The cabin, p.19
The Cabin, page 19
Which way? The question burned a hole in his brain. He faced forward again. The path was shadowed in this direction too. No heavenly beam pointed the way.
Devon didn’t know how long he stood in indecision before he remembered Caleb. Caleb was in the cabin. The cabin lay in the same direction the boot print faced. He didn’t know what lay ahead, only what lay behind. He turned and walked the way he’d come.
Failure. The word rang through his mind. He’d failed. He hadn’t been there for Fiona yet again. The pain in his side seemed to increase with every intonation of the word. He had to get back, had to rest before the pain took him out again.
Devon was so immersed in his inner agony, he almost missed the faint thump, thump, thump of heavy footfalls behind him. It had started so low and steady it seemed a part of nature, like the steady hammer of a woodpecker’s beak. Then an exceptionally loud crash—the breaking of branches, the crushing of pinecones—startled him into awareness. He ducked off the path, into the deeper woods, and hid. Seconds later, Rico ran past him.
Shockwaves washed up and down Devon’s body, immobilizing him. The man disappeared quickly, but a long second passed before Devon realized he should follow. He moved into Rico’s wake, no longer aware of his own body, his pain anesthetized by the adrenaline racing through him.
When he came to the edge of the woods, he paused. Rico charged, head down, bull-like across the field. He’d be able to see Devon if he turned, but he was too intent on his prey to look back. Devon stepped from the shelter of the trees and trotted after him.
Rico pounded up the three steps to the cabin, threw the mudroom door open and entered. Caleb’s brave face and wide eyes flew into Devon’s mind. His son was behind that door.
He picked up his pace, but the cabin seemed to move farther away the faster he ran, his ribs shooting arrows of pain through him. What seemed an eternity later, he grabbed the handrail of the small flight of steps and hauled himself up.
The warmth and smells of the cabin wrapped themselves around him as he entered: coffee, maple syrup, hot dogs, and something foul hidden under the more pleasant scents. He padded softly through the kitchen, noting the coppery odor of Crackers’ blood and the more pervasive stench of vomit when he got to the doorway.
A glance at his old prison filled him with dread. He’d reached the lowest point of his life on that floor by that fireplace. He wouldn’t go there again, not that low. He’d die first.
Devon pulled the knife from his pocket and snapped it open. It was small, but it was sharp. If he thrust hard enough—
A slam. The splintering of wood. A child’s cry.
Rico must have kicked down Caleb’s door. A second later, he heard Caleb’s cries growing louder.
Surprise was Devon’s only hope of success. Resisting the urge to rush to Caleb’s rescue, he ducked behind the sagging couch. He would ram it into Rico as he passed. Not an elegant, thought-out scheme, but it was all he had.
Rico entered the living room and strode past the couch. Caleb squirmed under his arm like an angry cat. As the two moved into the kitchen doorway, Devon sprang forward, knife held like a lance in his extended hand.
It ripped through Rico’s jacket, bounced off something beneath, and came away clean. It accomplished less than Devon had hoped, but it did cause Rico to stumble over the threshold and drop Caleb.
“Run,” Devon shouted at his son.
Caleb hesitated, his face white in the gloom.
“Run, damn it,” Devon yelled again. This time Caleb obeyed, his feather-light steps fading as Devon faced his enemy.
Rico didn’t speak. He seemed beyond words, a beast driven by instinct and emotion. His lips drew back to reveal yellowed teeth. The steel glinted in his hand.
This was what Devon had thought himself superior to. This kind of man. He’d joked with colleagues about the low IQ of the criminal mind, but that low IQ had a much bigger, much sharper knife. At this moment, Devon would happily trade a handful of IQ points for a better weapon.
Rico didn’t charge as Devon had expected. He crouched and circled to the right, every muscle and sinew sliding into place as if his body had its own intelligence. Devon attempted to mimic his movements, but he was injured and inept.
