The Best American Mystery Stories 2016 (37 page)

“Okay,” Rachel said.

“And I'll be on the phone to hear everything.”

The cell vibrated in her hand. Rachel looked at it. A middle-aged woman with a weathered face smiled tentatively at the camera.

There was a knock on the door. “Rachel?”

This time it was a woman's voice.

She said, “There's an awful lot of Sweet Young Things on the road.”

The pass phrase.

And the moment of truth.

Rachel walked to the door, then peered through the peephole. A woman wearing a heavy jacket let down the hood, revealing a version of that weathered face from the photo.

Rachel crossed her fingers, regretting the fact that she'd left the stun gun behind. She opened the door slowly, keeping the security chain on.

“Candy Mills,” the woman said.

“Rachel,” Rachel said, because for the life of her she couldn't remember her fake name. “And this is Anne-Marie.”

She turned to point out her daughter, and her breath caught.

Anne-Marie was standing behind them, pointing the stun gun at the woman. She looked fierce. Her hands didn't tremble at all.

But Rachel's did. She nearly dropped the cell. The woman on the line was asking what was going on.

“Give me the gun, Anne-Marie,” Rachel said quietly.

“We don't know her,” Anne-Marie said.

“I know, honey, but it's okay,” Rachel said.

“Do you know Santa?” Anne-Marie asked the woman.

The woman looked confused. She glanced at Rachel, who drew in her breath slowly. She couldn't help. She didn't dare help. But she tried to convey that the usual answer was the wrong answer.

“I've never met him,” the woman said after a moment.

Anne-Marie considered that. Then she set the gun down. Rachel hurried toward it.

The woman closed the door. Rachel picked up the stun gun and put it in her purse. Then she wrapped her arms around Anne-Marie. Anne-Marie clung to her.

“We're going to get you out of here,” the woman said. “You'll spend the holiday at my house. It's not much, but it'll do. Christmas put a kink in our plans. But by the twenty-sixth we should have a new van for you, and new stuff. You'll have to leave everything behind.”

“Except Anne-Marie's toys,” Rachel said. “I checked them. They don't have a tracker.”

She thought about the Santa bag at the front desk. Maybe they could pick those up on the way out, and she could thank Luke.

The woman—Candy Mills, if that was her real name—frowned. “I'll double-check. I have some equipment.”

She didn't seem too concerned.

“Will he find us again?” Rachel figured it was okay to ask. Anne-Marie had been asking for the entire trip.

“No,” Candy Mills said. “We think if there was a tracker, it was on the van. We'll know for sure tomorrow. You said he followed from Winnemucca, right?”

“He had a whole plan,” Rachel said.

“Well, we'll take care of that now. He shouldn't be hard to find.” She glanced at the tree, gave it a once-over that looked a bit sad.

“You sure you can protect us?” Rachel asked.

Candy Mills smiled, which made her seem younger and friendlier. “Yes,” she said. “We've helped a lot of women escape situations worse than yours.”

“What if he called Gil and told him where we were?”

“That's why we're going somewhere else. He had no idea where you were headed, right? You never told anyone, right?” Candy Mills sounded a bit intent, as if she wanted to make sure.

“I never said a word,” Rachel said. Not even to Anne-Marie.

“I'm signing off now,” said the voice on the cell. “You're in good hands.”

And before Rachel could say thank you, the woman on the other end of the line hung up.

Rachel swallowed. She didn't want to admit it, but she was happy to have help, even for a day or two.

She felt less alone.

Candy Mills looked at Anne-Marie. “Get your stuff. We're going to go.”

Anne-Marie hugged her dog to her chest. She didn't move. “Will Santa know how to find us?”

Candy Mills looked at Rachel, smart enough to realize these questions weren't what they seemed.

“No, honey,” Rachel said. “Santa will never find us again.”

The sentence made her heart hurt. Somehow she was going to have to give her daughter Christmas magic again. But not this year.

This year she was giving her daughter freedom. A real life. A life away from Gil.

“Good,” Anne-Marie said, and reached for her clothes. “I hope I never see him again.”

