Freeze Frame

by Freya Barker

  “Mom?”

  “Gonna call the hospital right now, baby,” I assure her.

  “Uncle Ben?”

  Son of a fucking bitch. That one hurt, so I grind my teeth and swear up a storm until it subsides. I’ve done enough crying in front of her.

  “Honey, the only reason your uncle isn’t here, with the people who matter most to him in the whole world, is because we haven’t found him yet. But I promise you, we will. I’ll go out and look for him myself today.”

  I’m not sure how my uncle or any of the other chest-pounding males in my house feel about that, but I don’t care. Not when an eight-year-old girl with big eyes, is looking at me as if I have all the answers.

  I don’t, but I’m damn well going to find them.

  -

  I lied.

  I knew exactly how the guys were going to react to my announcement I was going out looking today.

  I’m thinking the only thing preventing me from being tied down, or locked up in my room right now, is because I was smart enough to wait until Uncle Al took Mak down to Cortez. Although I have to admit, Neil looks about ready to handcuff me to the dining room table himself.

  “I’ll take one of those radios,” I say, pointing at the row of chargers now living on my kitchen counter. “I’ll check in every ten minutes, but you’ve got to admit, I know this mountain better than you guys do.”

  “Who’s saying he’s still on this mountain?” Gus points out and for a moment, I have no answer.

  “I am,” I finally say. “I can feel he’s close.”

  I fully expect to be dismissed outright for saying something that I can’t possibly know for sure. Except; I do. I can feel it in my bones. Surprisingly, the three sets of eyes looking back at me don’t hold any ridicule, just curiosity. Caleb is the one who speaks up.

  “Where do you feel it? Your heart or your gut?”

  “Gut,” is my immediate response. My heart is a little overwhelmed right now, my gut is the only thing I trust.

  “Good enough for me,” Gus says dryly, looking at the other two men in turn before focusing on me. “Take the four-wheeler, stick to the paths and roads. Check in every fifteen minutes by radio, and if you find something—any fucking thing—you radio it in. Got that, Sugar?”

  The pet name was surely thrown in there to soften up the steel-edged tone in which he relayed his message. No wonder he was able to keep all these men, some bigger than him, in check.

  “Got it,” I mumble back, some of my own bluster deflated.

  Ten minutes later I’ve got it back, as I zoom off on my four-wheeler, bundled up like I’m ready to explore the Arctic Circle with the radio and my phone tucked in my pocket.

  I don’t really have a plan, but I’m letting my instinct lead me. Caleb took off up the mountain, taking Atsa with him on the leash again, and Gus and Neil were staying back, waiting for word from Damian. He’d called this morning about a possible lead in Towaoc he was looking into.

  I took the road down to the campground, hoping that with my photographer’s eye, I might spot something the others overlooked. Fat chance of that, since they’d gone over every square inch yesterday already, but it’s as good a place as any to start.

  I’m trying to imagine what it’s like to be so blinded by want for someone, that you lose all grip on reality. That you’d go so far as to approach anyone standing in your way of getting what you want, like an obstacle in need of removal, by whatever means.

  I can’t. I just can’t imagine it no matter how much I love Ben.

  I drive around the campground, stopping every now and then to look up the mountain, to see if anything catches my eye, but nothing does.

  As I’m turning out of the campground to go up the road, my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. I almost drop it; my damn fingers are so frozen.

  “Hello?”

  “This Al’s little girl?” If I weren’t freezing half to death, looking for a madwoman who has my guy, I might’ve chuckled at the description. As it is, I don’t want to be shooting the breeze with Phil McCracken.

  “Hey, Phil. Yes, it is, but I’m in the middle of something. Can I call you back?” The cold is making my teeth chatter.

  “Stupid fuckers probably froze their asses up there already,” the old grump mutters. I’m confused and more than a little irritated, but I still ask.

  “Up here? Who are you talking about?” I bite.

  “Tried to explain huntin’ season was over, but they wasn’t lookin’ to hunt.”

