Chapter 13 | THE MEETING

The joy of him finally arriving doesn't last very long, though.

As I move my duffle bag out in front of me, set the ax down on top of it, and very slowly stand up, I hear the click of a rifle.

Without a thought, I raise my hands.

"Seriously? A gun? What, have you not deemed me worthy of the usual bow and arrow target practice?" I can't help but question.

After all, it has to be him.

The birds, the living out this far away from civilization thing, the silence.

The silence, which is what I'm given in reply.

"If I turn around, will you shoot me?"

Silence.

Man, he really doesn't like to talk, does he?

"I'm going to take that as a yes, so I'm not going to risk it. Honestly, imagine coming all this way from Washington only to get shot by the man who I've tried to so hard to get to."

Good! Now I should have piqued his interest a bit, so he'll have to hear me out!

"My name is Mikaere Eriksen. I'm assuming you're Vaughn Westergaard, my uncle John Agner's friend. I-"

"John Agner is gone."

If there had been cute little birds singing right now, they would have stopped. His voice--it wasn't harsh, worn down, or cold like I was expecting. Instead, it was soft and quiet, but deep. Deeper than Roan's voice, actually. And, he sounds...young?

And, I know it sounds weird to examine the way someone talks, but what else do I have to base my analysis of him on?

But, focusing on his words.

"Yes, I know that," I reply to him.

"Then, why are you here?" I really could get used to hearing that voice; it's a shame he supposedly doesn't like talking. But then again, I have to respect his decision. Talking usually isn't my favorite activity, either.

"It would be easier if I just showed you his letter before I tried to explain verbally."

After all, the only thing I would probably manage is to stumble over my words.

It really does suck when your mind is verbose, but everything else is inarticulate.

"He wrote a letter?"

"A few, actually, years ago. But, the last one he ever wrote to me was in February of 2013."

"Where is it?" He asks.

"My bag."

"Get it."

"Are you sure you won't shoot me?"

"No."

"Well, at least you're honest," I reply dryly as I take off my choppers and stick them between my upper arm and my side. Then, I kneel on the ground in front of my duffle bag to grab the zip lock one which contains the letters.

I quickly find the one I'm looking for, stuffing the rest back inside my green bag and putting my choppers down on top of it.

My hands are already freezing.

Standing up, I swiftly turn around to face him without a second thought.

And when I see him, my mind is cleared of all thought.

Except for one: Wow.

He's not at all bad looking. Tall, taller than Thor, so around 6'5" if I had to guess. He seems to be in his mid-twenties. He's not wearing a hat, so I can see that his dark brown, slightly messy hair isn't exactly short, and I assume it's because he hasn't been to the village in a while. Green eyes, a jawline, facial hair. And, while it's more of a beard than I usually like on guys, he manages to pull it off very well, actually.

And, I may have preferred guys with black hair, but...

His voice might not have sounded cold, but he certainly has a closed-off, intense look in his eyes.

I'm immediately intimidated.

We maintain eye contact for a few more seconds, my trapper hat probably looking more idiotic as the time passes by.

Because he hasn't lowered the rifle and it's still pointed directly in my direction, I can thankfully manage to totally blame my staring and freeze up on that rather than his looks.

"You going to lower the gun or what?" I ask him, raising my right eyebrow and holding out the letter in front of me.

He does so instantly, swinging the strap of the rifle around him and walking directly to me, stopping a few feet away.

I don't move all the while he does so.

He can't believe that he affects you at all, Mikaere. He can't know he intimidates you, period.

When he takes the letter out of my hands, I let my arm swing back down to my side, quickly bringing my hands into my jacket and shirt sleeves.

Sweater paws.

His eyes speedily scan over the words written without emotion, giving me a quick second to look more at his face.

I notice a kind of long, fading scar on his left cheek, making me wonder what it's from. A wild animal, perhaps? If so, which one? A bear? A wolf?

I continue to stare at him as he finishes reading the letter swiftly, his expression changing as he gets through it.

Before he lowers the letter to meet my gaze, his eyebrows furrow, and he looks a bit pissed off.

But once we make eye contact, the look is replaced with confusion.

"He said that I'll let you stay with me," he states, sounding disbelieving.

"Yeah. Will you?"

"He actually promised her that not even long after I met him," he says to himself.

"Yes, gotcha. Focusing on me, can I please stay with you?"

