Contingency Plan (3 page)

When Jane walked in later, I was reading in bed. Or trying to. I couldn’t concentrate. My eyes were hot and stinging from tears of frustration and worry. I could hardly swallow.

“It turned out perfect. Not one burnt kernel,” she said, offering me some popcorn.

“No thanks, sweetie,” I said. One hand was shaking, and I covered it with the book.

She looked at me oddly. “Sure. Where’s Uncle Joe, anyway?” He hadn’t asked her to call him
Dad
. That was fine.
Uncle
was still respectful.

“He…had some business.”

“You okay?” she asked.

I missed the times together with just the two of us. We made a good team. “A silly argument. You know grown-ups.”

She sat down on the bed next to me. Outside an owl hooted. “He’s not the same, is he? He used to be so nice. Maybe
too
nice. Do you think he was pretending? Until you got married?”

“Don’t be silly, honey.”

Too nice. Pretending.
Kids came to the point in so few words.

Was she right?

* * *

Around four in the morning I finally fell asleep. I wished that I had something warm to hold. Even a cat. But Joe said litter boxes “polluted” the house.

At daybreak, I didn’t want to open my sore eyes. Then I smelled something floral. A dozen red roses lay on the pillow beside me. Warm muffins, whipped butter and orange juice were carefully arranged on a bed table, the linen clean and crisp.

“Sorry, my angel. I’ve been overdoing it lately. Nothing serious. Just not up to snuff. I was so wrong to take it out on you. Can you find it in your generous heart to forgive me?” he asked.

Visions of Andy returned. He’d been grouchy in the months before his diagnosis. His burden, trying to protect us while hoping that his illness would resolve itself.

“Joe, you’re all right, aren’t you? You’re not—”

“A few problems at work. Comes with the territory. I let them get to me.” He stroked my arm with gentle fingers. “Let’s get our groove back. It can’t have gone far.”

I took a sip of juice. Fresh-squeezed. And where had he gotten the roses at this hour?

We talked it out. Things would get better. There wasn’t that much more to do on the landscaping. The cedar hedge. A twig arbor I’d seen on a gardening show. Then in the fall, outside chores would soon end. He had a lot on his mind in that high-powered job. Success came at such a terrible price.

CHAPTER
EIGHT

O
ur first week was the roughest. Chores kept us hopping. Even split and piled, wood warms you three more ways: hauling, burning and cleaning up the ashes. The snows were beginning, and the creeks froze over. I had never imagined how long it took to melt enough snow for a pan bath. No wonder the Scandinavians loved their saunas.

One morning, I opened the door of a small outbuilding and nearly started laughing. Tarped inside was the old Bombardier Ski-Doo snowmobile that Andy and I had used on our honeymoon. A tiny 250cc model—a baby next to today’s muscular 1000cc versions. A set of tools sat on the spider-webbed wooden counter along with two empty gas cans. Everything was filthy with dust.

Jane clapped her hands. “A snowmobile. I sure miss our rides from when I was a little kid. Do you think it still works? That would really be fun.”

Grinning, I opened the cowling. “These things run forever. I bet I can get it going.” I had done my share of the tune-ups on the older models at our shop. No fancy circuitry. Just the basics. Andy had said that I had the touch of an angel with a carburator.

A week later, a battered Jeep bumped down the drive. A man in a handsome beaded buckskin jacket got out. His raven hair swept over his brow. His arms were folded and his dark eyes flashed disapproval. This looked like trouble.

I left the porch, where I’d been hammering a loose board. It couldn’t be someone Joe sent. Not this soon. I forced a smile. Friend or enemy?

“This is reserve land,” he said. “I’m presuming you didn’t break into the cabin to survive.” He tossed a look at our car.

I extended my hand. Jane came around the corner with an armful of wood. The happy look on her face vanished as she stopped in her tracks: were we safe or not?

“I’m Sandra Sinclair. Andy was my husband.” I struggled to remember the few words Gramps had taught me. “Hadih.”
Hello.

“I’m Pat Redwing. Daint’oh.”
How are
you?
The tension in his voice eased.

“Soo’…” I shook my head. “It’s been a long time. I never was much good at other languages. Flunked French.”

