First Night of Summer

by Landon Parham

  He walked into the clearing and surveyed the ancient settlement. Several single-room shacks were scattered about, built of logs from the old resident miners. Long years and hard seasons had faded the crudely erected walls to gray, drafty wood. Uninhabited for decades, only the wind spoke here.

  A few more paces brought them to the glorified hut he had pre-selected. It was the sturdiest of houses, and all his documentation equipment was inside.

  They passed under barely recognizable fragments of bison hide nailed to the door frame. The primitive inhabitants had used the skins as door flaps.

  Ricky laid Josie on a padded, blue shipping blanket that covered the earthen floor. He flipped on a battery-powered headlamp and sifted through his supply bag. Two-foot-long pieces of rebar were placed at each corner of the blanket. A three-pound mini sledge drove them into the dirt until they were well seated. As much as he wanted to have Josie without restraints, he remembered the rejection when Mindy had tried to escape from his home in Colorado. Certain he didn’t want to endure a similar experience, he began to wrap her wrists and ankles to the steel rods.

  He made four slipknots, spread her arms and legs, and bound each one to the nearest stake. Josie stirred at the tugging. When he pulled at the braid on her ankle, it cinched the coarse, grass fibers into her Achilles tendon, and her eyes flashed open.

  “Welcome back,” he offered.

  Josie remained fixed, her eyes darting around the dark space. Sunlight poured through cracks and holes in the walls. She could see the lit doorway, but not who spoke to her. He was just a silhouette, and when he faced her directly, the LED lamp on his head was blinding.

  “Don’t try to move. The ropes will get tighter if you pull.” He drew her other ankle snug and tied it to the post. A satisfied smirk curled his lip. “Okay?”

  Josie didn’t respond. Nothing made sense, and she couldn’t reason it out. Her natural instinct was to flee, but his warning proved true. When a jolt of panic swept sensibility away, she writhed to gain freedom. The coils tightened in unison and sharply quelled her attempt. She grimaced in agony.

  “Told you,” Ricky reminded her. “I don’t want to hurt you, but if you hurt yourself …” He shrugged his shoulders.

  Josie tried to say something, but it caught at her lips.

  Ricky pinched the gag between his thumb and pointer finger. “Yeah, about that.” He motioned out the open door. “Sound can be funny in the mountains. Sometimes you can’t hear things that are ten feet away. Other times, it carries for miles.” He winked. “Sorry. Can’t take any chances.”

  Scared out of her mind, Josie began to cry. Unfamiliarity with her location, situation, and the man holding her hostage, not a single thread of hope presented itself for her to latch onto. The tears came steady. The gag muted the crooning.

  Ricky ignored her and readied the camera equipment. He took a few snapshots, fully clothed, and continued to the video. He placed the recorder on a tripod and adjusted it until satisfied with the frame. Its lamp cast a cozy, yellow glow upon her. This particular footage was going to be the masterpiece of his collection. It had to be perfect.

  Finally, with everything situated, Ricky was ready to begin. Make it last. This is it for a while.

  He rummaged within his bag. It was near impossible to deny the physical any longer, but not writing his feelings down would haunt him forever. His hand probed deeper, searching for the diary. He glanced to his left and then right. “Where is it?”

  Soft illumination from the video recorder revealed the small room in its entirety. He couldn’t locate the journal anywhere. “Son of a bitch!” he lashed out. A frustrated leg kicked at nothing in particular. I left it at the cabin.

  Ricky reached a stalemate. He studied the warm, supple skin of Josephine Snow and made the call.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  The aggressive tread on Isaac’s hiking boots chewed into the dry soil and carried him up the rugged mountain. A slight hobble made his stride uneven from where he’d twisted an ankle on loose scree. He ran along the road’s shoulder, just in case he had to sidestep into the trees for cover. The last thing he wanted was for Josie’s captor to know he was onto him.