He squints at me slightly, tilting his head. "Now, why would I let you do that?"

"Because apparently, you were his good friend, and I need a place to stay."

"Why?"

I swallow, feeling very intimidated under his hard gaze. However, I decide to just breathe in deeply and answer honestly. After all, he is living out here all alone with a bunch of birds. The worst he could do is turn me in, I guess, which is probably going to happen at some point, anyways.

"Well, you see...I've kind of been framed for murder."

He doesn't even blink. "Why?"

Why?

Well...I certainly wasn't expecting that, that's for sure.

"Because, you see, my adoptive father is a psychotic self-absorbed politician," I reply casually.

"Who?"

"My... adoptive.... father...?" I reply slowly. I will admit: maybe I do sound just a little bit condescending. Oops.

"No. Who was murdered?"

"His wife."

This time he manages to frown a bit. "What evidence does he have against you?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know? So you just fled the scene without seeing what proof he had?"

"Yes."

"Why would you do that?"

"First of all, because I'm a moron. Second, because I've always wanted to come to Alaska. Third, because he was an influential man in the town, and everyone would have believed him."

"So? Just because the citizens would think you're guilty doesn't mean the authorities would. That's not how the law works."

"And who makes up juries? Citizens. And, yes, I know everyone is entitled to a fair trial with an attorney thanks to Clarence Earl Gideon in the 1960s," I reply, adding, "And, yes, the prosecutor has the burden of proof and has to prove the defendant guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. I have due process. I know. I'm aware. Why are you ignoring my first two points?"

A topic I'm interested in!

Silence. He just stares at me almost blankly, but I think I notice a slight surprise regarding my response.

He probably thinks I'm insane.

I shake my head. "Yeah, I heard you don't like to talk. And normally, I would appreciate that, but right now, answers would be very helpful."

All I get is the same blank stare.

"...Regarding my uncle. What happened the last time you saw him?"

He sighs, looking down and pinching the bridge of his nose for a split second.

"Wow, I'm really that exasperating, huh?"

He starts to shake his head before he quickly stops, "Yes."

I decide to not mention the mixed message, even though I'm a little pleased because apparently he thinks I'm not exasperating.

Well, yet, at least. Give him some time.

"Okay, well, you're going to have to give me an answer soon, because I'm not about to just sit here in the snow while you weigh the pros and cons."

"Are there really any pros?"

"Yeah," I say without thinking.

"Such as?"

I don't know.

So, I blurt the first thing that comes to mind: "I can help you find out what happened to my uncle."

"What makes you think I don't already know?"

"Because I asked you, and all I got was silence."

"And? I could just not want to tell you."

I sigh, "My uncle claimed you were a good man. I trust him. So, I have a feeling if his teenage niece showed up wanting to know what happened, you would tell her."

He doesn't say anything as he looks curiously at me.

He stays looking inquisitive for a while before he finally sighs. "How old are you? Do you even know how long could I get thrown in jail for harboring a fugitive?"

"I'm 18. And what do you care about jail time? You're living probably illegally out here in the woods shooting arrows at random hikers."

Besides, he'd get prison time, most likely. Not jail time.

"They're not random. The only reason they come out here is to get my attention."

"You do realize hunting exists, right?"

"Yes, and when hunters do come out here, I don't care. However, they rarely do."

"Because of the birds?"

Silence.

"Okay...so?"

"How much of a trace did you leave behind?"

"What?"

"How easy will it be for the authorities to find you?"

When doing my research and planning years ago, I was always careful to wipe my data. I tried to learn how to delete my digital footprint completely, and I do believe I succeeded in doing so. As for my room, there's really nothing left to find there that would indicate where I was going. I didn't tell anyone where I was headed, because I had no one to tell. My foster parents never knew my uncle, and I never said a word about him or Alaska. I always kept the letters locked away, too. Therefore, they most likely have no idea where I am.

How could they trace me through two random vehicles, too?

I trust that Grace won't say anything. However, Roan would. A bounty hunter? Totally. So, he's the most significant threat at the moment.

Other than that, I think I'm perfectly fine.

"Not easy."

"Are you certain?"

"There might be a bounty hunter that hears of me eventually, but I don't think the cops will find me. Unless, of course, the FBI gets involved, maybe."

"Is your foster father a prominent politician?"

"Adoptive father. And, he's running for mayor."

