I clutched the back of his chair, suddenly dizzy with fear. “There were no eels in the crate?”
Wyatt poured himself a jelly jar of wine. Took a sip, warmed the glass between his hands. “Did you know that I’m dying, Val? I’ve got ball cancer. Just a few people know.” He tipped his drink, set it down. “Jeanne knows.”
Jeanne reddened, kept her eyes on the carpet.
“I got maybe a year, two if I actually take care of myself. So, make a dying man happy. Tell me the goddammed truth about the crate.”
“It was full of ice eels—they must have gotten out—”
“There was nothing in the crate!”
“Wyatt, I’m telling you—”
“But it doesn’t matter, does it? Whether they were there or not. Because that’s the wrong answer, Val. That’s the wrong answer.”
Sweat needled my brow. “I saw her—”
“Ice eels.” He whipped a fork into the sink; it banged against the metal. “They were the first thing I tried! God knows how long ago. Had to be—before Andy got here, over a year now, right, Jeanne?”
“Well, nothing’s worked so far, so—”
“Total failure. Complete waste of time. Kind of like asking you to come here and talk to the kid.” He sought out another chunk of potato, chewed it thoughtfully. “So that’s it, Val? That’s your final answer?”
“Final answer?”
“She’s dying, Val.”
“Look, Wyatt, I can prove it—”
“Jeanne?” Wyatt said.
She turned to him.
“Let’s get this done.”
thirty-four
Jeanne tossed my parka and snow pants on the couch next to me.
“Put these on.” Her tone set every fiber of my being on edge. She turned away to slip on her own gear, as if ashamed.
“Why? I’m not—”
“You need to put them on.”
“What the fuck, Jeanne—”
But she wouldn’t look at me. She unhooked the rifle from the wall and slung it over her shoulder. “Plenty of time for questions later.”
I dropped my gaze, focusing on the task of pulling on my snow gear as slowly as possible while my mind lunged for some sort of plan. But what’s theirs? Is the rifle for protection or for something else? Wyatt scuffled down the dim hallway, returning moments later half dragging Sigrid. Her appearance shocked me. Both her eyes drooped. She limped along, whimpering with every step, as if it hurt to move.
He gave her a mean little shove in my direction. She tripped on the carpet, landing in a scruffy pile at my feet. “Get her dressed.”
I pulled her toward me. “Sleep,” she moaned. “Sleep, Bahl.”
“I know, Sigrid wants sleep, but first we have to get dressed,” I said, forcing cheer into my voice as I worked her snow pants over her leggings and threaded her arms through the sleeves of her parka, her body rag-doll limp.
With obvious effort, Sigrid lifted her head to Wyatt’s dark face, read it, and whispered, “Stahndala.” Fear. She crawled into my lap.
“What did she say?”
“That she’s afraid.”
Wyatt ambled into the kitchen, extricated a caribou steak from the freezer, and dropped it in a pan already sizzling with oil. “I don’t get any satisfaction from this, I really don’t.” He stabbed at the rock-hard hunk of meat with a fork. “It’s not how I pictured things turning out.”
“For the love of God, Wyatt,” I said. “What are you talking about?”
Jeanne hovered at the door, hood cinched tight, gloved hand on the knob. “Let’s get moving, you two.”
* * *
CARRYING SIGRID, I plowed through knee-deep snow to the Shed, Jeanne at my heels. She knocked the door open with the butt of her rifle. A blast of snow ushering us in, we clattered onto the wooden floor, the stark room barely warmer than the air outside. She snapped on the light, slapped off her hat and gloves. Lay the gun on the waist-high worktable, barrel pointed in our direction. Clomping around the dimly lit room, she took down some dusty jelly-jar glasses from a high shelf.
“What’s going on, Jeanne?”
She held her palm out flat toward me as if my voice or my question pained her. Popping open the lid of the low freezer, she liberated a bottle of vodka and filled the two glasses, sliding one toward me. “Sorry,” she said. “Don’t have anything for the girl. Been meaning to get some kind of hot plate in here for cocoa and whatnot.”