Frozen Footprints Read online

  Frozen Footprints

  Therese Heckenkamp

  ITP

  Ivory Tower Press

  www.ivorytowerpress.com

  © 2012, 2015 by Therese Heckenkamp

  www.thereseheckenkamp.com

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN 978-0-9968057-1-1 (Print edition)

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Scripture verses taken from the Douay-Rheims Holy Bible.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc.

  www.gobookcoverdesign.com

  Cover photos: 9751858 © Peter Zelei, iStock.com;

  41494481 © Happymelvin, Dreamstime.com

  Published by

  Ivory Tower Press

  www.ivorytowerpress.com

  Also by Therese Heckenkamp:

  After the Thaw

  Past Suspicion

  The Butterfly Recluse

  To my brother Jerome

  and to my father,

  for all the memories we’ve shared,

  particularly our northern adventures

  and snowboarding trips.

  “His truth shall compass thee with a shield:

  thou shalt not be afraid of the terror of the night.”

  — Psalms 90:5

  Prologue

  His prayers, as he dug hungrily into the black earth, were not heavenly. They reeked, as he did, of all that was foul and rotten. The Bible lay open in the dirt beside him as he labored by candlelight. Stones and earth flecked the pages. The book appeared discarded, forgotten. But it wasn’t forgotten. He never forgot anything.

  Memories haunted him.

  Memories of his wife, and how she had been stolen from him.

  Stabbing at the earth with his rusty shovel, he worked fiercely while Bible verses churned through his mind.

  “Revenge is mine, and I will repay them in due time, that their foot may slide. The day of destruction is at hand, and the time makes haste to come.”

  A raspy cackle broke through his dry lips. It amused him to use his Bible knowledge this way. All those years of study had paid off after all.

  “Revenge . . .” The word seeped from the man’s mouth like poisonous vapor, slow and deadly. He savored the savage sound, the raw roughness of the “R,” the sharpness of the “V,” the brief sting of pain as his teeth cut into his bottom lip, the way the word heated his throat and burned deep in his belly. Burned like the fire in his gut when he thought of his wife.

  His blood sizzled with each vicious thrust of the shovel into the dirt. He grunted with exertion, but he was pleased, very pleased. His plan was perfect.

  This is for you, my love.

  The pit was growing daily. Not much longer now.

  Soon, my love, soon.

  He paused to survey his work, swiping a grubby arm across his face, leaving a streak of soil. He breathed in deeply, letting the dirty air fill his lungs while his mind moved to Proverbs.

  “Let us swallow him up alive like hell, and whole as one that goeth down into the pit.”

  His big hairy arm reached down, gorilla-like, and he snagged a beer can. The last one. He’d have to go up for more soon. Lifting the can, the flimsy plastic packaging still encircling the rim, he took a long, sloppy, satisfying chug.

  Finished, he tossed the can against a shadowed dirt wall. The shadows shifted and twisted with possibilities. A toothy grin spread wide across his face, and he reached to his side for the snake-handled knife.

  As he pierced the dirt wall with the blade, he thought of Them.

  He spat.

  Them, with their wealth and power and pride.

  The simple carving didn’t take long. He wiped the knife-blade clean on his finger, purposely leaving a thin slice in his flesh. He watched as the blood came: at first a thin red hair, then an oozing scarlet worm that began to drip, drip, drip.

  “And man shall be brought down, and man shall be humbled, and the eyes of the lofty shall be brought low.”

  A good verse. A very good verse.

  I’ll start with the boy.

  Chapter One

  Three months later . . .

  Max went missing on a Friday, the day after Christmas. I should have been with him, but instead I was at the mall, shopping for bargains I didn’t need, with only my twin intuition to tell me something was wrong.

  I had just handed my credit card to the sales lady and was surveying the department store’s glaring lack of Christmas decorations, when an arctic chill swept my body—a chill that came not from outside, but from inside. It started in my heart, a frigid shock, and rushed outward through my limbs and up my neck. I half expected my curly mop of brown hair to spring up electrocution-style.

  Instead, my scalp prickled and goosebumps popped out on my arms. Dread filled my stomach like a brick of stale fruitcake. I felt my face pale.

  “You all right, Charlene?”

  I blinked, momentarily distracted. How does she know my name?

  Click, click, click.

  Following the sound, I saw her shiny red nails tapping against plastic—my credit card. She read my name, I realized. Or maybe she just recognized my Perigard face. After all, the magazines and tabloids constantly featured my billionaire grandfather, so Max and I couldn’t help but receive some residual recognition.

  “Wise and distinguished,” my grandfather termed his own Perigard profile. “Proud and pompous,” many others called it. For my part, I saw no resemblance in myself, physical or otherwise, to my grandfather. Honestly, what eighteen-year-old girl would?

  “You need to sit down or something? You don’t look good.” The cashier’s penciled eyebrows pinched together with concern, and she glanced over her shoulder, probably searching for help.

  Unable to find my voice, I shook my head, but my foreboding grew stronger. I had felt this before, the night Max was arrested. The party, the booze, the drugs, the fighting . . . I hadn’t been there, but I had sensed something was not right in his world and, therefore, it had not been right in mine, either.

