by Mark Mueller
While a grudging Mr. Coffee groaned and complained as it brewed me a pot of coffee, I looked out my office window. The black, inky night sky was beginning to turn morning gray. I could see the early risers making their way along Route 31. I was glad I didn’t have to get up for work at this hour on a regular basis. News didn’t unfold at this time of day, unless the FBI or State police was raiding a suspected drug dealer’s home or place of business. And being that Spruce Run was out in the sticks, major crimes didn’t happen here. Of course, Charlie’s disappearance and Maddy’s shooting had made a liar out of me. What was this world coming to?
Mr. Coffee signaled that its first pot of the day was open for business. I poured myself a mug and added enough milk and sugar to launch Apollo 18. I disliked coffee so much that adding a ton of sugar was the only way I could tolerate it.
I took a sip as I walked back to the window, and grimaced. Even with all the sugar, the coffee still tasted like warm antifreeze. I didn’t know how people drank the stuff.
My mind wandered to the dream I’d been having while I slept in the chair. I was still blown away at how graphic it had been. And I was both bewildered and amazed. Why did I have that dream? I didn’t know Gertie Machine on a personal level, just in passing. Everything I knew about her was from my online research and from anecdotes from older Spruce Run townies. Still, the dream didn’t make sense.
Then, again, how often do dreams make sense? I’m a simple person. Not that I’m shallow by any stretch, but I am someone who doesn’t need to be complex. But still, having this dream was weird.
It came to me in a flash—Deke Snyder’s secret cabin in the woods next to the Spruce Run Creek. Was it still there after all these years? And if it was, why hadn’t anyone thought to look? I didn’t know because I didn’t think to look there, either. Snyder’s cabin should have been the first place I looked after I’d received that FedEx envelope. I felt like kicking myself.
I stopped for a moment. Something wasn’t right with this scenario. It couldn’t have been this easy. If someone was going to kidnap a child, why would they tell me where to look, via a FedEx envelope? And why would they hide her in an abandoned cabin that, if it was still standing, had to be dilapidated beyond repair from forty years of disuse? It didn’t make sense.
I dialed Ducky’s cell. It rang five times and went to voicemail. Most likely he was still sleeping because it was only a little past five. I left him a message to call my cell as soon as he could, and then I went out to my Charger. Before I got in, I checked my pistol to make sure it was still loaded. I then tried Ducky’s cell one more time. Still no answer. Just five rings and then the voicemail greeting.
I was on my own.
As I pulled away from the Bugler, I resolved that whoever had kidnapped Charlie and shot at Maddy was going to have a bad day. A very bad day. One way or another, I was going to end this. Although I loved Ducky like a brother, the sheriff’s department wasn’t doing enough. And that Amber Alert? Give me a break. That crap never worked.
Back when I had researched the Machine family tragedy, I had found Snyder’s cabin by the creek just as it had been reported. The cabin was in bad shape, even then, but I wasn’t sure if it was still standing now. I wanted to make sure. The note Beth Henry had “found” at the Bugler made me think. A shack is a shack and a cabin is a cabin, but to some people, it might not make a difference. And until this morning, I hadn’t made the connection. Either way, I was going to see if Snyder’s cabin was the same structure as the shack on Beth’s note. I was almost positive it would be.
It was time to take care of business.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I drove out past the Spruce Run reservoir and parked at a gravel turnabout, which was eight miles north of town on Route 31. It was about six miles north of the shack that Ducky’s team and I had found earlier.
I put on my hiking boots and started in to the woods. The old walking path I had used when researching Snyder’s cabin was much narrower and overgrown than the last time I had seen it. It was obvious that it hadn’t been used much during the past several years. I was glad I was wearing my jacket. Otherwise, I would have gotten all scratched up, from tree branches and from raspberry and blackberry bushes.
