In three directions, she saw trails—the question was which one of them led to the road . . . and where would that road lead? She filled her chest with mountain air, and smiled, because it didn’t hurt. At least not as much as her previous breaths had. The more oxygen she took in, the more her lungs . . . and her brain revived. She scuttled inside the cabin and a feeling of déjà vu came over her—there was something excruciatingly familiar about this place. Something locked behind an impenetrable door in her secret mind. That’s what Laura called the part of her brain that refused to give up information. Dr. Duncan, the therapist she’d started seeing when the family moved to DC, said the blank spots in her memory were the result of compartmentalization—a psychological defense mechanism that was, in fact, healthy because it allowed Laura to function normally despite the awful things she’d experienced in the past. Dr. Duncan said not to push it. That Laura was strong, and in time, she’d remember everything. Dr. Webber believed she never would.
Please let Dr. Duncan be right.
Maybe if she explored the area around the cabin, she’d recognize a landmark, or a sign on the trail.
But first, she had to get warm.
She shook out her hands, closed her eyes, then opened them again. With sharp vision, no longer tunneled from fear, she prowled systematically around the cabin, though there was little to take stock of. Perhaps cabin was too generous a term. This was really more of a hut.
All one room.
A charred, stone fireplace.
No indoor plumbing.
A bunk bed.
Table and chair . . . and, this was weird . . . a throw rug. What was a rug doing in a bare bones place like this?
Bending forward, she peeked beneath the table and saw little bottles scattered across the frayed rug. After collecting them, she placed them on the table for inspection. There were four amber pill bottles. All of them empty. All of them prescribed to Laura Chaucer. She recognized the names of the medicines—antidepressants and sleeping pills she hadn’t taken in years.
The same ones that, in the past, had caused her hallucinations.
The same ones prescribed by, and then discontinued by, Dr. Webber.
Her hands began to shake. If she’d taken all these pills, or if they’d been fed to her, then she should be dead.
That had to have been a lethal dose.
It didn’t add up until her gaze travelled to the dried puke on the floor. As she’d lain unconscious, she’d purged her stomach contents, and in all likelihood that had saved her life. And now that her body was free of the poison, she was growing stronger by the minute.
But . . . she could easily have choked on her vomit.
She shuddered.
He’d given her a lethal dose of pills and left her in the wilderness to die.
But why not finish her off with the knife?
Had he wanted it to seem like she’d done this to herself?
A sob welled in her chest.
It did seem like she’d done it to herself.
Maybe she had.
Maybe she was the monster.
No!
She lifted her hand and then, quite deliberately, slapped herself hard on the cheek. Feeling sorry for herself was useless . . . and letting him get in her head was dangerous.
You didn’t do this.
And you didn’t die.
You survived.
Now get over it!
Turning her attention back to the rug, she jerked it away and drew in a quick breath. The rug that didn’t make sense suddenly did.
It’d been used to cover a trap door!
She dragged the table out of the way and heaved the trap door open, releasing a flood of dust into the room. A ladder, on which she counted seven rungs, led down to a small cellar. More of a storage closet really. She crept down, her heart climbing higher in her throat with each step. The space was small and dim. Once her eyes accommodated to the low light, she paced off the area. Six feet wide. Another six feet long. Shoved against one end of the cellar, stood a trunk.
Just the right size to hide a body.
The thought made her skin crawl, and she retreated to the opposite wall.
Don’t be a ninny.
Of course there could be a corpse concealed inside, but far more likely, this trunk would contain supplies. And the benefit of finding supplies was well worth the risk, no matter how terrifying, of discovering a dead body.
With tiny, reluctant steps, she approached the trunk, then on a deep inhale reached out and touched the lid. Squeezing her eyes closed, she tugged it up. The hinges creaked. The space, already musty, now reeked of mothballs.
On three.
One . . . two . . . she opened her eyes.
And her jaw fell open.
