lights glittering, presents piled beneath, a holiday beacon that could be seen for miles out on the James. Christmas morning would arrive with Schuyler’s potent eggnog and carols on the stereo. They’d manage a gentle buzz while opening presents, then lose it over Hunter Leigh’s huge breakfast.
Her bruised feelings fading, Mayson stroked his nose. “What are you thinking about?”
“Christmas,” he smiled wistfully.
“I was thinking of best friends,” she said. “The person you share everything with, who colors and defines your world, makes you smile, laugh and sing, angers you sometimes but makes you happy more. To lose that person must be the most horrible thing in the world.”
Wasn’t this the book he could write, if he wasn’t so desperate to forget? Wouldn’t it contain all those deep feelings he’d never shared with anyone? “At first you deny the loss,” he said. His fingers crawled restlessly over Mayson’s breast, cradling it as a child would his blanket. “There’s too much of that person inside you for you to comprehend they’re gone. And it’s much easier to believe they aren’t. But you can only deny reality for so long. Sooner or later you need to face it.
“You’re bewildered initially. Fate has singled you out, but no one can tell you why, and finally you quit asking. You’re left empty inside, but not for long. Soon you fill with rage, so much that you want to strike out at everything in your path. You look for someone to blame, but there’s no one. Finally, your rage fades away. Emptiness returns and a dark shadow like death settles over you; and then you know.”
Her eyes were now wide, intense. “Know what, Tyler?”
“That you’ve sunk into a place between life and death. There’s pain, but at the same time no feeling at all. You see, hear and move, but without purpose or direction. You’re in the world but not part of it. The worst thing is knowing you’re trapped, unless you can somehow crawl your way out.” He smiled mournfully at her. “I bet you didn’t bargain for Kafka.”
“Your description’s so vivid... it’s like you’ve actually been to this place yourself,” she marveled.
“You must’ve felt the same emotional deadness when your father left.”
Which was why she hated to think he’d experienced it, too. “Does Kara know about this place?”
It had been her greatest fear; that he’d find it and be unable to return. “I couldn’t tell her.”
“You mean you were afraid to. I understand perfectly.”
“I hate her, Tyler. I’m sorry, but I do.”
“You can’t hate her.”
“And why not?” She frowned as he sprung up and started out. “Tyler, come back here!”
At the end of the hall, he turned into the kitchen. Stopping at the window, his furious eyes could’ve melted the snow outside. Then as his anger faded, he sat at the table burdened by all he’d been unable to leave behind. He was hopeless. Soon he’d be dead. Wrong, a voice refrained. You died six years ago.
Kara had been an inseparable part of him, the one who made his world a wonderful place. Then suddenly she’d been gone. Her absence was a cold, dark, empty place that hurt too much to inhabit; and so he’d left. Only Mayson could lure him back with the promise of a new life. Didn’t she already exist on the edge of every thought? Wasn’t it her voice dancing upon his heart now? But the music always stopped. Did he want to find himself once again humming alone in the darkness? Did he want to search for Mayson as he’d searched for Kara — around every corner, in every room? Did he want to hear her whisper, see her fleeting shadow, long after she was gone?
Mayson stood quietly in the doorway as his eyes shut to tears. She’d put too much pressure on him, insisted on knowing his private pain when he wasn’t ready to share it. She’d been selfish and this was the result. “Tyler, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’ve asked questions you’re not ready to answer.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he replied. “Just forget it, all right?”
“I owe you far too much to do that,” she said, shaking her head. “You befriended me when I neither wanted nor deserved a friend. You climbed over my rage to help me. When I needed you, you were there. And I plan to be there for you, with comfort and support, not questions. If you’ve been to that terrible place you described, I’ll see that you never return. I promise you that.”
He nodded. “I may hold you to it one day.”
She prayed more than anything that he would. “Let’s get back in bed. I have something to tell you.”
“What?” he asked.
Once under the covers, she curled up like a contented cat inside his arm. “I was sixteen when I met Stephen. He was twenty-two, a sales rep for a distributor of men’s toiletries, and Cellini’s was in his territory. He’d drop by each week to inventory his products, put up displays and talk with Mr. Cellini. Then without fail, he’d track me down wherever I happened to be — sweeping the aisles, stocking shelves or helping in the warehouse. Sometimes I’d be eating lunch and we’d talk a long time. He seemed to know exactly how I felt. It was very important to me to be understood.”
Idly twirling Tyler’s chest hair, Mayson described a world that had never seemed farther away. “Sitting on a warehouse crate, Stephen would reassure me the world wasn’t nearly as dark as I believed. That all men weren’t like Papa and Santa; that some were good and that I must learn to trust again. And what about you, Stephen? I asked myself. Are you one of the good ones? I looked for cracks in his armor but found none.
“His own father had been a hopeless alcoholic. The last time Stephen saw him, he was dying of liver disease in one of those crowded welfare wards at Bellevue. Watching him cry over his wasted life, Stephen vowed never to waste his own. He went to college, earned a business degree and then started with the distributorship. He soon earned his own territory and was promoted to district sales manager. He didn’t drink or smoke, and he stayed home nights to save his money. He was determined to have his own business one day.”