  “Phil, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I was about to hang up on his ass and get myself inside to warm up for a bit.

  “The boy ’n me, we’ve got ourselves a little cabin up your ways. On the east side of the road. Used it for huntin’ for years. I don’t go alone, and with the boy being busy hauling loads, we ain’t been up there in a while. Figure I could catch some rent on it this huntin’ season and tacked a note on the board at the Food Market. Some couple called, wanting it for the winter. Said her and the husband were wantin’ a romantic place to get away to on the weekends. Didn’t matter I explained to her there ain’t nothing romantic about that cabin. She wanted it.”

  “She?” The cold all but forgotten, a niggle of fearful excitement is ballooning into something much bigger. “Phil, you said she?”

  “Yes, damn city girl, too. That’s why I’m calling, maybe one of yous can check in on them? Ain’t seen her around since she came to pick up the key and directions, and dropped a wad of cash. Forgot to ask for her number before she took off, was too busy countin’. Must’ve been a looker once—”

  My mind is churning, still trying to process the information, when I interrupt him.

  “Did she leave a name?”

  “She might’ve. Can’t quite recall. She was driving a city car though. One of them Chryslers? Shit for the birds, those. Specially in these mountains. Damn thing was white, too.”

  -

  I cut the engine and pull out the radio when I reach an old pickup, pulled off to side, at the end of the narrow trail. It looks old enough to have been sitting here for years, except for the layer of snow covering it. It looks too fresh, and not nearly as thick as the snow on the rocks on the opposite side.

  “Gus, are you there?”

  There’s just a crackle of static in response. I already tried my cell phone but I have zero reception on this side.

  “Gus?” I try again, only to be met with the same result.

  Just like about a dozen other times on my trip down this trail, I wonder if perhaps I should’ve gone home first. And every time I convinced myself that I technically hadn’t seen anything worthwhile mentioning yet. That, and the gnawing in my gut, drove me to keep going.

  Until now.

  The truck is something, which is why I’m trying to raise Gus now, except I’m afraid maybe I’m out of range.

  “Caleb, can you hear me?” I try the other man, who’s supposed to be somewhere on the other side of the road, with my dog.

  First there’s only the static, but then I hear a click and a voice.

  “Where—you?”

  “Caleb! I’m on a trail, just below the top of the ridge, on the east side of the road into town. I found a truck.” The last words I whisper, realizing a bit belated that someone might hear me.

  “—ay there—wait—oming.” His voice is broken up, but I get the gist of it.

  I’m not sure how long it is I’m waiting, but with every second that ticks away, thoughts of Ben, of what she might be doing to him, become louder in my head. The what-ifs are driving me nuts, until I decide just to move a little bit up the hill. Just a bit of exploration. Get the lay of the land, so to speak. There may be nothing up there, but then again, it might just be my world.

  I freeze when I hear a rustle in the brush to my left, only to let out a sigh of relief when a rabbit scoots out from under a fallen tree limb. I find a narrow path, running between the rocks along the trail, and although the base feels solid,
there’s enough fresh snow on top to make it pretty tough going. It’s mostly uphill and my leg muscles are starting to burn, so when I spot a sturdy branch that will double well as a walking stick, I snatch it up.

  Much easier like this, and I have to admit, it feels good to have something solid in my hand.

  I almost charge out of a thick copse of trees when I notice the smell—wood burning—and I stop in my tracks. In a small clearing, just up ahead, is a dilapidated log cabin. There’s a woodpile stacked against the side, though, and clearly smoke coming out of the stone chimney.

  Sneaking up behind the thick trunk of a tree, I have a pretty clear view of what looks to be the front of the place. So now what? I can’t go barging in there. I have no idea what I’ll find. I don’t even know if Ben is even in there.

  As the cold I’ve been ignoring starts crawling up my body from my toes, I realize I’ve bitten off way more than I can ever hope to chew.

  I’m still contemplating my own inadequacy when I hear a loud crash from inside, followed by an unholy scream.