  For twenty minutes, he kept a grueling pace. If it meant rescuing Josie, he would graciously sacrifice his body a thousand times. Footfall after footfall, pebbles crunched beneath his weight. Lack of oxygen caused him to feel faint. He had experienced blackouts before. It was part of air force fighter training. They’d put him in a centrifuge to build his body’s tolerance to g-forces. He recalled the “hic” maneuver, a diaphragm exercise to keep blood in the brain. But this was different. Training or no, ten thousand feet did not cater to an oxygen-starved system. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep it up.

  Bent on endurance, he rounded another curve and was taken off guard. The cabin came into full view, and he dove into the woods. He crawled across the needle-strewn floor, nestled between two pine trees, and devoured as much atmosphere as the altitude allowed. Forty yards ahead, the tailgate of a white Chevy truck protruded from beneath a fallen pine. This was definitely the right place.

  Charging the shelter, while tempting, would not work. Isaac could hold his own in a fight, but busted up and exhausted, physical confrontation with a wily man was too risky. When it did come down to a scrap, shock and awe were his best advantages. That would take some thinking and slick maneuvering.

  There was only one shot at this. No tiebreakers. No ribbon for second place. Ultimately, Josie would live or die by the outcome.

  The cabin’s door stood in the center of a dilapidated front porch. One window sat to the right of the entrance. The remaining walls were solid. He couldn’t see but guessed there was also a rear door and considered which one to approach. No noise or motion was detectable from within, and no smoke rose from the chimney.

  All was quiet and still, his stomach the one exception. It growled with a vengeance, perhaps from physical exertion. Or maybe it was an omen of the rumble to come. Either way, he pushed it from his mind, but not before heeding the warning.

  Josie was in there. He was sure of it. And the instant he barged in, the struggle for her life, his life, would ensue. It made him think of Sarah and wonder if he would ever see her again. He had to harness every ounce of focus and callousness. It had been years since he had taken a human life. Once upon a time, he struggled with the idea of it, wondering how it would feel to kill. He approached his commanding officer with the concern, a man he trusted and deeply respected, and was given an answer that ingrained itself into his character.

  “Isaac,” his CO told him, a firm hand on his shoulder. “You’re a pilot in the United States Air Force. Your job entails doing things that others don’t want to do or don’t even realize needs to be done. It brings safety to our country and freedom to our people. You bear the burden others cannot or will not. Don’t think of the few lives you’re ending, but the many you’re saving.”

  The wise commander had delivered the words without a single emotion, and Isaac had never questioned them. Now with the lesson ringing clearly in his mind, he understood the responsibility staring him in the face. For the sake of every innocent child in America, including his own, the man he tracked needed to die.

  His thoughts turned primal and violent. Instinct came to power and reigned over exhaustion.

  Sitting between the trees, Isaac gathered himself. He quietly shucked off the backpack and reached in. The personal locator beacon was wrapped firmly in his grip. His thumb slid toward the activation button while he weighed the options. If I activate it now, search and rescue will come. If they get here before I have Josie, she might end up a hostage. The notion was less than appealing.

  He put the beacon back inside the canvas and decided to risk going it alone.

  The rubber handle of the fixed-blade survival knife found his fingers. It was firmly seated in his right hand with the blade facing outward from the bottom of his fist. He slashed the air to get a feel for it.
Within an arm’s reach, he noticed a broken limb lying among fallen pinecones. Roughly an inch and a half thick and five feet long, the branch was perfect for a spear. He used the knife to whittle a tip at the narrow end. Wood shavings dropped steadily with each stroke. The point was crudely shaped, but if thrust with enough force, it could easily penetrate flesh. Double weapons made it easier to deliver a lethal stab.

  With his spear in his left hand and knife in his right, he scrambled for the left wall of the cabin, certain to avoid any loose footing or dried sticks. The windowless barrier provided cover from anyone inside. He wished he hadn’t put the heavy-duty flashlight in the survival bag. It bounced with every stride and eventually became a painful nuisance pounding against his vertebrae.

  At the wall, he pressed his ear to the logs and listened. Silence. The lack of sound unnerved him, like the last seconds of stillness before a predator pounces. He wondered if his presence were known and, if so, who was hunting who.

