Cold A Novel Paperback - 2003

First line

Liesl Tiomenen saw the man from her kitchen window.

Excerpt

Chapter 1

Liesl Tiomenen saw the man from her kitchen window. It was snowing so hard that he was barely visible, standing at the edge of the woods. Staring toward the house, he kept his arms folded so his hands were clamped under his armpits. He wore a soiled canvas coat and blue trousers, but no hat. His stillness reminded her of the deer that often came into the yard to eat the carrots and apples she left for them.

Liesl went out into the shed and took Harold's .30-.30 Winchester carbine down off the rack, then opened the back door, holding the rifle across her chest. The man didn't move. The north wind chilled the right side of her face; her fingers on the stock felt brittle. He was young, not more than twenty-five, and she could see that he was shivering.

"All right," she said. "You can come inside."

He began walking immediately, his legs lifting up out of the deep snow.

"Slowly," she said. "And put your hands down at your sides where I can see them."

He stopped and watched her. Then he dropped his arms to his sides and continued on toward the house.

When the door opened, he had expected an old man or woman. Something about the house suggested that retired people lived there, the way it looked simple but well maintained. There were recent asphalt shingle patches on the roof, the wood storm windows had been freshly painted, and at least a cord of firewood was stacked against the shed. It was the smell of chimney smoke that had drawn him toward the house.

But it was a woman, maybe in her early forties. She was tall, and her long blond hair was tied in a thick braid that hung over her left shoulder. Her hands were large, and one thumb appeared to be smeared with mud. When he reached her, she pointed the rifle at his chest and he stopped. She stared at him a moment, her blue eyes showing no panic or fear, only determination. He tried to quit shaking, but it only made it seem worse.

"Okay," she said, stepping back into the shed. This close he could see that there was something odd about her mouth; her lips seemed out of kilter. When she spoke there was a kind of sag to the right side of her face, as though the muscles were lax. "Kitchen's that way."

He stepped into the shed and opened the door to the warm, heavy air of the house. There was the smell of burning wood, and something else that he couldn't identify--a pleasant scent of damp earth. It made him light-headed, and his shaking only got worse.

He fell to the floor, his palms slapping on the wood, and didn't move.

Liesl walked around him, watching his face. There was a small cut beneath his eye, and twigs and pine needles were entangled in his short black hair. She poked him in the shoulder with the rifle, but he didn't respond. He wasn't faking. She went to the stove and turned on the burner beneath the teapot. From the pocket of her flannel shirt, she took out a pack of cigarettes. She held the tip to the flame for a moment, then raised the cigarette to her lips and inhaled.

When he opened his eyes, she was standing at the wood-burning stove, smoking a cigarette, the rifle tucked beneath one arm and angled down. Not exactly pointed at him, but not far off, either.

"Can you get up?"

"I think so."

"Then sit in the chair by the radiator and keep your hands on the table."

He watched her raise the cigarette to that mouth, and then the tobacco glowed. He inhaled through his nose, and the smoke helped revive him. For a moment she looked pleased as she reached in the pocket of her flannel shirt. She took out a pack of Winstons and tossed them onto the kitchen table.

"Thanks," he said. There was a book of matches beneath the cellophane. His hands were shaking so bad that the first match waved out; the second he had a hard time holding steady to light the cigarette. When he got it lit, he watched the match flame burn down to his fingertips. After it went out, he said, "Nothing. Can't feel a thing."

"Rub them," she said. "Rub them together."

He did, working the palms slowly against each other.

"When'd you break out?"

"Two days ago. Musta walked fifty miles."

She smiled crookedly around her cigarette. "You're not twelve miles from the prison."

"I bet I walked fifty."

"Why do you think they put prisons in the Upper Peninsula? You think you're the first one to try to walk away? They usually turn themselves in--you're lucky you haven't already frozen to death."

The teakettle whistled and he nearly jumped up from his seat.

She did everything with one hand, hardly taking her eyes off him. When she placed the mug of tea on the table, she said, "Have you eaten anything?"

"No."

"You drink that. I'll feed you, but first I got to be able to put this thing down."

"I won't do nothing."

"If you had done nothing, you wouldn't be in that prison." She opened the shed door, reached around the jamb, and took something that rattled off a hook. It was a chain, the kind used for towing, coiled up like rope. She unlocked and removed the padlock, then put the chain on the kitchen floor by his feet. "Now, you wrap that around your middle a couple times, then run it round that radiator foot." Putting the padlock on the table, she said, "Then lock it."

He chained himself to the radiator. As he picked up the mug, the heat from the tea stung his fingers.

She leaned the rifle in the corner by the stove and began to make him some eggs. Three scrambled eggs, with dark rye toast. When she wasn't watching him she listened to him; he was quiet and he hardly moved. When he finished drinking one mug of tea, she made him another.

She sat down across the table and watched him eat. There were acne scars on his neck, and his nose reminded her of boxers who have had the cartilage removed. She was surprised that he ate so slowly, that he didn't just eat like a dog. But he seemed to have trouble swallowing.

"Been so long since I ate," he said when he was halfway through the eggs, "my stomach hurts. But they're good. They just go down hard." He glanced out the window frequently, toward the driveway, and she could see when it registered in his eyes. He tried to conceal it, but the next time he looked at her he was shy, like a child with a secret.