She crouched down, and like a dog frantically burrowing under a fence to make his break for freedom, dug into the trunk, sending the contents flying over her shoulder.
Snow pants. A hooded jacket. Blankets. More clothes.
She came across waterproof matches, and her heart thudded in her chest. Once the trunk was finally empty, she rocked back on her knees and began sorting through all the loot: pots and pans, packets of freeze-dried food, a camel pack, and more bottles she could use to store water. She checked the expiration on the food packets. They were several years past, but she didn’t care. She needed nourishment.
What more could she possibly ask for?
And then, tears began to stream down her face. Behind the trunk, she spied a pair of hiking boots—a bounty worth more than gold. She could hardly contain her gratitude. She pulled her knees to her chest, basking in the realization that she had everything she needed to prepare herself for the dangerous journey home. And home was where she longed to go. To a mother and father whose only crime was loving her too much, trying too hard keep her safe from the evil in the world.
And there was evil.
All around her.
It’d always been with her.
The strangest idea occurred to her, then.
That she was safer here.
Alone in the woods.
But that was crazy.
She had to get home.
Home meant safety.
She dragged on an undershirt, long johns and a flannel top; buttoned a knit cap beneath her chin, and loaded up the small backpack with all the supplies that would fit. Pulling on socks and boots, she shook her head at how, only a few minutes ago, she’d been intending to hike out of the wilderness in a dress and pumps.
Threading her arms into a Gore-Tex jacket, she noted one side-pocket was heavy. Inside she found a notebook and a topographic map. As she studied the map, the mystery of her good fortune turned to comprehension.
A red X marked the spot—Frank’s Cabin.
She’d been left for dead all right. But her foolish monster had abandoned her in a forest service cabin—one of a string of huts intended to provide comfort for hikers and skiers on cross-country treks. In season, the popular huts were busy enough to require reservations. But this time of year, when it was too wet to hike, but not yet snowy enough to snowshoe or ski—the huts, like the roads, were closed to the public. No ranger would be stopping by to check on her—that was certain.
But her spirits climbed as she ascended the ladder out of the cellar and back into the room she now knew was “Frank’s Cabin.” Anchored to the bunk bed a logbook and pencil dangled from a dirty string.
She opened the book.
Inside, someone had written in heavy marker: Take what you need. Leave what you can for others, even if it’s just a note of encouragement or thanks. The words brought a lump to her throat, and her heart swelled. At first, she’d been unable to believe her luck at finding the food and clothing, but now, she understood.
It wasn’t luck.
It wasn’t coincidence.
That trunk full of treasure was the direct result of the good in people.
The hikers who’d used this cabin had provided her with something far more valu
able than boots and food. They’d supplied the one thing that could keep her going. The one thing that gave her a shot at outwitting a monster and making it down off this mountain alive.
They’d given her hope.
Reverently, she read the names in the book, tracing each one with her finger, and saying thank you aloud to each person represented. Had it been Louise Bertrand who’d left the hiking boots? Perhaps Steven Peters had ditched the worn backpack. Pablo with no last name, she decided, had tired of his freeze-dried fare and left it for the next guest. With her heart as warm as a belly full of brandy, she penciled her own name in the book:
Laura Chaucer.
Then she added: Thank you fellow travelers for your generosity. I don’t know if I deserve a second chance at life, but from today forward, I will strive to become worthy of the one I’ve been given. Then she scratched out the word second and penciled in third. Twice now, she’d beaten her monster. Twice she’d lived when she should’ve died.
Dr. Webber and Dr. Duncan agreed on one thing: Survivor’s guilt had plagued her since childhood.
Why me? Why am I alive when Angelina’s dead?
Sometimes, when she looked in the mirror she thought she saw those questions tattooed on her forehead.
There had to be a reason.
She just didn’t know what it was yet.
