The cabin, p.17
The Cabin, page 17
7.5.3
FIONA
Rico slammed into the house, bouncing the front door against the wall. Fingers of cold snaked across the floor and wrapped around Fiona’s legs. He strode into the room and looked from Fiona to Devon and grunted.
They were where he’d left them. Fiona had made sure of that. She wanted him to believe they were beaten, ready to compromise. “It’s cold,” she said making her voice as high and childlike as she could.
He glared at her for a long second, then walked to the door and shut it. “Where’re your boots?” he said.
Fiona and Devon shared a confused glance. “Mine?” she asked. “Or Dev’s?”
“Dev? Is that what you call him? That’s very sweet, a little nickname.” Sarcasm dripped from his words.
There was nothing to say to that, so Fiona didn’t speak.
“Where are your boots, Fi-o-na?” He said her name in that way she hated. He was still angry. She could feel it coming off him in waves, but now it seemed to be directed at her rather than at Devon. “They’re in the bedroom,” she said.
She hated using the word ‘bedroom’ in his presence, but that’s where she had to lead him.
Rico walked to her chair and pulled his knife from his pocket. Adrenaline shot into Fiona’s bloodstream. She pushed away from him, trying to bury herself in the cushions.
He bent, sliced through the ties at her ankles and wrists, then stepped away. The relief was so great, she became light-headed. “I have to go to the bathroom.” She didn’t, but she wanted a moment to think, to plan her strategy.
He jerked his chin in the direction of the hallway. She stood on wobbly legs, feeling the blood rush to her feet.
She hurried to the bathroom and closed the door behind herself. She scanned the small room for a weapon. Nothing.
She flushed, turned on the tap and began opening and closing cupboards and doors. No razors. That would have been too good to be true. No alcohol or peroxide or anything she could toss in his face. No leftover prescription sleeping pills she could add to his coffee.
All she found was a bottle of hand soap, a couple of yellow bandages, and a flat tube of antibiotic salve. His years in prison must have given him an eye for anything that could be used to harm another person.
“You coming?” he bellowed through the door.
She rinsed her hands quickly and reemerged. He stood in the hallway gazing down at her. Something had shifted in him—she wasn’t sure what it was. “I’ll get my boots.” She gave him a tentative smile. He didn’t return it.
She turned toward the master bedroom, and he followed. As they passed Caleb’s door, Fiona offered up a silent prayer. Please. She didn’t think she needed to elaborate.
They entered the bedroom together. Rico leaned against the door frame, and she retrieved her snow boots from the floor and sat on the bed. Her gaze skated around the room and landed on the backpack. Bear spray. Devon had packed bear spray, but how could she get to it?
She glanced around her again, and her gaze fell on the bedside lamp. It was a rustic thing—a bear carved from a piece of wood and varnished a deep brown. It should be heavy enough to do damage if she could bring it down hard enough. The bear spray would be a more efficient weapon, but the lamp was out in the open.
She pushed a foot into her boot and made a show of fumbling with the laces. “I need help. My hands are still numb from being tied,” she finally said. Rico grunted and crossed to her. He knelt and began lacing up the boot.
Fiona’s heart crept into her throat. She swallowed hard. “Maybe we should wait until morning to leave.” Rico didn’t respond. Instead, he grabbed the other boot and held it for her.
“We could rest for a bit.” She placed a hand on the plaid bedspread and smoothed it.
Rico tied the laces of the second boot. Why was he disinterested in her all of a sudden? Had she read him wrong? She was sure he’d been coming on to her in the kitchen earlier.
She reached down and grabbed his hand. “I want to help you,” she lied.
Rico snatched his hand away and rose. His jaw worked for several seconds, as if he was chewing his words before spitting them at her. “It doesn’t matter what you want. Doesn’t matter what I want.”
Confusion furrowed her brow. What did he mean? “What you want doesn’t matter?”
“Not now. Not yet.” She saw a flash of something hot in his eyes, but he hooded them before she could be sure if it was the lust she’d seen earlier. “Let’s go,” he said.