As she lit another cigarette she looked out at the snow where the drive was--the banks were over six feet high, and there was at least two feet of new snow in the drive. "My plowman came night before last," she said, "but it's been coming down so fast he can't get up the hill now. It's been like this all winter."

"Last year, after we set the record for snow," he said, pushing away his empty plate, "we all thought this year couldn't be so bad."

"It's worse," she said. "We're ahead of last year. At this pace they say we might get three hundred inches."

One corner of his lips tucked in, creating a dimple. "My friend Bing was right. Said all people do outside is talk about the weather." He picked up the pack of cigarettes on the table and tapped one out. "You can't get out of here and the police can't get in. How you going to get me back?"

"That's what you want, right?"

"I stay out there any longer, I'm dead." He touched the cut beneath his eye a moment. "I know what you're saying. Guys inside tell you about other escapees, how they walk away, then give themselves up because of the woods and the weather. I didn't believe them."

"You're from downstate."

"No, I'm a Yooper. From North Eicher."

"Oh sure."

"That's why I thought I could walk out. I know the winters up here. But I just couldn't get out of the woods. And the snow, it just kept falling."

She went to the sink, soaked a washcloth, and gave it to him. "You better clean that cut."

He daubed at his face, wincing and only smearing dirt. "It's fine."

"Right." She came around the table and took the washcloth from him. "Hold still." She put one hand on the back of his head and cleaned the cut. He stared up at her and didn't move, though when she touched the wound she could feel the muscles in his neck tighten as he tried to pull his head back against her hand. "How'd you do this?"

"Saw some coyotes on a ridge. Maybe they were wolves? Hard to tell from a distance through the trees. Then I tripped over a downed tree under the snow."

When she was finished she looked at the wound a moment before letting go of his skull. His clothes smelled bad, and his hair was wet and dirty. "Where'd you think you were going?" she said as she went back to the sink to rinse out the washcloth.

"Don't know. Into Marquette and steal a car, I guess. Got lost instead."

"I guess you did." She turned and leaned against the sink, drying her hands on a towel. He smoked and gazed out at the snow. "You been in long?"

"Five years, three months, two days."

"Why?"

"Bunch of stuff."

"Like what?"

"Like assault. Shot a guy, too." He drew on his cigarette, then crushed it out on his plate. "Guess I had a bad day. I used to do a lot of stuff, you know? Get really fucked up. My brother, Warren, he has connections down in Milwaukee, and he kinda has a business going over our way. I just lost it."

"What happened?"

"Well. I had a girlfriend, my fiance. Say I beat her."

"Did you?"

"Sort of." He touched the cleaned wound with his fingertips. "I don't remember everything too clear."

"Who'd you shoot?"

"There was a hunter named Raymond Yates."

"This Raymond Yates, he and your girlfriend were up to something?"

He shook his head. "Wasn't that simple. No, she was up to something all right, but it wasn't with Yates. He's older. Noel--that's my girlfriend--she was up to something with my brother, Warren."

"That's why you lost it."

"Guess so."

"How long you in for?"

"Ten. But I coulda got out after seven, maybe."

"You couldn't wait another year something?"

"Guess not. Now, when I go back, I don't know what I'll get." He turned his head from the window. "What happened to you?"

"Car accident. My husband and daughter were killed."

"I'm sorry."

"Are you?"

"Yes, I am."

She went to the phone on the wall and picked up the receiver. There was no dial tone. She hung up.

He was watching her. "Dead?"

"I'll try again in a while."

He leaned back in the chair and the chains rattled. "So you live way out here alone?"

"Harold and I built this house together, when we were your age. It was about all I had afterwards."

His eyes wandered toward the door to the living room. "There's a smell--it's not the smoke, but something else." A puddle of melted snow had formed around his boots.

She picked up the rifle and put the padlock key on the table. "Come in here and take those wet things off."

He unlocked himself and put the key next to the plate; then he coiled the chain up, gathered it against his stomach, and led her into the living room, which opened onto a large studio with skylights. He looked at the shelves of clay sculpture and pottery, the wheel, the workbenches, the kiln. "You can smell it way out there in the woods." He bent over and began unlacing his boots. "What if that phone doesn't come back?"

"We can always walk to the store down at the crossroads."

"How far is it?"

"A ways."

"Walk?"

"You ever wear snowshoes?"

"Not in a long time."

"We could ski out, if you'd rather."

"The snowshoes'll be fine."

She stepped into the bedroom to get him some wool socks. When she looked up at the bureau mirror she saw that he was asleep on the couch, cradling the chains on his stomach.


From the Hardcover edition.

Media reviews

“John Smolens is that rare and gifted writer who can capture both our exterior and interior worlds with equal dexterity, grace, and power. Cold is a novel so riveting you will absolutely not be able to put it down, and these characters will stay with you long after turning the last page.”
—Andre Dubus III, author of House of Sand and Fog

“Cold is a finely crafted, wild yarn set in the great north. John Smolens gives us a suspenseful tale in a style somewhere between Jack London and Raymond Chandler. A fine read.”
—Jim Harrison, author of Legends of the Fall

“Cold grabs you on the first page and, like the snow swirling around John Smolens’s fascinating characters, the ice-hard prose pushes under your collar and travels quickly down your spine. Soon you’ll be chilled to the bone, but you may not even notice because you’ll be too busy turning the pages. You must read Cold—
preferably beside a fire, under a blanket.”
—William Martin, author of Back Bay, Cape Cod, and Citizen Washington


From the Hardcover edition.