“Soo’ushah is the reply. I am impressed.” Looking around, he said, “So where is the guy? It’s been years. And is this your little one? I have a daughter in high school.”

“Andy passed a few years ago.”

Pat lowered his head. “I didn’t know that. Sorry for your loss. We were kids together.”

“Come on in for a coffee, Pat,” I said.

With our boots at the door, in snowy-country tradition, we sat at the table. Jane curled up with a book of animal tracks. She had spotted a lynx print near the lake.

As we sipped at the kitchen table, he asked, “So you were here about fifteen years ago? Nothing’s changed, as you can see.”

“I didn’t know what to expect. I mean, Tom died not that long after Jane was born. We were so busy with the shop that the time got away from us, I guess. That’s why we never managed to come back here.”

“I miss old Tom. We pass by the camp every now and then to see that it’s okay. In case Andy came up.” He drained the cup and gave me a nod of thanks. “But surely you’re just visiting. Can’t be that you want to spend the winter. You know how brutal it gets.”

“Pat, I’m going to trust you with some information. I’d rather that no one knew I was here for now. At least not under my real name.”

He gave me a curious look but said nothing.

I brushed back my hair in a nervous gesture. “There’s a very dangerous man looking for us. He has powerful connections.”

Pat put his hand on his heart. “I’m sorry for your troubles. No one will bother you. You have my word on that. Tom’s family is part of my own blood. Do you have everything you need? You’re gonna have to rough it big-time.”

I laughed. “You forget that I lived in Dawson Creek. That’s a climate and a half.”

He leaned forward over the table. “Fishing’s good. Lots of trout. In the winter we take our ice huts out too.”

“I’m thinking of getting the old snowmobile going again. Could you keep your eye out for a used blower for the drive? For a while I can crunch the snow down, but I’ll be bogging soon enough even with four-wheel drive.”

When he left, I realized that I had a friend. It was as if I had found a new planet. Joe seemed so far behind. By now he would have thrown out a dragnet in every direction. I prayed that our tracks to the North had been covered.

Not for the first time, I wished that I could have brought Bonnie with me. But in her confused state, how could I? She was safe where she was.

Would we ever see her again?

* * *

As the winter set in, I made sure that we had shovels and snow scoops. Pat arranged for a used snowblower in running order. It would make a path to the main road. That would be plowed before dawn each morning for the school buses. More than once he brought us a grouse for a special treat.

I thought about a weapon. Pistols were out. While I knew how to handle a shotgun and a .22 rifle, how could I carry one? Getting a gun license might be tricky too. I’d have to take a handling course. Not good for a low profile.

Jane, aka Denise, was now in school. The process was smooth. I stood tall and sounded confident when I enrolled her. Families relocated. Records were lost in fires. Every week we went into the little branch library to check out more books and use the Internet.

I cautioned Jane. “I know it’s hard, but you’re not to send any emails to your friends. You understand why.”

“Duh, of course, Mom. I took my Facebook page down before we left. Twitter too. Is it always going to be this way?”

“Sweetie, I know this is hard. We talked about it before we left. You can make new friends as long as you don’t use your real name.” Her story was that we’d lived in Vancouver before I lost my job. I was now a writer working from home. Who wasn’t writing a novel these days? Meanwhile, I had us signed up for health cards so that we would get medical care at the local clinic. God bless Canada.

The money was holding out well. We had no rent and no utility bills. Only our food, gas and occasional propane. The ax and hatchet took care of heating needs. Jane had put herself in charge of the wood. She had an eagle eye for splitting. Grandpa Tom’s genes. Still, I prayed that she never had an accident. The North could be unforgiving. Not evil and indifferent. That was one difference between Joe and the mountain lion. The beast killed to survive, whereas the man killed for sport.

One day in early December, at the small supermarket, I picked up a copy of the
Vancouver Sun.
I felt like screaming for joy. Joe was under investigation. They weren’t sure if it was going to go to trial. He had the best Toronto lawyer that money could buy. The man had gained notoriety for plea bargaining for the wife of a serial killer. Everyone knew that the woman was as guilty as her husband. Now she was free after having only served a few years.

