The cabin, p.12
The Cabin, page 12
7.3.5
DEVON
“How did it go?” Rico’s voice was a rasp. He sounded worse than ever.
Devon walked to the fireplace and warmed his back. “Apparently Fiona put a hold on the account last night when she saw the withdrawal.”
Rico’s rheumy eyes narrowed to slits. “You fooling me?”
“No.” Devon heard the weariness in his voice. “I’m as frustrated as you are about this.”
“What are you going to do?”
“The bank said they’d call as soon as they hear from Fiona.” Devon held out his hand. “If you give me my phone back, I can try to reach her as well.”
Rico closed his eyes, and his chin fell to his chest. He stayed that way for so long, Devon thought he may have fallen asleep. Just when he was about to walk away, head to the kitchen to start lunch, Rico’s eyes opened. “I’ll wait.”
A realization dropped onto Devon in that moment. He was a prisoner of this man. He’d been pushing that truth away, telling himself he, Devon, had chosen to pay Rico off. Telling himself that this was a tight situation—no one could deny that—but he had options, autonomy. That was a lie. He was a prisoner.
The room felt stifling, the air stale.
Devon had never given much thought to what it would be like to be locked up. He didn’t send people to prison in his field of law. He conducted interviews there from time to time. Occasionally, an abusive spouse would end up in jail after he counseled a client to press charges. But Devon didn’t defend or prosecute criminal cases.
Prison. A sudden certainty made his skin prickle. “I’m going make Caleb some macaroni and cheese. Want something?” he said abruptly.
Rico coughed into his blankets. “I don’t care what I eat. I can’t taste anything anyway.”
Devon entered the kitchen and began assembling the lunch things. Rico had been in jail recently. The pale skin, the lean, ropey muscles, the speed at which he’d pulled a knife on Devon. Even his shoes. Devon was almost certain they were prison-issued sneakers. How had he not noticed this right away?
This changed things. What did a newly released con value more than anything? Freedom. It had to be. Myron had probably preyed on that desire, offering Rico enough money to get away, start over.
The feeling of claustrophobia that had come over Devon when he stood by the fire was intense. He couldn’t imagine being locked up in a cell for months, let alone years. Trapped animals chewed their legs off.
When the water on the stove came to a boil, he poured the noodles in and set the timer without thinking. A long ray of sun shone through the kitchen window and crept toward him. There was warmth in its touch.
He walked to the window and looked out at the blinding fields of snow, the road, and the woods beyond. Freedom. It was a beautiful word. He whispered it and savored the feel of it in his mouth. Freedom.
He’d heard the phrase from desperate criminal many times. It was bandied about in TV shows and movies, by news reporters and even law enforcement, but he’d never really thought about what it meant. He did now.
Could he use it? That was the question. Was Rico’s desire for freedom a weakness? Or a threat?
The timer startled Devon. He moved quickly to the stove, picked up the pot, and poured the hot liquid through a colander. If Rico was desperate to remain free, he’d be dangerous if he felt a net closing on him. Devon needed to help Rico get away. Give him money, a car, whatever he needed. If he couldn’t help him, he was afraid he’d have to kill him.
That idea thudded like a brick in his chest. Its reverberations echoed within him. I might have to kill Rico. Kill.
Devon had been taught since he was a child that violence was never the way to resolve an issue. He’d been taught that thoughtful persuasion, understanding, cooperation, and compromise were the way forward. He’d pretended he was fine with Fiona’s gun, but he wasn’t. Not really. The only reason he agreed to have it in their home was because he didn’t think she’d ever have to use it.
Now he wished he had it with him, because sometimes violence was the way forward. It was the only language some people spoke. Devon woke up today in a foreign land. He needed to become fluent in its language.
He scooped food into two bowls. Placed one on the table and carried the other to the living room. “Caleb, lunch is ready,” he called as he set a bowl in front of Rico.
The stranger’s eyes were closed but shot open as soon as Devon spoke. “Thanks,” he said.
