Cabin 12

by Freya Barker

  “Key is in my right pocket,” he says a little out of breath when we come up to the door.

  He leans against the doorpost, while I have to use both hands to get the lock to turn. I note the large oblong tag on the key ring, like an old-fashioned hotel key. The number matches the one on the door: 12.

  It’s not until I flick on the light switch on the right side of the door that I get my first good look at the punk who has me at gunpoint, and I’m stunned.

  “You?

  CHAPTER 17

  BELLA

  “So now you recognize me. I knew who you were right off the bat.”

  The young man, who always seemed so shy with his sweet smiles, looks menacing now, with a painful grimace exposing his teeth and hatred in his dark eyes. What gives him away are the acne scars that mar his face.

  “What’s your name?” I ask, hoping to find some way to connect with the nice kid I remember from the McDonald’s window.

  “Does it matter?” he snaps, as he drops a small backpack I never noticed on the couch, the sound of metal hitting metal implying it’s much heavier than it looks. Then he makes is way over to a Formica kitchen table and sits down heavily in one of the chairs.

  “Maybe not, but it makes communication a little easier,” I suggest, and he seems to think about that. “I’m Bella,” I add, to prompt him.

  “Connor,” he finally mumbles. “Now can you fix me up?”

  I look at his wound and notice fresh blood dripping down his pant leg onto the vinyl kitchen floor.

  “I can try.”

  I walk over and drop the medical kit, I had slung over my shoulder, on the kitchen table, zipping it open. The first thing I grab is a pair of bandage scissors, which seems to make him nervous.

  “Watch what you do with those.”

  “They’re blunt, see?” I show him the flat, rounded ends, designed especially to avoid injuring. “I need to cut away your jeans, unless you want to try and take them off?” Judging by the sweat starting to drip from his forehead, he’s in no shape for any gymnastics. He waves his free hand, urging me to go ahead.

  I methodically cut up both legs, along the zipper and through the waistband, so all he has to do is lift his butt and I can discard the jeans. When I see the skinny white legs sticking out of a pair of well-worn Power Rangers boxers, I almost forget the kid is aiming a gun at me. A gun he’s used to kill trained police officers. I have no doubt he’ll use it on me if I give him reason. My immediate objective is not to give him one.

  “I’m just going to grab some water,” I say, moving cautiously to the sink. “Is this clean to drink?”

  “Spring fed.”

  Scouring the cabinets, I find a metal bowl and fill it up at the tap before returning to the table. I carefully wash around the bullet hole and check the back of his leg for an exit wound. There is none. He has a nice sized hole in his upper thigh.

  “You’ll need to have that bullet removed,” I point out, kneeling on the floor by his feet. “I don’t know if it’s hit bone, or what kind of damage it’s done on the inside, but you’re still bleeding. Unless we can at least pack—if not close this hole,—you might be in bigger trouble than you already are.”

  “Then you take it out.”

  “I can’t do that. I’m a paramedic, not a surgeon.”

  The hand with the gun slowly lifts from the table and drops down, pressing the barrel against my forehead.

  “If you can’t do it, then what good are you to me?”

  The malice is dripping from his voice, and there are no more words necessary to drive home his threat. I get it.

  “I’ll try,” I concede. It’s all I can promise.

  “Grab my pack.” I do as asked and note that indeed, the pack is heavy. “You’ll find a bicycle lock in there; a long chain with a coded padlock. Get those out.”

  He has me chain myself by an ankle to the old refrigerator door. “In case I pass out,” he says by way of explanation. “Don’t want you running off.”

  The chain is long enough that I can reach the table and the sink, but not much else. I’d hoped to leave the lock shut only partway, so if he does pass out, I could get away, but apparently he’s anticipated that.

  “Lift your foot on the table.”

  With one hand, he makes sure the lock is closed properly before scrambling the numbered wheels with his thumb. So much for that plan.

  “Do you have any alcohol?” I ask and he looks at me surprised.

  “I’m not twenty-one yet.”