  One that propels me into action.

  Ben

  I’m fucking groggy as shit.

  Floating in and out of consciousness for God knows how long. I wouldn’t be surprised if she shot me up with a large dose of Rohypnol. It’s used as a date rape drug, often ingested, but when injected can bring down a large animal.

  Guess that’s what I am. It’s certainly what I feel like, fucking naked and tied up to a bed, not even able to step outside for a leak. At some point I must’ve pissed myself, judging from the smell. I can only pray I don’t get the runs or I’ll be in deep shit. Pun most certainly not intended.

  I’m trying to let my senses tell me what’s happening around me, without opening my eyes. I don’t want to alert her to the fact I’m awake, only to hit me up with another load of that drug. I also don’t want to puke all over myself, which I almost did when sunlight hit my retinas.

  She definitely hit me hard.

  For the past little while, I’ve heard her shuffle around, mumbling, and occasionally the floor would creak on the other side of the bed. I couldn’t see her, but I could hear her, smell her, and sense her eyes violating my body. I had to fight the urge to shiver with revulsion.

  But she’s in the other room now. I can hear what sounds like a can opener and then something being dumped in a pot. Then there’s a heavy metal scrape and a dull thud, followed by another metal scrape. Adding wood to the stove, I figure. The smell of warm food, just a little later, confirms it.

  Every time I think her back is turned, my fingers pick away at the knot on my right wrist. It’s slow and tedious, and at any time I expect to be caught, but I’m making progress.

  “Oh, my baby, did you soil yourself?”

  I try not to move when I hear her moving closer.

  “You did, didn’t you?” she coos, now only steps away. “Look at you. Momma’s gonna have to clean you up. Good thing I warmed up some water for the dishes.”

  I follow her voice as she moves away again, and this time I try to peek through slightly opened eyelids. The light immediately has my stomach surge up, but I grind my teeth and manage to hold it together, as I watch her fill a bowl with water from a pot on the little stove and grab a rag from the sink.

  Fucking hell. She intends to wash me. I close my eyes again

  With everything in me I want to stop her, but when she’s almost to the bed I have an idea.

  “Bed’s wet,” I slur on purpose, hoping she doesn’t realize I’m more alert than I appear.

  “So it is,” she purrs. “I’ll fix that as soon as I fix you.”

  I keep my breathing as steady as I can, even as the wet glide of a rag between my legs and over my limp junk makes me want to hurl. She’s thorough and she’s slow, and by the time she’s done I feel like I’ve taken it up the ass.

  But then I feel her hand on my ankle, as she loosens the bindings on one side. Then she starts working on the other. I take another peek from under my eyelids to see her back halfway turned, and the fingers on my right hand pluck furiously at the knot.

  “Roll over, so I can get the sheet and wash your backside.”

  Oh hell no.

  The moment she leans over, and puts her hand on my far hip, helping me roll, I sharply pull up my right knee, knocking her off balance. She stumbles back and trips, landing on her ass, while I frantically work the last loop free on my wrist. I finally yank it free just as she scrambles to her feet and charges me, screaming like a banshee.

  I get a good swing in, but she’s like a rabid dog, using her claws and teeth on me. I only have limited movement to evade her, and am running out of steam quickly when the front door slams open.

  “Get off him!” I know that voice, even through the thick throb pounding through my entire body at this point, I recognize that voice and it fucking terrifies me.

  I can handle pain, I can handle the contemplation of my own demise, but I cannot handle Isla in the path of danger.

  “Get oudo’ere...” comes tumbling out of my mouth, barely identifiable, as I watch the crazy bitch swing around.

  Her head drops between her shoulders like a fucking animal readying for attack, and she charges straight for Isla, catching her in the chest and plowing her straight outside.

  I struggle against my ankle restraints and frantically pull at the remaining knot on my left wrist. From outside, I can hear the noise of a struggle, and what sounds like the snarl of a dog.

