The Stroke of Winter(12)

Another night of strange, disturbing dreams. It had begun to be a pattern and was always the same—Tess walking through the streets of Wharton. Prowling. Peering into windows. Following people down dark alleyways. Lingering by the lake, watching the angry water roil and crash into the rocky shore. In this dream, it was almost as though she took flight, on dark wings.

She woke with a start, tangled in her sheets, her hair wet against her head, her nightgown damp from sweat. She reached for the water glass on her nightstand and, propping herself up on an elbow, took a gulp. Glancing at the clock, she saw it wasn’t yet four o’clock. Not this again, too. She groaned and snuggled back down under the covers, too exhausted to put another log on the fire.

The next morning, Tess had just taken her first sip of coffee when the phone rang. She had already been out with Storm and given him his breakfast, and she had just sat down at the kitchen table and was about to flip on the morning news. She pushed herself up from the table to answer the phone.

“Hi, is this Tess?”

“It is. Who’s this?”

“I’m Wyatt Templeton. Jim Evans let me know you’ve got a boiler that’s not working. I’m the guy coming over this morning to look at it, and I was wondering if about nine o’clock was a good time.”

Tess glanced at the clock—it was nearly that now.

“Sure,” she said, taking a sip of her coffee. “I’m here. Jim mentioned you might be able to come today. Come on by whenever it’s convenient. Feel free to use the side door just off the driveway. Most people come and go that way.”

“Will do,” said Wyatt. “See you soon.” And then he rang off. Tess hoped this repair wouldn’t be too costly, but if Jim was recommending this guy, she felt like she could trust him. Both to do the job honestly and to come into her home.

She settled back down at the table and thought about what she had to do that day. After the heat, the main things were, right away, contacting somebody about the animals living in the back part of the house—she had forgotten to mention that to Jim the night before—and getting in touch with some demolition people who could open that door and let her see what, exactly, she was dealing with. She had been putting that part of the project off, for reasons she didn’t quite understand, but now was the time she had to deal with it. Maybe this Wyatt would know someone around town who could help with those things.

In a few minutes, Storm roused himself from his place by the fire in the kitchen. He jumped up and was at the door before Tess heard the knocking. She could see a male shape through the curtains that hung on the door windows and knew it had to be the furnace guy.

She crossed the room to open the door, Storm standing firmly between her and Wyatt on the other side. Another whoosh of cold blew in as she opened it.

“Hey,” she said to the man, ushering him inside. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”

“Glad to help out,” he said, shrugging out of his parka. “I’m Wyatt.”

Storm circled him, sniffing. Wyatt leaned down and ruffled the fur on the dog’s back with one hand, setting down the tool kit he was carrying in the other.

“You must smell my dogs,” he said, as Storm wiggled around him. Wyatt turned his gaze to Tess. “Jim mentioned last night this fella came calling,” he said, motioning to the dog. “Asked if he belonged to me or anyone I know, and now that I’ve seen him, I can tell you the answer’s no. I’ve never seen this dog around town before.” He hung his parka on one of the hooks and started to pull off his boots, but she held up a hand to stop him.

“You’ll want to leave those on,” she said. “We’ll be going down into the basement, and it’s pretty dirty down there.”

“Got it,” he said, wiping the soles carefully on the mat before stepping onto the kitchen floor.

“Would you like some coffee?” Tess asked. “I just made a fresh pot.”

“Sounds great,” Wyatt said, leaning against the butcher block. As Tess poured his coffee, she got a better look at the man. He was wearing jeans and a black-and-white checked flannel shirt over a gray T-shirt, all very well lived in. His hair was jet black and cropped short, his eyes an unsettling gray-green. Tess wasn’t sure she had ever seen eyes that color. He was about her age, give or take a few years.

She handed him the cup and topped off her own.

“So, what are we dealing with, boiler-wise?” he asked her and took a sip from his steaming cup.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “My grandma put in a new one about twenty years ago, that’s all I know. The weather was so warm before the blizzard, I hadn’t turned it on yet.”

Wyatt smiled. “I don’t think anyone had their heat on yet. I know a guy who won’t turn his on until the first overnight freeze. So, yours isn’t working at all?”

“No,” she said. “The radiators are stone cold. Jim checked the pilot light, but that’s not the problem.”

“They might have to be bled—that may be all this is,” he said.

He must’ve seen the confused look on Tess’s face because he went on. “You need to sort of flush the radiators out every now and then. Every few years. It’s a buildup of air pressure that you have to release. Do you know if that’s been done?”