Not A Sound. Heather Gudenkauf
I drive the four-wheeler to where Evan has constructed a garage-like structure from log-cabin wood. This is where he stores his four-wheelers, canoes, kayaks, life jackets and other outdoor gear. I know this because all summer I’ve seen the wannabe outdoorsmen and women emerge from behind the hewn logs with all manner of outdoor gear. They are dressed in their two-hundred-dollar hiking boots, neoprene bodysuits and GoPro cameras.
The garage is locked up tight so I leave the four-wheeler where I’ll at least be able to keep an eye on it from my house. I may not want to be in a coffee klatch with my neighbor but I also don’t want to be the one who let his four-wheeler get stolen.
I trudge back to my house, about a football field away. My muscles feel heavy and achy. I’m chilled through and all I want to do is take a hot shower and curl up on the couch with Stitch and a cup of coffee. I kick off my water shoes, unlock the front door and call to Stitch. “Ke mne!” Stitch comes to my side as I open the door, waiting for me to enter first.
I refill Stitch’s water dish that I keep in the tiny laundry room right next to my stacked washer and dryer, peel off my damp clothes and drop them to the floor and push open the door that leads to the only bathroom in the house. If I end up getting this job, if I still have a chance considering I missed the interview, the first thing I’m going to do is gut this area so that I can have the biggest, most luxurious bathtub I can find. Right now all I have is a primitive shower, and no matter how much I bleach and scrub it, the mold and mildew always return, creeping ominously up the walls. I turn the water to full throttle and step beneath the showerhead, letting hot spray wash away the mud and dirt and the chill of my morning trek.
As my sore muscles relax under the stream of water I think back to the crime scene. I know that the police will probably want to interview me again about what I saw. Did I mention the beer bottle? I don’t think I did. I know I didn’t say anything about the extra set of footprints in the mud. Even though it will probably amount to nothing I should have mentioned it. The killer could have brought her through the thicket of prickly brambles, forced her over the piles of fallen timber. He could even have deposited her in the river somewhere upstream and she floated to the spot where I found her. None of these scenarios quite add up for me. Though Gwen was mostly submerged, the parts of her that were exposed—her face, her breasts, her feet, were remarkably unscathed.
What did that mean? That she came willingly with him and he killed her on the scene? That would make most sense if they had been a couple that had been hiking. But wouldn’t there be another set of footprints? Surely there would be signs of some sort of struggle.
Unlike most showers, the water in mine doesn’t gradually grow colder to let you know that the water heater isn’t keeping up. Instead, it goes from scalding, which is how I like it, to frigid. Usually I have it timed perfectly so I exit the shower before the water turns to ice, but today I am so deep in my thoughts about my discovery, I lose track of time and the icy water pours over me in full force.
I slap the handle down and the flow stops. I step from the shower dripping wet, grab a towel from the dryer and wrap it round my midsection, then scurry up the steps to my bedroom that takes up the entirety of the second-floor loft. Teeth chattering, I stand in front of my open closet door where my interview outfit, still swathed in dry cleaner’s plastic, hangs.
I reach into the closet past my interview outfit, hoping that I’ll still get a chance to wear it, and snag a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans from the top shelf. I hastily dress, and as I blow-dry my hair I run my fingers over the thick scar, courteous of my hit-and-run driver, that runs nearly ear-to-ear just above the base of my skull. My hair still won’t grow there but I’m able to cover it by keeping the top layers long.
Through my glass door I see that the dark clouds are swelling and heavy with moisture. It looks like the kids of Mathias will be trick-or-treating carrying umbrellas and wearing rain gear over their costumes. Not that I’m going to have any trick-or-treaters knocking on my door tonight. It’s too rural, too remote out here. But I still put together a goodie bag and a few extra candy bars just in case David decides to bring Nora over so I can see her in her costume. I even slapped some of those window cling-on Halloween decorations in the shapes of ghosts and cobwebs and bats on my sliding glass door in a weak attempt to be festive.
Jake has a fit about my sliding door every time he comes to visit me. “Any half brain can break into one of these. It’s a burglar’s wet dream,” he says. Soon after I moved in he brought me a broom with the bristles chopped off. “See, it fits perfectly,” he said, laying the long, slender wooden handle in the metal track. “Unless an intruder breaks the glass, there’s no way anyone is getting through this door. Promise me you’ll put this in whenever you’re home.”
I promised, and have used the broom handle precisely zero times since. I insert the rod and tell myself that I’m doing so because Jake will most surely drop by later and give me hell if the door is not secured, but in actuality I’m spooked.
Once I’m sure that the dead bolt on the front door and each window is locked I sit down at my C-shaped kitchen counter that serves as my dining table and office area. Sitting on the Formica—a dated beige with a pale blue and brown boomerang pattern smattered throughout—is my laptop and phone. The captioned phone, a gift from my dad, allows me to have real-time phone conversations with others even though I can’t really hear a word they are saying. The system scrolls the caller’s words across the screen so I can see what is being said and I can answer as I always have when using a phone. It even translates into text any voice mail messages left when I’m away. Most of the time the phone sits idle except for my conversations with Nora, and my weekly calls with my dad and brother.
I have two pressing phone calls that I need to make. The first to the center in hopes of rescheduling my interview, and then I need to call David. I’m not sure which call I dread the most. I find the number for the center, and after a few seconds the screen on the tabletop phone display reads “Five Mines Regional Cancer Center, this is Lori, how may I assist you?”
I take a deep breath. Though it’s hard to explain, the anxiousness I feel when I speak into the receiver rivals that of having to sleep in a dark room. “Yes, hello,” I begin, concentrating on modulating the volume of my voice and the enunciation of my words. “May I speak with Dr. Huntley?” Because I can’t hear myself I don’t know how loudly or softly I’m speaking. Usually I rely on clues from the facial expressions of the listener—like if they lean in to hear me better or if they cringe because I’m too loud for the situation. Talking by phone takes away those physical cues, making it impossible for me to know how I’m doing.
“Dr. Huntley isn’t available right now. May I direct you to his voice mail?” the receptionist asks. My shoulders sag. I was hoping to speak to him in person. I want him to know just how much I want this job—how much I need this job. I agree and thank the receptionist, and after a minute the phone display invites me to leave a message for Dr. Huntley.
“Dr. Huntley, this is Amelia Winn. I’m so sorry about missing this morning’s interview. I promise you it was for a very good reason and I’d really appreciate the opportunity to explain everything to you and hopefully reschedule our visit. Thank you. I look forward to hearing from you.”
I leave my phone number, hang up and stare at the phone for several moments before I pick up the receiver again. I dial the number I know by heart. The number that once belonged to me too. This is the phone call I’m hoping will go straight to voice mail. There’s a good chance that David is at the hospital but it could also be a day off for him. I’m not privy to his schedule anymore.
“Hello,” the display reads and my stomach flip-flops.
“David?” I ask because the phone isn’t able to identify who’s speaking.
“It’s me.” Of course I can’t gauge the emotion in his response but I imagine he’s put on his clinical, slightly patronizing tone that he reserves for interns and people who have pissed him off.
“I can explain,” I begin, but then stop. Will it even matter? Every move I’ve made, every word I’ve uttered in the last two years has been wrong.