An Arm and a Leg (3 page)

Then the mass that formed the back wall of her shelter moved.

Had the early-hibernating bear either had cubs or been in a foul mood, Frankie could have been history. But the drowsy creature moved slowly, seemingly unconcerned about the pitiful human’s proximity. Grateful for the lethargic bear’s unwillingness to leave its cozy bed, she rolled out through the shelter’s opening. With her adrenaline-charged body again primed to break the land-speed record, she forced herself to walk slowly for several yards in the nearly complete darkness before breaking into a run.

When it became apparent that she’d made good on her getaway, she stopped and studied the now cloudless sky. She marveled at how close the stars appeared against their black velvet background as she searched the Little Dipper’s handle for the North Star Polaris.

As thousands of humans throughout past millennia had done, she used Polaris to get her bearings. With a returning infusion of confidence, she began to walk.

For what seemed like hours, she forced one foot in front of the other while her vision blurred and her thigh muscles twitched. Surely she’d come across a road at some point. Or even an animal trail that she could follow to water.

Her thickened tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. All she could think about was water. She imagined its coolness trickling down her throat. She could almost feel the warm wetness of it washing over her in the city swimming pool where she and Tim had spent hot summer days. And she could hear ice cubes clinking together in a tall glass full of it. She picked up two small stones, rubbed the mud off them, and put them into her mouth to encourage her salivary glands to do their job.

Trees often blotted out her view of the heavens. During those times, she continued on in what she assumed to be the correct direction until she again caught sight of Polaris and adjusted her bearing accordingly.

She stepped into a familiar-looking clearing. Hadn’t she passed that way an hour or so ago? And weren’t those the same three pine trees towering over a scrub oak bush that she’d thought looked like Shakespeare’s three witches stirring their cauldron? Her stomach fell. She was going to die here. She’d die and her body would never be found.

Her knees gave way. She dropped to the ground and sobbed.

****

Early morning sunlight, damp earth, and the pinpricks of pine needles sticking into the flesh of her arms brought Frankie awake. The fallen needles and leaves she’d used as a blanket had offered little protection from the cold, and none against the mist of the late morning rain. She brushed off the soggy mat, sat up, and leaned back against the trunk of the pine tree under which she’d collapsed the night before.

She’d hoped it was all a bad dream. Hoped it would be somehow miraculously over upon wakening. But it was never going to end. She was going to—

No time for histrionics.
Uncle Mike’s voice again.
Get a grip.

“But I don’t know where I am,” Frankie said to what she’d decided was her subconscious mind in survival mode.

Follow your instincts.

“Easy for you to say. You’re already dead.” Frankie stood and dusted the remaining pine needles and mud off her jacket and pants.

Every joint in her body ached. Her neck felt stiff from sleeping on the ground. Her knees wobbled like her old nanny’s Christmas gelatin, and her tongue felt so swollen that it filled her mouth. She needed to find clean drinking water and someplace warm and dry. And she needed to find them sooner rather than later.

Everyone at work knew she would be away for two weeks. No one would look for her before then. Without anything that could be used as a weapon and lacking warm clothing or shelter, she could die of exposure long before two weeks passed. One misstep on the moist needle and leaf-strewn ground could end in an injury. Even a small cut could go septic and incapacitate her, making her easy prey to the carnivores that lived in the mountains.

Nausea again played with her gut. She drew the back of her hand across her runny nose, sniffled, and forced herself to take slow, deep breaths while she scanned the terrain.

What should she do next? Why couldn’t she think, dammit? It was like her head was stuffed full of cotton balls and her brain’s neurons had gone on strike.

The morning sun’s position directly over her left shoulder meant she should be facing north. But wait—maybe it was south.

God, she was tired. And her heart was pounding like a trip-hammer. If she could just lie down and sleep. Just a few minutes of rest couldn’t hurt, could it?

Fight, Frances. Get up. Come on, get a move on.

“Go away.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “Just a few minutes. Please, I need to—”

I said get up.
Uncle Mike’s tone had changed into drill instructor mode.
I’ll not have any niece of mine acting like a malingering S-bird. Let’s go.
The voice broke into a sing-song Navy Seal cadence, what she’d since learned was a cleaned-up version their uncle had made her and Tim echo during what he called their PT Marches.
I don’t know, but I’ve been told
…

She automatically responded in her raspy voice, “I don’t know, but I’ve been told.”

