by Dana Mentink
“Son,” he said, hugging Mitch tightly. “Glad to see you.”
A blanket on the sofa indicated his father had been napping, though the man would never admit to needing a rest. Mitch eyed the newly cut cupboard doors propped against the walls, part of the ongoing maintenance necessary for a life at sea. “Quality work.”
“I don’t do any other kind.” Then he lapsed into silence and waited for Mitch to speak, the same way he’d always done.
“You know Wade’s out.”
A tightening of the mouth, a nod, his fingers toying with the seed envelopes.
“He wants me dead and to abduct his ex-wife, Jane.”
Pops dropped his head then, elbows propped on his knees. “I thought it was finally over when he went to prison.”
“It will be when I put him back there.”
“Not the cops?”
“No. Me. Like last time. There’s a marshal assigned, Al Foley, but I don’t trust him. We have some history.”
His father weighed that, brow creased in thought. “Liam told me that you were protecting Jane.”
Mitch nodded. “She isn’t a part of Wade’s evil, never was.”
Pops slanted a look at him and held it.
“Are you going to ask me how I know?”
Pops shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s enough that you know it. To make that reversal, after so much hatred, well, that’s a God thing, and I’m not going to second-guess it.”
Mitch felt suddenly weary. “How is any of this a God thing, Pops? You and Jane both. Mom’s dead, your son’s a serial killer and he’s ready to kill again. What kind of God allows that and why would you follow Him, exactly?”
Pops massaged a shoulder with one palm. “I have two sons, and I love them both.”
“Love?” He gaped outright. “You love Wade?”
“I hate what he’s done, I want him punished and put away so he can’t hurt anyone again, and I detest the evil in his soul, but, yes, deep down a part of me will always love my son.”
“How can you? He’s evil personified. How is it humanly possible that you still love him?”
Pops smiled. “It isn’t. That’s how I know God’s in it, in my life.”
The simplicity of that stopped him. His own heart was filled with such bitterness, murky hopelessness, caged by his own hatred. In that instant, he caught a glimpse of the freedom that God offered both his father and Jane. He could not love Wade, he never would, but his father’s and Jane’s ability to believe in God’s love for everyone churned his emotions like a propeller powering a boat through stormy seas.
Pops neatly stacked a half-dozen seed packets and rubber banded them. “The human heart is wired to love, because God made it that way. That’s His plan, but sometimes things go askew because of the choices we make.” He rattled the envelopes. “The seeds don’t take root properly—the plant gets messed up.”
Messed up did not even begin to describe it. “Pops...” He broke off and stood, pacing the confines of the cabin. “I think you should come back to the ranch, in case Wade figures out where you are.”
“He won’t come to me, Mitch, and if he does, he won’t find any aid.”
“Still...the ranch is more secure.”
“I’ve got to finish this work. I’ll come back for a visit in a few days. I’ve got my cell phone if I need anything. Most of the time I can get a signal. Not leaving my boat.”
Mitch recognized the stubborn set to his father’s features, the same one he was sure shone on his own face on a regular basis. Sighing, he checked the screen on his dad’s cell phone. “A satellite phone would...”
His father laughed heartily. “You know if you start preaching the benefits of carrying a fancy phone around you might be struck down by lightning for your own hypocrisy.”
Mitch allowed a smile. “Yeah, I know, but I’m carrying one at the moment.” He used paper and pencil from the countertop to write his number. On his way out, he pulled his father close.
Pops, I love you, he wanted to say, but he let his arms communicate what his tongue could not.
“Be safe, Pops,” he breathed.
“You, too, son.”
The bracing ocean air chilled him as he exited the boat. He hadn’t made it off the vessel when Foley came into view, strolling along the dock. He stopped, taking in both men.
“Mr. Whitehorse,” he called to Pops, ignoring Mitch, “I’m US Marshal Al Foley. I’m tasked with capturing Wade.”
Pops answered with a nod.
“Has Wade contacted you?”