“And you believed all this?” Tyler asked.
“I believed everything Stephen said. He hit all the right buttons. Mama adored him. And at some point, I guess, his good looks hit me. He was blond, blue-eyed, soft-spoken, a strange sight in my Italian neighborhood. Anyway, our attraction for each other was growing. We held hands often, and we went to the movies and the park on Sunday afternoons.
“When I was eighteen, we created the scandal of the decade by attending my senior prom together. But Mama approved and I was officially a woman. Stephen was twenty-six, a dreamboat in his tux that night. The other girls were sick with envy as we danced beneath the glowing lanterns.
“I started Columbia that fall, a hectic time with a full course load and two jobs. And Mama wasn’t doing well. One minute she cried over Papa, the next Santa, then Vinny. Stephen was such a good sport, waiting every Tuesday and Thursday night when my shift ended at the ‘Flop Shop.’ I washed dishes, waited tables and was exhausted by the end. But the instant he took me in his arms, my exhaustion vanished.
“We’d either stroll to our favorite coffee shop or go for pizza in his car. He’d fuss over my raw hands after hours of washing dishes, then say how proud he was of me. You’re not just the world’s most beautiful girl, but also the toughest! he’d boast.”
“And he was right on both counts,” Tyler rejoined.
“The two greatest compliments I’ve ever received.” She glowed.
“His and mine?”
“No, ‘beautiful’ and ‘tough,’ just now when you made them compliments. But I never thought of myself as tough. I just did what I had to. And I never cared about being beautiful – until now, anyway.”
His fingers slid down her spine. “Are you saying the Old Spice salesman didn’t inspire one ounce of vanity?”
“So we’ve given him a nickname? The ‘Old Spice salesman’ - I suppose it’s appropriate.”
“And my question?” he asked.
“We’ll get to that, just be patient. Anyway, Stephen had an apartment on the West Side. His brother, Paul, came by sometimes but there were rarely other visitors. We enjoyed our privacy. My schedule allowed us so little time together. I looked forward to our long, carefree Sundays — the strolls in the park, romantic dinners, old movies and Chianti, snuggling in the dark.”
“That’s when you started...?’”
“Be patient, I said.” She playfully smacked his arm.
“At least tell me if we’re getting close.”
“All right, we’re getting close!” Gratefully her eyes closed as his fingers again slipped down her spine. “Tyler, I wish so much that I’d known you back then.”
“Finish your story,” his said as his nose settled in her hair.
“Where was I?” she asked thoughtfully.
“You and the Old Spice salesman were about to do it.”
“No, we weren’t. We were about to cook dinner and watch TV - every Giants game, of course. Stephen didn’t care for football, but he’d sit there patiently as I absorbed every detail.” She smiled, “I bet you’ve never known a girl who knew so much about football?”
Just one, he thought, but finally it seemed there was another.
“Anyway, I thought it perfectly natural to surrender my virginity to the man I planned to marry,” she confessed. “Stephen had waited five years for me to grow up. I couldn’t ask him to wait any longer.”
“And...?” Tyler nudged her. “How was it?”
“Well if I didn’t sizzle with passion or collapse in his arms like in one of those old movies...”
“That bad, huh?”
“No, you dope! And the second time was better. There were six times altogether.”
“Why not a seventh?”
“Because I found out... everything.” Her eyes gleamed with an old bitterness. “We’d just returned to his apartment one Tuesday evening when he announced we wouldn’t be spending Christmas together. His mother was taking the family to Vermont to visit a dying aunt. I accepted this because I trusted him, although I wasn’t happy about it. Anyway, when I hung my coat in the hall closet, I found a jewelry box, and being the nosy person I am, I couldn’t resist a peek.”
“An engagement ring?”
“The most beautiful diamond necklace I’d ever seen,” she exclaimed. “My fingers trembled just holding it. And I knew Stephen must be the most wonderful man on earth. He was also coming down the hall; I was lucky to get the box back on the shelf before he turned the corner.”
“Did he give it to you that night?”
“No, but I felt sure he would that Thursday, on our last date before his trip. It was a dreadful night.” She shivered. “An unexpected storm had dropped a foot of snow on the ground. When I got home, I found his message saying he’d gotten stranded on his return from a Connecticut business meeting and wouldn’t be able to make our date.
“He sounded so depressed. I knew he must be looking forward to giving me his big surprise, so I thought, ‘Why not surprise him?’ When he returned, instead of a dark, empty apartment, wouldn’t it be nice to find that adorable Corelli girl waiting with a warm dinner? So after taking care of Mama, I rushed out to shop then returned to shower and dress. By eight, I was in a cab headed for the West Side. Not until reaching his apartment did I realize I’d overlooked one minor detail.”
“What?” he asked.
“His apartment key,” she laughed. “There I stood in my best dress, hair coifed, arms loaded with groceries and no way to get inside. However, at that moment, a neighbor appeared and seeing me standing there like a fool, tried to free me — not of my heavy bags but my apparent misconception. He said that Mr. Ford lived there all right, but not Stephen - his brother, Paul. He said Stephen lived out in Long Island. Naturally I assured him he was the one mistaken. He then assured me just as emphatically that he wasn’t.
