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“Shhh,” the woman hissed. “Don’t talk.”
“You need to shut up,” Wylie snapped at the woman. “I don’t know who the hell you are and why you felt the need to come at me with an ax, but you’re hurt, and you need help. I will help you, but if you pull that crap again, I’ll toss you out in a snowbank.”
Wylie then spoke to the boy, “Do you want me to help your mother?” This time Wylie didn’t wait for him to respond.
“First thing we need to do is get her warmed up. It’s freezing in here. Help me cover her up with more blankets.”
Wylie took a step toward the sofa and the boy scrambled to his feet, blocking her way. Wylie closed her eyes and mentally counted to ten. When she opened them again, she made sure her voice was calm, measured.
“Haven’t I taken good care of you so far?” Wylie asked. “I brought you in from the cold, I’ve kept you warm, fed you. I’m going to do the same for your mother, I promise.”
A flicker of uncertainty flashed in the boy’s eyes.
Wylie lifted a flashlight from the end table, flipped it on, and held it out to him, hoping he wouldn’t decide to use it as a weapon against her. The boy snatched it from Wylie’s hands and held it to his chest.
“You tuck these blankets around her,” Wylie said, nodding toward the knot of blankets that had slid to the floor. “I’m going to get some more quilts. We need to get her warmed up as quickly as possible.”
Wylie watched for a moment as the boy gently arranged the blankets around his mother. The woman didn’t protest but she kept her uninjured eye on Wylie.
Wylie had no clue as to the severity of this woman’s injuries. All they could do was try to keep her comfortable and hope that the storm passed soon and that help arrived quickly. “Where’s Tas?” Wylie asked, suddenly remembering the dog.
Guiltily, the boy pointed toward the kitchen. Wylie rushed to the basement door, slid open the lock and called down into the dark. “Tas, here! It’s okay, you can come up,” Wylie coaxed. Tas cautiously ascended the stairs, then went directly to his dog bed and lay down. “He won’t hurt her,” Wylie assured the boy. “I promise.”
Wylie hurried up the stairs and to the bedroom. She didn’t know this woman. Couldn’t trust her. Wylie felt along the top shelf of the closet until she found her gun, loaded it, and slid into her pocket.
In the hallway she opened the linen closet where stacks of dusty, slightly musty-smelling quilts were stored. She grabbed an armful and returned to the living room where they layered them over the woman until all that showed was her bruised and battered face. The boy snuggled in next to her.
“Who are you?” Wylie asked the woman. “Where were you trying to get to?” The woman stayed resolutely quiet.
“Listen, we’re stuck here together until the storm is over, the least you can do is tell me who you are and what you were doing out in the blizzard.”
“We’ll leave as soon as we can,” the woman said thickly.
“And how do you think you’re going to do that?” Wylie shot back. “Your truck is totaled, the roads are impassable, and you are hurt.”
“We’ll manage,” the woman said shortly.
“Well, once the phone works again, we’ll call 911. They’ll get help out here as soon as they can.”
“No, no police,” the woman said and for the first time Wylie saw true fear on her face. “If you do that, we’ll leave. We’ll leave right now.” The woman pushed the blankets aside and tried to get to her feet but was too weak.
Wylie shook her head in frustration. “Never mind. We can’t call anyone right now anyway. We’ll worry about that later.”
All they could do now was wait out the storm. But in no way did Wylie trust the woman. There were too many unanswered questions. Wylie threw the last remaining scraps of wood into the fireplace and sat on the floor, facing the sofa where the woman and boy were cocooned. She watched over them, hand in her pocket, fingers wrapped around the loaded gun.
23
August 2000
Three hours after the Blake County Sheriff’s Department requested their assistance, Agent Camila Santos sped down the dusty gravel but slammed on the brakes when she crested a hill to find a tree growing in the middle of the road.
“What the hell,” Santos exclaimed as her passenger, Agent John Randolph, braced his hands against the dashboard. The black sedan fishtailed and skidded to a stop.
The two Iowa Department of Criminal Investigation agents stared up at the massive tree. “Damn,” Randolph said. “That’s not something you see every day.”
Santos inched the sedan around the scaly gray-green trunk of the eighty-foot tree. “They need a warning sign or something,” she agreed.
They crossed a small creek, rounded a corner, and the house came into view. At first glance, it looked like dozens of other white farmhouses they had seen on their trip from Des Moines to rural Blake County, but the flurry of activity ahead let the agents know they were in the right spot.