He’d never given much thought to his own death, not even when one of the partners at the firm died of a widowmaker. The man exercised and ate right and dropped dead on the trail in his running shoes. Devon had been shocked, of course, but the shock wasn’t personal. He was secure in his own mental superiority, as if somehow being smart was a shield against the inevitability of death. It wasn’t.
He stumbled into the couch and righted himself. Rico didn’t react, just continued his slow revolution around the foyer, eyes glinting in the light streaming through the front windows. Was that a smile on his face? Yes, Devon was sure he’d seen a smile. The man was enjoying this the way a cat enjoys torturing a mouse.
The smile made Devon’s purpose clear. His job was to give Rico as much pleasure as possible. His job was to prolong his own death. Embrace torture. Because the longer he suffered, the more time Caleb had to get away.
Fiona and the dog were out there somewhere. Devon imagined them finding Caleb, then running through the trees to the main road, flagging down a car, and being driven to safety. He would die a happy man if that happened.
Rico feinted, the knife lashing toward Devon. He sprang back, and it whistled past. Three more slow steps to the right, front foot stepping over the back in a complicated dance, and the knife sliced the air, missing him again.
The process was repeated, but this time the knife sheared through Devon’s jacketed arm and nicked the skin beneath. He felt blood, warm and sticky, wet his shirt. They circled again, and again Rico struck after three steps—a slice to his head this time. Blood matted Devon’s hair.
Did the man realize how methodical he was being? Three steps, strike, three steps, strike. Was he aware of the pattern? Devon didn’t think so, but he decided to test his theory.
One step, two, and Devon lashed out with his pocketknife. It did no physical harm, but Rico stopped his dance, confusion clouding his eyes. He had been unaware of the pattern, or at least thrown by the change in it.
That information was costly. The confusion cleared, Rico’s eyes narrowed, and he lunged. Devon skipped back, surprised at his own nimbleness. He’d surrendered to his survival instinct, and the results were startling.
Rico retreated and resumed his grapevine step. An idea struck Devon. Could he lead Rico across the living room to the bookcase? One of the cabin’s many wooden bear lamps burned dimly on its surface. It would be a better weapon than his pocketknife.
He stepped in time with Rico, dancing back on every third step, sometimes allowing himself to be cut, sometimes avoiding the blade. The white-faced man opposite him seemed to move through a dream. Devon didn’t want to wake him, just lull him and lead him.
Devon counted footsteps and knife thrusts rather than seconds and minutes. He no longer measured time by the planet’s revolutions, but by their revolutions. Every circle led them closer to the bookshelf where time would end for one of them.
One, two, three, and this time it hurt. Really hurt. The knife sank deep into Devon’s side, opening the old wound, the one Fiona had bandaged. He gasped as the dreaded black spots clouded his vision and sweat sprang out of the pores above his upper lip. He couldn’t pass out. Not now. The lamp glowed in his peripheral vision.
So close. He was so close.
Rico’s nostrils flared, his jaw clenched, and he lunged again, plunging the knife into Devon’s upraised arm. Pain, searing and impossible to ignore, burned through him. He was done. He couldn’t dance any longer.
But he’d given Fiona and Caleb time, precious time. He hoped it had been enough. As he fell to the floor, he grabbed the cord of the lamp for support, which it didn’t give him. Instead, he felt it tip off the shelf. The spots spread into a solid curtain behind his eyes, he heard a distant crash, then the lights went completely out.
7.6.2
FIONA
Fiona trudged uphill, growing warmer from the exertion. So warm, her shirt grew damp. It was a relief not to be cold, but she was concerned about what would happen when she stopped moving. The sweat would freeze. Hypothermia was a real possibility, considering her lack of jacket, gloves, and hat. She wore jeans, a long-sleeved cotton shirt, and a sweater—not enough to protect her in below-freezing temperatures.
She’d stopped twice during her trek to gauge her vantage point, but each time, trees had blocked the view of the path. The third time was the charm. Not only was there a high stump to sit on, but she also had a clear view of a stretch of the trail and the field behind the cabin. It was possible for Rico to see her if he glanced up, but she’d take her chances. She could duck when she heard him coming.
