Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

Nick

T he sun glints off the lake, my truck bumps along the unpaved access road that leads to the fishing cabin. I'm almost to the turnoff at the bottom of what I charitably call my driveway when I spot Enrique Morales flagging me down from the path out of the woods. I roll to a stop and lower my window.

Enrique's my closest neighbor up here, although his cabin is a good quarter mile from mine. So we don't exactly see a lot of each other unless we run into each other in town. He taught middle school social studies in Brooklyn for twenty-five years. When he retired six years ago, he moved up here and developed a love for skiing. Mistletoe Mountain doesn't have a big ski resort of its own. Folks head over to one of the more established spots for serious skiing. But our county park has a couple slopes and a rustic ski lodge. Enrique—who swore he'd never work with kids again after he retired—teamed up with the school district to run an after-school ski club in season.

He's not coming from the direction of his property. The footpath he's on leads down from the ski lodge. I lean out to greet him.

"Morning."

"Morning, Nick," he returns the greeting, but his expression is pinched.

"Everything okay, Enrique?"

"Not sure. When I was walking Bear this morning, he kept pulling in the direction of the lodge. You know how retrievers are, though. I figured he was on a scent. But he was really insistent, barking up a storm. He dug his heels in when I tried to go the other direction. So we walked up that way. And, well, it looks like someone broke into the lodge."

"Crap," I mutter under my breath. "You sure?"

"Seems that way. One of the windows is busted. I took a peek inside. The furniture's been moved around. I took Bear back to my place and grabbed the key to the lodge."

"You didn't go in there by yourself, did you?"

He shakes his head. "I was just starting back up the mountain when I heard your truck. Feel like coming along?"

Not really, but I'm not about to let him go up there alone.

"Sure," I tell him. "Hop in."

"Appreciate it, Nick."

I push open the passenger door and he climbs in. Then I execute a tight U-turn and head back out to the road. We drive in silence until we reach the road up to the lodge. About three quarters of the way up the hill, I pull into a small, unpaved parking area in front of the trailhead that leads down to the meadow. I nudge the nose of the truck under the low-hanging branches of a huge white pine, out of the line of sight from the front of the lodge.

"Let's approach on foot," I suggest. "There's no need to announce our arrival in case someone's still in there."

I kill the engine, and we hop out of the truck. Then a thought strikes me. I lean over the tailgate and drag my toolbox toward me. I open the metal box and grab a heavy wrench. As I smack it against my hand, Enrique nods approvingly.

"Got another one?"

I peer over the side panel into the box resting on the truck bed. "How about a hammer?"

"Hammer works."

I pass him the heavy claw-headed hammer and we edge through the trees to an overgrown footpath. When Ivy was seven or eight, I carried her up this very path after she sprained an ankle during a hike. It curves wide right and circles around to the side of the lodge. Going this way will take slightly longer, but it beats marching up the driveway fully exposed.

Do two grown men look silly sneaking up on a building in broad daylight while armed with tools? Yeah, I'm sure we do. But I'd rather be silly than dead. That's my motto. Enrique appears to share this view. His mouth is set in a firm line, and we don't speak as we approach the building on silent feet.

We press ourselves close to the side of the lodge and sidle around to the front. As we climb the stairs to the porch, I spot the busted-out window pane. Enrique has the keys ready when we reach the door, and he unlocks it with a quick, fluid movement and eases it open.

As soon as I set foot inside, I know the lodge is vacant. Dusty, still, quiet. But we walk through the empty lodge, scanning each room to ensure that it's empty. It is. Enrique's right, though. Someone was here. Two tracks cut parallel ribbons through the dust, left by the couch that was dragged from under the window to a nook near the fireplace.

"I'll bet they slept there." I point. "It's dark and has a clear view of both the front door and the kitchen."

He looks troubled. "Kids?"

"Maybe," I say. But it feels wrong.

After a beat, he gives his head a doubtful shake. "I don't know. Teenagers would be partying, not trying to get some shut-eye. And they sure wouldn't be worried about an ambush."

He has a point. I scan the room.

"Is anything missing?"

"Nothing obvious, at least not out here. I'll check the kitchen and the back office."

"See if you can find something to cover the window," I call after him.

"On it."

"Is there a broom around here?"

"Should be one in the janitor's closet." He jerks his thumb to the left before disappearing through the swinging doors to the kitchen.

I open the skinny door that he pointed out and peer inside. A mop and bucket, vacuum, and assorted cleaning supplies are crammed into the narrow closet, threatening to burst out at any moment. I grab the broom and dust pan and push the door closed before the rest of the equipment can spill out.

I sweep the glass into a pile and gather a warren of dust bunnies along the way. Enrique returns with a rectangular piece of cardboard and a roll of duct tape.