  He stared at his fists, both wielding potential harbingers of death. His dream of retribution for Caroline’s murder neared reality. The idea wasn’t sadistic but practical. Anyone who trampled on the rights of others, especially children, should no longer have rights of his own.

  The floor of the porch was assembled of wide, timber planks. He poked his head past the corner and waited. Some boards might hold his weight, others not. He tested each foot placement, creeping along before submitting the full weight of his body. A single squeak was one too many.

  Without incident, a heavy coat of sweat polishing his torso, he made it to the door. Adjacent was the small, square window cut into the logs.

  He let out a shaky breath. The gauze around his head kept sweat out of his eyes. Once again, Sarah entered his mind. If this goes badly, I’m sorry. I love you.

  He didn’t want what was. He wanted what used to be: Caroline and Josie running barefoot in the green grass beneath the shade of the old cottonwood tree; Sarah cooking in the kitchen, the warm smell of food drifting through the screen door onto the back patio; Charlie, his best friend, enjoying the day with them; and even little Jason doing something crazy. All had once been. Now he would give his life if he could put it back in place for everyone.

  In that pause of reflection, it felt like Caroline was with him. He could sense her presence all around.

  “Please help me,” he whispered, hoping she could hear.

  He crouched, passed in front of the threshold, and knelt under the hazy window. Steady as the tide, he rose and leveled his eyes with the bottom of the pane.

  Covered in soot from the fireplace and years of dust, only the vague outline of shapes presented themselves on the other side. A dark spot in the middle of the room stood out. He could see it was a chair, but the opaque glass obscured his view. Squinting, he scrutinized it harder, and then something moved.

  It was a girl, facing away from him and bound to the chair. She was small and shook her head from one side to the other. He couldn’t see her face, but it didn’t appear like she was wearing any clothes. Fear and hope swelled, fear that Josie had been raped and hope that he could keep her alive. He struggled to contain the relief.

  A quick scan didn’t reveal anything else of concern. Josie appeared to be alone. Regardless, he was ready. He worked the knife and spear in his hands in anxious preparation. Swift and strong.

  The front door had an old-time, wooden latch, the kind that lifts and lowers into a slot. He used the knuckles on his knife hand to carefully raise the lock. In one seamless motion, he flung open the door and sprang into the room.

  A shotgun erupted, and Isaac froze. The thunderous boom rattled him to the core. Fresh blood exploded. He pictured Josie and wished he could have held her, like Caroline, one last time.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  T ime was not to be wasted. Ricky grabbed the rifle and headed back to the cabin. This would be his third trip, including the two he had already made to haul the equipment and Josie. He was at the apex of his life and now had to take a nonsensical pause to retrieve the journal. The delay irked him.

  Rifle in hand, he crabbed his body sideways to help with the steep gradient and hustled down the trail. Bears and mountain lions lived in the wilds of New Mexico, and in case of a chance encounter, the firearm gave him security.

  The stacked log walls came into view, and Ricky eased his pace. He kept his eyes on the path. In minutes, he would be back at the ghost town with the journal, Josie before him. Then a shotgun blast shattered the silence.

  He stood tall, alert, frozen on the trail. Few things had ever shaken him so suddenly. Fear surged through his body and prompted action. He leapt from the footpath and into the woods. A granite outcropping shadowed by trees offered concealment and an ideal perspective of the cabin. He scrambled the few yards, low to the ground and catlike.

  Nestled within the stony fortress, Ricky reviewed how he’d rigged the shotgun inside. The front door must be opened for the weapon to fire. Ashley was tied to a chair and unable to move. That he was certain of. He had nailed the chair legs into the wooden floor so she couldn’t topple over by swaying her body. The concept of her escaping was also implausible. The ropes binding her to the chair were wound in a cruel, uncompromising way. She would die of dehydration long before she could wriggle free.

  He was dumbfounded to think that the police or a search party could have sniffed him out so quickly. Besides, if the person responsible were a vigilante, Ricky would have heard him coming.