Fatigued, she contemplated heading out now, but quickly decided to rest here for the night, and start out fresh in the daylight. She twisted her long, black hair into a knot on the nape of her neck. Before turning in, she should try to make a fire. Boil water for a freeze-dried dinner. She returned to the pump, where she filled the water bottles and her camel pack.
After gathering wood, just enough to start a small fire, she returned to the hut and began building a wood tee-pee in the fireplace. Bending down, she got light-headed and reached up to steady herself. Her fingers landed on a piece of paper atop the mantle. Careful not to straighten too fast, she stood up. Stared at the sealed envelope she’d pulled off the mantle.
What new treasure lay within? Perhaps a note of inspiration from a fellow traveler. Yes, she now considered herself a kindred spirit with those who’d come to the hut as part of a beautiful, intentional journey. And why shouldn’t she be like them—like people who made their own plans? People who made their own choices?
She weighed the envelope, and then ripped it open. At once, her knees went watery, and she had to lean against the fireplace to keep her legs under her. Inside was a note.
Written in her own hand.
And tied with pink ribbon, were two locks of long black hair.
Chapter 9
Thursday, October 24
1:20 P.M.
Task force headquarters
Highlands Hotel
Denver, Colorado
The task-force kitchen had been designated for double duty as an interrogation room. Originally part of an executive suite, the area contained a sink, microwave, hot plate, fridge, and coffeemaker. Extra seating and tables had obviously been brought in from an outside source, lending the room the same peas-and-carrots color scheme as the others. Caitlin waited with Spense while Hatcher cleared the kitchen of hungry detectives and called Grady in for his interview.
Elbows planted on her knees, Caitlin listened intently to Hatcher’s introductory remarks. He stated the time and date. Pointed out the recording devices in the room. Told Grady he was not under arrest and that any statements he made were voluntary. He was free to go at any time. And finally: “Please state your name and your relationship to Laura Chaucer.”
“I’m Dr. Grady Webber, Laura’s former psychiatrist. But my relationship with the unfortunate girl extends well beyond that. I’ve known her since she was a babe in arms.”
“How’s that?” Hatcher asked.
“Whit and I go all the way back to the debate team at CU Boulder. Pledged the same fraternity, too. Of course our frat-boy days are long gone.” He laughed.
Typical Grady, Caitlin thought, amused by his own cleverness no matter how small.
Nobody laughed with him.
Grady cleared his throat. “After college I did med school and residency in Denver, and eventually started a psychiatric practice here. I also landed a job at the local teaching hospital. Whit married and settled with his wife, Tracy, in the bedroom community of Piney Trails, just a few miles from my place. We’ve remained good friends—best friends until lately—he’s become so . . . important . . . these days. But I digress. As you know—I believe you, Sergeant Hatcher, interviewed me that very day—Laura was kidnapped at the age of eight. That’s when and why Whit asked me to step up in a professional capacity. Thank God Laura was unharmed physically by her abductor, but I’m afraid the ordeal caused severe psychological damage.”
“Post-traumatic stress?” Hatcher asked.
“Sure. But it was more than the usual nightmares, unpredictable outbursts, and what-have-you. Her grasp on reality was tenuous at best. Whit was desperate to get her help, and I was happy to be of service. I’ve been Laura’s psychiatrist since the day she was found covered in her nanny’s blood.”
“You mean until she fired you,” Spense corrected.
“She didn’t fire me.” Grady’s chin jutted forward. “When Whit was elected to the senate his entire family moved to DC. Though Inga and I often traveled with the Chaucers during my vacations, I could hardly leave my practice and my post at the hospital and relocate full time for one patient. Not even for one as important as Laura. She transferred to another psychiatrist in DC, a Dr. Duncan. That’s all. No one has ever fired me.”