  I think my mouth may have dropped open at the ridiculousness of that statement. Here he is, toting around a man-sized gun, shooting and killing people, but he’s worried about drinking before he’s legal?

  Whether the absurdity of his words, or the slow buildup of hysteria, I sink to the ground on my ass, laughing until the tears are running down my face. My mind can’t quite wrap around my situation, and it feels like sanity is slipping.

  A firm kick to my leg, snaps me back to reality.

  “Get on with it,” he grinds out between clenched teeth.

  I use the hem of my shirt to wipe my wet cheeks and get to my feet.

  Five minutes later, I have all I think I need lined up on the kitchen table and peel the paper backing off the sterile scalpel. I look up into Connor’s eyes; instead of the dark hate I saw there before, there is only pain and fear left.

  He looks innocent and scared, even though I know better.

  Jasper

  I watch through the window of the terminal as first Kerry, and then Damian, come down the stairs rolled up against the plane on the tarmac.

  Luna had offered to pick them up, but I wouldn’t let her. It’s my responsibility. Just as it was my job to contact her parents. That was a painful phone call. Her mother had answered and immediately, when I told her Bella was missing, she became irate—throwing blame squarely at my feet—and there wasn’t a thing I could say. She was absolutely right in her anger. Mr. Gomez took the phone at some point and asked some pointed questions I was able to answer. They should be on their way by now.

  I imagine this encounter won’t go much better.

  I know the exact moment Damian spots me. The smile he just gave his new wife, vanishes from his face, and his back goes ramrod straight as he stalks to the terminal doors, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “Where is my sister?” he asks in a low, threatening voice when he walks up, Kerry half running to keep up. I expected him to figure out something was up as soon as he noticed Bella wasn’t here to pick them up.

  “She never made it home from work.” All I hear is the sharp intake of breath from Kerry, who grabs onto Damian’s arm, as I decide to rip off the Band-Aid. “Her car was found behind the Walmart store, just south of town. Her purse inside.”

  “And where were you?” Kerry hangs onto his arm when he growls his words, leaning in close enough our noses almost touch.

  I don’t move, whatever he wants to dole out—I have coming. “Waiting for her at her house, clearing the place like I’ve been doing every night.”

  Kerry finally manages to pull him back a little and automatically his arm curves around her, pulling her tight to his body.

  “My parents...”

  “On their way. Let’s get your bags.”

  I don’t wait for his answer, but turn and head for the luggage belt.

  It’s not until we’re in the Bureau’s Explorer, I opted to take instead of my truck, that Damian speaks again.

  “What have you got?”

  I try to be careful in my description, for Kerry’s benefit, but there’s no way to sugarcoat a dead body and blood at the scene. By the time we pull up to Bella’s house—which is where Kerry insisted we go—the rest of the Gomez family has already arrived.

  Chaos ensues the moment Damian gets out of the car. He’s instantly surrounded by his mother and sisters, while I help Kerry from the back seat. Mr. Gomez comes around our side and kisses Kerry on the cheek before turning to me. He loo
ks like he’s aged twenty years in one week.

  “Sir, I’m so—” I start, but he stops me with a sharp shake of his head.

  “No, son. No blame. Not from me. The girls, they are...upset. Scared. It’s easier they have someone to point at. It will pass. I will handle them. You go find my Isabella.”

  I can do little more than nod, tied up with a host of unfamiliar emotions.

  “Greene,” Damian calls from the other side of the vehicle. “Let’s go, I want to touch base with Blackfoot.”

  Ignoring the glares from the womenfolk, with the exception of Kerry, who gives me a sad little smile; I get behind the wheel and head back out to the road.

  LUNA IS BY THE WHITEBOARD in the Durango PD operations room, adding in information we compiled resulting from our trip to Farmington, only yesterday, about our suspected shooter. As agreed, she’s keeping some details off the board. It sure as fuck feels like weeks ago.