“No.”
“Do you have phone service here?”
“Yes, most time it works.”
Foley chewed his upper lip. “Fugitives need three things...”
“Money, a means of communication and a place to stay,” Mitch finished. “We know. Pops knows.”
Foley shot him a look. “What I want to hear from Mr. Whitehorse is, if Wade comes looking for those things, is he going to get aid from you?”
Fury clawed up Mitch’s throat like a wildcat. “You...”
Pops held up a hand; the only thing that would stop Mitch from speaking out was his father’s silent command. “I will not provide any help to Wade, Marshal Foley. He’s my son, yes, but I know what he is. I’ve known it a lot longer than you have.”
Foley’s gaze narrowed, shifting to Mitch, who could hardly breathe for anger. What his father had endured, the years of trying to do battle with Wade’s evil, the recluse Pops had become until he found sanctuary here with his brother-in-law Gus...
“If you hear from him,” Foley said, “call the local PD and they’ll get hold of me immediately.”
Pops didn’t answer as Foley strode back down the dock, got into his car and drove away.
Mitch saw the glimmer of tears in his father’s eyes as he watched. “When will it end?” he heard his father mumble as he turned back to the comfort of his boat.
As soon as I can find him, Mitch thought. And this time he’ll never hurt anyone again.
* * *
Mitch wasn’t surprised when he heard the floorboards in the entryway squeak at a tad after midnight.
“It’s raining. You’re gonna need a jacket,” he murmured from his spot in the shadows.
Jane jumped, a low cry erupting from her mouth when she picked out his silhouette as he sat there in the darkness. Both hands went to her throat, and he felt a pang of regret for having frightened her. Jane had already experienced enough fear to last a lifetime.
He was sprawled out on an easy chair, legs crossed in front of him, singing in his head. Mitch never sang aloud, but for some reason the sappy country songs his mother used to croon had become embedded at the cellular level.
Like the river to the sea,
I never dreamed how good it could be.
Silly, maudlin, self-delusion, but nonetheless the words hummed through his soul just as strong now as they had when he was six years old. Strange for a guy who didn’t have a future, only a train wreck of a past. Shoving away the thoughts, he got up and faced her.
“You scared me. What are you doing up?” she managed after a moment.
“Liam’s moving a herd today. One of the horses his crew is taking has been off. I wanted to check on him. Figured I was up anyway. I don’t sleep much.”
She sighed. “Me neither.”
“Cutting out?”
Her chin was up, but she didn’t answer. He saw she had a canvas bag that Ginny had given her, the clothes she’d struggled out of the ocean in and her tattered jacket folded over her arm. He had the sudden intense urge to wrap her in a new coat, maybe green, to bring out the tiny flecks of emerald he’d spotted in her silver gaze. He blinked back to the now. “I’m thinking you’re headed to wherever you got your
boy hidden.”
Still no answer.
“It’s a long walk to anywhere, a good ten miles to town. No one about at this hour. How you gonna get there? Thinking of swiping a truck or borrowing a horse?” He supposed he’d meant some kind of joke by it, but she didn’t take it that way.
“No. I don’t steal things. I was going to walk to town, but I realized I forgot something at your place.”
“What?”
“My pouch. It has my driver’s license and ATM card. I left it in your bathroom when I took a shower.”
“Okay. I’ll go up and get it. You can stay, get some more sleep.”
She shook her head. “I’m not coming back here. You can drop me in town after I get my pouch, or just let me out wherever it’s convenient.”
He frowned. “I do have some level of manners. I’ll take you to town after, if that’s what you want.”
“Thank you.”
Her gaze raked his face, but she didn’t say anything further, and he had no idea what to add. Without commenting, he went to the closet and took his barn jacket from the hanger, handing it to her. “Here. You won’t be warm enough in that.”
Before she could protest, he escorted her out to the truck, opening the passenger door for her, which seemed to surprise her.