A frogman’s money is good as gold.

“A frogman’s money is good as gold.” Frankie’s voice grew louder as she answered the familiar chant.

Sound off.

“Sound off.”

One, two, three, four. One, two, three-four.

“One, two, three, four. One, two, three-four.”

By the time she sang out the last line, warmth had begun seeping through her mid-section. With Uncle Mike’s voice calling out marching orders, she ran her trembling hands along the tree bark’s deep striations, pulled herself into a standing position and stumbled toward what she hoped was civilization.

Chapter Three

Frankie was relieved when none of the regulars at the Eagle Nest café glanced up from either their breakfasts or laptops when she lurched through the door. Residents of a fishing and ski resort village, the locals were most likely used to the various sorts of humans who descended upon their town, tore up and down their mountains and left, leaving their trash and money behind.

But the older woman standing behind the counter did look up. She immediately came out from behind the bar she’d been wiping down and approached Frankie. Slender and tall, the woman moved with an athletic grace, although she appeared to be in her sixties. Her unusually black hair was cut short and spiked on top. The steel in her glance warned she could either be a good friend or an awesome enemy.

“How can I help?”

“Can I use your phone?” Frankie’s voice trembled along with her body. She cleared her throat. “I lost my cell, and I need to call the police.”

“There’s one in my office. Follow me.”

The two walked behind the counter, through a door and into the room beyond. An antique wooden desk faced the door, its hand-carved panels a deep walnut color. Atop the desk sat a black telephone reminiscent of those found in old Spencer Tracy movies. The wall behind the desk was festooned with framed medals and awards, along with a banner bearing the United States Marine Corps insignia. In one corner sat a wood-burning stove, its cast iron legs resting on a stone hearth. The stove’s pot belly glowed orange, suffusing the otherwise dimly lit room with a yellow glow. Frankie stumbled toward the stove, holding her shaking hands toward the radiant warmth.

“You can barely stand.” The older woman rolled a wooden chair out from behind the desk and pushed it toward Frankie. “Sit.”

Frankie’s knees buckled, and she dropped into the chair.

“I’ll get you something hot to drink.”

When the woman returned, she held a steaming mug. Frankie’s icy fingers greedily reached for the warm, fragrant brew.

“Careful, it’s hot.”

Frankie lifted the mug to her lips and took a gulp. She winced at the bite of whiskey in the coffee, and sipped more slowly. The tension in her shoulders loosened up, and they sagged a bit.

“Better?” the woman said.

“Better, thanks.”

“I’m Kate Stanger. I own this place. What’s your name?”

“Frankie O’Neil.” A loud noise from somewhere outside startled her. Her eyes darted around the room in search of an exit.

“Okay, Frankie, I need you to listen to me. Can you do that?”

Frankie turned and looked into Kate Stanger’s face, barely registering the woman’s slight start at the sight of her bi-colored eyes: one ice-blue, one amber-yellow. It was the way people had reacted to them for as long as she could remember. She shook her head, struggling to pull her focus back to what the woman was saying.

“Are you injured?”

“No. At least…no, I don’t think so.”

“Are you in danger?”

“I’m not sure.” Frankie’s body swayed, as if she were about to lose her balance and topple out of the chair. She was just so damned tired. “Please, can I use your phone now?”

“There’s no police station here in Eagle Nest. We’ll have to call the sheriff in Raton.” Kate’s face assumed an intent expression, and her voice radiated a comforting sympathy. “It’ll take the law a while to get here. Meanwhile I’m going to call a doctor. You might be hurt without realizing it. But first we have to get you into some dry clothes.” The older woman moved toward an armoire located against the wall opposite her desk. “I keep some things here in case we get snowed in.”

Wire hangers click-clacked as Kate searched through whatever was in the closet. When she turned around, she held an armload of clothing. “These should work. Everything will be a bit long, but at least they’re warm. When you feel like it, you can change in the restroom. It’s just beyond the fridge and to the right.”

Frankie accepted the clothes but made no move to leave the stove’s warmth. “Thank you.”