“Oh, honey,” Rachel said, knowing that wish was impossible. “I hope so too.”

GEORGIA RUTH

FROM
Fish or Cut Bait

B
RUNCH WAS OVER
. Jeff settled into his leather recliner close to the hearth and watched Sally maneuver an iron pot of hot water. She wrapped a towel around the slim handle and removed it from its fireplace hook. She didn't need his help for now.

“Honey, did I tell you that I saw Walter Bailey at the barbershop last week?”

Sally carefully stepped across the cherry hardwood with her load. “The state senator?” She poured the water into the sink in the kitchen corner of the great room.

“Yeah,” Jeff said. “Instead of suit and tie and Italian loafers, he was wearing some kind of uniform under the barber's cape. And work boots. Still trading jokes with the old-timers. It's hard to tell the difference now between him and the farmers who voted for him.”

“A shame he lost his house.” She added a spot of detergent to the hot water.

Jeff struggled out of his chair to put another log on the fire. And to replace the screen that Sally had shoved aside. “Let's get into the co-op again this year. Trading eggs for produce worked well for us.”

“I'm glad my grandmother taught me how to can vegetables.” Sally set rinsed dishes in a rack, dried the plates with a towel, and put them into her treasured china hutch.

“I'd like to barter for a few goats,” said Jeff. “What do you think?”

“I'd rather have sheep. But there'll be plenty of possibilities now that more people have booths at the marketplace.”

“Neighbors helping neighbors.”
Yes, this is one of her good days.

A familiar squabble outdoors captured Jeff's attention. He smiled in anticipation and stepped over to the window. Seventy feet down the hill, a gang of turkeys raced across the clearing, necks outstretched, wattles jiggling, competing for position.

“Wildlife onstage,” he announced, putting his magnifiers to rest on Robert Burns's poetry. Jeff climbed to the loft for a better view.

Sally removed her homemade apron and laid it next to the cast iron pot that dried on the useless electric stove. She joined him upstairs, and through the chalet windows they watched the huge birds stuff themselves on the corn Jeff had scattered earlier that morning. The bright face of the sun briefly overcame gray clouds, peeking into the woods, warm fingers touching pockets of crusty snowdrifts and hundreds of animal tracks.

“What a life, my love.” Jeff cuddled his bride of fifty years.

“Yes, it is. Atlanta was the right place to raise our boys, but these North Carolina mountains are perfect for me.”

“That's good, because we can't afford to move. Not many folks can even travel.”

“I'm happy watching water freeze into icicles that thaw the next day.” She smiled.

“Very inspirational.” Jeff squinched his eyes.

Come live with me and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove

That hills and valleys, dale and field,

And all the craggy mountains yield.

“Very impressive.” Sally chuckled. “High school English?”

“That's all I can remember from last week. Christopher Marlowe.” He tugged the faded red braid that lay halfway down her back.

“I like it when you remember to be romantic.” She tilted her head back to cock an eyebrow.

“I'm a Renaissance man.” He smiled into her pale blue eyes.

“We do all right by ourselves, don't we?” She spoke softly. “Jeff, I don't ever want to go to one of those old-people homes.”

“We'll take care of each other, honey. I promise.” He hugged her close, his eyes misting.

Time stood still as they watched the fluttering attendance at the bird feeders.

“I do wish that Daniel and Chad could be here with us.”

“They were always big-city boys, honey.” He swallowed hard and looked to the mountains. “They never spent a day reading a book.”

“Or walking deer trails.” She sighed deeply. “I know, but I worry that they're not getting enough to eat.”

The turkeys abruptly took flight.

“Something spooked them,” he said.

“Probably the fox casing my hen house. And if I see him, I'm going to shoot him.” Sally reached for the binoculars from the roll-top desk to examine the outbuildings near their young orchard. “One day I'll be able to trade jars of preserves.”

“Unless Mr. Bear or Woody Woodchuck sneaks up on us and confiscates our fruit.”

“I won't allow any varmint to steal my food. We worked too hard.”

Jeff laughed. He had always admired her spunk.

