Cabin 12

by Freya Barker

  “I have to go, look after her?” Jasper claps Ryan on the shoulder.

  “On it,” he answers.

  “I’ll see if I can swing by before you go off to work, otherwise I’ll see you after.”

  I don’t get a chance to answer because he’s already walking away with long strides. Instead of irritated, which would be my usual response when I’m being managed, his concern settles around me like a soft blanket.

  “After?” Ryan whispers beside me, and I elbow him in the side.

  “He just checks my house when I get home.”

  “No shit?”

  I open my mouth for a retort, when organ music starts and a long line of first responders—in full uniform—files into the church. They fill the outside aisles and line the center aisle as an honor guard for their fallen comrade. The casket is slowly rolled in, Bert’s mourning family follows close behind. Already I’ve lost the battle with my tears.

  All I can say is the man was clearly loved by both his community and his peers. The service is solemn and moving, and when Bert’s oldest son delivers a eulogy that sheds a heartfelt personal light on the man, there isn’t a dry eye in the house.

  Ryan convinces me to ride with him to the cemetery, promising to drop me back at my car after.

  The procession from Sacred Heart to Greenmount Cemetery is led by police vehicles, and snakes through the town and up the mountain. The whole town comes to a halt as Bert is escorted to his resting place.

  “SURE YOU DON’T WANT to come have dinner with us? Beth would love to see you.” Ryan is leaning against his open car door as I unlock mine.

  “Thanks for the invite, but maybe some other time? I have some stuff to do and will grab a bite to eat at home. I’ll see you at seven.”

  I lucked out when I was paired up with Ryan. It’s like having another brother. Don’t get me wrong, I love Damian to distraction, but he can be overbearing. Ryan shows his care for me too, but does it in a way that doesn’t make me feel inadequate. He sees and values me as an equal, and that means a lot.

  The town is back to its usual bustle when I make my way through, heading to Damian and Kerry’s place. No sign of the earlier solemn goodbye to one of its finest.

  Life goes on.

  OTHER THAN A MESSAGE wishing me a good shift, I haven’t seen Jasper since the funeral, and I’m looking forward to getting home.

  As I was going through Damian’s place earlier—putting the groceries I picked up away and letting some air in, while I put fresh sheets on the bed—I realized that although I look forward to having both him and Kerry home again, it may also cause some tension. They’ve only been gone three weeks and yet so much has happened in the interim.

  Undoubtedly, Damian will get swept up in the hunt for the killer who is still out there somewhere. But what has me a bit nervous with trepidation is how he’ll respond when he finds out Jasper and I are a thing. It’s likely not what he meant when he asked Jas to keep an eye out for me while he was gone.

  Knowing my brother, he will not only give me a hard time, but he’ll surely rake Jasper over the coals. Last he knew was we barely tolerated each other.

  It’s hard to put a label on what we have, given the circumstances, but I’m starting to believe there is something there. Even though these past few days we’ve done little more than say hi and bye in the middle of the night, there’s not a doubt in my mind he’ll be waiting for me when I get home. Even if only to do his walk-through of my house, kiss the stress from my body, and tuck me into bed.

  I never got around to eating a proper dinner before my shift. All I’ve had are some crackers with fake cheese from the vending machine at the hospital, and my stomach is growling. I wish I could swing by McDonald’s for a snack, but they close at midnight or one. It’s three-thirty now.

  I head north toward town and spot the lights of the Walmart store up ahead. I blame my loudly complaining stomach for pulling into the parking lot. Second only to McDonald’s fries is Ben & Jerry’s and my supply at home is long depleted.

  Jasper

  Jesus what a day.

  Part of me expected something to happen at the funeral. I mean, someone who is shooting cops would have had a heyday there. It was uneventful. We tried scanning the crowds, in hopes he’d show up to gloat at his handiwork, but without any idea who to look for, that got us nowhere.