Fiona climbed onto the stump, pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, trying to make herself as small as she could to maintain her body heat. She began shivering before five minutes had passed. In ten, her teeth were chattering. Her plan had a gigantic flaw. She was freezing.
She stood, did twenty jumping jacks, then sat. It helped for a minute or two then the cold soaked through her clothes and pores and into her blood stream again. The cabin with its thin trickle of smoke coming from the chimney called to her. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could take this. What was taking Rico so long?
Of course, she may have missed him. It was possible he’d come this way while she was climbing. Fiona felt suddenly foolish. How had she believed this would work? Even if she was able to sneak up on him, he was strong, and he was wary.
She marched around the stump slapping her arms with her hands, feeling hopeless. She must have missed him. She picked up the stick from where it leaned against the stump and revolved it in her hand. Why hadn’t she brought her gun?
Because she never travelled with it, that was why, but the thought of it locked up in her gun cabinet at home almost made her weep. She’d never used it other than for practice shooting at the range. Never had a need. The irony of this moment hit her hard.
Fiona began to move downhill. She would peer in the cabin windows before entering. Maybe she’d still be able to stage a surprise attack. Throw rocks at the windows, and when he came out to investigate, throw rocks at him.
Another dumb idea, but she was too cold to think clearly. Her blood felt slow and viscous, her brain oxygen deprived. She had to get warm.
She hadn’t gone two yards before she heard the sound of someone running. It was him. It had to be. Fiona crouched behind a tree and watched. A moment later, Rico appeared through the trees.
His shoulders were hunched. His feet pounded the earth. Anger and purpose were in each stride. He was looking for her. She was suddenly glad she hadn’t gone to the cabin immediately, no matter how cold she’d been.
Fiona began to slide downhill, her feet slipping on ice and the moldering leaves beneath. Afraid he’d hear her descent, she stopped herself with the walking-stick-slash-bludgeon, hobbled to a tree, and hugged it.
Rico hit the field and broke into a sprint. She was about to follow when the breaking of a branch behind her made her freeze. It was an animal, it must be, but not a small animal.
With all the terrifying things she’d faced in the past twenty-four hours, an animal seemed the least of her worries, but there were bears in Big Bear.
Another branch broke, and the sound echoed in the cold air. Afraid to turn, afraid to see what was sneaking up behind her, she hugged the tree more tightly. She’d heard you shouldn’t make eye contact with bears. If she didn’t move, perhaps it would amble on and leave her in peace.
The thing was coming closer. Fiona gripped her stick, readying herself to turn, but before she did, a happy whine broke the still air. A dog.
She spun to see a black dog, fur matted and shining with frozen blood. “Crackers?” The dog yelped, a joyous sound. Fiona ran to him, sank on her knees and buried her face in his fur. She’d never been so happy to see another being in her life.
“I’m so glad you’re not dead,” she said to him over and over, alternating between hugging him and smoothing his coat.
When he calmed down, she looked into the dark depths of his eyes and spoke to him the way she’d talk to Caleb. “We have to go down there. I know you don’t want to. I don’t want to either, but Devon and Caleb are in there. We have to help them.”
Crackers cocked his head as if he wanted to understand, and she remembered. He was a trained search and rescue dog. He probably did understand that his services were required even if he didn’t know who they were searching for.
Fiona pushed herself to her feet with the help of her stick, turned toward the cabin, and started downhill. “You coming?” she said over her shoulder, but she hadn’t needed to. Crackers was right behind her.
It took longer to get down the hill than it had to get up. She had to sit and scoot in several places so she didn’t fall, and twice she had to circle around especially steep areas.
The dog trotted ahead, nose to the ground. When she lagged, he waited for her to catch up. Fiona had the feeling he didn’t want to lose her any more than she wanted to lose him. There was strength in numbers, even between species.