She tried one more time. “Sit with me for a minute.” She’d intended the words to sound sultry, but her voice wavered too much for sultry. The effect was more pathetic than sexy.
He stood as still as the bear on the lamp base for a long moment, then his hand snaked out. He grabbed Fiona by her hair, yanked her to her feet, and shoved her into the hallway.
She lurched ahead of him into the living room. Devon watched her enter with wide, fearful eyes. She gave him a quick shake of her head. No, the plan didn’t work. His jaw tightened in understanding.
“The kitchen,” Rico said.
Fiona walked toward the doorway. “You want me to fix something for you?” she said in a small voice, but she didn’t think that’s what he wanted. He seemed to be on a mission.
He shoved her across the linoleum toward the mudroom. Crackers was in there. Had he forgotten about the dog? He must have, because he reached around her and threw open the door.
Crackers launched himself at Rico. The man yelled and jumped behind Fiona, but the dog ducked between her legs and latched onto his shin.
Rico cursed loudly and kicked the dog off. Crackers hit the doorframe but was up and at him again. The dog snapped and snarled and feinted every time Rico tried to grab him. Fiona saw something glint in the man’s hand. The knife.
Rico lunged for the dog, knife held low. Fiona lifted a booted foot and kicked it across the room. It spun in circles and came to a stop under the table. Rico watched its path, then turned his rage on her. He lifted an arm and backhanded her across the face. Fiona hit the wall.
With a guttural growl, Crackers flew at the arm that had struck her and sank his teeth into it. Rico made a fist with his free hand and punched the dog’s head. Fiona heard the crunch of bone on flesh, but she couldn’t help Crackers, not now. This was the opportunity she and Devon had promised they’d look for.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and began to crawl toward the living room. Caleb needed her, and she needed Devon. She would get his ties off, even if she had to chew through them. Together they could overcome Rico.
She heard a scream of pain and a slam, and a moment later rough hands lifted her to her feet. Rico’s face was altered almost beyond recognition. Rage made him appear more monster than man.
She shrank away, but he yanked her arm and strode toward the door in wide strides. She stumbled after him. As they plowed through the kitchen, she caught a glimpse of a still, black bundle of fur lying near the stove. A sob rose in her throat.
Rico pulled her through the mudroom. She didn’t resist. What was the point? Grief dropped like a weighted blanket onto her shoulders, and tears sprang into her eyes. She should never have brought the dog to Big Bear. He was her responsibility, and she’d failed him, just as she’d failed Devon and Caleb. This was all because of her, because of her family, her half-brother.
When they stepped outside, the cold slapped her face. The sting was a reproof. She had no time for self-pity, or self-hatred. She could become an alcoholic or a prescription drug abuser later, if she lived that long. Now, today, her husband and her child needed her. Her job was inflict as much damage on this man as was humanly possible. To do her best to save them.
The moonlight reflected on the blanket of snow between the house and the woods. It was brilliant and frigid. As they trudged across it, she was thankful for her boots but wished Rico had also given her time to get her jacket. The air that had revived her now worked its way through her flesh and into her bones. She began to shiver. Where was he taking her?
When they reached the tree line, Rico paused and tipped his head toward the sky. Fiona followed his gaze. Pinpoints of light dotted the charcoal night. The stars told a story. Ursa Major, the big bear, was high in the sky. Below him, Orion, the hunter, wielded his sword. Their placement gave the impression that the bear was sneaking up on the unwary hunter.
An image of the bear-shaped bedside table lamp popped into her head. She would have laughed if she hadn’t been so cold and so grieved. Her bear hadn’t helped her at all. There’d been no surprise attack. The hunter had taken her captive. A second later, they plunged into the woods, and the stars were snuffed out by tree branches.
It was more difficult now to keep up with Rico. She fell against him and righted herself more times than she could count as they struggled across roots and rocks. At one point, they passed a mound of dirt that looked like a freshly dug grave. She stared at it as long as she could, trying to decide if her imagination had created the grisly idea or if it was what it appeared to be. Rico yanked her hard, and she turned her gaze to the dark ground again.
