Chapter 22

22

Present Day

"Let me in," Wylie cried as she pounded on the back door. The woman with the hatchet had dragged the boy out of sight. The house was completely dark now, all the flashlights turned off, and the fire had died out or had been extinguished. Tas had stopped barking, and the only sounds were Wylie's ragged breathing and the moan of the bitter wind that cut through her clothing like a knife.

She couldn't stay outside much longer, but she had no weapon. Wylie weighed her options. She could make her way back to the barn, search for something to protect herself with, and then return to the house.

Wylie knew there was no time for that. She had to get inside, had to get to the boy. She turned her head, shielded her face, and smashed an elbow into the glass, creating a fine spiderweb of cracks, but still the window held. Knowing that even the roar of the blizzard wouldn't mask the sound of breaking glass, Wylie hit it again, and this time the window shattered, sending shards flying. Holding her breath, Wylie reached through the window and flipped the lock.

She opened the door and stepped into the mudroom, half expecting a hatchet to come swinging toward her head, but no one was there. No ax-waving maniac, no little boy. Not even Tas.

Wylie moved to the kitchen and shut the mudroom door behind her. She quickly groped through the drawers looking for a weapon until she came across a butcher knife buried beneath a jumble of cutlery. The steel blade was nearly eight inches long but dull, blunted by years of use. It would do.

Even in the short time that she'd been outside, the temperature inside the house had plummeted. Using the headlamp to guide her way forward, Wylie inched her way through the kitchen, taking small, hesitant steps. Wylie had one big advantage over the intruder, she knew this house. Knew the layout and knew the deepest recesses and darkest corners. She was halfway through the kitchen when she saw it. So imperceptible, she almost missed it—the basement door. Open just a sliver, barely enough to slide a piece of paper through.

The basement? Wylie wondered. Filled with cardboard boxes and old furniture, there were plenty of hiding spots, but why would an intruder take the boy down there? Wylie shuddered at the thought. She gently closed the door and locked it imprisoning whoever was on the other side.

If the boy and the woman were in the basement, at least she could contain them there for the time being.

On weak legs, Wylie moved down the hallway, through the empty dining room to the living room and paused. The fire was dead; only a few orange embers glowed. Wylie slowly scanned the room, her heart lurching when the headlamp's beam landed on the sofa. There sat the woman cradling the hatchet in her arms.

Barely daring to breathe, Wylie crept forward, eyes fixated on the weapon in the woman's hands. "What do you want?" Wylie asked, knife at the ready.

There was no answer and Wylie raised her eyes to the woman's face.

It was definitely the woman from the crash. She was wearing Wylie's coat and one side of her face was grotesquely swollen and the other side blackened with dried blood. The woman stared back in contempt. Wylie kept the knife raised and the narrow beam of the headlamp pinned on the intruder. It was 2:00 a.m. How had the woman survived all these hours out in the storm? It was impossible.

"Stay away," the woman said swinging the hatchet toward Wylie.

"Jesus," Wylie exclaimed, taking a step backward. "What the hell?" A sizzle of anger ran through her body. The woman had locked Wylie out of the house, would have gladly let her freeze to death, and was now swinging an ax at her head. All Wylie had done was try to help her. What was she up to?

And where was the boy? And Tas? Fear hardened in Wylie's belly.

Behind her, Wylie heard a small grunt. Afraid of what she was going to find, Wylie slowly turned just in time to see the boy, face pale and set with determination, swing the fireplace poker at her head. She managed to sidestep the blow, and the boy laden down by the weight of the poker stumbled to the ground.

"Hey," Wylie cried out. "What are you doing?" The boy looked up at her in defiance. Wylie reached down and easily wrenched the poker from his fingers.

The woman tried to rise from her spot on the couch, but Wylie pushed her back and grabbed the hatchet. The woman gasped in pain and Wylie watched in disbelief as the boy scrambled from the floor and onto the sofa throwing his body across the injured woman.

Wylie's first inclination was to haul the woman out of the house, but she could see fear on the boy's face. It wasn't the woman he was afraid of—it was Wylie.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Wylie said in exasperation. "I'm not going to hurt anyone."

