Dead of Winter

Chapter 6

When I turned the floods back on, I could have sworn I heard an angry hiss. Although I tried to tell myself it was just the wind, part of me wasn't willing to believe so simple an explanation. I tried to look outside, but the small, boxy basement windows, set too high, allowed little in the way of a view. If Taryn's assailant was still out there, it'd be stupid to open the door. I didn't dare open it, anyway. Neither of us did. While love, as Charlie said, might be stronger than fear, a dead bolt seemed the better tool to keep the source of that fear at bay.

While waiting for the police and EMS to arrive, we eased Taryn out of her coat, and began wrapping her head and injured arm in gauze. Whoever attacked her had done a real number on her parka. Its back and sleeves were little more than tattered shreds.

More than just her parka, as it turned out.

Blood oozed from a gash on her shoulder, while several slashes ran the length of one of her forearms. Deep slashes whose runnels revealed bead-like clusters of subcutaneous fat. Poking out from these, though, were unmistakable bits of pallid white.

Bone.

Ferrilyn, who'd been tending to her, sat back on her heels. Her face clouded as she surveyed her partner's injuries. "This makes no sense, Amara," she said in a quavering voice. "These look like knife marks, but who'd do this—and why?"

The sight of those cuts sent shudders through me. All bore an eerie similarity to the gouges in my car door. Of course, I couldn't tell Ferrilyn that. Nor was this the time to announce that I thought I'd sensed someone in the woods near the house when I arrived. But now, Taryn's injuries convinced me: I hadn't been seeing things. There had been someone there, lurking in the shadows of the pines.

Instead, I answered her question with another, "Do you think she surprised a would-be robber? He might have been taking a shortcut across our property. The Wilsons aren't home. He could have been casing their place for days."

"Yeah, maybe," she said, her halting tone betraying her doubt. Anyway, a robber sounds more sensible than..." Trailing off, Ferrilyn turned away.

"What?" I prompted, squeezing her arm. Outside, a siren's strident wail split the night.

Her shoulders heaved, and when she turned back, tears welled in her eyes. "She hasn't exactly gone out of her way to form close bonds here. Or at work, from what Rory said. You know how she gets, Amara, but those guys at the station can be harsh."

"Even if she'd gotten under their skin, Rory's friends would never do something like this." Leaning over, I pulled her into a hug. "Taryn was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Then again, if she hadn't turned out the lights, she might have avoided a trip to the emergency room. "The ambulance should be here soon. I'll go to the hospital with you."

"No, I want you to stay here," she said, rising. "With Rory away, I'd feel better if someone stayed here with Charlie and Mia, just in case."

"Do you think whoever did this will come back?"

"I don't know what to think." Face paling, she shivered and rubbed her arms. "But you're the only other person in this house besides Rory who has a g*n and knows how to use it."

Blue and white strobe lights splashed across the windows.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that." Brushing dirt from my tights, I rose on stiff legs and waited until the police announced themselves before opening the door.

Wind and snow rushed to greet me, stinging my cheeks. The flakes were falling so fast and thick, finding tracks—evidence of any kind—would be nigh-on impossible.

While they were taking our statements, what little we could tell them about Taryn's attack, the ambulance crew arrived.

"Looks like she'll need stitches," said a female crew member I didn't recognize. After bundling Taryn in flannel blankets and buckling her on a collapsible stretcher, they trundled her back to the rig. Ferrilyn, who'd followed them out, took Rory's truck instead of her Subaru. It hunkered in the shadows beneath half a foot of snow.

"Were these marks here before?" When the officer pointed to the damage—gouges too uniform in their spacing to be knife slashes—my stomach lurched.

"No, sir."

As I'd suspected, those marks and the blood around the door were the best evidence they could find. Although they spotted tracks by the trees—large prints, whose size and shape suggested Taryn's assailant either had enormous feet or was running on snowshoes—the storm hindered their efforts. Filling in those indentations, the fast-falling snow rendered any other clues indistinguishable.

After they'd gone, I secured the dead bolt. To discourage any further trespassing attempts, I overrode the motion sensors which would leave the outer floodlights on until morning. I hoped this would be enough to prevent a repeat attack. We'd had enough excitement for one night.

Making my way back upstairs, I heard sobs issuing from the living room. Still on the floor beside the dollhouse, Charlie sat with her face in her hands. Her favorite blue fleece blanket puddled in about her quivering frame like soft waves on a lake.

When she heard footsteps, Charlie turned. "Where's Taryn? Mommy said… Is she gonna be…?" Hiccoughs, interspersed with sobs, swallowed her words.

"She'll be just fine." Kneeling, I pulled her into a gentle hug.

"It's my fault she got hurt," Charlie said, snuffling.

"No, it isn't. A nasty man hurt Taryn. You had nothing to do with it."

"But I wished for it." She turned her tear-stained face up to mine. "Taryn was mean to me, so I wished something bad would..." fresh sobs drowned her words.

"Shh... Wishes don't make bad things happen, sweetie. None of this is your fault. Tomorrow, all of this will seem like a bad dream."

I wrapped her in the fleece, but as I began rocking her back and forth, my gaze fell upon the dollhouse.

Exposed rooms, steeped in shadows, leered back. Their frozen tableaux—overturned furniture, dolls twisted in a tangle of limbs—seemed to taunt anyone who dared look upon them. See what you've done, going places you shouldn't, asking questions better left unanswered. This is all your fault!

In the uppermost room, two distorted diamonds blazed from the shadows. Their once-white centers, stained citrine by time and the dollhouse’s dim interior lights, burned into me like the eyes of a bitter, forsaken god.