Once I got to the creek, I turned north and followed the path running along its eastern bank. Snyder’s cabin, if it was still standing, was about a two-mile hike. I was in fair shape, so I wasn’t concerned about the distance. It would have been more convenient to park closer, but I had to hike through a private property that didn’t allow motor vehicles to pass through.
That didn’t bother me. If anything, the hiking helped me clear my head. I was angry and I could feel that my blood pressure was as high as a crack addict’s drug debt.
I knew I had to stay level-headed, if the cabin was still there and was open for business. At the same time, though, I was also feeling a small, yet unsettling sense of fear. After all, what was I going to do if the cabin was still standing and someone was there? Would they be holding Charlie hostage? And more to the point, would I be able to rescue her safely if she was there? I began to feel a knot in my stomach, and started to doubt myself for the first time since this nightmare had started.
This fear was a different reflex than the fear I experienced when I wanted to drink. With alcoholism, the desire to drink was a physical and mental all-consuming craving, which was, at times, stronger than the desire to breathe. And the fear I had experienced as an alcoholic stemmed from the constant worry that I wouldn’t have enough Jameson Irish Whiskey to keep me satisfied when the liquor stores closed up each evening. People who aren’t alcoholics, by and large, don’t believe that those intense cravings and fears exist. Those people insist that alcoholism is nothing more than an immoral, sinful act that can be turned on and off like a light switch.
Maybe it’s sinful if an addict who knows they have a problem chooses not to get help, or maybe it’s sinful if an addict commits a crime while they’re high on their drug of choice. But I don’t believe that alcoholism, in itself, is sinful, any more than having the flu makes someone sinful.
Take myself, for example. I am an alcoholic. I went through an alcohol recovery program five and a half years ago, and I haven’t touched alcohol since. And even though I was successful in completing the program, I know I can never touch even one sip of alcohol again for the rest of my life, because I’m an alcoholic.
My point is that since I’m an alcoholic in recovery—and an alcoholic is an alcoholic, mind you—does it mean that since I am one, it makes me an immoral and sinful person, just because?
I would be if I started drinking again and committed a crime, or was disrespectful toward others in my thoughts, in my words, in what I have done, or in what I have failed to do. However, I am not an immoral or sinful person for the sole reason that I am an alcoholic. The sin is in what negative thoughts or actions an alcoholic does in their condition, not in who they are.
The knot in my stomach was getting sharper as I closed in on ground zero. My nerves were starting to frazzle, and a light sheen of perspiration covered my skin. I was beginning to wonder what I was doing by coming out here all by myself. Maybe I shouldn’t have come out here alone.
I pulled my cell out of my pocket and checked the screen for signal strength. Three bars. I glanced at the cell’s clock. It was almost seven. I tried calling Ducky again but this time my call went straight to voicemail without ringing. I disconnected the connection, since I had already left a message.
Since Ducky’s cell didn’t ring this time, I knew he was awake and on the phone. I considered for a moment that maybe I should just turn around and go get him, but then I dismissed it. I knew I couldn’t turn back. I had to do this.
After I had been hiking for forty-five minutes, I stopped and turned around. I knew there would be a secondary spur path that veered off near where I was standing. But since the path I was on had become much more overgrown during the past several years, I knew that finding t
he spur path would be more difficult. It was “needle in a haystack’ time.
I looked around to get my bearings, hoping for the smallest of chance that I might be able to see the cabin through the trees and underbrush, but it was fruitless. I had to give Deke Snyder credit. He knew what he was doing when he hid his cabin out here. He didn’t want to be found. And it was now the perfect place for someone to hide if the cabin was indeed still standing.
Continuing to look for the spur path, my foot caught a thick tree root that had grown across the path. I stumbled and tried to catch myself but instead landed with a thud on my left shoulder. I cursed.
It was then that I noticed a box turtle about four feet ahead of me. It looked at me as though I was the biggest dumbass it had ever seen.
Once I was on my feet again, I dusted myself off and checked to make sure my pistol was secure in its holster. The last thing I needed was to find out later on that I had lost it in the woods. I’d have a ridiculous time trying to explain it to Ducky. I’d never hear the end of it.