Eons later, he pulled her to a stop. As she caught her breath, she took in her surroundings. They were in a small clearing. Moonlight peeked between the trees, spotlighting its center, but the edges lay in shadow. A strange shape, half in and half out of a gloomy corner caught her eye. It was a mountain of branches. It looked as if a deluded beaver had built the Taj Mahal of dams where there was no water. She was afraid of it, but she didn’t know why.
Rico walked slowly toward the mound, dragging her after him. He yelled into the dark, “I brought her.”
A bolt of fear shot down her spine. Who was he talking to? Who wanted her? And for what? No one answered him, so her questions went unanswered as well.
As they drew closer, the shape of the dam-thing became clearer. It looked like a car covered by tree limbs. Was someone inside it? Fiona was shaking hard, whether from cold or fear or both, it was impossible to tell.
“Did you hear me?” Rico said.
She gazed at him but could see he wasn’t addressing her. A bar of metal shone silver in the dim light. He reached out a hand, grabbed it and pulled.
7.5.4
DEVON
Devon thrust his wrists into the fire, but had to draw them out a second later. Black blotches appeared before his eyes, obscuring his vision. Nausea rose into his throat. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead.
Sometime later, he opened his eyes and stared at the pocked white ceiling of the cabin. He’d passed out. He was dehydrated and weak. His limbs and face were blazing with fever, and the pain must have become too much.
He pulled at the tie, thinking it might be malleable enough to stretch from the few seconds he’d had it in the heat, but it was no use. In the time he’d lain on the floor unconscious, the plastic had hardened again.
He struggled against it and felt the hard ridges shave his blistered skin. The black spots and nausea returned, and he had to stop. Devon squeezed his eyes shut. The tears that had gathered in them slid onto his cheeks. He’d never felt so helpless in his life.
His wife, his beautiful, courageous wife, had been dragged into the night by a murderer, and he couldn’t help her. He was never there when she’d needed him. Wasn’t that the story of their lives?
He hadn’t been there when she’d gone into labor with Caleb. He’d been in court and had only made it into the delivery room when she’d begun to push. He hadn’t been there when she’d gotten the news that a corpse had been found in the upstairs bedroom of her father’s house. He hadn’t been with her in the courtroom during her half-brother’s trial. She’d said she didn’t want him there, but he should have gone anyway.
He’d told himself, and anyone who’d asked, that she didn’t want him there, which was true. It was also true that he hadn’t wanted to go. He’d been too busy sorting out someone else’s family drama.
Facts dropped into Devon’s heart like leaves from a fall tree. Each memory, each admission alone wouldn’t convict him, but the pile was great. The truth was he liked the idea of being a husband and a father. He liked showing up to social occasions with Fiona on his arm, showing off his adorable son. He liked the way his wife and son made him feel, the way Fiona took care of him. He’d thought all those things were love.
They weren’t.
Love would have been being there the moment she’d gone into labor, would have been rushing home when the body was found, would have been sitting in the court room next to her and holding her hand.
This trip was a perfect example of his selfishness. He’d thought he was being such a splendid example of a father, taking his son away for a weekend. He hadn’t wanted Fiona along, not because he’d wanted to give her a break. No, the truth was he’d wanted to prove what a great dad he was. It was a joke.
A roar, half anger, half grief erupted from his mouth. He strained at his ties again, embracing the punishing pain.
A small shadow appeared in the hallway. “Daddy?”
Devon choked back his anger. He tried to make his voice calm and steady. “Hey, Caleb.”
Caleb came closer but stopped on the other side of the puddle of vomit. “Are you sad, Daddy?”
Devon almost said no, but he stopped himself. He was too tired to keep up the charade, too tired to lie. “Yeah. Yeah, I am, buddy.”
His little boy skirted around the mess, sat on the other side of him, and rested his head against Devon’s chest. “Why?”