  The pressure to come up with some answers, especially with the boss coming back tomorrow, had the three of us at the office until well after midnight. Going over Hiram Miller’s financials, Luna found an interesting trail of payments coming into his bank account—starting about six months after Franklin Davis was killed—from the same trust fund financing the man’s current living expenses. Most of it was transferred by Hiram himself into a savings account, which, coincidentally, was cleared out after the man moved into the seniors’ facility, two weeks’ worth of daily maximum withdrawals of $1000. A grand total of $14,000 gone.

  My money is on the grandson: James Connor Davis.

  No record of the kid though, not even a driver’s license through DMV.

  Luna offered to scour high school websites in and around Shiprock to see if his name would pop up, but I called it a night. We all needed some sleep.

  Not that I had a lot of it, driving up to Bella’s house at three-thirty in the morning, but maybe I’ll catch a few more hours in her bed.

  I let myself in with the spare key she gave me a couple of days ago and flick on the coffee machine before doing a quick check. It’s become habit.

  I flip through emails on my phone while I wait for my coffee to brew, answering some of them. When it’s done, I take it outside on her small porch and sit down in the Adirondack chair.

  She’s a little late. Other nights she’d be home by now, but they may have caught a call at the end of their shift. I shoot off a quick text:

  Me: Busy night?

  Leaning back I briefly close my eyes, waiting for her response.

  The sound of birds wakes me up and I blink against the early morning light. My watch shows it’s after five, I must’ve dozed off, and I quickly realize Bella never came home. My phone shows no return message either, and I’m suddenly wide awake. What the fuck?

  “I fucking just hit the sack. This better be good,” Ryan answers on the second ring, and the bottom drops out of my stomach at his words.

  “Where’s Bella?”

  “What do you mean? She left same time I did, three thirty or so.”

  “She’s not home, Ryan. She never fucking got home.”

  CHAPTER 16

  JASPER

  It’s been three hours since I called Ryan, who was the first to show up at Bella’s place. Luna had not been far behind. She’d already spoken to Dylan, who would hit the streets as soon as he dropped his son off at his mom’s.

  Luna and Ryan both understood my growing panic, given Bella’s recent state of mind. Ryan started calling around, starting with the Mercy Emergency Room, and I’d already checked with Durango PD, to see if any accidents had been reported since three thirty this morning. I was tempted to file a missing persons report, but Luna suggested we look for her ourselves first, before making the fact she suffers from depression public knowledge.

  I looked at some places in town, Dylan was checking hospital grounds and the route she would’ve taken home, while Luna drove all the way up to Hermosa to see if perhaps Bella had gone to Damian’s place. She just came back empty-handed as well. Dylan hasn’t shown yet, so I give him a call.

  “Where are you?”

  “Just pulling into the parking lot at Walmart. I just spotted emergency vehicles pulling around the back. Do you have your scanner on?”

  “No, it’s at home. Go see what’s going on.”

  “Shit,” I hear Dylan hiss.

  “Fucking talk to me, what’s going on?”

  “Hang on, let me talk to...” I listen to a muffled conversation, picking up an odd word or two that has my blood run cold.

  �
�What?” Luna prompts beside me. I have the phone on speaker and drop it on the counter, hauling my fist out and slamming it into the stainless steel fridge door.

  “Jesus, man.” I turn, ignoring Ryan who starts fussing with my hand, and instead looks at Luna, whose face is draining of all color as she’s taking in what I just heard.

  When Dylan comes back on the phone, we are both braced for the worst.

  “Walmart staff found a car parked at an odd angle, not far from the dumpster this morning. It’s Bella’s Fiat. Her purse and keys are still inside. There was a body hidden from view between the back door and the dumpster that looks to be of a male, gunshot wound to the chest.”

  The breath I’ve been holding whooshes from my lungs, and I have to hold on to the counter to stay upright.

  “Male victim?” Luna sharply asks for confirmation.