  I’m living on maybe two and a half hours of sleep, a cocktail of adrenaline and fear, and as much coffee as I can get my hands on. I’ve had nothing to eat since the pizza we shared back at the office last night after the funeral. Something apparently Dylan is intent on rectifying, as he walks in with a Subway bag and makes his way over to where I’m sitting.

  “Eat,” he orders. “You’ll give yourself a doozy of an ulcer if you don’t get something in your stomach to absorb that toxic waste they call coffee here.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble, unwrapping the sandwich, even though I am not in the least hungry.

  “Don’t thank me, thank the boss,” he says, stepping aside to reveal Damian right behind him.

  “Thanks,” I repeat, this time to Damian, who nods and takes a chair on the other side of the table.

  “You look like shit and you’re no good to me incapacitated. Now, fucking eat.”

  Small groups of people start filling the room for the briefing. I keep my eye on the door and nudge Damian when Tom McMahan walks in. I’d filled Damian in on everything on our way here. Including the possible motive Keith pointed me to. The man works the room like a true politician, smiling and shaking hands like it’s some kind of goddamn social gathering, not an operations briefing for a missing woman who may be held by a cop killer.

  The moment he spots the large whiteboard Luna has been updating, he freezes on the spot, and I know he’s seen her note behind ‘motive.’

  “Can I have your attention please?” Blackfoot is at the front, getting everyone’s attention. “I have requested the FBI to lead a task force on this investigation.”

  Immediately sounds of objection go up, and I notice the chief still standing, staring down Keith, who continues undeterred.

  “Quiet! Ballistics came back on bullets recovered from this morning’s shooting victim. They match the ones recovered from Officers Belker and Cummings. We are dealing with a serial killer, who apparently is adding abduction to his litany of offenses. SAC Gomez? Please?”

  Damian gets up and moves to the front, taking a moment to look around the room.

  “Approximately twelve hours ago, my youngest sister, Isabella Maria Gomez, was taken from the employee parking lot behind the Walmart at 1115 South Camina Del Rio, presumably at gunpoint.”

  “Excuse me,” McMahan suddenly interrupts, focusing on Blackfoot. “I don’t recall approving such a request.”

  “Oh, but you did,” Keith answers, producing a piece of paper. “You signed it this morning.”

  “Yes, for a task force to be formed, but you never mentioned requesting the FBI take the lead on this.”

  “It’s right here in black and white.”

  The paper is snatched from Blackfoot’s hands and scrutinized.

  “I assume that is cleared up?” Damian doesn’t expect an answer and forges on. “As you can see, some new information has come to light on a potential motive and suspect. We’ve put together the details in the package that’s being handed out now.”

  Luna goes around with the updated files, handing everyone a copy, including the chief of police, who tosses it on a table and stalks out of the meeting room.

  Keith looks over at me, and I raise my eyebrows. This is not unexpected. Chief McMahan may be of questionable ethics, but no one said he wasn’t quick on the uptake. This move was carefully planned, just forty-five minutes ago, behind the closed doors of Blackfoot’s office. We needed to make sure that once the death of Franklin Davis was introduced as possible motive, there was no possibility for undue influence on the resulting investigation. This goes to possible police corruption, and McMahan knows it, even if it simply looks like a task force formation to everybody else. And that was exactly the idea.

  We cannot afford to lose any time or focus. Not with Bella out there at the mercy of a killer.

  I know all too well the depravity of mankind, I’ve seen enough evidence over the years. The thought of Bella subjected to that kind of evil has my stomach revolt, and I have to fight to keep my sandwich down.

  It’s not until we are on our way back to the office on Rock Point, after a clear direction and the division of tasks was accomplished at the briefing, that I share the details of Bella’s recent emotional struggle with her brother.

  I don’t want to betray her trust, but under these circumstances, I feel I don’t have a choice. He needs to know.

  Suffice it to say he doesn’t take it well.

  Bella

  I lean my head back against the kitchen cupboard and look into Connor’s dark eyes. His face has an unhealthy grayish tinge. I’m concerned.