She tossed him a wry smile. “Do you feel like you should be putting me in the back seat in handcuffs?”
His cheeks warmed. Two days ago that was exactly what he would have thought to do with Jane Reyes, but now he was adrift. “You were not charged with any crimes,” he said lamely.
She laughed. “I should put that on a résumé. I’m sure people would flock to hire me.”
He climbed behind the wheel and took the road up to his cabin.
“I was afraid I’d have to ride a horse all the way up again.”
He chuckled. “There’s a fire road. Bumpy in some places, but serviceable. I use it sometimes if I’m not riding up and back.”
“When did you come to work at the ranch?”
“After I sent Wade to jail.” His brother’s name seemed to taint the air. He cracked the window to allow in the cool scent of the sea. “My uncle needed a hired hand, so I bought the cabin, such as it is.”
“You didn’t want to live on the ranch?”
“I like my solitude.”
“So I gathered. And you have no need for the modern conveniences, either.”
He pretended to take offense, pointing to his belt. “Hey, I’m carrying a cell phone, aren’t I?”
She laughed again. The ride grew steep and bumpy, bits of rock pinging against the chassis.
It was cold, but he welcomed the mixture of scents, the tang of the sea, the spicy aroma of eucalyptus, all fresh and bracing as if all the air in the world was birthed right here on this land. They didn’t talk, except when she exclaimed over a bird that swooped silently through the night, thick bodied and tufted.
“Great horned owl,” he said. “I could...” He’d almost said I could show you where they nest before he caught himself. Nutty idea, but it bothered him that he’d never really wanted to show anyone else before until just now. Why now and why her, of all people?
She peered in between the gaps in the trees until they finally reached a flat graveled surface. “Gotta park here. Cabin’s just over that rise.”
Mitch felt the skin crawling on the back of his neck, memories of their frantic journey to the cabin after Wade nearly killed him. He’d grown comfortable with Wade in prison, more confident than a person with a serial killer for a brother had a right to. He’d begun to sink himself into life on the ranch, to accept the quiet existence tucked between the pasture and the sea.
Are you too slow-witted after your years of retirement not to see the obvious? Foley had said. Or too complacent?
Mitch felt again the flush of unease. Should he have insisted that Jane stay behind? Were his instincts chattering, or was it paranoia?
The cabin sat quiet and undisturbed, no fresh tire tracks or hoofprints to indicate activity. Wade would not have chosen to sit around and wait to see if Mitch returned. So why was his gut still cinched tight?
“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be back.”
Jane didn’t question him, watching silently from the truck as he walked to the top of the rise. He listened a moment, scanning for signs of intrusion. When nothing presented itself, he strode quickly to the cabin, let himself inside and listened again. Quiet, save for water dripping off the eaves. There was sufficient moonlight for him to navigate, but he grabbed the Maglite from the clip on the wall anyway. No sense activating the generator. The old cop habit made him avoid the squeakier floorboards as he poked his head into the bedroom and kitchen. Nothing amiss, nothing moved.
Paranoia, then, he chided himself, grabbing her pouch from the bathroom and shoving it into his back pocket. He headed for the door, hesitating at the train table.
Ben loves trains.
Mitch didn’t know the smallest thing about kids, but he did remember vividly his seventh birthday present, a model train his father had put together in the evenings in the garage to surprise Mitch. He’d been so excited about that train, he slept with it under his pillow. First thing every morning his fingers searched out the sleek metal lines until one time he’d woken up to find it gone. He’d surmised exactly what had happened, confronting his brother, near hysterical, but Wade only gave a wide-eyed innocent stare.
“Wade wouldn’t take your train,” his mother soothed.
He would do that and more. At only five years of age, Wade was already the consummate liar.
Ben would like the train, he thought. It was a startling idea, since he’d never clapped eyes on the kid, but he felt a compelling urge. He’d give it to Jane to pass on to Ben someday when he was old enough.
He went to the train table, shone the flashlight on it and stopped short. The locomotive was gone.