"Hang on," I tell him.

I step out onto the porch and use the broom handle to knock the remaining pieces of glass from the pane. They fall inside and hit the wood floor with a tinkle. Once the square is empty, I come back inside and sweep up the remaining shards.

He tosses me the tape, then positions the cardboard over the empty pane and holds it in place. I rip off a length of the silver tape and smooth it over one edge of the cardboard, then repeat the process three more times.

We both take a step back to examine our handiwork.

"It's better than nothing," I decree.

He nods. "I'll call the county when I get home. They're good about repairs. Should have it replaced in no time."

"Gonna call the cops, too?"

He grunts and rubs a hand over his scruff as he considers the question. Mistletoe Mountain doesn't maintain a police force of its own. When your town runs on a year-round supply of holiday goodwill and cheer, the boys in blue are somewhat superfluous. Technically, there is a police department, but it has a staff of zero. Dawn Min, our town manager, contracts with the county sheriff's office for any law enforcement services we might need. But calling in the sheriff is pricey and a sure way to land on Dawn's naughty list. She's a big proponent of working things out amongst ourselves—for free.

He grimaces. "Dunno. Hate to do it. But none of the food in the kitchen was disturbed. More evidence that it wasn't a bunch of kids."

"Probably," I agree. "Kids would have raided the snacks."

He meets my eyes. "So what then? It wasn't a burglary. Nothing's missing. Someone just needed a place to sleep?"

"Could be. Maybe they got kicked out of their house. Or they could be a runaway or a fugitive from the law. It could even be someone who crossed the border from Canada illegally." It's close enough to walk across, but illegal border crossings are virtually nonexistent here. In truth, none of these options seems likely, but I can't think of a better explanation.

After a beat, he sighs heavily. "I'll leave it up to the county parks office. If they want to report it, they can. It's their property."

I can't say I blame him for passing the buck. "We all done here, then?"

He walks through the quiet lodge, turning off lights, and checking locks while I empty the dustpan into the trash. I stow the broom and dustpan back in the closet, and we leave the same way we came in, locking the door behind us.

We hoof it down to my truck and toss the hammer and wrench back in my toolbox. I back out from the overhang of tree branches, kicking up a cloud of dust and gravel as I execute the tight turn from the trailhead to the unpaved road. As I drive, my mind's on the break-in. So when Enrique clears his throat, I expect him to advance another theory .

Instead he says, "You come up here for some quiet time before all the Christmas in July festivities start?"

I give him a sidelong glance.

"Shouldn't you be getting ready for the open house?" he presses.

"The girls are taking care of that."

I clock his frown in my peripheral vision. "You're not helping?"

"My sister's daughters came up from New Jersey," I tell him. "Between the six of them, they have it covered."

His frown deepens. "You and Carol, that was your biggest party of the year."

"It was," I agree. Emphasis on the past tense.

He falls silent, but not for long. "It's not true about Santa, is it?"

"Josh is playing Santa this year," I tell him. "Just needed a year off."

My words ring hollow, but I don't intend to elaborate. Enrique and I are friendly, not friends. We've had a few beers on the porch of my cabin, and a glass of bourbon every once in a while at his firepit. Sometimes we fish together. But we don't have the kind of relationship where I'm going to delve deep into my feelings about losing my wife.

When he speaks again, his voice is raspy and low. "You've got to take the time to grieve her. I know that. Just make sure you don't get stuck in it."

I slide my eyes toward him. "Sounds like you're speaking from experience."

He cracks his knuckles, one at a time, while he answers. "I am. My wife, Janessa, died in a car accident the year before I retired. Rainy night, slick roads. Some teenager lost control and T-boned her."

I grimace. "I'm sorry."

"It was rough not getting to say goodbye. But then I didn't have to watch her fade away gradually the way you did with Carol. Janessa was there, and then she wasn't. I'm not sure which way is better."

"It's always hard." I cringe at the platitude, but it's the best I can do.

He goes on. "The thing is, Nick, you reach an inflection point where grief turns you to stone. And if you aren't careful, you'll be cemented in that place for good. Believe me."

I don't know what to say to that, so I say nothing.

I slow the truck when we reach the edge of his property. As I come to a stop in the driveway, Bear appears in the cabin's front window, his giant front paws pressed against the glass. He barks a greeting.

As Enrique gets out of the truck, he says, "Thanks for your help. I hope I haven't overstepped, Nick. "

I lean over and call out the open passenger window, "You didn't overstep. I probably needed to hear it."

He turns back and gives me a short nod before jogging up the stairs to his porch. Bear's tail wags wildly, and I reverse out of the driveway.