“I’m sad, and I’m mad because I’m all tied up.”
“Did Rico do that?”
“Yup,” Devon said.
“I don’t like him.”
“Me either.”
They sat that way for a long minute, then Devon had an idea. “Caleb?”
Caleb sat up and looked at his father.
“Can you go into the kitchen and get the box of matches on top of the stove for me?”
His son’s brow furrowed. “I not allowed.”
“It’s okay, just this once because Daddy’s asking you to.”
Caleb thought this over for a moment, then popped up and slid across the floor in his socks. Devon heard the scrape of a chair across linoleum, a grunt, and his son appeared again carrying the box of wooden matches.
“Good job,” he said. “Now take one out of the box.”
Caleb slid the box open and carefully pulled out a match. He held it out to his father.
“I can’t take it from you, son. You’re going to have to light it for me.” Caleb would have to light it and hold it against the plastic tie at his wrists, not easy tasks even for an almost four-year-old.
The child’s eyes grew wide. “How?”
“You see that white tip on the end?”
Caleb nodded.
“You just rub it across the bricks here, and it will light up.”
It didn’t. The first four matches broke against the fireplace as Caleb attempted to do what his father said. Now there were only three left in the box. The seedling of hope that had sprung up inside Devon began to wilt. “Better hold off there, buddy.” He leaned against the bricks and thought.
As they sat in silence, Caleb picked up one of the match heads that had broken off and threw it into the fire. It flared for a moment, then was engulfed in the larger blaze. He gazed at it with surprised eyes, picked up another piece, and threw that into the fire with the same results.
“Caleb.” Devon heard the excitement in his own voice. “I have another idea. You’ll have to be brave, but I think you can do it.”
“Brave?”
“Yes. Did you see how the matchhead flared in the fire?”
“Yeah.”
“I want you to hold onto one of the long matches and put just the tip into the fire. We can light the match that way.”
Caleb pushed his lips to one side of his face and slowly turned his head from side to side. “I don’t think so.”
Devon kept his voice calm. “It‘ll work, Caleb.”
“I scared.”
The movie of Fiona being dragged from the room that had been replaying in Devon’s mind, played again. “For Mommy, Caleb. Mommy needs us, and I can’t help her unless you help me.”
Caleb stared into the box for a long moment, then picked up each of the matches one by one, examining them. After what seemed an eternity, he chose a match that looked exactly like the others to Devon. He pinched the far end of it in his chubby fingers and moved it toward the fire.
It lit with a whoosh of flame. Devon was about to cheer when Caleb dropped it into the fireplace, his lower lip drooping crookedly. “I sorry.”
Devon glanced into the box. Now there were only two matches left. “It’s okay, buddy. We can try again, but you’ll have to be really careful this time. Can you do that?”
Tears welled in Caleb’s eyes, but he took another match from the box. He put it in the fire more quickly this time, and when it flared, he pulled it out and held it at arm’s length.
“Good job, buddy.” Devon pivoted so his hands were in front of his son. “Now hold the fire on the plastic tie. Can you do that?”
A second later Devon felt heat against his skin. He waited for a moment then began to gently work the tie. He felt it loosening.
Too soon, Caleb dropped the match on the wood floor. “It burned.”
The tie had stretched far enough for Devon to slip his hands out as far as his thumbs, then they stuck. “We have one more match,” he said. “Let’s do it again.”
Caleb swallowed and grabbed the last match with solemnity. They went through the same ritual, and this time the plastic tie stretched and broke. Devon whooped, pulled his wrists free and threw his arms around his son. “We did it.”
Caleb was grinning now. “Let’s get Mommy.”
“Daddy has to get his feet free first,” Devon gazed around the living room searching for something to sever the ties. His gaze fell on his jacket hanging on a hook by the front door. His pocketknife. He’d forgotten about it until this moment. “There’s a knife in my jacket pocket.” He pointed. “There, by the front door. Can you get it for me?”