  The last thing I hear is the sharp reverberation of a gunshot, before I lose my balance, tumble off the edge of the mattress, and everything goes dark.

  CHAPTER 30

  Isla

  “What the fuck were you thinking?”

  Caleb’s once velvety, dark chocolate voice is now edged with cold steel.

  I wasn’t thinking; I was reacting.

  Despite my uncle’s many warnings that one day my impulsive nature would get me in trouble, at forty, I’d still not been able to get a handle on it. Truth is, I like being impulsive. I like to think I’m being adventurous. Although, at this particular moment with my lungs still struggling for air, I’m pretty positive I could do without this kind of adventure.

  I sure as hell didn’t expect a screeching amazon barreling straight for me when I flung the door open. I only got a quick glance behind her to see Ben trussed up on the bed—blood caked to his face and a wild look in his eyes—before I was knocked straight off my feet by a five foot ten human battering ram.

  She flattened me out on my back in the snow with embarrassing ease, knocking the wind out of me. Before I could catch my breath, before I even had a chance to react, her hands were wrapping around my neck.

  I fought.

  I clawed, I punched, I tried to kick at the snarling, spit-slinging, inhumanely strong she-woman pushing me down in the snow, but when I started seeing little stars dancing in front of my eyes, I wondered if this would be it. My next thought was that Uncle Al would be really pissed if he had to bury me too, and that idea alone gave me renewed energy to fight.

  The next thing I know, there’s snarling of a different kind, when a giant, black and white ball of fur, with sharp teeth, comes out of nowhere and knocks the woman clear off me. A loud gunshot rings out and suddenly all noise stops.

  That’s when I hear the voice.

  “Not much,” I try, but not much sound comes out and talking hurts like a mother.

  You’d expect to feel cold, lying in the snow, but my body is feeling oddly warm.

  “Did she stick you?” he asks, and I feel his hands on my body, looking for holes I presume, although at this point I can’t be sure of anything.

  “I don’t...”

  Ben

  “I just spent a day and a half tied to a damn bed already. You wanna prolong the torture?”

  I’m fuming when the nurse tries to push me back on the bed and threatens me with restraints if I don’t lie down.

  I think I remember Isla kicking
open the door and standing there, wide-legged and fierce, with the blow up of snow swirling around her five foot frame as my pint-sized avenger. My cavalry. Can’t remember a damn thing after.

  “Can you please find me someone who does know something?” I grind out to the nurse, who doesn’t look very sympathetic. “Please, my wife may be hurt.”

  The little involuntary hitch in my words apparently does the trick, because her face softens as she nods and scoots out the door. The wife thing—I’m going to make that happen as soon as I can fucking see her face.

  Minutes later, I’m up and swinging my legs out of bed, again, when Al walks in. My eyes immediately search beyond him, but no Isla. I’m not liking the look on his face as he walks up to the foot of the bed and just stares.

  “God, tell me she’s okay,” I choke out. It’s been a long time since I’ve used that name without following it up with a juicy curse, but not this time. This time it sounds more like a prayer.

  “You better be callin’ on him,” Al says, his face stern. “You should see the marks that woman left on my girl. I swear she’s turning what little remains of my dark hair gray. Won’t stop asking for you, even as the doctor tells her she needs to stop talking to give her voice a rest. Bruising clear around her throat and gashes so deep some of them needed stitches.” The old man runs a shaky hand through his hair, more shaken than he initially let on.

  The relief I feel is quickly replaced with anger.

  “Where is she?” I demand, ignoring the spinning room as I try to get my feet under me.

  “Right here, you fool,” her raw whisper sounds from the doorway, where she’s standing with a grinning Neil behind her.

  -

  I’m being kept overnight for observation because of a concussion and the drug still floating around my system. The gash on my scalp has been stitched up and they treated and bandaged the scrapes on my ankles and wrists. All that would heal, as will the marks and injuries Isla sustained, but it’s going to be a long time before I’ll be able to get over the guilt I feel.