“Poor Mitch,” came the voice, low and raspy behind him. “Did someone steal your train again?”
He did not make it completely around before Wade pressed the stun gun to his lower back. The crackle mingled with Mitch’s cry of pain as the electric shock sizzled through his body. The flashlight spiraled out of his grasp as he collapsed. Shock overwhelmed his nervous system, the current carving a path of paralysis that locked his spasming muscles.
Get up, get up, his mind screamed at him, but he could not do anything but lie there in a fetal position, limbs quivering, nerves firing agony through his frame.
Enough of his senses remained intact to register the smell of gasoline, acrid and stinking, glugging from a can. He watched through blurry eyes as Wade doused the small sitting room, tossing the empty container on the rocking chair.
“Mitch,” Wade said, backtracking to the kitchen. “I expected more from you. You hardly put up more of a fight than the women. I fantasized every single day in prison how I would kill you, but this is hardly even satisfying.” He sounded as if he was a man discussing a mediocre play he’d just attended.
“Y-you...” Mitch stammered.
“What’s that?” Wade arched a palm around his ear. “Are you begging or apologizing? I can’t tell.”
“You belong in a cage,” Mitch spit, forcing the words through the wall of pain.
Wade smiled and flicked a small cigarette lighter to life. The orange flame danced double in Mitch’s compromised vision.
“I’ll never be put in a cage again, Mitch.” He laughed. “It’s dark in here, big brother. Let me add some light, shall I?”
Almost in slow motion, Wade dropped the lighter, the gasoline vapors igniting before it hit the floor.
ELEVEN
Jane sat in the passenger seat, twiddling her new cell phone, eyes trained on the spot where Mitch had disappeared. Seconds ticked into minutes—five, ten, fifteen. The darkness closed around her like a fi
st. Her skin was chilled and she wanted to roll up the window, but Mitch had taken the keys. Pewter fog ribboned the sky.
She began to shiver. An awful thought drifted through her mind—what if something had happened and Mitch did not return?
“Stop it,” she told herself. “You’ve been taking care of yourself all this time. You don’t need to panic because you’re left alone for a few minutes.” Something drifted on the breeze, a strange, pungent whiff that she could not place at first.
When the anxiety refused to be quieted, she got out and crept to the top of the rise. The hollow below was ink black, the house silhouetted by the moonlight that shone through the fog, windows dark. Mitch had not started the generator, it seemed, but that was not surprising. He would only be there long enough to retrieve her pouch. But why was it taking so long? Before she could talk herself out of it, she tapped out a text.
Everything okay?
The wind rattled the leaves in the scruffy bushes as she waited for a reply that didn’t come. Perhaps Mitch hadn’t noticed the text. A rustling in the grass indicated the night creatures were on the prowl.
She waited until the odor quivered her nostrils again. Burning, it was the smell of something burning. Electrified, her eyes went wide, lungs caught in midbreath. A flicker of orange showed around the edges of the closed curtains. Her stomach dropped to her shoes.
Fire! While her nerves shouted at her to sprint to the cabin and help Mitch, doubt assailed her from all sides. What if it was a trap? It had to be. Wade was waiting for her, for Mitch. She should call for help. Her cell phone screen taunted her with the message...no service.
She could text Marshal Foley, but what could he do? She tapped the message anyway. Fire at Mitch Whitehorse’s cabin. Send help. There was no solace in the sending, since she knew if Mitch was inside he would be dead before any kind of help arrived.
Oh, Lord, she prayed. What should I do?
It was sheer lunacy to run into a burning building, especially since she knew deep down the fire had to be Wade’s handiwork. But how could she let Mitch die without lifting a finger? Mitch would be another victim of Wade’s monstrous evil. Her ignorance had cost three women their lives, but this was unfolding right in front of her, the flames now showing bigger and the smell of burning wood assaulting her senses as the fire began to gobble up the old cabin. Her body told her to run, but her heart did not consent.