Aside from a scratch on my left hand, everything else was in order. I looked down and observed the turtle lumbering away. I took a step back, and it was then that I recognized that the turtle was on the spur path. If it hadn’t been for tripping over the tree root, I never would have seen it.
I followed the spur and stepped over the turtle. I thanked him (or her) and worked my way through the dense underbrush. Though the thicket was excessively overgrown, I recognized where I was. Snyder’s cabin, if it was still standing, would be about seventy yards from the turnoff.
The overgrowth made for slow progress, but I didn’t mind. I didn’t want to come upon the cabin too fast and spook whoever was there. If someone was there. A spooked person would be unpredictable. And I wanted to keep the upper hand if things got dicey, which I prayed wouldn’t happen.
Doing my best to stay calm, I continued forward. I thought about Maddy and considered calling Peggy to see how she was doing, but decided against it. I didn’t want anyone out here to hear my voice. It might make things dangerous.
So, I refocused on Charlie. How would I handle the situation if I found her out here? And if I got her home, would I have any chance of a relationship with her?
Fatherhood. That was a scary word. Could I do it? Was I capable of being a father? I didn’t know. But in a way, I kind of liked the idea of it. I had a brief introduction to Charlie at the fireworks the other night and I had to admit she was a cute kid. Of course she was cute. She had my genes. That made me smile.
I looked up and noticed the cabin coming into view. It hadn’t changed much since the last time I had seen it. The roof sagged a little, but the glass in the windows was intact, and the outer log walls had faded into a disturbing, yet warm shade of gray.
My approach to the cabin was quiet as possible. When the cabin was in full view, I hunched down and drew my pistol as a precaution. Moving as stealthily as I could, I found an ancient oak tree that was wide enough to serve as a hidden observation post for the cabin and its surroundings. The first thing I noticed was a very thin stream of smoke rising from the cabin’s chimney. That meant just one thing. The cabin was occupied.
The knot in my stomach became much sharper, as if I a seppuku knife was sticking in me.
I recalled that the cabin’s door was on the north side of the structure, and the windows faced the southern and western exposures. Since I approached from the east, I looked around to see if I could circumnavigate the shack without being seen. I wanted to find out who was inside, and I didn’t think it would be prudent to walk up to the door and say hello.
I was in luck. Since the cabin had been abandoned for several years, the landscaping around it hadn’t been maintained and the wild shrubbery was an overgrown mess.
Crouching down with my pistol drawn, I moved counter clockwise with caution around the cabin at a respectable distance. Within minutes, I had passed the cabin door, and I could see that it was shut. Since the door didn’t have a window, I kept moving. A few moments later I was facing the western window, but I couldn’t see through it because the early morning sun was in my face.
My only other option was the south window. Hopefully, the sun would cooperate. How I wished for a cloudy day at that moment.
When I came around that side of the cabin, I slinked around an old maple tree and took position behind it. My heart was racing and I was perspiring like a guilty man awaiting the gallows.
Moving the pistol from one hand to the other, I wiped my sweaty hands one at a time on my pants. The last thing I needed was for the pistol to slip out of my hands. I took several deep breaths and then peered around the maple tree.
Luck was still with me. Although there was some overgrown foliage between me and the window, I could see inside the cabin.
The first thing that caught my eye was that the cabin’s interior was alight, which meant that whoever was inside had made plans to stay awhile. The light was too strong to be from candlelight, so I surmised it was, in all likelihood, coming from a kerosene lamp. Kerosene made sense because it could also be used for cooking. Whoever was inside was smart enough to keep from drawing attention by building a fire. And since it was summertime, they didn’t need to heat the place overnight, either.
I retreated back around the old maple tree and took a couple more deep breaths. If I were going to see who was inside the cabin, I’d have to get a closer look. I wondered why whoever was in there didn’t have the windows covered with shades or blinds, or even a blanket. If I was hiding out in a cabin in the woods, I’d be as paranoid as a turkey on Thanksgiving. I’d make sure no one would have a peek inside.
