A Cold, Fine Evil Read online

  Contemplating him over the rim of her cup, she asked a question. “I’m not searching for anything but an honest answer, but do you really remember me?”

  “I do.” His smile was then genuine with at least a glimpse of his usual charisma. “I was a teenaged boy and you had nice tits. No offense intended by my brief regression to age eighteen, I hope, but it made you memorable.”

  Did he just say tits? He had, with a cheeky grin, no less.

  “Yes, the boobs matched the ass.” Still did. Alicia laughed ruefully. “Both have gotten bigger.”

  “Nothing wrong with that. Life changes.”

  It sounded like he meant it.

  She considered him across the small table. The place smelled like maple syrup and cinnamon with an overtone of perspiration. Walk-in diner, and her impression was that he might recognize it but it was hardly his regular venue any longer despite how and where he grew up.

  No, Jon Palmer didn’t eat in tacky places like this. Not his territory.

  She wanted another sugar for her coffee, but decided against it. “So I’m guessing you’re divorced? So am I. Forgive me if I’m being nosy.”

  He shrugged. “I invited you for coffee. Yes, to divorced. Sorry about yours.”

  “I’m not.” She was telling the truth. “He was not at all what I signed up for.”

  His face became distant, cold, shuttered. “I don’t even know if I can say that. My greatest fear is that she was someone I knew from the beginning I would never become emotionally involved with, if that makes any sense at all.”

  Alicia cast back on her own shattered romance, if that was even what a person could call her marriage. “It makes perfect sense. Best to not get too attached in case it all goes south.”

  * * * *

  If he wanted to sleep with the woman sitting across from him, the vibe was he probably could.

  As he sat and drank his coffee, Jon pondered the vagaries of life. And, of course, death. Fate tossed into your path people who were the rudders that steered the course, and she might be one, or Alicia Hahn might just be a blip on the screen.

  He was tired of trying to figure it all out.

  “I love my children.” That just needed to be said for some reason he couldn’t fathom.

  She had a cute smile. Not calculated and designed to lure, but just a twitch of her lips upward at the corners of her mouth. She really was dressed in unflattering, loose-fitting jeans and a careless shirt, but still had those spectacular breasts he remembered from the tight shirts she wore in high school. Blond hair, hazel eyes that, besides her breasts, might be her best asset and otherwise just regular features that made her catch the eye but not really turn your head. She was hardly a knockout, but she was pretty enough. Maybe when she gave it some effort, she might even be very pretty. Alicia observed, “You’d be an asshole if you didn’t.”

  “What? You have my ex-wife on speed dial?”

  She outright laughed at that. “There’s no such thing as a civil divorce, eh?”

  “Something like that.” He regarded her over the rim of his lifted cup. “How about you? Any kids?”

  Alicia shook her head. “It didn’t last long enough for that. We met at the community college. I was working two jobs so I wouldn’t have school loan debt if I decided to move on to the University of Minnesota and I was living with my parents to save money.” She grimaced. “When Gary found out how much I had stashed away, he wanted to buy a house. So we had a modest wedding and went house shopping. The only happily ever after was that when we split, I got the house because while I was stupid enough to marry him, I was smart enough to give my parents the money and put the mortgage in their name. It really ticked him off when he found out.”

  Jon laughed and shook his head. “It always amazes me when we, as human beings, choose to ignore the warning bells going off, and do something we shouldn’t. My mother used to tell me that the day you listen to the inner voice that tells you to not do something you want to do, then you might be grown up.”

  His mother. He could tell Alicia was surprised he mentioned her. He was surprised himself.

  She glossed over it. “I thought again about Minneapolis, but I think I’d lost the momentum for school. The real estate market here is so dismal I knew selling would be financial suicide. Working at the liquor store pays the bills. It’s boring and unchallenging, but I get along okay. I’ve been there long enough I don’t have to work weekends very often, and no nights anymore.” She paused. “Your turn. What do you intend to do in Black Lake?”

  She looked genuinely curious.

  He set aside his cup abruptly enough it rattled in the saucer. It certainly was a valid question. “Lick my wounds, I suppose. I liked Chicago, but I am sick of traffic, noisy trains, congested sidewalks and loud restaurants. Nothing there is simple. I guess that’s what I’m looking for. I want peace and quiet. I’m renting a cabin on one of the lakes until next spring. Maybe before then, I’ll be able to answer the question; what am I going to do next.”

  She gazed at him with consternation. “Then you’d better trade in your fancy Beemer for a heavy duty SUV because otherwise you’ll be snowed in for most of the winter. You might want to buy a snowmobile as well.”

  That had actually occurred to him. He could ride one all the way into town if he needed supplies, but a snowmobile couldn’t carry much back. “I’m thinking about it. I’m also going to stock up on canned goods, and there’s a woodstove if the electricity goes out. I’ll be fine.”

  “You’ll be bored out of your mind. What will you do all day?”

  “I like to read,” he said mildly. “Go for long walks. I might do some ice fishing. The cabin has a shanty for it and an auger. My hobby is photography. I’m hoping to take some pictures, maybe turn the second bedroom into a dark room. I brought all my equipment.”