  Curiosity drove him mad. He considered other options as he sat in wait. Maybe a gust of wind pushed the front door open. He looked at the surrounding trees. Even their tops were perfectly still. No. He pictured the latch in his head. It has to be lifted too far to open by accident.

  The more he thought, the more it became clear. Ashley and Josie aside, he was no longer alone. Whether they’d found him or an unlucky soul had happened along, someone was there.

  The location was one grain of sand to an entire beach. What are the odds?

  Ricky took his rifle and rested it across a flat spot on the granite rock. He adjusted himself until the rear entry of the cabin was directly in his crosshairs. Whoever was inside posed a direct threat and had to be eliminated for good.

  He kept the shaky scope trained down the hill, ready to blow a hole through anyone who stepped outside.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  No sensation came, just empty silence. Isaac blinked repeatedly, expecting death, or certainly pain, to take over at any moment, but there was nothing. Physically, all seemed well. Yet he knew the gun was intended for something … someone.

  Ashley had been part of the living only seconds before. She had moved her head from side to side, searching the room for anything that might help her escape. Now, chin hanging to her chest, Ashley’s brains and blood were splattered all over the wall, and all over Isaac.

  The shot had come from somewhere in the room, but he saw no one hidden within the small space. A mechanism was the only thing that could have taken the place of a human finger. His eyes darted around. Judging by the direction of the blood spatter, it had come from almost straight in front of him. It only took a second to surmise what had happened.

  The scatter gun was tied to a bed frame and pointed directly at the girl in the chair. A strand of clear fishing line was attached to the trigger. The opposite end ran across the room and connected to a bent nail hammered into the front door. The concept was basic. When the door opened, the string tightened and pulled the trigger.

  A void the size of a man’s fist had blown through Ashley’s skull and removed her face. Blood poured in a massive wave through her blonde hair, down her naked chest and arms. The gruesome sight sickened Isaac. The scene before him was of a young, dead girl. He realized the contraption had not been set to kill him, but instead, the person he thought was Josie.

  I killed her. Isaac’s knees hit the floor. His spear and knife dropped to the old, wooden planks, and the dull thump brought about a sense of d
éjà vu. The last time he had heard that sound was just before Caroline died. It was once again a reminder of death and loss of a daughter. He couldn’t understand why—perhaps exhaustion—no tears came to his eyes. Failure was the only thing he felt, failure to protect what he loved most, failure to be a man, a father, a husband.

  On hands and knees, he crawled to the side of the chair and dared not look at her face. He had a flawless mental picture of Josie’s bright eyes and didn’t wish to erase it with what he knew would be a grizzly sight. Instead, he took the survival knife and cut her ropes loose. Even in death, it didn’t seem right for his beloved girl to wear restraints. As he freed her, her bare body slumped and fell from the seat.

  Isaac pulled her limp hand to his face. Blood smeared on his cheek. He didn’t want to let go or say good-bye. He just wanted to sit there with her broken shell for the rest of eternity. Caroline was once again with her sister, and it gave him a small measure of comfort.

  Kissing the hand, he tried to keep his heart from bursting. He forced his unfocused eyes to open and look at her. Josie deserved that much. If her spirit were still there in the room, watching as her father held her earthly body, he didn’t want her to think that he was ashamed to see her. It was himself with whom he was ashamed.

  Isaac no longer cared for the chase. The goal was always to rescue Josie first, then exact retribution on the killer. But retribution without gain had lost its appeal.

  As his vision trained on the bloody hand, he tried to notice every last detail. He wanted to remember Josie, just as she was. Her soft skin. Each individual finger. Even her chipped, hot pink nail polish seemed preciously important.

  Pink nail polish? A tiny ray of hope pierced his gloom. Josie had not been wearing pink nail polish. In fact, as of that morning, she hadn’t been wearing any nail polish. The neon paint on this hand was flaking from days of wear. The sudden observation spurred closer scrutiny and another vague feeling of familiarity.