The Paper Detective. E. Joan Sims
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also, had a perfectly good excuse. Horatio Raleigh, her dear friend and companion, was suffering from a cold. She was taking him some homemade soup and a copy of my latest book, Virtual Violence.
Horatio was the retired director of our town’s sole funeral home. He only went in to the “shop” when someone of note, or wealth, passed away and he was needed as a bereavement consultant. He had served in that capacity last weekend. The family had chosen the super deluxe casket, so he had even attended the burial. It had been a cold and rainy day. His doctor said he would be in bed at least a week.
I would have to go out the Sandlick Road alone.
Watson was warmed up in no time at all, and by the time I had loaded some blankets and old quilts and extra flashlights in the back I was actually looking forward to our little adventure. Danny was probably exaggerating. A little snow never hurt anybody.
Sandlick Road was about twenty miles out of Rowan Springs at the junction of the highway that led to the big lakes in the area. The lakes were there thanks to a big TVA dam project. The area was a great tourist attraction and even in the winter there was a fair amount of traffic. When I turned off the main highway, however, the traffic quickly thinned out. After a short time, I was all alone on the road.
I set my odometer at zero so it would count the miles for me. The road had been cleared, but the snow from last night had formed an icy new surface, and I had to watch carefully for glassy spots. Even with Watson’s four wheel drive, I could feel the tires slipping and sliding in places.
The banks on either side of the road were a combination of new drifts and old snow pushed off by the snowplow, higher in some places than the car. It was like driving down a long white tunnel.
Wynonna was telling me in her own beautifully melodious way about the perils of country love when the big buck came out of nowhere. I saw his heels as he jumped over Watson’s hood, and I did all the wrong things instantly. I panicked and slammed on the brakes to avoid smashing the deer’s hindquarters just as I hit a spot of black ice. Watson spun around two or maybe three times before careening like a billiard ball off the mountains of hard-packed snow on the shoulders. We finally came to a jolting stop after bursting through the last barricade of snow sideways. The horn blew loudly as I slumped forward on the steering wheel.
The blow to the car was on the passenger side, so my air bag didn’t deploy, and at some time during the wild ride, I hit my head very hard against the side window. I might have even blacked out for a moment or two until the blaring horn woke me up. That’s my only excuse for the stupid things I did next.
I would like to think that if I hadn’t been woozy I would have thought twice before leaving the car without a flashlight or my cellular phone. I didn’t even remember to check the mileage on the odometer. If I had, maybe I would have known better than to try and walk the last five miles to Bert’s cabin.
Danny had told me that Bert had a big black mailbox with his name, “B. Atkins,” on it. That was all I could think about as I walked and walked. I suppose I would have walked forever before I realized that the snowdrifts at the side of the road had buried any and all mailboxes. Fortunately, I still had enough sense to follow tire tracks leading off the main road and down a narrow track.
Cold and exhausted, I had been walking a little over two hours when I began to lose it. The sky darkened as the afternoon sun passed behind big clouds that heralded more snow, and I began imagining scenes of warm fireplaces and bowls of steaming hot soup. My fantasy was so strong that I could smell wood smoke.
I had lost the feeling in my feet and legs. The only thing that kept me going was my desire to be with Mother and Cassie, and even Aggie, again. They were there in front of me, but with every step I took, they moved farther away. I started crying in frustration. Didn’t they know how badly I wanted to reach them? I sank to my numb, unfeeling knees and sobbed in frustration.
Aggie relented and came bouncing up to me. She covered my face with big, wet, warm doggie kisses and licked away my tears. I struggled to regain my feet, but my legs wouldn’t cooperate. Cassie joined us. I tried to tell her she looked really silly with a beard, but my mouth wouldn’t work either. Cass reached out and grabbed me roughly by the scruff of my neck and hauled me up. She threw me easily over one shoulder and walked down the trail while I bounced against her wide back and made ridiculous cooing noises at Aggie, who trotted along behind.
As the smell of wood smoke and cooking food got stronger and penetrated my mental haze, Aggie began to look a little strange to me. I wondered vaguely why she had grown so large. Her face was almost as big as her whole body had been yesterday. And when did she get to be a redhead like me?
Chapter Four
A delicious warmth moved slowly up my body and into my mind. I was as cozy and comfortable as I had ever been. I stretched and opened my eyes, expecting to see my beloved bedroom on Meadowdale Farm. What I saw instead were the four walls of a rustic log cabin haphazardly decorated with disembodied antlers and stuffed big-mouth bass. A large red dog lay sleeping on a handmade rag rug in front of the big stone fireplace. I could hear his soft doggie snores over the crackling of the fire.
I tried to raise up on my elbows to see more of the room, but a heavy hand on my head pushed me back down.
“Stay still!” barked Bert Atkins. “I’ll bring you some soup.”
I opened my mouth to make a sharp and witty retort to the effect that I was a modern independent woman and didn’t take orders from men, but all I could manage was a hoarse croak.
“Quiet!” he barked again.
I retaliated by childishly sticking out my tongue in his general direction, but even that didn’t work. My mouth and throat were so dry I couldn’t even work up a spit.
Atkins came back and pulled a footstool up to the big old sofa I was lying on. He tucked a rough towel under my chin and then ever so gently spooned a warm mouthful of broth between my lips. The soup trickled down my throat and warmed the cockles of my heart. I eagerly opened my mouth for more.
Bert laughed. His laugh was big and hearty and infectious. I grinned broadly back and immediately split my dry lips. The pain was intense and brought swift tears to my eyes. Bert got up and fumbled around in a first aid kit until he found what he was looking for, then sat back down and pulled my chin toward him. He dabbed the soothing ointment generously over my mouth. As an afterthought, he put some in the outer corners of my eyes and then grunted with satisfaction
“Should have done that first,” he acknowledged gruffly. “Sorry.”
He resumed my meal, and in no time at all I had emptied the bowl. My lips felt much better, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I tried to concentrate on the bright flickering flames of the wood fire, but the warmth from within and without put me to sleep like a lullaby.
I woke up later because I was cold again. I had dreamed I was back in the snow—lost and alone. Bert was putting more logs on the fire. When he finished, he hunkered down awkwardly on his game hip and rearranged the coals with a poker.
My thirst had returned with a vengeance. I called out to him for something to drink, but he didn’t respond. At first I thought I had unwittingly done something to anger him. But when I called again and he didn’t even flinch, I knew why a proud man like Bert Atkins had sought this isolated refuge in the woods—why he had refused all of our invitations. He was deaf as a post.
I slept deeply and without further dreams until a full bladder woke me up. I lay there for a moment wondering how to tell a deaf man I needed to pee without embarrassing us both. I needn’t have worried. As soon as he saw that I was awake he came over to the sofa and picked me up, blankets and all. Before I could protest, he opened the back door and carried me down a path through the snow to an outhouse.
My blood went cold at the thought that I would have to share the freezing toilet with spiders and heaven only knew what else. When we had moved out to the farm, we had an outhouse. Of course, my father and grandfather had already seen to it that we had functioning facilities as well, but the outhouse held a fascination for my sister, Velvet, and me. Fascination, that is,