  Just like now.

  I grabbed the credit card and turned to go.

  “Wait! Don’t you want your things?” shrilled the cashier.

  I didn’t pause to reply. Urgency tugged me out of the store and across the dim parking lot to my silver Lexus. I struggled to brush snow off the windshield while more of the falling white stuff bombarded me. Then I, who never speeds, raced onto the slick streets, heart hammering.

  This is ridiculous. Illogical. I tried to reassure myself, one thought tumbling after another like the frantic snowflakes. It’ll all be fine. I’ll find Max at home, reading comics or practicing magic tricks.

  Then why this horrible fear?

  Because twin intuition doesn’t lie.

  If only I could talk to Max . . . I let out a short laugh, then reached across the seat and dug my hand deep into my Prada bag. My fingers skimmed over wallet, keys, and compact, searching blindly for my metallic green phone. At last I plucked it out and discovered eight missed calls. Eight! Two from Grandfather and six from Max. My stomach plummeted.

  Why, oh why, had I left my phone on vibrate the entire day? I hadn’t stopped to think it odd that I hadn’t received any calls, because I very rarely did. Unless Grandfather was checking up on me (and I was always happy to miss those calls), my phone sta
yed conspicuously silent for a teenager. I didn’t have a gaggle of girlfriends to chat with. Mostly, my phone was for emergencies.

  Glancing up at the road just in time to notice red taillights, I hit my brakes and narrowly avoided skidding into the van in front of me. Muttering under my breath, I glanced back at the phone. Eight missed calls, but no messages. Not reassuring. Max didn’t usually call me—certainly not six times in a row. Something’s definitely up.

  I punched the callback button and waited without breathing. Come on, Max, answer.

  When I heard his voicemail kick in, I hung up and tried again.

  Traffic began moving, so I eased forward. A flashing kaleidoscope of emergency lights came into sight on the side of the road. Cop cars, fire truck, ambulance, and two dented cars in the ditch. As rarely as I prayed these days, an accident still always brought a prayer to my lips. Now I added another one for Max.

  The falling snow thickened, visibility lessening as I left the accident behind. My eyes flew from phone to windshield, the continuous back-and-forth making me dizzy. I wasn’t used to this whole using-your-cell-phone-while-driving thing.

  Still no answer from Max’s phone, so I tried calling home. Jennifer, our head housekeeper, answered in a very professional, yet clipped, tone. “Hello, Perigard residence.”

  “Hi, Jennifer. This is Charlene. Is Max there?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. I haven’t seen him recently, and I just finished cleaning his room.”

  Ugh, I couldn’t help thinking, that job probably took all day. “Okay, thanks.”

  I turned carefully off the highway onto a smooth, snow-powdered side road. I’d be home soon enough to search for Max myself. In the meantime, I tried his phone again.

  My foot jumped on the gas pedal when I heard the phone pick up. “Max!” I cried, steadying the wheel.

  No answer.

  I was about to speak again, when I heard something . . . the white noise of a bad connection? No, it was the sound of . . . breathing. Deep, heavy breathing.

  “Max?”

  More breathing. I pictured a fanged animal salivating.

  “Answer me!” I fought the tremble in my voice as the breathing continued. Dear Lord, if Max was playing a trick on me—

  The breathing paused. Then a low, raspy voice whispered slowly, precisely, “Hello, Charlene.”

  Quivers of horror raced up my back. “Max? Max, is that you?” I cried, stupidly, because I knew it was not him. “Who is this?”

  Beep, the connection ended.

  I was left holding the phone pressed painfully to my ear. My left hand clutched the steering wheel in a death-grip. I’d completely forgotten I was driving, yet somehow, here I was gliding onto my exclusive street, Perigard Place. The great black iron lampposts shone with haloed globes in the falling snow.

  Shaking, I thumbed the number to call Max’s phone back. Instead of ringing, this time it went immediately to voicemail. What does that mean? Is his phone suddenly turned off? Destroyed? I gulped down my panic. Breathed in and out. Slow down, slow down . . .

  Grandfather’s towering gray brick mansion loomed to my right. Ensnared in shadows, it seemed more like a sinister old castle than a modern architectural marvel. Across the street, our stone, glass, and cedar mansion sat modest in comparison.

  Stopping at the gated base of our driveway, I touched a button on my visor and the metal gate swung wide. I redialed Max’s phone as the gate clanged shut behind me, but no matter how many times I tried calling, no one picked up again. It was almost as if I’d dreamed the incident, the nightmare voice. I shivered. Who was it? And why did he have Max’s phone?

  At last I parked my Lexus beside my stepsister’s cherry-red Ferrari in our spacious four-car garage, a garage made even more spacious by the fact that both Max’s black Maserati and my stepmother’s navy Porsche were absent. Max’s car had been gone for a month now, “repossessed” by Grandfather after Max’s latest speeding ticket.

  Stepping from my car, I felt a prickle like pine needles on my skin as I recalled the scene, right here in the garage: Grandfather brandishing his fist at Max, his imperial voice echoing off the cold concrete walls as he shouted.