  Alicia shook her head and her voice was somber. “Those are some deep woods. Lots of black bear. A hunter was attacked up there last year. The bear dragged him away. All they found was a lot of blood and part of his hand. Three fingers.” She shivered. “The middle one still had his wedding ring on it. I wish sincerely I didn’t know that part. Somehow it makes it seem worse. The body is still missing.”

  The elderly waitress ambled up and they both declined more coffee. He asked causally as he picked up the check, glanced at it, and took out his wallet. “How do they know it was a bear? Tracks?”

  “I suppose. Hey, thanks for the coffee.” Her smile was tinged with an endearing shyness as they both slid out of the booth. “I’m sure your glass is ready.”

  “I hope so. At least it’s clear.”

  “Clear?”

  He held the door. “The weather. So you can paint your deck.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said hastily. “Right. Nice clear day.”

  The glass was ready and he picked up some glazing compound and while he was at it, a cordless drill and a deadbolt. If the owners objected to the new lock he’d replace the door when he moved out, but since it was a company out of Minneapolis that owned a string of rentals on the lakes, he doubted anyone would even notice.

  It was probably a futile effort, but it made him feel better.

  Those are some deep woods…

  As he drove back to the cabin, he thought about eighteen missing people and the mauled hunter. He thought about the images of his youth, the brilliant lights of the football field and the cheering stands, the school cafeteria, he thought about the backseat of his car and Amy, Troy’s wife, and that first fumbling foray into sexual experience.

  His mother’s funeral.

  Ten years in Chicago and he had done his best to bury the past, tucking it into a place labeled: Don’t Go There.

  It was one of the more mature moments in his life when he realized it wasn’t working. Not a feeling of resignation exactly, but maybe enlightenment. He recognized he needed to close the circle, not leave the door open for unexpected visitations of memory.

  The birches whispered as he g
ot out of the car, a gentle mocking sound of dying fluttering leaves he ignored. He carried in the pane of glass, knew that back in Chicago he’d have simply hired someone to do the repair, and reflected on how he wasn’t quite positive he had the right skill set to do it in the first place. Yes, he could close multi-million dollar deals, but putting a pane of glass in a window frame might not be his forte.

  However, come hell or high water, he reminded himself, he was not going to be able to sleep with a gaping hole open to the outdoors. He’d hung a sheet over it to keep the few insects left out, but that would hardly do.

  He worked methodically, using the internet as a guide, following the steps painstakingly, because while he was not a handyman, he liked to think he had a functioning brain and was capable of a simple task like this one.

  It took longer than anticipated, but then again, all he had was time. It was an old window, and the wood frame was warped enough it split a little, but in the end, it was done and looked decent. Then he went out and swept up the broken glass from the walk, and got a beer.

  He sat on the porch, watching dark clouds roll in, the air taking on a pure autumn chill. Alicia better have gone straight to work on her deck. When it began to rain, the water rippled like a live entity, thirsty and eager. He listened to the sound on the plain wooden roof and thought about the night before.

  The boat that wasn’t there. The sound of footsteps, the rattling knob on the door…

  The face in the window.

  Chapter 5

  The old well looks much the same as it always did except some of the stones have tumbled around the perimeter like so many missing teeth. Moss has crawled over it, resembling a loathsome disease, some of it sickly green and some of it a curious brown. Once upon a time I recall a rusted metal cover over the top to keep hapless children from falling in, but as the farm fell into disrepair, no one visited the place anymore, so there was no one to worry about a possible accident.

  Except me.

  I come here often enough and wander through the deserted house with its filthy floors and leaking roof. Part of it collapsed long ago and filled one of the bedrooms upstairs with debris and stains have grown as the ceilings downstairs rot from the moisture. The rusted stove sits in bored abandonment, and the kitchen smells like old grease and it is obvious raccoons and other scavengers have made themselves welcome, though as shelter, I must admit it is less than adequate for human beings.

  The bloodstains in the living room are no longer visible, but as they say, everything fades with time. However, I remember everything clearly. That day is as luminous in my mind as if it had happened only minutes ago.

  That is why I visit.

  I enjoy reliving it.

  The night had been quiet.

  The usual noises had kept him awake, but nothing disturbing happened and Jon finally fell into a fitful sleep with sporadic dreams that he didn’t recall and he had the impression might not have been too pleasant. When he woke and looked around the bedroom with the plain knotty pine walls and simple dresser, plaid curtain covering a single window, he was drenched in sweat and in desperate need of a cup of coffee.

  It was a gray day, overcast but still, with leaden clouds gathered in low hanging banks. The kitchen floor was ice cold beneath his bare feet. He fumbled in the cupboard, shivering, looking for the special cups to put in the coffee maker. He popped one in, and naturally, the expensive thing decided not to work. It sputtered, the light on the display went out, and he said an uncivilized word.

  “Connie probably stood in a room last night chanting and wearing a pointed hat to curse me,” he muttered out loud, wondering how much he had paid for the contraption. Luckily there was a gas station about ten miles away. He made a mental note to buy a regular simple coffee pot of the reliable variety, went into the tiny bathroom to brush his teeth, and pulled on his jeans and shirt from the day before. It wasn’t until he went outside he realized maybe he’d had a visitor after all.