The woman glared at Wylie and the boy buried his face into the woman's chest.

"Jesus," Wylie murmured. "Look at me. Look at me," she said more forcefully. The boy cautiously peeked up at Wylie. "Look, I'm putting these away. See?" Wylie moved, stood on tiptoe, and placed the weapons atop a bookshelf.

Wylie returned and showed her empty hands to the boy and the woman. She still didn't trust the woman but was confident she could overpower her if she tried another attack.

"I see how you are trying to protect her. This is your mom, right?" The boy stared at Wylie for a long moment and then gave a barely perceptible nod.

"Shhh," the woman hissed. "Don't talk."

"You need to shut up," Wylie snapped at the woman. "I don't know who the hell you are and why you felt the need to come at me with an ax, but you're hurt, and you need help. I will help you, but if you pull that crap again, I'll toss you out in a snowbank."

Wylie then spoke to the boy, "Do you want me to help your mother?" This time Wylie didn't wait for him to respond.

"First thing we need to do is get her warmed up. It's freezing in here. Help me cover her up with more blankets."

Wylie took a step toward the sofa and the boy scrambled to his feet, blocking her way. Wylie closed her eyes and mentally counted to ten. When she opened them again, she made sure her voice was calm, measured.

"Haven't I taken good care of you so far?" Wylie asked. "I brought you in from the cold, I've kept you warm, fed you. I'm going to do the same for your mother, I promise."

A flicker of uncertainty flashed in the boy's eyes.

Wylie lifted a flashlight from the end table, flipped it on, and held it out to him, hoping he wouldn't decide to use it as a weapon against her. The boy snatched it from Wylie's hands and held it to his chest.

"You tuck these blankets around her," Wylie said, nodding toward the knot of blankets that had slid to the floor. "I'm going to get some more quilts. We need to get her warmed up as quickly as possible."

Wylie watched for a moment as the boy gently arranged the blankets around his mother. The woman didn't protest but she kept her uninjured eye on Wylie.

Wylie had no clue as to the severity of this woman's injuries. All they could do was try to keep her comfortable and hope that the storm passed soon and that help arrived quickly. "Where's Tas?" Wylie asked, suddenly remembering the dog.

Guiltily, the boy pointed toward the kitchen. Wylie rushed to the basement door, slid open the lock and called down into the dark. "Tas, here! It's okay, you can come up," Wylie coaxed. Tas cautiously ascended the stairs, then went directly to his dog bed and lay down. "He won't hurt her," Wylie assured the boy. "I promise."

Wylie hurried up the stairs and to the bedroom. She didn't know this woman. Couldn't trust her. Wylie felt along the top shelf of the closet until she found her gun, loaded it, and slid into her pocket.

In the hallway she opened the linen closet where stacks of dusty, slightly musty-smelling quilts were stored. She grabbed an armful and returned to the living room where they layered them over the woman until all that showed was her bruised and battered face. The boy snuggled in next to her.

"Who are you?" Wylie asked the woman. "Where were you trying to get to?" The woman stayed resolutely quiet.

"Listen, we're stuck here together until the storm is over, the least you can do is tell me who you are and what you were doing out in the blizzard."

"We'll leave as soon as we can," the woman said thickly.

"And how do you think you're going to do that?" Wylie shot back. "Your truck is totaled, the roads are impassable, and you are hurt."

"We'll manage," the woman said shortly.

"Well, once the phone works again, we'll call 911. They'll get help out here as soon as they can."

"No, no police," the woman said and for the first time Wylie saw true fear on her face. "If you do that, we'll leave. We'll leave right now." The woman pushed the blankets aside and tried to get to her feet but was too weak.

Wylie shook her head in frustration. "Never mind. We can't call anyone right now anyway. We'll worry about that later."

All they could do now was wait out the storm. But in no way did Wylie trust the woman. There were too many unanswered questions. Wylie threw the last remaining scraps of wood into the fireplace and sat on the floor, facing the sofa where the woman and boy were cocooned. She watched over them, hand in her pocket, fingers wrapped around the loaded gun.