I brought out my phone and typed in a search for Lida. Right at the top was a Wikipedia page, and I began to read. “‘A city in western Belarus . . .’”
“That would make sense,” Farrah said. “The girl is speaking Belarussian, and I can hear the Polish influences in her accent.”
“So, if I want to track down Zoya, I should be looking for a Belarussian from the city of Lida.”
“It’s hard to make it out, but that’s what it sounds like to me.”
“Okay, go on.”
Farrah put the earbuds back in her ears and played some more. “She repeats that she wants to go home . . . ‘I miss my mama.’ Then she says, ‘Don’t call him. Mikhail will know and—’” Farrah sat up straight in her seat, her eyes staring at her computer as though it had become something to be feared.
“What is it?”
She listened again and said, “I never heard this part before. I never listened that carefully.”
“What did she say?”
“It sounds like she says, ‘Mikhail will kill me.’”
CHAPTER 22
Up North
As I dig my fourth hole, I can feel roots of fatigue spreading through my shoulders and down my arms. I have a long way to go, and I start to question my plan. What good would all this effort be if I don’t have the strength to complete the opening? I hear those whispers of doubt, and I remind myself that this is about much more than simply opening a hole in the Earth to feed him through. If my plan works—if he follows me to where I’m leading him—he’ll understand why he needs to die. He won’t accept it, but he’ll understand.
It’s just a matter of time and pressure.
I adjust my technique again, putting my forearm on the top of the auger at times to give my hands a rest. This lets me use more body weight to push the blade into the ice. I also start switching arms every ten turns of the crank, instead of twenty.
The temperature has dropped a few more degrees, and the breeze has picked up slightly, turning crisp against my cheeks and nose. It will be dark in a few hours. And with the darkness, the drop in temperature will be deadly.
My fingers are freezing and I wad them up into fists inside of my gloves when I can. My size 11 feet are worse. I’ve always had trouble keeping my toes warm, ever since I can remember. I’ve never experienced frostbite, although I’ve come close a few times, causing the tip of one of my pinky toes to go numb and stay that way for years. Hell, now that I think about it, that toe might still be numb; I’ve probably just gotten used to it. I consider shuffling my feet or rocking up on my toes to get blood flowing, but I don’t want him to know that the temperature is getting to me.
It’s all about the mind game with this one. He’s lying in the snow, out of the wind, so the cold doesn’t hit him. He’s watching me, with his head propped up like he’s in bed watching television.
I covet his snowsuit. I’m not much bigger than him, but there’s enough difference that I’m sure the suit won’t fit me. I can tell it’s expensive, though. The pants and coat match, and have pads on the knees and elbows. Probably cost him close to a grand. His boots are way better than mine too, expensive, like they were made for an Artic expedition. I think about taking his boots, but I can see that they are at least a size too small.
My clothes, on the other hand, don’t match at all. The most expensive piece of my ensemble is the imitation Carhartt coat that I found on a clearance rack at Gander Mountain. My boots are old and green, and there’s a slight gap in the left toe where some of the stitching has ripped open. Jenni bought the snow pants for me, gray, nothing fancy.
The last time I wore these snow pants, I took Jenni sledding in Como Park. It was five years ago—our last New Year’s Day together. On our first run down the hill, we tumbled sideways and she ended up on top of me. We laughed and she kissed the snow from my face.
That memory gives me the strength to turn the auger a little faster. I go back to counting, to keep my pace steady: eight, two, three; nine, two, three; ten, two, three. I switch hands and start again: one, two, three . . .
I focus on my breathing, remembering that I should inhale through my nose to warm the air before it gets to my lungs, but my nostrils feel like they have been scraped raw with a blade and the air has taken on a metallic scent. I watch him as I crank. If he tries to slide off again, or wriggle out of his bindings, I’ll see it. He’s looking hard at the hazy tree line on the Canadian shore, his face placid except for a slight smile, the look of a man holding aces.
I stop cranking and examine the hills to the north, seeing nothing of interest. But then I hear it, the howl of a wolf rising up from somewhere deep in the woods, a mournful, throaty wail slithering around the trees, echoing off the bluffs, and curling past our little nest on the lake. As if in answer, a second wolf, standing watch on a hill just east of the first, lets loose a howl, the two voices mixing in a discordant braid that fills the sky and breaks like a wave against the Minnesota shore. I hadn’t heard them over the grating of my auger. I pause to listen for a moment and to let my burning arms rest.
“Are you afraid of wolves?” the man asks.
“Wolves don’t bother me,” I say.
“You know, some Native Americans believe that if you kill a wolf, the others in the pack will hunt you down. Did you know that?”
“I think you’re full of shit.”
“Wolves are incredible creatures,” he says. “Smart. Almost human in some ways. You see, I think wolves understand emotions like revenge. They’re pack animals. They have leaders and they obey those leaders. They love their alphas. Most people think the alpha stays on top out of intimidation, and that’s partly true. But once he’s the alpha, all the others fall in line and they’ll fight to the death to protect him from outsiders.”
I want to continue listening to the howls, but the sun is working its way toward the edge of the world, and hunger is starting to leach from my stomach up my arms and down to my fingers. I am ten times weaker than I was a mere hour ago, and I still have a lot of work to do. I must keep on task. I start the auger again.
“You know what I think?” he says. “I think that if an alpha wolf goes missing—say he doesn’t join the pack when he’s expected—I think the other wolves will come looking for him. That’s what I think.”
I lift my eyes to the northern shore again. I know what he’s doing. He’s still trying to get inside my head—and I’m letting him in. His wolf story has me scanning the horizon for boogey men. It’s a ridiculous notion, I know. He sees me looking and it pisses me off.
“I think you should just let me go,” he says. “We can let bygones be bygones. You still have time.”
“If you think a veiled threat is enough to bring this to a halt, you have misjudged the current,” I say. “You have friends? I’ll be more than happy to entertain them if they show up. But I’m thinking you might not be as popular as you think.”