  After making the initial cut to widen the wound in his leg, he stopped me to toss the gun behind him on the couch. Within reach for him but out of reach for me. I didn’t mind; his hand had been shaking so badly, I was afraid he’d shoot me by accident.

  I rolled up a kitchen towel and gave it to him to bite on, since I had nothing around to sedate him with. Those types of medications are kept in the ambulance, not in my kit.

  It was hard, trying to ignore his muffled screams as I used a straight hemostat to attempt dislodging the bullet I could feel with my pinkie finger. I finally managed, though, but as I explained to him, I can’t guarantee there aren’t fragments of the bullet or bone splinters floating around, potentially wreaking havoc. After I rinsed out and packed the wound, wrapping a tight compression bandage around his leg to stop the bleeding, I slid back along the floor until I hit the cupboard behind me.

  It probably was a combination of stress, adrenaline let down, and sheer exhaustion, but at some point I must’ve fallen asleep. When I open my eyes, the light inside the cottage is on, but it’s dark outside. I’m a bit disoriented, is it still Saturday?

  I take stock of my surroundings and it’s everywhere—blood.

  I’ve seen lots of blood in my day, but I’ve never been covered in it. The linoleum looks like the floor of a slaughterhouse and the front of my shirt is stiff with it. I strip off the gloves I’m still wearing, and I see that it’s even seeped underneath, staining the skin of my hands. Scrambling to my feet, I hold them under the tap, using dish soap to try and scrub the stain from my fingers. With my luck, he’ll end up being HIV positive or something, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.

  I feel strange, detached, as I turn around, almost hoping he’s dead. Connor’s eyes are closed, but he’s breathing, albeit shallowly. I feel both disappointment and relief. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to use my phone and this may be it. I slowly slip my hand under my oversized shirt, keeping my eyes on him, and sneak my fingers into my pocket.

  “What are you doing?”

  It takes everything out of me not to jump at the sound of his voice. His eyes slowly open and I scramble, pretending to wipe my hands on my shirt.

  “Washing my hands, why? You don’t expect me to wipe them on that towel you had in your mouth do you?” It’s not hard to fall back on attitude as a cover-up. It’s worked for me for years and seems to do the trick now.

  “Do you have any painkill
ers in that bag?” His face is drawn with pain.

  “I may have a few ibuprofen.” I dig though my bag and find a container that seems to have a few remaining. I fill a glass with water, shake a few tablets in his hand, and watch him swallow it down. “Any chance you can take off the chain? I need to use the bathroom and the floor could use a wash.”

  He stares at me for the longest time, before reaching over and grabbing his gun from the couch. I freeze, afraid he’s realized he doesn’t really have further use for me, but he motions me over. I lift my foot and he quickly opens the padlock. I try to catch a glimpse of the numbers, but he’s too fast, and I’m at the wrong angle.

  Unchained, I start walking toward the small hallway in the back, where I assume I can find the bathroom.

  “You get two minutes, and keep the door open,” Connor says behind me and I turn around. “Don’t bother trying the window, I haven’t been able to open it since I moved in here.”

  I nod my understanding, and continue moving through the main room, making note of as much as I can take in. A PlayStation is set up beside a small flat-screen TV, a pile of dirty clothes is tossed in the corner of the couch, and the coffee table is littered with dirty dishes. Looks like Connor has been here a while.

  There is a door on either side of the doorway, and I start pushing open the one on the right when he calls out. “Stay out of there!”

  A quick glance, before pulling it shut again, shows a cache of weapons and ammunition on the unmade bed. I quickly scoot into the bathroom and close the door not quite all the way.

  The bathroom is disgusting, but I actually do have to pee, so I quickly pull my phone from my pocket before pushing down my pants and hovering over the seat. A glance at my screen shows eleven voice messages and even more texts. I don’t want to waste time reading them so I tap the last one, which is from Jasper. Just as I’m about to type in a message, I hear shuffling on the other side of the door. I one-handedly type in the first thing that comes to mind, as I pull up my pants with the other. I quickly hit send, and am about to flush when the door slams open.