The Night Visitors(65)

Mattie chuckles. “And burn the whole thing down? Besides, I’m not sure there are any matches out here . . .” Her voice falters. “Do you see headlights or am I imagining things?”

At first I think the stress of the night has finally unhinged her, but then I see them too, two lights piercing the snow-filled gloom. As I squint at them I hear a roaring sound.

“It’s a snow plow!” Oren cries.

“What the hell?” I say. “Who’s showing up now? Should we hide?”

“I honestly think we’ve run out of people who wish me ill,” Mattie says. “So unless you’ve got anyone else on your tail . . .”

“No,” I say, “no one I can think of.”

So we stand in the barn door, waving at the lights like shipwrecked sailors as the plow shovels a path toward us. When it’s cleared a lane from the barn to the house it backs up and a silhouette gets out: a tall, rangy man in a hooded parka. I shine my flashlight at him but the hood hides his face until he reaches us and pushes it back.

“Wayne?” Mattie says. “Wayne Marshall?”

The man, who’s got thick gray hair and lines around his eyes, smiles. “I didn’t know you knew my last name, Ms. Lane. Are you people all right? Whatcha doing out in the barn on a night like tonight? I was heading up to the house when I saw your flashlight beam.”

“What are you doing here?” Mattie asks. Her voice is flat. I can’t tell if this is a friend or not, and I tighten my grip on Oren’s arm.

“Well, that’s kind of embarrassing,” he says, ducking his head and rubbing his neck. “Looking for my dumbass brother-in-law, basically. Have you seen him?”

“What made you think he was here?” Mattie asks. I notice she’s not answering his question. I bet that’s something she learned at the hotline.

“Well . . . my sister asked me to track him down. He’d been mouthing off about you . . . and she has this gizmo on her phone that shows his location.”

“How’d she know this was where I live?” Mattie asks.

“Wow,” Wayne says, rocking back on his heels. “Anyone ever tell you you’d make a fine lawyer?”

“Yes,” Mattie says curtly. “Answer the question, please.”

“She didn’t,” Wayne admits, “but when she told me the location I knew it was where you lived. I grew up in this town. Everyone knew where old Judge Lane’s house was. I headed right out here, but I passed three cars that had gone off the road that I had to winch out. City folk, mostly.” He shrugs, like, What can you say? “So here I am. Is Jason here? Has he done something stupid?”

“I’m afraid so, Wayne, but it’s a long story and this woman and child are cold. Let’s get back to the house.”

As we walk I hear Mattie talking in a low voice to Wayne. I can’t make out everything that she’s saying, but from the bits I do I gather she’s filling him in on the events of the night. By the time we get to the house she’s gotten to the part where we tied Jason up in the basement.

Wayne whistles. “What an idiot! I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I’ve been telling my sister for years to leave him. Is that where he is now? I hope he’s trussed like a turkey and feeling every ache.”

“Let’s get the woodstove going and I’ll tell you the rest of the story. Alice, why don’t you put that chili back on the stove and fill the kettle. Let’s get something warm in Oren and get those wet clothes off both of you. There’s plenty of clothes in the parlor. I’m going to go down in the basement with Wayne for a moment.”

She’s talking fast, rattling off chores like Lisa used to do, only her voice is kinder. “Do you want me to come with you?” I ask.

She looks up, surprised. “I’ll be fine,” she says. “I think Wayne is a good guy. You came out here in a blizzard to find your dumbass brother-in-law before he did something stupid, didn’t you, Wayne? That makes you a good guy in my book, so I’m sorry that I’ve got some bad news for you.”

Their voices fade as they go down the stairs. I put some wood in the woodstove and make Oren sit down in front of it. I peel off his damp Star Wars sweatshirt and for once he doesn’t complain. Mattie’s old dog comes lumbering into the kitchen and huddles up next to Oren. I leave him there rubbing the dog’s ears and hurry into the parlor, grabbing clothes as fast as I can, not wanting to leave Oren alone for long.

When I get back Oren is staring at the basement door. “That man is sad,” he says. “I heard him crying.”

“Oh,” I say, “that’s too bad.” I don’t know what else to say, so I busy myself putting the chili pot and kettle on the stove, washing bowls and spoons. When the water boils I make four cups of hot chocolate and take one to Oren. He’s still staring at the basement door.

“Mattie will be all right,” I say, wondering if I should check on her.

“It’s not that . . . I can hear them talking. She’s trying to make Wayne feel better.”

I listen, but I can only hear the faintest murmur. Maybe Oren just has super-powerful hearing . . . or super-powerful sensitivity. I look at him closely. He looks small and miserable in the too-big hand-me-down clothes I’ve brought him. “What is it, buddy?” I ask. “You can tell me.”