“I’ll go find a bag for your things.”

Kate had been gone only a minute or two before she returned with a clear plastic bag. “The law will need your clothes for forensics.” She handed the bag to Frankie, who accepted it and left the room.

When Frankie returned to the office, Kate’s rolled-up blue jeans hung loosely at her waist. The knit tee shirt and plaid flannel jacket looked more like tunics than blouses, and the shoes were so large they could have doubled as snow skis. But the clothing was more precious than this year’s Parisian couture: for the first time in nearly twenty-four hours, she was warm.

Almost ceremoniously, she placed the bag containing her bloodied clothing on the floor in front of the stove and sat down. She was still staring through the tiny glass square door at the dancing orange-red flames when Kate ushered a stooped white-haired man into the office.

“Is there any pain here?” the doctor asked as he poked, prodded and palpated Frankie’s body with arthritic, gnarled hands. He held a stethoscope to her chest and asked her to cough. He pointed a tiny flashlight into her eyes and told her to follow his hand as he moved it from side to side.

Once he’d completed his examination, the doctor returned the instruments to his bag. His glance moved from Frankie to Kate. “Other than a few cuts and abrasions, I don’t find any injuries. But she’s dehydrated.” He pointed to the bag of clothes. “The good news is none of that blood is hers. But the bad news is somewhere someone has been seriously injured.”

As if on cue, the doctor and Kate simultaneously turned their heads toward Frankie. Kate’s face appeared to be filled with concern. But, although it might have been her imagination, the doc’s face radiated something akin to suspicion.

Feeling like an insect specimen on display in a science class, Frankie hunkered down in the chair, squeezed her eyes shut, and willed herself to awaken. But just as before, when she opened her eyes nothing had changed.

****

Larry Littlefield cleared his throat. A drop of sweat slalomed down his scrawny ribs, tickling the flesh in its race toward his beltline. He crossed and uncrossed his legs. Blue jeans molded against knobby knees that pushed out angular, geometric shapes from inside the fabric. He stroked his pockmarked face, stared at the tips of his fake ostrich-hide boots, and squirmed in the chair in front of the expensive mahogany desk behind which sat his employer, a man named Bellamy.

Mel Stubbs sat slouched in the chair next to Larry, his deceptively childlike face expressionless and his ever-present Broncos cap pulled down so low as to nearly cover his eyes. His legs splayed out in front of him, the heels of his brogan-shod feet rested on the floor. The toes of his boots canted outward, describing a vee. The bib of his once blue overalls bore chunks and dried splotches of vari-colored food. His hands lay in his lap, their dirt-rimmed nails chipped and yellowed. A web of scarred flesh held the pinkie finger of his right hand tightly at a ninety degree angle. Other than rubbing the misshapen digit with the fingers of his other hand, Mel sat still as stone.

“You smell,” Bellamy said to Mel. “And your filthy boots are soiling our rug. How many times have we told you to clean yourself up before coming into our office?”

Mel remained unresponsive, giving no indication that he heard his boss’s words.

Bellamy turned toward Larry. “Can’t you do something about him?”

“Yessir,” Larry said. “I’ll see that he showers.”

“How many times have we told you to make sure he changes his clothes at least every other day?” Bellamy shuddered. “And buy him some new underwear this afternoon.”

“Yessir.”

Bellamy sat back in his chair. “Now, what do you have to report?”

“Mel and me found O’Neil. He went to his sister’s house like you said he might. We parked a ways down the block and sat there for about ten minutes before he come out to his car and took out a little travel bag—”

“Came out. He came out to his car.” Bellamy slapped his right hand on the desk top, the sound reverberating off the walls. “My God, how you torment the English language. Between you and your barely-human sidekick, our business is becoming a freak show.”

Larry sniffed. “Yessir.” Who but Bellamy would raise such a stink about him using a word wrong? What was it he’d read on the Internet about people like that? Anal retentive—that was it. And those words definitely fit Bellamy. The old guy’s ass was probably so tight he couldn’t even take a decent dump. An image of his boss’s belly exploding from the build-up, showering his never-a-hair-out-of-place self with splashes of smelly green and brown crap brought a smile to Larry’s face, an unwise smile he wiped off too late.