As for Joe’s case, the words
misunderstanding
and
exaggeration
suggested that dementia had played a role. He was blaming his victims. His estate had been built on lies and abuse of the vulnerable. Cleverly, he avoided the richest prey with interested heirs. Ten or twenty thousand at a time satisfied him.

I stuffed the paper into a trash can.

Now I could breathe for a while.

CHAPTER
TEN

T
he next day was Friday, the Ides of March. Jane had been reading
Julius
Caesar
for her English lesson. The Roman general had gone to the forum against all advice and taken umpteen stab wounds.

I felt the same pain when I saw Joe’s 1-LGL-EGL suv parked in front of the Yamaha shop as I walked by. Their sign said:
Snowmobile Sales and Rentals
.

I forced myself to calm down by taking deep breaths. My heart was rattling in my chest. Time slowed to a trickle. An old lady on a walker crossed the street. I heard each crunch of the frame. Lift, down, lift, down.

My stomach twisted.

I didn’t see Joe. The rentals were kept behind the store. With shaking hands, I put up my parka hood and walked to the car.

He didn’t know my Bronco, but so what? In this tiny town, newcomers stuck out, especially women alone. How could I have told everyone to watch out for him? I had some pride, stupid though that sounded. If he asked enough people…

It had barely been a week since Bonnie died. Joe had moved quickly. He once had told me that he’d driven for thirty-six hours to Mexico to reach a client when planes were grounded. Taking amphetamines, of course. I ducked and eased into the Bronco, pulling away slowly. The last thing I needed was to attract attention.

I picked Jane up at school instead of letting the bus bring her home. “Joe’s here,” I said as she loaded her books into the car.

I might as well have slapped her across the face. No panic, though. My daughter had been rock solid from the time she’d learned to walk and talk. Jane allowed herself a deep breath, then straightened up like a soldier. “What are we going to do, Mom?”

She had brought her gear to town for a sleepover with a girlfriend. I thanked all the gods for the miraculous timing. “I’ll take you to Karen’s. Stay there until you hear from me. That should be Saturday morning.”

“But…if I don’t…”

“You will, baby.”

“He won’t leave us alone, will he?” For the first time, she looked at me woman to woman. It was my fault that she was growing up far too fast.

“No. You are absolutely right.” I wouldn’t lie to her when our lives were in jeopardy.

“What are you going to do? Can you get a gun?” Her small jaw clenched in worry. “What about taking off tonight? I could be packed in half an hour. Even less. We don’t need much.”

A thousand escapes. A thousand new towns. Who could live like that?

“It’s way too late. You’re not to worry about me. If it’s one thing I know, it’s the bush. Your dad taught me well.”

When I dropped her off, I hugged her like there was no tomorrow. Part of me was rational, and part was running on adrenaline. What would happen to her in the worst scenario? I shut my mind to any possibility other than success. That was what Joe would have done.

Joe had enough money to buy help, maybe from out of town. But I knew he would come alone. His pride ruled him. That’s why he drove the suv, like a signature stallion in battle. I counted on that assumption.

I hoped it would not be my last mistake.

I was the bait, not the prey. For once he wouldn’t be in control, even if he thought he was. He’d lived his life counting on the trust and innocence of others, like his first wife. Forewarned is forearmed, my grandpa once said.

The weather was my friend. It had been unusually warm for March. Temperatures had nudged above freezing. Snowmelt from the mountains swelled the streams. The lakes were on the verge of channeling at the edges before break up. But the ice was still almost a meter thick in places. Sometimes daredevils snowmobiled until the end of April. Not this year. Everyone jokes about snowmobile soup, but it’s a sad fact of northern life. Usually alcohol is a factor. And speed.

I’ll say one thing for Joe. He had taught me to plan.

We had our flotation suits. And I’d added a pair of emergency ice picks, to be worn on a leather thong around the neck. Without them, you couldn’t climb back on the ice. It would keep breaking until you lost consciousness from hypothermia. Five dollars saved your life. Ounces of prevention. Those who called them “sissy” were fools. When seconds counted, precision was important. I thought about Jack London’s story “To Build a Fire.” Stranded in the bush, a man used his last match to light a life-saving blaze.

He didn’t count on the snow falling from a branch far above.