  The gravestone was propped against a tree by the woodshed. It was worn so badly that the etched words on the surface were almost obliterated by time and weather, Small patches of insidious lichen speckled the stone. Jon stopped dead on the way to his car and stood there, his chest tightening.

  It started to rain, a drift of moisture brushing his face and dampening his hair.

  As a joke, the marker was definitely lacking in the humor department and he was hard pressed to think of who might decide putting a gravestone next to his cabin would be funny. George maybe, but he doubted it. George wasn’t into exertion and he’d guess it was damned heavy. Troy? It was possible since there was no love lost between them, but this was more of an intellectual kind of prank and Troy was the physical type. He would gladly use his fists, but it was doubtful he’d do something like this.

  Other than Alicia Hahn, he hadn’t really seen anyone else since his return and she certainly wasn’t capable of moving it.

  Reluctantly Jon walked closer and squatted down in the pine needles, trying to make out the inscription. The name was lost but he could make out a date, or at least most of it.

  1853.

  From the position, it was a birthdate but the date of death was gone, the stone worn enough there might be a suggestion of it, but at least under the canopy of trees and gloomy skies he couldn’t see it.

  Not the finest way to start the day so far. Unfortunately, the ground was so covered in springy pine needles there were no tire tracks, and when he stood and tried to move the marker, he could barely lift it and he was in pretty good shape, so no one could have carried it any significant distance.

  Yet it had arrived, unwanted but there, somehow.

  Jon straightened and wiped his hands on his jeans, uneasy and disturbed, his gaze scouring the surrounding woods. No movement, no sound.

  Until he heard it.

  Soft, distant laughter. Light and brittle, like the sound of shattering glass, rushing like a stream tumbling over stones, the lilt familiar enough his stomach tightened into a solid knot.

  Whatever he expected, it wasn’t that. He turned around ridiculously in a circle, looking for the source and all he heard was the laughter moving, and then dying away.

  There couldn’t be children in these woods.

  The surrounding cabins were empty, closed for winter, the musty interiors filled with braces for the roofs that would hold too much snow, the lanes unplowed and deserted. Everyone was safely in the suburbs where they belonged and even if they were here, they would never be allowed to run free…

  Or he wouldn’t allow it. He tried not to think of his own children roaming these woods and it made him go cold all over because the idea was horrifying.

  He might have imagined it.

  He stood there, a knot twisting in his stomach, attempting to make sense of it and failing. It wasn’t a secret to him that he had teetered more than once on the slippery edge between sanity and the alternative. He’d concealed it well; no one in those stifling boardrooms or boring-as-hell cocktail parties would ever guess, or if they did, they were even a better actor than he was. Once Connie had caught him in a full blown panic attack, convulsively washing his hands over and over, sweating so profusely his face looked like soapstone in the bathroom mirror.

  What the hell is wrong with you?

  Flu.

  Being Connie, his lovely, self-centered wife had fled lest she contract the same ailment, not even asking if she could get him an aspirin.

  She’d dodged a bullet. Literally. The loaded .38 he kept in the dresser drawer had been talking to him, urging him to come at least for a good long look, and if he had decided to answer that lethal summons and blow his brains out, he easily might have taken her out with him if she’d conveniently walked into the room. It was her lucky day.

  Not his first black moment by a long shot.

  So it was impossible not to wonder if he’d put that gravestone there himself and just didn’t remember it. The blackouts were rare, but happened now and then.
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br />   Which was worse? That he did it for some macabre reason that he couldn’t comprehend when he was lucid, or someone else had delivered the unpleasant gift?

  One hell of a question, that one.

  Fifteen minutes later he pulled into the gas station, the dark skies spitting tiny droplets all over his windshield.

  He really needed that cup of coffee.

  * * * *

  George regarded Mason Fowler with a jaundiced look caused by both years of acquaintance and a general skeptical view of the logic of the world he lived in. The man was his supervisor but he was an idiot.

  Where was the justice in that?

  “Enrollment is down, but my classes are full,” George pointed out, quite reasonably in his opinion. “An across the board percentage-based salary reduction seems unfair all the way around, but more so to those of us who still have the same amount of papers to grade and lectures to give.”

  Fowler adjusted his—hideous in George’s opinion—tie. It had sickly green specks against a tan background. Enough said. He replied, “Of course no one is happy about this, but there have been many meetings and this has been deemed the best course of action to protect this learning institution’s reputation for fine academic standards.”

  Oh yeah. As an institution of higher learning, they weren’t exactly considered Ivy League. Some of the professors were good, he’d like to think he was one of them, but could just be fooling himself. Either way, his damn classes were full.

  The equation was: same work, less pay.

  George could argue, or he could just fold his tents and accept it because bureaucracy was going to win anyway. Story of his life. Two choices. Accept or fight for change, and he was an acceptor. He stood to leave, his smile stiff. “I feel confident those that made this decision will also be taking a pay cut? Wait. Don’t bother to comment, as I already know the answer.”