Vaughn considers what I've told him for a moment, then: "You could be leading them to me."

I don't waste any time with my reply, "And you could be a serial killer who lives out in the woods waiting for his victims to come to him. I could be your next victim. My uncle could have been one of the many. However, because I trust him, I'm willing to trust you."

"You shouldn't. You'll die."

"Wait, what?" Is he really a...?

"Not by my hand, but you'll die."

My eyebrows furrow and I start to get uncomfortable. Nina's words about not trusting him come to mind instantly. Maybe I shouldn't trust him. "That's...comforting."

"You're weak," he says and ignores me as I feign being hurt. "If the cold doesn't kill you, the wolves will."

He says it in a completely serious way, leaving me feeling a bit confused and, admittedly, pretty scared. However, I have to find out what happened to my uncle. So, I decide to brush it off and be stubborn and determined, no matter what he says or does.

"Well, fire and guns exist, do they not?"

"I'm not giving you a gun, and you better hope that you can start your own fire."

And without another word, he starts walking forward and to my left, heading deeper into the woods.

You mean he's actually letting me stay with him?

That was so much easier than I thought it'd be!

Granted, that's all he's doing, as he's made quite clear. He's merely letting me stay with him and helping me find out what happened to John. He's not obligated to help me survive in any other way. And, that's fine. I've read a lot of survival books over the years and took notes. Which are in my bag. So, I think I should be just fine. Besides, he doesn't know me. There's no real way to determine if I'm incredibly weak only by looking at me. He has literally no idea what he's talking about.

So, I scoop up my choppers, putting them on. Then, I grab my duffle bag and ax, following after Vaughn.

His strides are long, and since he's not wearing bulky clothing, he moves much faster than me through the snow.

So, as I'm struggling to trudge along and keep up with him, I call out, "Hey! Can you slow down or something, please?"

He doesn't reply as he just keeps walking steadily through the snow, not looking back or slowing down in the least.

And then a random thought occurs to me: Wait, did he jump down from a tree when he first showed up?

I voice my question, but to no one's surprise, I don't receive an answer.

Oh come on, even I answer questions when someone asks me.

Would it kill him to give a simple 'yes' or 'no'?

I decide to stay quiet and not waste my breath, knowing that he won't answer any questions.

I won't push for him to answer any irrelevant ones that don't have anything to do with John, anyway.

As we walk, my snow pants continue to make an excruciatingly annoying sound as my legs rub against each other. And, Vaughn is still a few yards ahead of me.

So, I stop. Set down my bag and ax. Take off my choppers. And start to take off my snow pants.

"What are you doing?"

I glance up to see that Vaughn has stopped and turned around, staring at me incredulously.

"I'm clearly stripping naked in the Alaskan cold just for kicks; what does it look like I'm doing?" I say sarcastically.

"Don't take off your snow pants."

"Why?"

Silence.

Then, "Do what you want, but the jeans you're wearing underneath will get wet. Then, you'll be cold. Then, you'll weakly die of hypothermia and the cold like I knew you would."

I mean...he might have a point though.

Most hypothermia cases start in 40 to 50-degree weather--temperatures that people don't usually consider to be extreme.

But still, I'm not even shivering. So, I decide to act indifferent.

I glance down at his dark blue jeans that look somewhat like the ones I'm wearing.

He follows my gaze, clenching his jaw slightly when he gets what I'm implying. His excuse is, "I'm not weak."

I laugh lightly, "You know what I think?"

"Nothing."

"Wow, rude. I think that you just don't want me any closer to you. You find me annoying and want me to keep my distance. And, the snow pants help to accomplish that by slowing me down."

He turns around in silence, looking slightly peeved.

I knew it.

I struggle to take off the snow pants and get my boots through.

But, I manage. And by the time I'm done, Vaughn is even farther away from me.

Holding the snow pants in my left hand, I jog through the snow until there are just a few yards between us.

He wants me to keep my distance, I want to keep my distance. It's a win-win. I just want to be able to run if I have to.

I follow after him silently, starting to get bored, as the scenery is never changing, and he's as talkative as a rock. Soon, though, I begin to have a little fun by trying to step directly into his footprints.

While I have long legs because of my height, his stride is longer.

So, I have to really try to step entirely into his footprint.

I focus solely on that, looking only at the ground in front of me as I move forward.

I do that until there are no more footprints to follow, as they stop abruptly out of nowhere.