Hannah Alexander - A Killing Frost

“Not yet. I just came back from searching.”

“If I’d seen a child in danger, don’t you think I’d’ve done something to help her?” Debra snapped.

“Of course you would. Okay, Debra. Call us if you need anything.” Jama retreated and followed Zelda, still uneasy, trying to remember where the Katy Trail from St. Charles came close enough to the Missouri River that Debra could be run off the road, fall hard enough for this much damage and lose her bike in the river. And then, of course, she would have to be close enough to walk here with her injuries.

“Let me get you something to sleep in,” Zelda told Jama. “I’ll throw those clothes into the washer. I gather you didn’t bring a change?”

“I’d planned to return to Columbia tonight.” Jama felt a deep stab of pain as she thought about Tyrell, his anger. And once again, the loss.

They walked through the kitchen, and Zelda pulled a small casserole dish from the refrigerator. “Tortilla pie. You used to love this, didn’t you?”

Jama had been hungry earlier, but her appetite had fled.

“When did you eat last?” Zelda asked.

“I had a late breakfast.”

“You need to eat,” Zelda commanded. “You can clean up in the hall bathroom. The bedroom across the hall from Debra is yours. I’ll just take the unfolded laundry from the bed. That’s my junk room. I seldom get many overnight visits.”

“I could take the sofa.”

“You’ll take the bed. By the looks of it, you need as much rest as Debra does. I’ll keep checking her tonight.”

“I’ll help. Set an alarm for me.”

Zelda stuck the tortilla pie into the microwave, then turned around and pulled a kitchen chair away from the table. She sank down with obvious weariness. “You’ll do no such thing, Jama Sue. You look bushed. You’re sleeping, end of argument. Get washed, changed, and by then the food will be hot.” She glanced down at Jama’s shoes. “Those are a lost cause.”

“They’re my only ones. I’ll try to scrub them up in the bathroom.”

“Leave your muddy clothes in the hallway. I can stick them in the washer now, then dry them next time I check on Debra.”

“You’re too good to me.”

Zelda gave Jama a long, sad look. “You feel like one of my own.” She gazed down the hallway, sighed and looked back at Jama. “That would make me proud.”

The tragedy in those words weighed Jama’s heart with sympathy and blessed it with love. She carried that comfort with her as she washed…for a little while. But then she began to wonder how eager Zelda would be to embrace someone who had carelessly cost a bright, promising young surgeon her life.

After all the years of hard work in the field both at home and abroad, a few hours tramping through the woods would not typically faze Tyrell. He enjoyed the physical exercise. But tonight he felt as if he’d been climbing a mountain that couldn’t be scaled. He ached as he stepped from the SUV and hauled his gear from the backseat.

Jama’s confession had killed his appetite, but in the house he went through the motions of making himself a sandwich, heavy on the roast beef between thick slices of Mom’s homemade, whole grain bread.

He remembered Jama’s words about that long-ago Christmas dinner Mom had planned. Comfort food.

All of Jama’s words continued to flow through his mind, like pieces of flaming confetti tossed into the air.

He had moved his things into the studio apartment above the garage, but tonight he felt as if that was too far away. It had no phone service yet, and if someone tried to call the house instead of his cell for some reason, he wanted to be here.

He carried his sandwich and a glass of milk to the breakfast bar, pulled out a stool and prayed. Mercers always said grace before meals, and though there were many times he’d forgotten over the years, in this house it was second nature.

It was brief. No words involved, not even silent ones. Just a need for connection. A call for help. An opening of his spirit to make way for the Holy Spirit to connect with him, to fill him, give him wisdom.

How could this happen? How could he have spent so much time with Jama and not sense she was withholding a secret so devastating?

No answer came from above.

He remembered the passages of scripture she had quoted to him-words she had memorized, obviously. Words that had moved her so profoundly that she changed the course of her life because of them.

She had given up a promise of life with the man she loved because of the guilt she carried.

Tyrell shoved the sandwich aside, placed the milk back into the fridge and found the family Bible. It had all the birth and death records of the Mercers, dating back to the early 1800s, written in Mom’s neat script, which she had transferred from the huge old Bible handed down from generation to generation.

Holding this book comforted him. He opened it and saw the colored highlighting and underlinings on the pages, and in spite of everything that had happened today, he smiled. It was a study Bible, one Mom had purchased a few years ago, and which she and Dad had read through time after time, underlining different passages at different times, Mom in blue ink, Dad in yellow highlighter. Some verses were both underlined and highlighted.

Because of Jama’s memorized passages, he carried the Bible to the kitchen table and found Proverbs. A book of wisdom. He could sure use some wisdom right now.

Baying…in the darkness. Humphrey? Rocking. Doriann was rocking. She opened her eyes and still saw darkness, still felt the rocking. Then she felt the hardness against her side, heard a splash of water. She jerked awake then. She’d fallen asleep in the boat. Just curled up in the bottom and fallen asleep. For how long?

More baying. It wasn’t a dream. She grabbed the sides of the boat and pulled herself up. Humphrey. It couldn’t be him! She knew hunting dogs could run for miles…had seen them running back and forth, back and forth, eager for the hunt, sniffing the ground and howling with glee at a scent.

Lights onshore. Doriann caught her breath, and then cried out. How far had she floated? How long had she been sleeping? Could that be River Dance? She saw the outlines of buildings, those gold-yellow security lights, saw some windows with dim blue glow coming through them. Someone at home watching television.

“Hey!” she cried. “Hello, help! Somebody. Is anyone there? Help me!” And then, because it was louder than any other noise she could make, she just screamed and screamed. A little-girl scream that Aunt Renee said could peel the bark off a tree.

Humphrey howled and kept howling.

Somebody would have to hear her. They’d have to!

Jama sat at the kitchen table, hair dripping, toes freezing. The pajamas Zelda had given her were five inches too short and they hugged her a little snugly in some places, but they were flannel.

She cut a wedge from the tortilla casserole with the side of her fork, and transferred it to a small saucer. The aroma of steaming cheese, chilies, beef and beans piqued her hunger. Zelda knew how to cook.

The first bite trailed heat down Jama’s throat and warmed her stomach.

After quick instructions for Jama to make herself at home, Zelda had gone to bed. She had a rough night ahead of her, checking on Debra every hour for signs of concussion.

Jama had taken her third bite of casserole when a sound from somewhere outside puzzled her. There was a distant baying of a hound dog on the hunt, and then the piercing strum of a scream mingled with it. Like the sound earlier, when she and Tyrell were on the riverside. They’d decided the sound was coyotes at the time, but now she wasn’t sure. Perhaps an animal being hunted? Trapped? She’d heard rabbits cry like little babies when caught by a cat.