Thief River Falls

18

Lisa stood under the overhang outside the terminal building at the Thief River Falls airport. In front of her, rain poured off the flat roof like a waterfall. Purdue sat on a bench next to her, his legs crossed, peering at the sky. There were a handful of cars in the parking lot opposite the building, mostly airport employees. Almost no one came and went in the evening October storm, but Lisa looked down and let her hair fall across her face, hoping not to be recognized.

Being here, so close to her past, she felt her stress level increase a hundred times over.

Curtis emerged from inside the terminal with his backpack over his shoulder. He shook his head and scowled at the rain, as if his fickle friend Mother Nature were playing another trick on him. According to the weather forecast, the rain wouldn’t be stopping anytime soon. Overnight, as the temperatures fell, it would turn to ice and then finally to snow.

“I can hangar the plane here until morning,” he told Lisa. “We can try to get out then.”

“Okay.”

But it wasn’t okay. Twelve hours until morning felt like a lifetime away, and anything could happen between now and then. Wherever she went in this area, people would know her, and word would spread. It was impossible for Lisa to hide in Thief River Falls.

“You can go back home tonight if you want,” Lisa told Curtis. “I’ll pay to get you a rental car.”

“What about you?”

“I don’t think it’s safe for me to be at your house.” She stared into the rain, which blew across the asphalt like an invading army. “I’m not sure it’s safe to be anywhere.”

“Well, wherever you go, I go. Laurel made it very clear I wasn’t to leave you alone. Not for a second.”

Lisa smiled, because she could hear those words coming out of her friend’s mouth. “Thank you, Curtis.”

“What would you like to do? Get a couple of motel rooms? There are places not too far from the airport. If it would make you feel better, I can go inside and get the rooms myself. Nobody has to see you. I can bring back some takeout for us, too.”

Lisa thought about it. “That might work.”

“I see a cab over there,” Curtis said, pointing across the parking lot. “Let me check if it’s waiting for somebody or whether we can hop in.”

She watched Curtis walk into the rain, not even flinching as the downpour soaked him. Most people would cover their heads or hunch over and shove their hands in their pockets. Not a farmer like Curtis. He trudged across the parking lot in his work boots as if the sun were shining and tapped on the driver’s window of the taxi.

It wasn’t really much of a taxi. The car was a 1990s-era Caprice Classic, painted burgundy, with patches of orange rust on the trunk and a bumper that was attached to the rest of the car with duct tape. A big handwritten sign in the corner of the rear window said, “TAXI.” Next to the sign was an oversize photograph of a Roswell alien taped to the glass, along with bumper stickers about ghosts, cats, marijuana, and guns.

Curtis waved at her from the car. He opened the back door and waited, and Lisa headed for the taxi, with Purdue trailing behind her. She let the boy slide inside first, and Curtis followed them and shut the door. He had to try it three times to get the door latch to click.

The interior of the cab matched the exterior. Foam spilled out of tears in the two-tone seat cushions, and cigarette smoke lingered in the shut-up space. The backs of the front seats were taped over with Halloween decorations. A plastic skeleton in a noose dangled from the rearview mirror.

Lisa saw the driver’s face in profile. She was young, not even thirty, with spiky blond hair that was streaked with purple and sat up like a bristle brush on her head. Two Celtic knots had been carefully shaved into the side of her skull. She was attractive, with high cheekbones, a ski-slope nose adorned with three rhinestone studs, and a slightly jutting chin. Her top was made of black mesh, and she had a long neck. When their eyes met in the car’s mirror, Lisa saw that the woman had black eye shadow painted above glimmering blue eyes.

As soon as the driver saw Lisa, she exclaimed in a breathy voice, “Oh! Oh my God, it’s you! I can’t believe it!”

The woman threw open the driver’s door and raced around the front of the Caprice. With rain drenching her, she yanked open the back door, thrust her body across Purdue as if the boy wasn’t even there at all, and gathered up Lisa into a bear hug that practically lifted her out of the seat.

“It’s me, Lisa! It’s Shyla. Shyla Dunn.”

Lisa had met thousands of readers over the past decade, and after a while, the names and faces began to blur. And yet as she stared at Shyla’s distinctive punk/New Age look, she recognized something familiar in her features from years ago, long before she became an author. She knew this woman, but it had nothing to do with her books. Their relationship went back to when Lisa was a nurse and Shyla was no more than eighteen years old.

“The hospital,” Lisa murmured. “You were a patient.”

“Yes! You stood up for me when I was just a kid. My boyfriend assaulted me, and the police didn’t care. They acted like it was my fault. You shamed them into doing something, and they put the son of a bitch in prison. That was all you, Lisa. The county attorney wouldn’t listen to me, but he listened to you.”

“Well, I didn’t give him much of a choice. That’s the only reason he got involved. Believe me, Denis Farrell has never been a fan of mine.”

Shyla hugged her again. “I’m just so happy to run into you! I moved away after all that shit went down, and I only came back to town a few months ago. So I never had a chance to thank you properly. What you did was such a big thing to me.”

Lisa found herself tearing up at Shyla’s gratitude. She was proud of being a writer, but sometimes she wondered if writing books was just her way of keeping reality at bay. She could sit in her little room and make up stories, and that meant she didn’t have to go out and face the world anymore. It had been different when she was a nurse and had to deal with reality every day.