I was as nervous a mongoose encountering a snake pit, and my hands wouldn’t stay dry. I wiped both my hands on my pants again for good measure. Then, I took another deep breath and eased my way back around the maple tree. I crouched low and moved to my left so I’d approach the window at an angle instead of straight on. No sense in making it easy for whoever was inside to see me.
As I approached, as clandestine as I could, I held my pistol in front of me the way Ducky had taught me: using both hands, with elbows locked. I wasn’t sure if keeping a finger on the trigger meant I was smart or stupid. Either way, I didn’t want to be caught vulnerable if someone came at me without warning.
Within a couple of moments, I had my back against the cabin wall, just left of the window. I was surprised that I had been able to get there without making a sound. I was sure I’d snap a branch or step in a hole and break my ankle.
I leaned against the wall and took several slow, deep breaths to keep myself calm. I couldn’t tell which was racing faster, my mind or my heart. Part of me was worried that I was going to drop dead from a heart attack right where I stood. The other part of me was convinced that whoever was inside the cabin had seen me and was going to storm out and shoot me to death right where I stood. Neither was a pretty picture. I had to stay calm. And I had to somehow find a way to look through the window without getting caught.
Since I wasn’t MacGyver and didn’t have enough creativity to fabricate an invisible mirror on a stick out of tree branches, acorns and moss, I only had one viable option. I had to be a peeping tom and take a look through the window the old-fashioned way, and not get busted in the process.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I inched closer to the cabin window. Just before I got to the window, I turned around so I’d have a better view. My heart was racing so fast that I could have opened my chest for business as a telegraph office.
At first, I didn’t see anything inside the cabin except for a card table and two metal folding chairs. On the table was a fashion magazine and a half-eaten bowl of cereal. I then noticed two sleeping bags on the floor next to the table and chairs. The bags appeared as if they had been just vacated.
Feeling bolder, I looked further into the room. I suppressed the desire to release one of my hands from my pistol in order to shield my eyes from the increasing morning sunlight. Instea
d, I squinted my eyes and continued to focus through the window, noting everything I could see inside.
A moment later, I saw her. Charlie was sitting on a chair, close to a corner that was almost out of my sightline. Almost.
I found her! My daughter was alive! And she appeared to be okay, at least from a cursory examination. I looked closer. She was dirty and her hair was messed up, but looked, at least from my viewpoint, that she was being fed. Getting her home to Maddy was a real possibility, now.
My heart surged and grew two sizes in an instant.
To get her attention, I raised my pistol to tap the window. I hoped she’d remember me from the other night at fireworks display. Otherwise, it would be very possible that I’d frighten her more than she already was.
But just as I tapped the window, I noticed some motion almost out of view. I pulled the pistol away from the window and strained to look further. Someone was in the cabin with Charlie, but I couldn’t tell who it was. Whoever was in there was just out of sight.
I decided I wasn’t in the mood to fool around. Charlie was in there and she was in trouble. I didn’t care who it was in there with her. Charlie was going to come home with me and I was going to take her to Maddy. The fear I had felt up to this point was gone.
Instead, I was enraged.
And was going to end this now.
I stalked around to the cabin door. As I did, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and texted 911 to Ducky. Then, I counted to ten and dialed his cell. Once I heard the cell ringing, I put it in my jacket pocket without turning it off. I knew that once Ducky received my text, he’d know I needed help. And by leaving my cell on, he’d be able track where I was through the Sheriff’s Department GPS system. I wouldn’t be here alone for long.
When I got to the cabin door, I tried turning the door handle, but it was locked. The handle looked somewhat secure, and I considered taking a short running lunge to get it open. I decided against it, knowing that the odds were good I’d dislocate my shoulder. Instead, I pounded on the door and demanded that it be opened immediately. I hoped I sounded as good as Dirty Harry Callahan.