When they finally hit level ground, she paused, eyes searching the open expanse of white in front of them. Once they left the trees, they’d be visible, but Fiona couldn’t see any other way to reach the cabin.
She took two deep breaths and pushed ahead onto the open ground. She hadn’t gone ten yards before the back door of the cabin flew open and a small figure shot out. Caleb descended the stairs one at a time, holding tightly to the rail, but began to run as fast as his stubby legs would go when he hit the ground.
Crackers gave a single bark and darted toward her son. They collided about five yards from the cabin. The dog knocked him over and gave him the same wet greeting Fiona had received.
With tears freezing on her cheeks, she followed and reached her son less than a minute after Crackers had. She pulled him into her arms and hugged him to her. For a moment, she forgot where they were, and why they were there. The surge of joy was so great she never wanted it to end. Then she remembered Devon. She sobered and held her son away from her so she could look into his face. “Where’s Daddy, Caleb?”
Caleb pointed to the cabin.
“Is Rico there, too?” It was a pointless question. Fiona had seen him racing toward the cabin.
Caleb ran a mittened hand under his nose and nodded. “I no like Rico.”
“Me, either,” she said. Fiona looked around her. She needed to find shelter, someplace safe and warm she could leave Caleb while she returned to the cabin for Devon. She searched the tree line. There was shelter of sorts in the trees, but no warmth.
She turned, examined the cabin, and noticed a small door beneath the stairs. It appeared to be made from plywood but was painted the same brown as the house. She hadn’t realized the cabin had a basement.
“Come on.” She pulled Caleb toward the house, and they ducked under the stairs. She yanked on the metal handle of the little door harder than necessary. It popped open and almost slapped her face.
Inside was a crawl space, not a basement. The floor was dirt, but it seemed slightly warmer than the outside world. She crept inside and smelled freshly cut wood. When her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw why. At least a half-cord of firewood was tucked against the far wall of the low eight-by-eight space.
Crackers ducked inside and sniffed every corner. When he was done, he wagged his tail in approval. Fiona drew Caleb into the space. “I need you and Crackers to stay in here and be really quiet. I’m going to go find Daddy. Okay?”
“It’s dark,” he said.
“I know, honey, but you have the dog. He’ll keep you safe.”
Her son looked doubtful, but Crackers curled up against the wood pile. “Go sit with Crackers,” she said.
Caleb hugged his mother, then crawled farther into the shed, leaned against the dog, and stuck his thumb in his mouth.
“I have to close the door,” Fiona said.
“Okay,” Caleb said in an unhappy voice.
Fiona took one last look at her child, crawled into the cold again, and shut the door behind her.
7.6.3
DEVON
The world returned in a pinpoint of light that grew until the inside of Devon’s eyelids glowed maroon. He opened them slowly and wondered where he was. The room was illuminated by moonlight streaming through a window, dim but enough to see by. He turned his head to gather more information and winced. A click and a pinch sent a jolt into his shoulder. Something was out of place.
The sight that met his eyes confused him—a head of filthy black hair, matted with blood. As he examined the rest of the body, memories returned like the scenes of a movie slowed to single shots. Rico with Caleb under an arm. A small knife bouncing off the man. A long dance. The cord of a lamp.
Devon shot up into a seated position, then waited for the room to cease its revolutions. When it did, he saw the bear lamp laying two feet away from Rico’s head. It must have hit him on its way down from the bookshelf. Was he dead? Or was that too much to hope?
He didn’t appear to be breathing, but... The command Devon had given his son earlier echoed in his mind: Run, damn it.
Devon hauled himself to his feet. His entire body hurt, his arm, his side, his ribs, his lungs—probably from the broken ribs—his head, his neck. He looked at the lamp, then at Rico. He saw himself lifting it high overhead and bringing it down on the man’s head one more time for good measure. But, no. It wasn’t in him.
The bear. He stared at it for a long moment trying to retrieve something from his battered brain. Something to do with a bear. Something that... He pivoted. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it until this moment.