Thanks. Politeness, human niceties, they seemed as out of place in this new world as guns were in his old life. The life before. The life that would never be the same again.
Caleb walked into the room, paused, then ran past the couch toward the kitchen. Whatever Devon did, he would have to do it soon. He didn’t want this experience to change his son the same way he was being changed. He didn’t want Caleb to know captivity and violence and desperation.
He turned to follow Caleb into the kitchen, and the doorbell rang. He froze. Rico froze, fork halfway to his mouth. They looked at each other and something unspoken passed between them. Devon shivered. He was becoming more like his captor every passing hour. Yes, he had to do something soon.
Rico rose from the couch, yanked his blankets around himself, and headed into the kitchen. Devon watched him pull a chair next to Caleb’s and place an arm on its back. “Get it,” Rico said.
Devon walked to the door, heart hammering. It was probably Bob. He’d get rid of him.
As he put his hand on the doorknob, he glanced into the kitchen. Rico leaned toward Caleb and whispered something to him. Caleb shrank away. Devon pasted on a smile and threw the door open.
The smile dropped with a thud. It wasn’t Bob. It was a sheriff’s deputy.
“Afternoon.” The deputy was a large man with a wide-open face, friendly in a practiced way. He reminded Devon of a Newfoundland or a St. Bernard. “I’m Deputy Connolly from the Big Bear Station. How’re you doing today?”
“Fine.” Devon’s voice sounded strained. He cleared his throat and spoke again. “What can I do for you? Am I parked in a no-parking zone or something?” He laughed lightly to show he wasn’t concerned about the officer’s visit, that he had nothing to hide.
The sheriff lifted the corners of his mouth and dropped them again—a polite acknowledgement of Devon’s attempt at humor. “Nope. Car’s fine. I’m actually here to check up on you.”
Devon didn’t have to pretend surprise. “Me? Why’s that? If it’s that snafu at the bank—”
The sheriff shook his head. “No, no. Nothing to do with a bank. We got a call from the Orange County Sheriff’s department asking us to give you a visit in connection with the prison break.”
Devon had read something about a manhunt but couldn’t think what it had to do with him. He must have remained silent too long. A frown furrowed the sheriff’s brow. “You have heard about the breakout?”
“Yes, yes.” Devon said. “But I don’t see how I can be of any help.”
Connolly turned his massive head and gazed into the stand of trees behind the house as if his next statement might be found there. “Your wife didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?” Confusion wound around Devon’s head like cotton batting. This conversation made no sense.
“I’m sorry to inform you, but one of the prisoners was your wife’s brother.”
Devon stared. “That’s impossible. Her half-brother,” he accentuated the word, “is in San Quentin. The escape was from San Bernardino County Jail.”
“A number of state prisoners were moved to county jails over the past three months due to virus outbreaks. Your wife’s brother was one of them.”
“Does she know this?”
“Yes, she was informed the morning after the breakout.”
“She could be in danger.” Devon’s voice rose in outrage. He glanced behind himself toward the kitchen and lowered it not wanting Caleb to hear. “You moved a murderer who was serving life from a maximum-security prison to a county jail, and he escaped?”
The officer cocked his head to one side. “Well, actually, I didn’t move the prisoner. You can thank the California Supreme Court for that. I’m only here to make sure you haven’t heard from him.”
Devon stared at his stocking feet. Rico. Could he have been all wrong about Rico? He’d never actually said Myron had sent him; Devon had assumed it.
Panic, cold and raw, blew through him. Had he mistaken a rattler for a garden snake? “I haven’t,” he said.
The idea that the man holding his son in the kitchen could be a murderer who’d been sentenced to life—a murderer with a vendetta against the child’s mother—made him unsteady on his feet. He swayed and put a hand on the doorframe.
“You okay?” Connelly asked.
“Fine. Still adjusting to the altitude.” Devon glanced nervously over his shoulder but couldn’t see Caleb from where he stood. Desperate. The word rang in his mind. He had to get rid of the deputy.