“A lump crept up my throat as I asked where in Long Island Stephen lived. He went to his apartment for the address and to call me a cab. In minutes, I was on my way to Long Island wondering if it was actually possible that Stephen had lied to me about where he lived, and if so, why?
“Finally the cab turned down a street with handsome, snow-mantled houses, lights glowing in the windows, like stepping into a Norman Rockwell painting. As we reached the house, I was in a daze and stupidly sent the cab away. Grabbing my bags, I went up to knock. Tiny voices began squealing, feet pattered and the door opened to four pajama-clad children. Grinning at my bags, the oldest asked if they were Christmas presents. Certain now that I had the wrong house, I smiled at the large pile of packages beneath the twinkling tree.
“As I turned to leave, a plump woman with a sweet, almond face suddenly appeared. Starting to explain the intrusion, my eyes fell to her dazzling necklace—my necklace; I knew then I had the right house.
“When she asked who I was looking for, I bit back my tears to say the Smiths, of all people. Stephen finally appeared, freezing at the sight of me. I was equally shocked, of course, because I realized that everything he’d ever said, done, represented - all that I’d believed about him - was a lie. He was a lie.” She shook her head with bitter irony. “All the years I’d invested in him... in one minute, he’d destroyed it all.
“When his wife said she didn’t know the Smiths, he explained that they lived in the next block. I declined his offer to drive me, given that I contemplated his immediate castration. So in a daze I left, walking for blocks until I reached a store, where I dumped my bags and called a cab.”
“Did you ever see him again?”
“One night after the holidays I returned from work to find him waiting in front of our building. He said he wanted to explain. I said there was nothing to explain. He then begged me to forgive five years of lies. I said he must be crazy to think I might. He asked how I could be so unforgiving. I asked how he could be such a bastard. He said he’d told his wife about us and then moved out of their home. This meant he’d also lost his job, since his father-in-law owned the company. I calmly replied that he wasn’t just a bastard, but a very stupid one and advised him to crawl back to his wife and beg her forgiveness, not mine, since I had no intention of ever seeing him again.
“‘But I’ve sacrificed my family for you!’ he protested.
“‘People don’t sacrifice families,’ I said. ‘They love them.’
“He then dropped to his knees and began wailing like a wounded animal. It was horrible,” she sighed. “Not just the disgrace, but seeing Stephen as he really was. Not the man of the world, but this sniveling creature groveling at my feet, tears springing from his eyes as he begged me not to leave. It was so embarrassing, so pathetic. And deciding it was much too cold to waste another second on him, I went inside. I never saw or heard from him again.”
Tyler studied her solemnly. Did he need another word to understand her mistrust of the world? Her father, Santa and finally Stephen; each in his turn had failed her. Why should she assume he wouldn’t also? “Mayson, I’m sorry for all you’ve suffered and for not having done more to understand.”
She smiled. “Tyler, you’ve done far more to understand than I could’ve ever hoped. So now having suffered my miserable story, how do you feel – better or hopelessly depressed?”
Chapter Four’s telling had been to distract him from his pain. “Better.” His gaze drifted to the darkened window. Were their pursuers drawing near in the wilderness outside? “We should leave for the inn soon.”
“Can’t we sleep a while first?” she sighed. “I’m so comfortable.”
Sleep came quickly for him but not for her, as she watched the night deepen in the window. His conversation with Chatty Cathy scratched again at her brain. What was the connection she was trying to make? Again she laid out the details – Markham and the other insurance agents, five living, one dead; the Copper Harbor fishing trips; the marina storage facility. Did the pieces make a picture or did she just want them to?
He woke to the choppers’ thunder — and Mayson at the window, seemingly oblivious, her eyes frozen on the wilderness outside. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
She’d finally made the connection. Morris’s interrupted vacation, his flight to Minnesota to meet Dale Markham, their shared passion for fishing — it was easy to imagine.
Morris: You called just when the blues were biting.
Markham: Oh yeah? Well let me tell you about our last catch at Copper Harbor...
Morris: Your own boat, kept right there at the marina?
Markham: It’s safe and the storage unit’s only opened twice a year; once in the spring, once in the fall.
Morris: You pay rent fifty weeks out of the year and the boat just sits there?
Markham: Yeah, but we split it five ways. And the lease isn’t even in our names. We kept it in our buddy’s name; the one who died.
Morris: No kidding? So everyone has a key?
Markham: Lock combination. It’s also written down in a secret place if we forget. No one else has access.
Morris: Unless they discover the combination. Where do you keep it anyway?
Markham, ignorant of Morris’s intentions, must have told him or been tricked into it. Morris had then gone to Copper Harbor, via Duluth, that Saturday. “Tyler, the man who owned the Snow Peak Insurance Agency before Markham,” she asked. “The one in whose name the boat’s stored at the Copper Harbor Marina - what is it? Did Chatty Cathy say?”
Gazing at the scrap of paper in her hand, the one recovered from Morris’s apartment, his eyes widened. A shiver rushed up his spine. “Hunter,” he answered. His name was Robert Hunter.”