Home > The North Face of the Heart(2)

The North Face of the Heart(2)
Author: Dolores Redondo

The shining sun stood high in a clear blue sky. Not a single cloud marred the perfection overhead. Martin paused, feeling dampness in his carefully combed hair. He brushed his hand across the nape of his neck and was annoyed to find his shirt collar wet as well. With the tip of one polished shoe, he cleared away some splintered wood and rubble so he could put down his briefcase. He wiped his neck with a fine white handkerchief, then carefully folded it and tucked it in his back pocket before checking his appearance again. The crisply creased trousers and polished shoes were satisfactory, but the tailored dark-denim jacket had been a mistake. He knew oppressive heat typically followed tornados, so he should have chosen something lighter. Everything around him had been destroyed except for the untouched little red barn by the steps to the underground shelter where the Jones family had taken refuge.

He picked up his briefcase and headed that way. The storm shelter’s heavy metal doors had been flung back. A stout chain still dangled from the interior handholds, evidence of the family’s hurry to escape their dark refuge. He descended the steps and paused for a moment to take in the scent of the basement, a rich mixture of mold and decay with a faint smell of urine. His heart accelerated. The shelter was deserted. Martin ascended the steps and went toward the farmhouse. Or, rather, what was left of it.

Albert woke up slowly. Even before he opened his eyes, he knew he couldn’t move. A tremendous weight lay across him. He heard faraway voices, surely the Jones family, and he tried to call out to them. The pressure on his chest was so great that after only three labored breaths, he passed out again.

He came to in a flood of dazzling light. He didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious. He told himself not to panic. If he became hysterical, he’d pass out again. Trying to assess his situation, he realized he was pinned. He saw a section of the coop’s roof on him, but he felt something else on top of that, something terribly heavy. The roof fragment wasn’t very wide. He worked his left hand around the edge and touched something lying across it, probably one of the heavy wood uprights. He panted. His forehead burned, scraped raw by flying fragments of wood, and his nose was full of blood and snot. The upright wouldn’t budge. He couldn’t move his left leg. It was broken—and he just knew it was shattered.

Albert wanted to cry but knew blubbering could kill him. He focused his whole being on controlling his emotions so as to fend off an asthma attack. With great effort, he breathed as deeply and as regularly as the heavy weight permitted. He imagined his mama’s voice—Very good, Albert, you’re doing very well—and the way she patiently talked him through his attacks.

The thought of Mama made him want to cry again. His eyes brimmed with tears, and he felt like a stupid little kid. Stop it, he told himself, and an involuntary shudder jerked his destroyed leg. He gasped in pain and lost the little control he’d established.

After a moment, he again focused on counting his breaths, doing his best not to think of his mama. Eventually he regained a semblance of calm. He twisted his head to the right, scraping his forehead as he tried to see through a gap in the heap of smashed wall panels.

Albert was a country boy. Even though he couldn’t see the sky from his position, the slant of light told him it was early afternoon. The tornado had swept away every trace of cloud.

Because Mr. Jones had cut the grass the day before, he had a clear view of the man walking across the field. It wasn’t Mr. Jones; this man was carrying a briefcase, and a badge on his chest flashed in the sun. Albert gulped air and tried to shout, but produced only a hoarse wheeze. The man turned in his direction and scanned the wreckage scattered across the farmyard. Albert was sure the man was going to help him, but just then, a hen that had been lying inert to his right revived with a squawk and scrambled through the gap into the yard. The man looked away and continued toward the farmhouse. Albert broke into tears. He didn’t care if he choked. He was going to die anyway.

The closer he got, the clearer their laments became, the same wails he’d heard dozens of times before. The actual words meant little. All survivors of catastrophe, every single one, sounded the same. That wet, strangled voice as if their throats had been cut, the miserable pleas when rescuers appeared. They wasted their dwindling energy rooting through the devastation for something familiar, anything at all to help assuage their survivor’s guilt.

A teenage girl was picking through the debris, collecting colored scarves. She waved them overhead like a gymnast, tracing trails of dust before wrapping them around her neck. She was the first to see him. She called to the family and pointed in his direction; her long fingers were tipped with gleaming black nail polish. They gathered and gaped at him through an opening that had been a window. They watched him cross the farmyard, ankle deep in splintered wood.

Martin took great pleasure at the sight. There were two boys, one a teenager and the other probably not yet twelve. The bigger boy wore a T-shirt printed with a picture of a rock band, and the little one’s hair was really too long for a male child. Farmer Jones didn’t disappoint him either; he sat moaning and sniveling on the steps of what had been the front porch. Martin saw the bottle of water, the chocolate bars, and the revolver Jones had put down. The man held his head in his hands, a picture of impotence. An elderly woman seated beside him, probably his mother, consoled him and rocked him in her arms like a baby. A woman in her forties stood nearby, her bold gaze directed at Martin. Young Mrs. Jones, no doubt. Slim and pretty, with her hair dyed an unnatural scarlet. She had one of those stupid little dogs in her arms. It squirmed, yapped, and whimpered.

Martin made sure his badge was clearly displayed. Glad to see him, they all dropped what they had salvaged and instinctively gathered where the front door had been, even though the wall on that side of the house was gone. Mrs. Jones was the first to move forward. She adjusted her low-cut blouse and fluffed up her hair without letting go of the dog, then started down the steps. She favored Martin with her best smile. He smiled back, despising her with all his soul for being the font of evil, horror, and steaming corruption that had called down the wrath of Almighty God. He offered her his hand and knew exactly what he was going to do. He usually started with the old women, but this time, he was going to kill young Mrs. Jones first.

Albert heard the shouts and the shots. His eyes widened in astonishment and he forgot his tears.

Maybe, just maybe, this really was his lucky day after all.

 

 

2

THE CHARACTER OF MOUNTAIN FOLK

FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Amaia Salazar shifted uncomfortably in her seat in the second row. She’d been among the first to enter the large hall for today’s lecture, knowing this room might well prove to be too small because there was so much interest. This morning’s presentation was different from the classes for the group of European police officers; today’s event was a lecture open to all FBI agents and trainees at Quantico. She’d denied the adjacent seats to two agents in suits by projecting a profoundly unfriendly look and frozen out a couple of grinning trainees in their distinctive blue polo shirts. She didn’t want company.

Special Agent Dupree’s lecture was of far greater interest to her than anything else in the exchange program. The speed with which the room filled was evidence she wasn’t the only one who felt that way. A middle-aged German police inspector greeted her with a smile and settled at her side. Gertha was the only other woman in the Europol delegation. Considering the chilly reception both officers had received from their male counterparts, it was hardly surprising she’d stuck close by Amaia’s side. Amaia had been somewhat standoffish at first. Gertha had seemed pleasant, but she’d been entirely too chatty for Amaia’s taste. Not that the German officer was one of those who bores you to death or badgers you with questions. Still, in the course of two meals and the bus trip from the airport, Gertha had related practically her whole life story.

Hot Books
» House of Earth and Blood (Crescent City #1)
» A Kingdom of Flesh and Fire
» From Blood and Ash (Blood And Ash #1)
» A Million Kisses in Your Lifetime
» Deviant King (Royal Elite #1)
» Den of Vipers
» House of Sky and Breath (Crescent City #2)
» The Queen of Nothing (The Folk of the Air #
» Sweet Temptation
» The Sweetest Oblivion (Made #1)
» Chasing Cassandra (The Ravenels #6)
» Wreck & Ruin
» Steel Princess (Royal Elite #2)
» Twisted Hate (Twisted #3)
» The Play (Briar U Book 3)