When he returned his gaze to the doorway, he saw Connelly trying to look around him into the house.
Nerves short-circuited, popping up and down Devon’s spine like faulty lightbulbs. What if Connelly asked to come in? If Devon said no, he’d be suspicious. If Devon said yes... He didn’t want to think about the repercussions. “But I will check every door and window after you leave.”
Sheriff Connelly didn’t respond immediately. After a long pause, he said, “I’ll take a look around the perimeter.”
Devon relaxed his shoulders just an inch. “I’d appreciate that, but is someone keeping an eye on my wife? She’s the one he’ll go after if he goes after anyone.”
“Yes, they have security checks going by your house every few hours. However, we have reason to believe that both cons headed up here after they got out.”
“Both of them?” The cotton batting made it hard to think straight. Could the man in the kitchen be the other con? The one who escaped with Fiona’s brother? That thought was only marginally less terrifying.
“Yes,” Connelly said.
“How do you know they’re on the mountain?”
“I’m afraid I can’t talk about an open investigation.”
Thoughts raced through Devon’s mind like a car chase in LA, knocking out innocent spectators as they went. If only he’d gone to the trial with Fiona, he’d know who the man in the kitchen was, or at least who he wasn’t. Devon had wanted to go, but she’d said no. She’d been ashamed.
He’d told her how wrong that was, that she had nothing to be ashamed of, but it had done no good. For all her modern feminism claims, she still carried the notion of family guilt. Her mother was a first-generation American, raised by Eastern European parents who’d had more of the old country in them than the new.
Consequently, Devon had never seen the man other than in grainy newspaper photos and a few terrible shots on the Internet. Could he and the man in the kitchen be one and the same? Was he here to hurt Devon and Caleb in order to punish Fiona? Suddenly, a thug sent by Myron to rough him up seemed a small problem.
“Well, keep us informed,” Devon said, signaling the end of the conversation.
“Will do.” Connolly turned and made his way off the porch and into the snow. He looked at home in the landscape, and the impression of a St. Bernard grew stronger. Devon’s heart dropped into his churning gut as he watched him walk away. It seemed foolish to let him leave. He wanted to call out to him, to point to the kitchen and yell, “In there!”
But he couldn’t. Caleb was there, sitting with a rattlesnake. Devon couldn’t give it any reason to strike.
MOLLY: So, now Devon knows his assumptions about Rico were all wrong. I can’t imagine the strain of trying to protect your child from a thug, never mind a murderous uncle with an axe to grind.
Let’s hear from the thug—or the murderous uncle, whoever he is—before we get into the question of the week.
7.3.6
DIARY
Chuck came to me in my dreams last night. He was standing strong and tall—well, as tall as Chuck could stand—under the stars, out by that tree where I left him. He was talking, per usual, about going south, “getting his,” how life had short-changed him. That was the difference between us.
I believe we are all dealt a hand when we come into this world, and we have to make the best of it. Some get excellent cards, some poor, but good poker players can win even with crap hands. I wanted to be a good poker player. Chuck wanted everybody else’s cards.
He asked me why in my dream last night. Why’d you kill me? The answer I gave him surprised me, but in the light of day, I guess it was the truth. I didn’t say, ’Cause you were going to die anyway. Which was what I’d been telling myself.
I told him, Because you’re a loser, and I can’t partner with a loser. Losers drag people down. Turn others into losers. I had to win this hand.
The door slammed shut. I shoved myself away from the kitchen table, limped to the couch, and sank into its lumpy softness. Devon stood by the fire staring at his hands. Something had changed in him, and it wasn’t positive. I’d seen this kind of thing before. Guys in prison, docile guys, guys who didn’t want trouble, but when they got backed into a corner, they went feral.
We all have a wild man inside. In most it’s dormant, but if it wakes up... Well, that’s a problem. That wild streak ran me around for most of my life, but I leashed it a good part of the time now.