  “Male, mid-to-late-forties, and a lot of fucking blood everywhere. That’s all I know for now.”

  “On our way. Hang tight there,” she says before hanging up the phone. To me she says sharply, “Wrap some fucking shit around that hand and let’s go. Pull yourself together.”

  THERE ARE MAYBE SIX cars parked in the employee parking lot behind Walmart, not counting the numerous emergency vehicles and Bella’s red Fiat, the trunk open. The sight of her car makes everything all too real.

  “What happened to you?” Blackfoot asks, as we walk up to the group that includes the coroner. He points at my hand, which Ryan had quickly wrapped.

  “He had a disagreement with a fridge. Now what do we have?” Luna swiftly directs the conversation away from my hand and to more important matters.

  “Single shot to the chest. There’s a great amount of blood here, and more over there.” Keith points to a spot about ten feet away from Bella’s haphazardly parked car, where an officer is marking the parking lot with yellow tags. “But no trail connecting the two. The victim is an employee. According to the cashier who found him, that was where the man usually parked his truck.”

  “We’ve got a gun!” Everyone turns to the investigator taking pictures of the victim. “Looks like he fell on it.”

  “Two shooters,” Luna concludes. “One dead, one alive?”

  Hard to believe no one would’ve heard a shootout. Even at three or four in the morning.

  “Dylan,” I finally speak up. “Find out who of the employees were here between three and four.”

  “There’s three of them. I have them in the lunchroom with one of my guys,” Keith contributes. “I didn’t want them going home before we have a chance to talk to them.”

  “Good. You got a problem if Dylan starts questioning them?” I ask, aware I may be treading on toes here. Blackfoot gestures for him to go ahead. “Find out what you can,” I instruct him. “See if anyone saw Bella, either driving up, or inside.”

  Dylan jogs off, and Luna walks closer to the victim, leaving Blackfoot and me alone.

  “What is Bella’s car doing here, Jasper? And where the fuck is Bella?”

  Goddammit, I wish I had answers. “She never showed up at home. She must’ve pulled in here, coming from work.”

  “Why park in the back though?”

  “Maybe she saw something?” I turn around to look at the entrance to the main parking lot, which is directly in line with where the Fiat is parked next to the second pool of blood. “What if she saw someone in trouble—hurt—as she was pulling in? Her training would’ve kicked in.”

  “She probably wouldn’t have seen the body if she was focused on the second shooter,” Keith muses. “So Bella stops to help, walks over, and then what?”

  That’s the million dollar question, and I don’t have a fucking clue where to start. “Given that she is gone, along with the victim’s truck, we have to assume she was forced.”

  “How is this for a theory?” he proposes, looking over his shoulder at the victim and the back door before turning around to the secondary scene. “Our victim finishes his shift, walks outside and spots someone trying to get into his truck, maybe he calls out a warning first. It’s not the first time a car was stolen from this lot, if you recall.”

  “Our cop shooter?” I have to admit, the thought had crossed my mind. It’s not like there are that many trigger-happy folks walking the streets of Durango.

  “We have to keep an open mind, but yeah, I think it’s possible our guy was back here stealing another car—maybe he was planning another murder—when he got shot. Either way, the guy clearly was bleeding profusely, he would need medical attention.”

  “Unless a paramedic happened to drive up to help.”

  “How about Damian? Have you called him yet?”

  The sudden topic change threw me for a second. I had thought about contacting him, but he was likely already on his way home as we speak.

  “He’s actually arriving home from his honeymoon, early this afternoon. I should probably call her parents though.”

  I have no idea how they will react. They left her in my care just days ago. Damian’s reaction is not even in question, I know he’ll hold me personally responsible. I deserve it; I totally fucked up.

  Bella

  I think I’m still in shock.

  Concentrating on driving, I try not to think about the bleeding young man in the passenger seat—or the large gun and silencer he has aimed at my head.