I fired you from my life. Caitlin didn’t say what she was thinking. Grady Webber was a tough man to get rid of. Maybe he’d used Laura to keep his relationship with the powerful Whit Chaucer going. Maybe that’s why he’d kept her in therapy for more than a decade. To Caitlin’s way of thinking, long before ten years had passed, Grady should’ve either made enough progress to end or greatly reduce the frequency of therapy sessions, or else he should have referred Laura elsewhere. “But she didn’t come back to you even after she returned to the area. So basically . . .”
“Phrase it however you like, Caitlin. If you want to make it seem as though Laura chased me out the door with a broom, go ahead. It’s not true, but my ego isn’t fragile.”
Really? A secure man didn’t need to put on the kind of airs Grady did.
“Let’s move on.” Spense waved his hand around.
“When she arrived in Denver, Laura simply didn’t wish to continue therapy period. Nothing to do with being dissatisfied with my care. Dr. Duncan had encouraged her to take a break and see how things went.”
Like any therapist worth his salt who wasn’t trying to milk his patient for all she was worth, Caitlin thought. “How do you know that? Did you communicate with Dr. Duncan?”
“Whit told me. He was worried.” Webber sighed heavily. “Rightly so, it seems. Whit thought Laura needed me, and he wanted me to reach out to her. I didn’t. I wish to heavens I had, but I could hardly be expected to predict something like this would happen since I’m no longer privy to her daily thoughts. Now, I can’t help but wonder what if . . .”
“What if what?” Spense asked, as though irritated by Grady’s habit of leaving sentences unfinished. “Just say what you mean.”
“What if I had reached out to her like Whit asked me to do? Could I have prevented this? I thought it would be better to let the child come to me on her own.”
“She’s not a child. She’s twenty-one,” Caitlin said.
“And I’ve known her since infancy. So pardon my thinking of her childhood with fondness.”
“I doubt she thinks of it fondly,” Spense said, deadpan.
“And she didn’t seek you out on her own, so she probably didn’t think you’d be of any use,” Hatcher added.
Bad cop, bad cop?
“No, but then again, she was only in town a short while before . . . before . . .”
Caitlin leane
d in and looked him in the eye. “Before she disappeared, again. After all the years you treated her, you ought to know her inside out. But that doesn’t explain how more of your therapy could’ve prevented her disappearance. Or do you know more than you’re saying about what happened to her? Do you know where she is?”
Grady’s eyes snapped. His face flushed. “Do you?”
“You told Spense and me that doctor-patient confidentiality didn’t apply in Laura’s case because she might be a danger to herself or others. You said you were willing to talk to us. And to the police. Maybe the limo ride over wasn’t a good time to get into it, but what’s stopping you now?”
“Could I get some coffee?” Grady looked around the room as if a waiter might appear.
Detective Hatcher scraped back his chair. “Anyone else want a cup?”
Spense and Caitlin declined.
Hatcher went to a sideboard that contained shelves stacked with cookies and bottled beverages. There was a small fridge below, typical of ones provided in hotel rooms. He scrounged around and produced a cellophane-wrapped sandwich, then brewed a cup of single serve coffee. No one spoke during this time. Spense amused himself with his Rubik’s cube while Caitlin held a staring contest with her former mentor.
Eventually, Hatcher set the coffee, a bottle of water, and a ham sandwich in front of Grady. “Just thought I’d get a jump on any requests, so we can keep going without interruption. Did I miss anything? I could get you a cookie.”
“I had one already—while I was sitting around waiting for you three to call me,” Grady said, back up, feathers ruffled. “Let’s get on with it.”
“Yes, let’s,” Caitlin agreed. “You were just about to tell us what you think happened to Laura. Apparently, you don’t think she’s been kidnapped.”
“I never said that.”
“You implied it.” Maybe he did believe Laura had been abducted, but was looking for a way to give them information without risking his medical license. As long as he gave lip service to the idea that Laura might hurt herself, he could reveal her confidences and stay within the letter of the law. There were other ways around doctor-patient confidentiality, but the Duty to Warn statutes were probably the easiest.
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