The kid padded into the living room and sat on the hearth. He looked small. The sight of him made me hope Devon could leash his demon. I’d hate to have to leave the boy without a father, although I was beginning to think that was inevitable.
“You did good, getting rid of the sheriff,” I said. Praise was a weapon I didn’t use often. It was dangerous game. There was a guard at San Quentin who used to make guys cooperative, make them think he was their friend. It didn’t work for long.
Eventually, the guys started expecting things from him, things he was never going to give. He must have realized his error, because he changed his MO. Started acting like the rest of the guards. You know those guys felt betrayed. One sunny morning, they killed him in the yard.
I was running out of things I could give Devon. Letting him go was no longer a possibility. Not now that the sheriff’s department knew where I was.
You see, I knew something about lawmen Devon didn’t. I could tell by Devon’s hard expression, the set of his jaw, that he believed he’d pulled the wool over that deputy’s eyes. He hadn’t. Police, like cons, are trained to read a person, not just listen to them. Devon’s face read like a headline.
“Has the bank called or texted?” Devon said, ignoring my comment.
“Yes, they have. You can withdraw the money now.” He made a move toward the door. I raised a hand to stop him. “I think we should wait until tomorrow.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“It wouldn’t look good, going into town right after the sheriff stopped by.”
“I don’t see what difference it makes. I was there yesterday. I told them I’d be back again today.” His tone was belligerent. He was getting harder to manage.
“What if he’s watching you?”
Devon rotated his palms to the ceiling as if demanding an answer from heaven. “What if he is?” In my experience, mail from the heavenlies was always slow.
I yawned. Lunch had hit my stomach hard. “Don’t you think he’d find it strange if you left your three-year-old home alone.”
He worked his jaw as he chewed over a response. Finally, he said, “I could take him with me.”
I shook my head and smiled. It wasn’t worth wasting my breath on. He had to know that wasn’t going to happen. We stared at each other for a long time, then Devon dropped his gaze. “Let’s take a nap, Caleb.”
Caleb, happy to get away from me, scooted into the hallway and out of sight. Devon followed.
I lay down and closed my eyes, but I didn’t sleep. Different scenarios played across the screen of my mind. In the first, we waited until morning and all three of us went to town together, hit the bank, then headed down the hill. We’d take Highway 38 this time.
Problem—if we hit a roadblock, which we most certainly would, what would Devon say to the cops that stopped us? Could he point to Caleb in the backseat and say it was just him and his son in the car? Could he ignore me hiding on the floor with a blanket over me? I didn’t think so. His wild man was tugging at the leash.
Scenario number two: We all go to the bank. Devon gets the cash. We head back here, and I get rid of him and the boy and take off by myself. Two problems with that. How do I kill Devon? He’s not a small man, and knowing death is imminent can turn even the most passive guy into a bull. And how do I get through the roadblock? I’m sure my picture is all over the place.
The last scenario is the only one that works. I rest for a bit, kill Devon while he’s napping, grab the kid, and go. They’ll have to let me through the roadblocks if I have Caleb. He’s my insurance. I can get the money later, in the form of a ransom.
Having made my decision, I let my mind drift to that star that winked at me the night I put Chuck out of his misery. Stars are there during the day. You can’t see them because of the sun, but I see that star now. It’s in my head, and it’s winking at me again.
MOLLY: Rico said his original plan had changed. Now with the arrival of the police, it’s changed again. Fiona meant well. She sensed there was something wrong at the cabin and acted on her instinct. That action may cost Devon his life, but I’m pretty sure his life was in jeopardy either way.
Rico makes decisions based on what you and I would call superstition. He stole the Subaru because green is a lucky color. He counts things and—as he says in this last diary entry—he checks with the stars before he takes critical action. Rico believed the North Star approved his decision to kill Chuck and is now giving him a thumbs up on dispatching Devon. How do you second guess that kind of behavior?