The scrape of boots on the front deck turned their attention. Over the loft railing they could see a dark face glower through the glass at the top of the mahogany door. Someone else in a black ski mask pressed his nose to the porch window and peered into the cabin's main room.

Jeff felt a spasm of fear squeeze his chest. His wife dropped the binoculars on a chair and hastened toward the steps.

“Be careful, Sally. Looks like trouble, those slackers from the bottom of the hill.”

She hesitated. “They can see we're here.”

“Stay with me.”

Jeff sought options of self-defense. His pistol was tucked away at the top of the closet in the downstairs bedroom. Out of reach. The penknife in his pocket would be slow to open.
Need something with a sharp point.
He glanced at the letter opener on the desk, the scissors, a ballpoint.

The knob turned, and a huge shaggy head loomed around the door. “Hallow, anyone ta home?”

“We're up here in the loft,” shouted Jeff. “Hang on, we're coming down.”
The fireplace poker!

The two men invited themselves in. “Nice place you got here.”

Jeff's heart was pounding as he descended the open staircase, Sally behind him. He steeled his intention to be cordial as long as possible. “Come in by the fire.”

“Thank ya kindly.” The husky intruder in the camouflage bibs clumped to the hearth, leaving wet tracks on the oval braided rug. “Shoar looks like another snow headed our way.”

His sidekick stood by the door, looking around the large room. He rolled his stocking cap off his face up to the top of his head, uncovering short brown hair and stubbly beard. Denim cuffs partially hid the burn scars on his chapped hands.

“Aren't you from the cluster of mobile homes in the valley?” Jeff asked.

“Yep, my family all lives together. Like the Kennedys.” His laugh revealed a cavern of sparse teeth stained by the bits of tobacco wedged among them.

Jeff didn't see any bulges suggesting concealed weapons. He forced a smile. “What can I do for you?”

The stranger turned away from the blazing warmth. “Friend, times are tough. We ate our last chicken for Christmas dinner. I see you still got some.”

“Yes, we do. We've hatched a few eggs and made our own flock.”

“We ate ours, didn't have nothin' else.” He picked up the beach photo from the mantel. “Big boys. They live here? Or you two all alone in these woods?”

“We have friends and relatives nearby.” Jeff claimed the family memory and replaced it below the grapevine wreath. He didn't mention both sons had been killed in Afghanistan.

“Sounds like the good life.” The behemoth called out to his hostess, who stood behind the island sink. “What do you think, honey? You like it here?”

“I certainly do.” Sally picked at a button on her sweater.

“Forgot my manners, darlin'. My name's Boyd. What's yourn?”

Jeff interrupted. “What brings you boys up the mountain?” He stationed himself between his wife and the two strangers. He expected Sally to follow his lead, whatever it would be.

“Well, like I said. We need meat, and we're mighty tired of squirrel. I seen them turkeys in front of your place, and it 'pears to me that they'd make a right tasty dinner. Course they scattered when we come up the drive.”

“If you follow the tracks, you could catch up to them. They poke along.”

“I know that.” Boyd glanced upward at the thick exposed beams. “Yep, real nice place.” He reached out a dirty fingernail to touch the photo again. “We need some firewood too. I seen you have a big pile out there.”

“Work at it all winter,” said Jeff. “The stack closest to the back door is seasoned. Behind that is what I cut this year from the trees damaged by the ice storm.”

“Too cold to go out in that stuff.” Boyd wrapped his large paw around the fireplace poker, swiped the screen to the side, and nudged a flaming log. Sparks flew.

Jeff picked up the coffee mug next to his chair and clutched it tightly.

“Would you boys like some vegetable soup? I could heat it up real quick.” Sally pulled a jar from the pantry.

Jeff nodded at her.
Smart idea—appear neighborly, nonthreatening.

The younger man at the door perked up. “Sounds good, don't it, Boyd?” His thin frame looked as though it could use another meal.

“Shoar. We'll stay to eat. We're not in no hurry.” Boyd shed his jacket, tossing it across a tartan footstool. A tiny snowball from the sleeve melted on Sally's knitting. “C'mon, Cooter. Make yourself ta home.”