One Smooth Stone. Marcia Lee Laycock

there he was, that small boy being led down a long hallway by the clutching hand of a stranger.

      He stood, hunched his shoulders against the memories that slipped like slivers of ice through his veins, and turned away from the table. That was then. Stay in today, Donnelly. Stay in today. He took a long-handled axe down from beside the door and went outside. The cold bite of late August air hit him like a slap, but he breathed it in and deliberately turned his thoughts toward preparations for winter. His wood supply was getting low. There wasn’t much left to split, but he fell into it with an easy familiar rhythm. It was the kind of work he loved—physical and mindless.

      But now his mind wouldn’t stop. Questions swirled one upon another like small whirlwinds stirring up everything in their path. And in the midst of them two names glowed like red-hot brands. Two names he’d always wondered about.

      He stopped, pulled off his T-shirt, and used it to wipe the sweat from his face and the back of his neck. His hand brushed the scar that ran down his neck from the base of his right ear. He tilted his head as though to hide it and dropped the hand quickly.

      Resting the axe against the chopping block Alex left the wood where it lay and went back into the cabin. He stared again at the papers. He was tempted to toss them into the stove. I don’t need this. I don’t want it. It’s too dangerous to go back. But what if...?

      He picked up the documents. It was then he realized his hands were shaking.

      Chapter Two

      Gil slipped into the warmth of the house and listened. Nothing. He dropped the key into his pocket, leaned his rifle in a corner, and walked to the kitchen. He poured himself a large glass of orange juice from the fridge and downed it almost in one gulp. Closing his eyes he savored the taste. Real orange juice. He started to thank God, stopped and grunted, then gave a nod of his head.

      “Okay, I do thank you,” he mumbled, “though I suppose that won’t help much since I’m stealing it.”

      He lifted the lid on the long deep freezer and smiled. The company always did feed us well. But how long will it be before the caretaker arrives? He lifted out a steak, thawed it in the microwave, and fried it just the way he liked it. He was about to have another glass of orange juice when he heard the dog.

      Pulling on his coat Gil stepped outside. The intensity of the dog’s bark increased. Gil jogged around the house in time to see the grizzly ambling away, then went over and scratched the dog’s head. He turned back to the house and froze. Straining his ears he turned toward the south and listened. The wind was gusting, but every now and then he was sure he heard the sound of a helicopter. He jogged back to the house, stacked the dishes in the sink and left, making sure he locked the door behind him.

      Once within the safety of the trees he stopped and listened again. The whap-whap-whap seemed to get louder, then faded away entirely. He thought of that second glass of juice, but decided not to risk it. Settling the rifle in the crook of his arm he headed into the dense bush, the silence growing deep as he walked.

      * * *

      George sat on the bed in the hotel room, tugged off his suit coat, and dialed the long distance number. Kenni picked up on the second ring.

      “I found him.”

      Kenni’s voice was excited. “In Whitehorse?”

      “No. Dawson City. Actually, he lives twenty miles downriver from Dawson in a small cabin. The whole woodsman trip.”

      “What’s he like?”

      “Pretty much the way you thought he’d be. Not very friendly. You’ll see for yourself. He might be coming down with me tomorrow. The flight gets in about 7:30. Can you book a slot the next morning, just in case?”

      “Let me check.”

      George heard the clicking of a keyboard.

      “There’s an opening at 9:00. What was his reaction when you told him?”

      “He didn’t believe it. Thinks we have the wrong guy.”

      “No doubt. It’d be a shock, considering what his life’s been like.”

      “Well, pray for me. I may be traveling with him for the next thirty-six hours. Oh—I guess we’ll need to book a hotel room for him.”

      “I’ll take care of it,” Kenni said. “I’ll book one for you too.”

      “You think he needs supervising?”

      “It’s taken us forever to find him, George. We don’t want to risk him bolting when he gets here.”

      “You think he might?”

      “I think it would be good for somebody to be there.”

      “Okay, I’ll babysit for the first night, but that’s it.”

      “Good enough. See you on Friday.”

      * * *

      Vancouver, 1988

      The smell of mold filled the boy’s nostrils. He tried to back away from the dark entrance to the stairway, but the fist clutching the collar of his shirt held him above the hole. Dampness crept out and wrapped cold tendrils around his legs as the fist shoved him down. The voice above him cursed.

      “Scum like you belongs down here.”

      A blow to the back of his head sent him sprawling to the concrete below. Grit scoured skin from his hands and elbows as heavy boots thudded behind him. One of them slammed into his side. The sound of a rib cracking made bile rise in his throat. He curled into a tight ball, knowing what was coming as he heard the familiar sound of the belt being yanked from its loops.

      He tried not to cry out, but it seemed like the blows would never stop. Already panting with pain he howled when a hand grabbed his arm and wrenched him to his feet, jolting the broken rib. The fist shoved him further into the cellar. He heard the scraping of the small door under the stairs. He started to plead.

      “No. Please. Please, don’t lock me in there. No. Please. Don’t. Please.”

      Another blow to his head knocked him to the floor again. The boot connected with his thigh as he tried to squirm away. There was nowhere to go but into the hole, into the darkness. The small door slammed and he heard the latch click. His head and body throbbing he pressed his face to the floor and tried to suck clean air through the crack at the bottom, tried to get away from the smell of whatever lay rotting in the darkness.

      * * *

      Alex lay on his back, watching the dawn light seep through the small east-facing window. The nightmares had wakened him halfway through the night, and now memories pressed in on him as he lay still. The touch of soft hair on his cheek, the light scent of peaches and dark eyes filled with laughter. They swam before him until he felt like he was floating. Then they changed, changed to small piercing dark eyes, eyes so full of confusion and longing they made him moan. He rolled over and put one hand on the rough floor. What was done can’t be changed. He passed his hand across the planks. That was then. Stay in today. Stay in today.

      Forcing himself to focus on the present he listened to the sighing rush of the river, the soft sound of the wind in the spruce behind the cabin, the rattle of a chain as one of the dogs moved. Familiar sounds, sounds without any guilt or fear attached. He listened for a while longer, and decided maybe he’d let that lawyer fly back to Seattle alone. He couldn’t take the risk. He rolled over and stared at the roof.

      The familiar surge of apprehension and then anger filled him. How did they find me? If the lawyers had, the cops might be right behind. Wish it would snow. With snow on the ground I could head out to the trapping cabin. They’d never find me there. He turned his head toward the table. The papers still lay there. Should’ve known better than to feel safe. Should’ve taken more precautions. Should’ve changed my name. But it was the