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Authors: Gaylon Greer
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nodded, and her usable eye burned into him as he held the refilled cup to her lips.
Sometime during the night, her bladder had let go. The cabin reeked of urine. Not likely she’d gotten any sleep. Even with the ibuprofen, her head would feel like it was being squeezed in a vise.
Nothing more than she deserves, Alex thought as he cooked oatmeal and made coffee, stealing glances at her while he worked. He laced the oatmeal with sugar and powdered coffee lightener and shoveled the overly sweet, rapidly coalescing goop into Frederick’s mouth directly from the pan. He ate half of what remained when Frederick refused more. Spoon in one hand, pan in the other, he approached Pia.
She clamped her lips and turned her head away.
He grunted and set the pan aside. By cutting leg holes in his nylon backpack, he converted it into a child carrier. An adjustment to its straps permitted him to wear it on his chest. As a test, he strapped it on and seated Frederick in facing him. Satisfied, he set the boy back on the floor and checked his utility belt, making certain the items attached to it—knife, canteen, cartridge holder, first-aid kit—were secure.
Frederick crawled to Pia and pulled at her legs. “Pee,” he whined. “Pee.”
She did not speak, but whenever Alex glanced her way he saw her one-eyed gaze following him. He had no choice but to leave her trussed. Otherwise, she would head into the frozen wilderness and die of exposure. Maybe he shouldn’t care, but he did.
Essential survival items that had been in the now-empty backpack—compass, flashlight, flares—went into his pockets, along with raisins and dry cereal from the cabin’s pantry. He warmed a pan of melted snow on the butane cook stove. Neither he nor Pia spoke while, holding her face steady by cupping her chin, he dipped a washcloth in the heated water and swabbed away the matter that had oozed from her split forehead into her eye. He built up the flame in the fireplace and put on the largest log from the woodpile.
With Frederick’s feet and legs wrapped in torn-off strips of blanket, Alex bundled him in blanket remnants. “You look like the Michelin man,” he said, and settled his now-bulky charge into the modified backpack.
At the last moment, he hesitated and set the boy back on the floor. He placed a cup of water and several ibuprofen tablets on the table by the couch and spread all the available blankets over Pia’s legs, leaving the excess material in her lap so she could pull it higher if the room got cold. By adjusting the tether that held her wrists to her neck, he gave her enough slack to reach the blankets, ibuprofen, and water. But he tested to make sure she could not reach the binding that looped around the rear of the couch and linked her ankles to her neck tether from behind. He rinsed the face cloth he had used to cleanse her eye, folded the cloth loosely, and placed it on the end table by the water and ibuprofen.
“That’s it.” He stepped back. “You’ll have to tough it out ’til the cops get here.”
“Please,” she said, her voice as rough as sandpaper and barely above a whisper. “Please, do not give my baby to those people.”
“Are we back to that? First you’re his mother, then you’re his nanny. Now you’re his mother again?”
“They took him from me. Look at him, Alex. Both Mr. Koenig and his wife are blondes.”
“Koenig’s an old man. His hair’s white.”
“Study Frederick’s face. Do you not see me in his eyes? His chin and his mouth?”
The similarities were uncanny, he’d grant her that. Good enough to get away with claiming to be the kid’s mother if Alex hadn’t learned the truth. The way she had attacked him, trying to kill him with that skillet, she clearly didn’t want to go back to civilization and prove who she was. He turned away, tossed Frederick in a maneuver that brought a cry of delight, and stuffed the boy’s
Sometime during the night, her bladder had let go. The cabin reeked of urine. Not likely she’d gotten any sleep. Even with the ibuprofen, her head would feel like it was being squeezed in a vise.
Nothing more than she deserves, Alex thought as he cooked oatmeal and made coffee, stealing glances at her while he worked. He laced the oatmeal with sugar and powdered coffee lightener and shoveled the overly sweet, rapidly coalescing goop into Frederick’s mouth directly from the pan. He ate half of what remained when Frederick refused more. Spoon in one hand, pan in the other, he approached Pia.
She clamped her lips and turned her head away.
He grunted and set the pan aside. By cutting leg holes in his nylon backpack, he converted it into a child carrier. An adjustment to its straps permitted him to wear it on his chest. As a test, he strapped it on and seated Frederick in facing him. Satisfied, he set the boy back on the floor and checked his utility belt, making certain the items attached to it—knife, canteen, cartridge holder, first-aid kit—were secure.
Frederick crawled to Pia and pulled at her legs. “Pee,” he whined. “Pee.”
She did not speak, but whenever Alex glanced her way he saw her one-eyed gaze following him. He had no choice but to leave her trussed. Otherwise, she would head into the frozen wilderness and die of exposure. Maybe he shouldn’t care, but he did.
Essential survival items that had been in the now-empty backpack—compass, flashlight, flares—went into his pockets, along with raisins and dry cereal from the cabin’s pantry. He warmed a pan of melted snow on the butane cook stove. Neither he nor Pia spoke while, holding her face steady by cupping her chin, he dipped a washcloth in the heated water and swabbed away the matter that had oozed from her split forehead into her eye. He built up the flame in the fireplace and put on the largest log from the woodpile.
With Frederick’s feet and legs wrapped in torn-off strips of blanket, Alex bundled him in blanket remnants. “You look like the Michelin man,” he said, and settled his now-bulky charge into the modified backpack.
At the last moment, he hesitated and set the boy back on the floor. He placed a cup of water and several ibuprofen tablets on the table by the couch and spread all the available blankets over Pia’s legs, leaving the excess material in her lap so she could pull it higher if the room got cold. By adjusting the tether that held her wrists to her neck, he gave her enough slack to reach the blankets, ibuprofen, and water. But he tested to make sure she could not reach the binding that looped around the rear of the couch and linked her ankles to her neck tether from behind. He rinsed the face cloth he had used to cleanse her eye, folded the cloth loosely, and placed it on the end table by the water and ibuprofen.
“That’s it.” He stepped back. “You’ll have to tough it out ’til the cops get here.”
“Please,” she said, her voice as rough as sandpaper and barely above a whisper. “Please, do not give my baby to those people.”
“Are we back to that? First you’re his mother, then you’re his nanny. Now you’re his mother again?”
“They took him from me. Look at him, Alex. Both Mr. Koenig and his wife are blondes.”
“Koenig’s an old man. His hair’s white.”
“Study Frederick’s face. Do you not see me in his eyes? His chin and his mouth?”
The similarities were uncanny, he’d grant her that. Good enough to get away with claiming to be the kid’s mother if Alex hadn’t learned the truth. The way she had attacked him, trying to kill him with that skillet, she clearly didn’t want to go back to civilization and prove who she was. He turned away, tossed Frederick in a maneuver that brought a cry of delight, and stuffed the boy’s
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