The young woman gave Lisa another smile, with an innocence that belied the toughness of her physical appearance. Soaking wet, she returned to the driver’s seat of the cab and twisted around to stare at Lisa in the back seat. “Look at me going on and taking up all your time when you have somewhere to be. Where do you want to go? Free ride, anywhere you want.”

Lisa eyed Curtis. “What do you think? The Quality Inn?”

“Fine with me.”

Shyla shook her head in confusion. “A hotel? You’re looking for a hotel? Don’t you still live around here?”

“Well, it’s hard to explain, Shyla. I’m actually looking to lay low while I’m here. I’d rather no one knew I was in town.”

Lisa didn’t say anything more than that, but she saw an immediate shift in Shyla’s expression. The young woman’s face grew serious, as if she’d decided that fate had given her a chance to pay it forward.

“I won’t tell a soul,” Shyla said. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re not here. But you’re not going to a hotel. You’re staying with me. I’ve got a little house on Columbia right across the river from Hartz Park. It’s quiet, and as long as you’re not allergic to cats, there’s plenty of room. No one will know you’re there, and you can stay as long as you need to.”

“Oh, Shyla, that’s very generous, but we don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not. You protected me, so I’ll protect you.”

“I didn’t say I needed protection.”

Shyla shook her head. “You didn’t need to. It’s written all over your face. Now come on. I’ve got beef barley soup in the Crock-Pot.”

Lisa glanced at Curtis, who shrugged his acceptance. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Shyla steered the strange Caprice cab out the airport road onto Highway 17 and headed north. The heavy rain and the growing darkness made Lisa feel safely anonymous as she looked out the window, confident that no one could see her. The highway was a straight shot into town, heading past miles of open soybean fields before houses and spruce trees began to pop up on both sides of the road. With each mile closer to town, her heartbeat accelerated. They passed the elementary school that she’d attended as a child. They passed the forested border of Greenwood Park. She knew what was coming next — the cemetery — and she couldn’t even look at the sprawling meadow of headstones that went on for blocks. Everyone she loved was buried there. She just stared down at her lap until they’d left it behind.

Shyla turned left at Parkview Street and drove through a quiet neighborhood to the cross street that ran parallel to the Red Lake River. Her house was on the corner, near the footbridge that led across the water to Hartz Park. It was a small blue bungalow that needed fresh paint, with a grassy driveway and detached garage. The shallow backyard was nestled with tall evergreens, and the lawn was mostly made up of dandelion weeds. The mailbox, like the Caprice, was covered in rust.

“Home sweet home,” Shyla said. “I know it’s not much. My uncle died and left it to me. That’s why I came back to TRF.”

Lisa sighed with relief. “It’s perfect.”

“Well, good.”

They all climbed out of the cab into the driving rain. Lisa noticed one wet, unhappy cat wandering across the lawn to nuzzle at Shyla’s leg. Then another joined the first, and another after that, and another after that. Shyla squatted to stroke all of them, and then she picked up three of the wet cats and headed for the garage.

“They know it’s dinnertime when I get home,” she said. “I keep their food in the garage.”

Lisa smiled. “How many do you have?”

“Well, officially ten, but word gets around in the neighborhood. I think there’s a sign along the riverbank that points stray cats to my house. Anyway, once I feed them, I can get you guys set up in my spare bedrooms and get some bowls of soup on the table. I baked some crusty bread this morning, too. I use a machine, but it’s still pretty good.”

“Thank you, Shyla.”

The young woman let the cats jump from her arms, and then she retrieved a key to unlock the detached garage. She opened the door and found a light switch.

As bright light lit up the small space, Curtis whistled at what was inside. “Ho-lee crap.”

There was a 1990s-era Camaro parked inside, blue with black racing stripes down the hood and spotlessly clean. It was in perfect condition, and it was enough to make any car collector salivate. But that wasn’t what Curtis was whistling at. He was staring at the rear wall of the garage. Shyla had an arsenal stored there, enough guns to start a small revolution. Pistols. Revolvers. Hunting rifles. Shotguns. Nearly every brand was represented, from Glock, Ruger, and Smith & Wesson to Winchester, Bushmaster, and Armalite. Some were antiques; others were gleaming, black, and new. Lisa counted four AR-15s.

“Come on, sweeties, dinnertime,” Shyla called, as she began scooping out Science Diet for at least a dozen cats who crowded around her legs and pushed and shoved at the bowls.

“Wow,” Lisa said.

“Yeah, I’m a crazy cat lady — what can I say?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What, the car? I know; it’s a beaut. My uncle was a collector. He left me the Camaro, too. Honestly, I don’t use it much myself. I’m not really into cars.”

Curtis interjected. “The car’s cool, but did he also leave you the guns?”

Shyla looked over her shoulder at the wall and then shrugged, as if she’d forgotten the guns were there. “Oh, that. No, those babies are all mine. I guess I have enough, but I keep buying more. After what I went through, I’m not taking any chances. My parents think it’s overkill, but let me tell you, if anyone ever comes after me again, they are in for one big-ass surprise.”