  “Three tickets in one month! You think just because I have money, I want to throw it away to save your sorry hide? Think again. I’ll see to it that you don’t drive again till you’re forty!”

  “Like you’ve never gotten a ticket in your life,” Max shot back. “And I’m telling you, those last two times, I wasn’t going more than five over—no faster than anyone else, I swear. The cops just have it in for me.”

  “Excuses, always excuses!” Grandfather snarled. “The fact is, you’ve proven yourself a troublemaker over and over again. No cop in this town is going to give you a break.”

  “I’m not asking for a break.” Max’s hands turned to fists. “Just a fair shake. Not one set of rules for everyone else, and a different set for me. Just because I’m a stinking Perigard, I’m held to such dang high standards—”

  “You bet you’re held to high standards—the highest there are. And yet you insist on dragging my good name through the mud every chance you get. No more!” Grandfather turned to his waiting mechanic and bellowed, “Take it away!” while swinging his arm at the Maserati.

  “Take it then,” Max said, jaw clenching. “But don’t say it was a gift, you hypocrite.”

  I stood in Max’s shadow, hating the scene but unable to tear myself away. He needed my support. I glanced at my prized Lexus, a gift, as Max’s car had been, from Grandfather on our eighteenth birthday.

  “Real gifts don’t come with strings attached,” Max continued. “I don’t need your charity, anyway. You and your tactics. You thought if you gave me the car, I’d hang around, keep playing your games. I’m not. I’m through with you and through with this place, this prison. I’m out of here.”

  “We’ve all heard that before,” Grandfather said mockingly. “Don’t kid yourself. We all know you couldn’t make it on your own. Who’d pay your bills?” His chuckle bounced behind him as he left the garage to purr home in his Jaguar.

  “That’s it.” Fuming, Max threw a punch at the wall. “I’m outta here for real this time, and I’m not ever coming back.”

  I grabbed his arm and pleaded with him to stay. “Please, Max. You can use my car.”

  “Char,” he said, exasperated, “it’s not about the car. It’s about how he rules our lives and treats us like dirt.”

  “Things will get better, you’ll see.” As much as I disliked Grandfather’s attitude, at least we were well provided for. Very well provided for. And this life was all I knew. “I couldn’t stand it here without you, Max. Please. You’re my only real friend. Please stay.”

  And he had.

  But now . . . standing alone in the cold concrete garage, the memory churned my stomach, and I felt sick. It was no secret to me, or anyone in the family, that Max constantly threatened to leave. What if he’d finally made good on the threat?

  No. He wouldn’t do that to me.

  Would he?

  Chapter Two

  I burst into the house, plunking down my purse and kicking my wet boots off on the stone tiles as my mind fished for explanations, snagging on the most comforting: Maybe Max was still here at home, having a huge laugh at my expense. Yes. He was a guy, after all, and no matter how much he loved me, freaking me out was always high on his list of amusements.

  Like the time he told me he’d stumbled across some human bones in a drainage ditch by the highway, bones so old that they probably belonged to some long-ago unsolved murder. I didn’t believe him until he took me to see them and I laid eyes on the brittle yellow, porous pieces. My swirling emotions got the best of me, and it wasn’t until I started dialing the police that Max started cracking up—and I realized the pieces were really just old animal bones.

  “Max? Max?” I now called as I raced up the curving stairs, my hand sliding over the polished mahogany banister, the scent of lemon
-cleaner fresh in the air. Rounding a curve, I almost bumped into Jennifer, who was hurrying down with a white plastic sack in hand.

  “Pardon me, Miss Charlene.” She gave a prim nod as she maneuvered past in her stiff black and white uniform, the mandatory black silk bow perched incongruously in her short gray hair. A moment later, Mitsy darted past me, a silver blur on silent cat-paws.

  “Max?” I pushed open his bedroom door, ignoring the metal stop sign nailed to the front. (I’d avoided asking him how he got it, because I was sure I’d rather not know.) The cleanness of the room amazed me. Jennifer had done a thorough job of eliminating all the food fragments, wrappers, dishes, and other assorted clutter. Magazines and comics were shelved perfectly. There wasn’t a wrinkle on the smoothly made bed, and clothes hung orderly in the closet. The adjoining bathroom was scrubbed shiny and smelled of bleach.

  I darted in and out of the many remaining rooms, sweating in my blue coat as I searched for Max, first upstairs, and then down. At last I found my stepsister Gwen in the great room, a room lined with tall windows swathed with swooping arcs of burgundy silk. She lay sprawled across the leather sofa with a box of chocolates perched atop her fingertips. Her face had a zoned-out look as she watched a talk show on the giant flat screen. Flames blazed in the oversized stone fireplace. A colossal pine tree towered in the corner, decorated so professionally with sheer ribbons and strands of pearls that it looked more like a model evergreen out of a glossy magazine advertisement than a family Christmas tree.

  I hurried across the ebony floor and skidded to a stop at the Persian rug. “Have you seen Max?”

  “Nope,” Gwen said without taking her eyes off the screen. “He’s not here. He ran away.”