Page 146 of The Frozen River

“You,” he hisses. “You have them.”

“No. Not anymore. They are currently in the possession of your employers. And I would imagine the Kennebec Proprietors will find this little scheme of yours quite illegal. See it, want it, take it only works when there is no one around you to stop you, Joseph.”

He is not a man given to silence. Swollen by self-importance, impressed by the sound of his own voice, Joseph North always fills a void with vain and stupid words. But, for the first time in our long acquaintance, he closes his mouth.

Ten seconds.

Twenty.

For thirty long seconds he shakes with rage.

“There is no one to stop me now, is there, Martha?”

I should have known where this was headed. He’d made it clear up front with his nonchalant confession. But it isn’t until he tilts his head and the look in his eye changes from pious to prurient that I understand the point he has come to make. Joseph North intends to take a pound of flesh.

“You have caused me a great deal of trouble. And there is a price to pay for that.”

“You wouldn’t dare touch me,” I say, shifting as best I can toward the worktable. I need something, anything, to support my weight.

“I admit that I have not fantasized about you the way I did with Rebecca. At least not in many years. You were quite lovely when you were young, though. Billy Crane thought so at least, didn’t he?” He licks the corner of his mouth as he makes a roving assessment of my body. “Your breasts were smaller then, but your legs just as long.”

Billy Crane.

I haven’t heard that name spoken aloud in at least a decade. Maybe more. And the fact that North says it now, with his own threat hanging in the air, makes my heart trip harder.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised. You think I don’t remember? We hung him from a pine tree. No trial. And I learned a good lesson in the process. Don’t get caught.”

He takes a step toward me.

“Touch me and you will regret it for the rest of your life.” I edge back, looking for something with which to protect myself. “You will not find me such an easy victim. And you do not have help tonight.”

“I can admit that Burgess was a mistake. He enjoyed it too much. Wanted another go at her when he was done. But I didn’t need him then, and I don’t need him now.”

I take another step toward the worktable. Force the fear out of my voice. “So why take him? It was such a stupid risk.”

“It was brilliant. People might have believed her if she said one man raped her that night. But two? It’s ludicrous. A story cooked up by a vengeful woman who’s just seen her husband fired. I took Burgess with me so that no one would believe her. You saw how well that worked for me in court. Charges of attempted rape. And then an acquittal.”

“An acquittal only because she wasn’t there to testify.”

“And whose fault was that?”

“You are the only one at fault here. Don’t you dare try to blame anything on her.”

I have to keep him talking. That’s the thing. He’s just so damn impressed with himself. Always has been. And the more he talks, the lighter it grows outside. Men aren’t so brave in the daylight as they are in the dark. My children might be asleep, but not for long. This is a farm, after all. And besides, the thing that I want is here, three feet away. But if I lunge for it, he will block me.

“Come now, Martha, we have business to attend.” North untucks his shirt. Pulls at the laces of his trousers.

“Don’t you dare.” I edge another step closer toward the table.

“Go on, try to run. But I don’t think you’ll get far. Not with that ankle.”

Cicero swishes his tail across the floor, kicking up a fine cloud of sawdust. He bares his teeth and the dark gums above them.

When North tugs his trousers down, and then the drawers beneath, I do not deign to look at the thing he strokes in his hand. Instead, I watch his eyes, wait for him to charge, knowing that I will have only one chance. If he reaches me, or knocks me down, the fight will move to the floor, and any leverage I have will be lost, along with any hope of defending myself.

“It must vex you to know that you can’t scheme your way out of this,” he says.

I am sweating. At my temples. Under my arms. My upper lip. I haven’t sweated in six months. Maybe seven. Not since the last time I worked in my garden. Winter has stripped this experience away entirely. But here it is again. Assaulting me. Unwelcome. The air feels thick and heavy inside the mill. I can smell North’s breath. His sweat. His crotch. I can smell the anger seeping from his body.