The Overnight Guest(22)

Hanging from nails and hooks were rakes and hoes and all matter of farm tools. She located the wire cutters, a rusty shovel, and an old-fashioned wooden toboggan with steel runners. A musty horse blanket hung from a bent nail, and she laid it atop the sled with the other supplies securing them with an old rope.

She held on to her flashlight but abandoned the hiking sticks, didn’t dare bring anything else. It was going to be hard enough to lug what she had through the snow and back, hopefully with the woman in tow.

Though the snow was blinding, and the wind was scrubbing away any sign of her earlier tracks, Wylie at least had a good sense as to where she was headed.

She kept the flashlight and her eyes focused on the ground in front of her. Wylie’s plan was simple in theory. She would snip away the tangled barbwire, freeing the woman, who would hopefully be still alive. If the woman couldn’t walk on her own accord, Wylie would do her best to pull her to the house on the toboggan. The shovel just seemed like a good idea.

By the time Wylie was halfway to the wreckage, despite her warm layers, cold permeated her body, and she questioned the wisdom of this rescue mission. One wrong step and Wylie could end up with a broken leg and find herself in an icy grave. Wylie wasn’t known for her decision-making skills as of late, and what good would it do if they both froze to death? What would the boy do then?

Wylie considered backtracking. She was good at leaving. That was something she knew how to do. This was different, though. No one was dying back home. Her teenage son, Seth, was still furious at Wylie for trying to lay down the law and wasn’t missing her one bit. He was in good hands with his father.

Finally, through the eddy of snow, she saw a glint of metal, and the wreckage came into view. Wylie picked up her pace. She was almost there.

Wylie left the road and crossed down through the ditch to the barbwire fence that skirted the field, searching for the yellow scarf left behind as a place marker. As she drew closer to the truck, there was no sign of the yellow scarf. Chest heaving, she stopped short. She must have made a mistake. Wylie dropped the shovel and the rope connected to the sled and turned around in a slow circle. Everything looked the same—a stark, barren, snow-covered wilderness.

She had to have passed the spot where the woman was located. There was no way the scarf could have blown away in the storm; she had been sure to wrap it securely several times around the metal barbs.

The scarf and the woman could be buried beneath one of the chest-high snowdrifts that pressed against the fence. In frustration, Wylie backtracked along the fence and, this time, moved even more slowly until she reached the first large drift. Using her gloved hands, she began brushing the snow aside until the fence was visible. No scarf appeared.

Wylie kept moving. The cold snaked its way through her layers of clothing. She couldn’t stay out here much longer. Just when she was ready to give up and head back to the house, her eyes landed on a clump of yellow fabric snagged around a fence barb. She dropped her eyes to the ground, expecting to see the woman’s frozen, broken body ensnared in the fencing. But it was gone. The scarf was gone.

Wylie dropped to her knees, peering closely at the metal fencing. Minute drops of blood and what looked to be bits of frozen flesh clung to the fence. She ran her fingers across the ground.

Wylie got to her feet and examined the ground for any new footprints, but the heavy snow and wind had already swept the frozen canvas clean. There was no sign of the injured woman. Why would she have left in this brutal storm when Wylie had promised to come back to help her?

Wylie wandered around the wreckage and field searching for the woman until the cold forced her in the direction of the house. What was the woman running from and where could she have gone? A new unease settled in Wylie’s chest. She had so many questions and now there was only one person left to answer them and he wasn’t talking.



12


August 2000

Sheriff’s Deputy Levi Robbins cruised the highways and back roads in search of trouble. Any kind of trouble. A ten-year veteran of the Blake County Sheriff’s Department, he normally wasn’t on nights, but Frazier was on vacation, so Levi volunteered to take his shifts thinking a change of pace might be good.

It was after 1:00 a.m., and there wasn’t one call so far. Try as he might, he couldn’t even find a reason to pull anyone over for a traffic violation. The hours crept by and Levi passed the time by listening to country music on the radio. He drove along Meadow Rue and slowed as he approached the scarred bitternut hickory that rose from the middle of the road. It was an unexpected landmark to those who didn’t know the area.

No one really knew how the eighty-foot tree sprouted where two gravel roads intersected, and no one knew why it was never cut down. Those who needed to drive past were forced to slow down to maneuver around the nature-made traffic circle.

Once past the bitternut, Levi turned south on County Road G11. He’d make one more loop and then swing by Casey’s General Store to grab a pop and some gas. Maybe if he was lucky, someone would be trying to rip off the station. It’d been a long time since he’d dealt with a robbery. And he couldn’t remember the last time he unholstered his gun. At least that would be interesting.

A hot breeze swept through his open windows. There had been high hopes for rain that night. The sky had clouded, and the air had that damp, electric smell of an oncoming thunderstorm. It didn’t last long though, and the moon and stars made a reappearance. Too damn bad. The farmers needed the rain.