Brian Freeman - Thief River Falls

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.”

Hours later, as the night crept closer to morning, Lisa lay in bed in the perfect darkness. There wasn’t a light anywhere inside or outside. It was disorienting to be in a strange house and a strange bed and not be able to see anything at all. The rain had begun to freeze after midnight, tapping on the window glass like the fingernails of someone wanting to come inside. And yet despite all that, she was at peace for a brief moment. She felt secure here, at least for a little while, where no one could find them. Her stomach was full; Shyla’s soup had been hearty and delicious, and the soup had been followed by homemade peach pie. She could feel the warmth of at least three cats sharing the bed near her feet.

Next to her, Purdue whispered in a tiny little voice. “Are you awake, Lisa?”

“Yes.”

“Me too.”

“You should try to get more sleep. We have a long day ahead.”

“I tried. I can’t.”

“Is everything okay? Did you remember something more?”

“No. It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?” Lisa asked.

“We shouldn’t be here,” Purdue said.

“Where? Here in this house?”

“No, not the house. I like Shyla. But I don’t like this place. There’s something about the whole town. We’re not safe here, Lisa. This is where the bad things happened. I can’t remember all of it, but I’m sure it happened right here.”

Lisa was quiet for a while. “Well, don’t worry — we’ll get out of here as soon as we can. We’ll go somewhere else that’s safe. Once it’s light, we’ll get on the plane, and we’ll leave Thief River Falls behind.”

“I don’t think so. I think you’re wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just a feeling I have,” the boy said. “I don’t think I’ll ever leave Thief River Falls.”

Lisa chewed on her lip to keep away the sadness. It wasn’t right, hearing those words from a boy so young. She wanted to say something to comfort him, but she realized that she was the one who needed comfort. Purdue didn’t sound upset or afraid of what he was saying. He was a serious boy thinking about serious things. She was the one who was terrified by what was out there for him.

She reached over and stroked his hair. “You know what I think?”