  When I saw a person slumped beside a truck—I didn’t even think—I just drove right up, pulled my kit from the trunk and turned to him, noticing the blood pooling under him for the first time. It was coming from an injury to his left leg. I’m not sure what I assumed, maybe a heart attack or something, but the blood suggested something more nefarious than that. It wasn’t until I knelt by his side, opening the paramedic kit I keep in my car, when I was first introduced to that same gun. Everything was pretty much a blur after that. He refused calling for help and threatened to shoot me if I tried.

  I know I helped him up into the cab. I also remember having the presence of mind to slip my hand in my pocket and find the small button on the side of my iPhone to turn off the ringer, as he was trying to scoot to the passenger side. Then I climbed behind the wheel as ordered. Bits and pieces were hanging down from the steering column, and I received an on the spot tutorial in hot-wiring.

  “Left up there.”

  I do as he says, turning on a road that seems to lead us up the mountain. I can’t say I’ve ever been this way, although it’s hard to tell in the dark. Leaving behind the city lights peels away the last bit of security I held onto. It feels like diving off a cliff, and I wonder if I’ll come out of this alive.

  I throw a careful sideways glance at my captor, who is slumped against the passenger side door. A black baseball cap is pulled low over his face. There’s something familiar about him I can’t quite place.

  “You really need medical attention,” I try again. “You’re losing a lot of blood.”

  “That’s what I have you for,” he bites off. “Keep driving.”

  I briefly consider running the truck off the road, even if I could incapacitate him for a moment, I might be able to get away. I lift a hand off the wheel and covertly test my seat belt. I know he’s not wearing one.

  “Don’t even think about it.” I startle at his voice, as he is clearly able to read my mind. Not quite as covert as I thought.

  The road makes a sharp left, and then comes up to an intersection, I automatically slow down.

  “Stick to this road. In about half a mile you’ll see a sign to your left. There’s a dirt road going into the woods right past it. Take that.”

  I have to stop at the stop sign. Two motorcycles approach from the right, and I’m about to throw myself at their mercy, when I feel the gun poke between my ribs.

  “I will shoot you.”

  Tears spring to my eyes as I watch the two turn, pass my window, and drive completely oblivious the way we just came. Someone with bigger balls would’ve given it a shot.

  “Let’s go,” he prompts when I’
m not moving.

  I’m actually contemplating the irony of it all. You see, I’m pretty sure the man sitting beside me is the same one whose actions triggered last week’s breakdown when he shot Bert with the same gun and silencer. Which brought me to a point where I was voluntarily withdrawing from life, and might have welcomed the promise of an easy exit. Yet here I am, a week later, desperate to stay alive.

  Obediently I continue up the mountain until I spot the sign—Ridgeview Rentals, 1 mile—and turn left onto the dirt road just beyond. What little illumination the night provides is almost completely obliterated by the canopy of trees covering us, and I’m completely dependent on the truck’s headlights to guide me through.

  The dirt road is quickly reduced to a narrow trail, until it ends suddenly.

  “Pull in between those boulders,” he orders, indicating a couple of large rocks to my left. “We’ll have to walk the rest of the way.”

  “How are you going to walk?” I look pointedly at his incapacitated left leg.

  “You’re gonna help me. It’s not far.”

  He has me get out the driver’s side before scooting over on the seat and exiting the same door, never taking the gun off me.

  He’s right, it isn’t far; maybe fifty yards from where we parked the truck. He has his left arm hooked around my neck, I have mine around his waist, supporting him as we make our way through the brush. Just in case I might get any ideas, his other hand is pressing the barrel of the gun in my side.

  The small log cabin is mostly obscured from view by trees. At least on the back side, where we approach. All I see are two small windows, but not much else; it’s pitch dark out. Around the front there is a bit of a clearing and a gravel pathway leads into the woods to the left. The cabin sports two steps up to a small covered porch.