Cabin 12

by Freya Barker

  “Care to share?” Ouray’s eyes flash my way, before burning on Luna when she starts to talk.

  “The old man manages the shooting range. One of his regulars, a guy who showed up—maybe a year ago—with a Glock he said he inherited from his dad and wanted to learn how to shoot, brought in a silencer the last few times he was here,” she answers, surprising everyone in the room. Even more so when she turns to the old guy and shows off her American Sign Language skills, by taking over the conversation. This time it’s Ouray’s turn to cross his arms and sit back in his chair. Amusement clear on his face.

  By the time we walk out, Luna is apparently enlightened but I’m still in the fucking dark.

  “I’d like to think I didn’t just come as a doorstop,” I bitch, as I drive the truck off the property. Something Luna apparently finds amusing.

  “Guy’s name is Connor. Nosh says he checked his license first time he showed up, maybe a year ago. Can’t remember the last name, though. Says he would help out from time to time in return for gun storage and use of the shooting range. Last time he saw him was three weeks, maybe a month ago, when he spent a day shooting rounds with a new suppressor he’d brought. Says the guy’s a crack shot. When he left, he must have taken his gun, because his safe is empty. He hasn’t been seen since.”

  “So no last name. Description?”

  “Dark hair, tall, and lanky.”

  “No distinguishing marks? Tats?”

  “Not that he could see. He drives a navy Ford F-150. The guess is early nineties.”

  “Plates?”

  “No number, but he remembers they were New Mexico plates.”

  “Good start. Let’s head back to the office and see what we can do with that.”

  IT’S CLOSE TO NINE o’clock by the time I pull up to Bella’s place. Her parents’ car is still parked in the drive.

  I sent her a text when I got back to the office to see how things were.

  Bella: Ma is out shopping. She insists on making tamales.

  Emergency food for a Gomez. I’m fine, do your thing.

  Me: Save me some.

  Bella: There’ll be enough for a battalion. They reheat well.

  Me: xox

  I chuckled when I realized what I just sent. Pretty sure it’s the first time I resorted to sending hugs and kisses in code. Or any other way for that matter.

  “Ma wants to stay the night.”

  It’s the first thing out of Bella’s mouth when I walk in. If not for the look of sheer panic on her face, I might have thought she was sending me packing.

  “Where’s she going to sleep?” I tease, loud enough for everyone in the house to hear, as I fold Bella in my arms. Her father chuckles from the couch, she hides her face in my shirt, and her mother is shooting daggers from the kitchen. Clearly, I’m not gaining points with Mom.

  “See, Carmella?” Mr. Gomez, who is evidently more sympatico. “The man wants to look after his girl. You just come back to the hotel with me.”

  “But we don’t even know him!” Exasperated, the woman throws up her hands. “He’s almost a stranger.”

  “To us, maybe, but I think it’s pretty obvious not to Bella.” The older man shoots me a wink over his daughter’s head, before he heads into the kitchen to fetch his wife, who seems determined to stay, and another argument ensues.

  “Do you want your mom to stay?” I ask Bella softly. She lifts her face and gives me her signature eye roll.

  “Cuddling with you is a lot nicer,” she says with a cheeky smile, before turning serious. “But we had some good talks, and I know she worries. Maybe?”

  Good enough for me. I drop a peck on her lips before I let her go and walk into the kitchen. Time to make nice with Mom.

  “Mrs. Gomez, it’s actually a peace of mind if you could stay,” I say, clearly surprising her. “Truth is, we’ve made some good strides in the investigation today and there’s always a possibility I’ll get called away. I don’t want to run the risk having to leave your daughter alone in the middle of the night.”

  I pretend I don’t see the triumphant look she throws her husband before she turns to me. “Of course. Sit down, you must be starving. Have some tamales,” she offers. Not waiting for my answer, she grabs a plate from the cupboard and loads on three tamales from the pan on the stove. She misses her husband clapping me on the shoulder as he passes by me, a grin on his face.

  “Well played, son. Well played.”

  Bella

  “You sure you’ll be okay?”

  I smile up at Jasper.

  We’re standing out on my porch, saying goodbye, while Papa is doing the same with my mom inside. Although, I hope they limit it to the saying of goodbye, and not the butt-clutching, heat-fueled kiss goodbye we just shared out here.

  “I’ll be fine. You should be focusing on finding this guy, and not be stuck here holding my hand.”

  “Hasn’t exactly been a hardship, sweetheart.” He grins and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

  “Might’ve been now, though. Damn Ryan was right,” I confess. “Apparently, it’s my time of the month.” For a moment, it looks like I might have to elaborate, but luckily realization dawns on his handsome face.

  “I see.”

  “Yeah,” I sigh, stroking a hand up his chest, feeling the solid muscle underneath.

  “Although you should know, I’m not exactly a one-trick pony,” he adds, but before I can question what exactly he means by that, my father steps out on the porch.

  “Heading out, mi hija,” Papa says, and I swing around to give him a peck on the cheek.

  “I still don’t get why you don’t save yourself the money and crash at Damian’s place.”

  “Your mother didn’t want to be too far from you. She wanted the hotel—I got her the hotel.”

  “But since she’s staying here, you can always—”

  “Isabella,” my father says, tapping the tip of my nose like he did when I was twelve, “I’ll feel better being close too. Your mama, she may not always say the right things, but I promise you she always means the right things.”

  “I know,” I mumble into his neck, when he gives me one of his teddy bear hugs.

  Jasper’s hand rubs along my spine as we watch my father’s taillights disappear down the road. He doesn’t have far to go, just down to the Best Western along the 160 into town.

  “You should head back inside,” he says, stepping past me off the porch. Standing two steps down from me, he’s still almost eye to eye. “Call me tomorrow morning?”

  “I will.” I lean in for one more kiss, and then watch until his lights disappear down the mountain as well.

  “Can I get you anything?” my mother asks when I walk inside. She’s in the kitchen, packing up the leftovers and tucking them in my freezer.

  “I’m fine, Ma.”

  As long as I can remember, my mother could always be found in the kitchen. It’s her domain. Maybe even her safe zone. It’s also the way she cares, with cooking. Whatever she can’t express with words, she does with food.

  Papa would come home from work and sit in his lazy chair, watch the news on TV, or sometimes toss a ball with Damian. I would usually climb on his lap and put my ear to his chest, because I loved to hear the deep thud of his heartbeat and rumble of his voice. Papa has always been safe, less critical, and definitely the easier parent to talk to.

  That’s what I did this afternoon while Ma was at the store, I sat beside him on the couch, put my ear to his chest and talked. After that I listened. He gave me some insight into my mother, told me how she was raised without any physical affection. How she would call her parents ‘Sir’ and ‘Ma’am.’ He explained how he saw her; trying to compensate for what she never had herself growing up, but in doing so had no sense of boundaries. She’d simply never learned. He said she was tough on us girls, not because she preferred Damian, but because life had taught her girls had to be tougher to survive.

  He also pointed out that me being the youngest
, always last in line, I might have become conditioned to assume everything was criticism, when sometimes it was simply concern. That he and Ma both have long known that I struggled, and avoided talking about it much, not because they were ashamed, but because I would become defensive.

  Not the easiest thing, when someone holds up a mirror, but certainly eye-opening.

  When Ma came home, she saw my blotchy face, raised her eyebrows at my dad, and then ordered me into the kitchen to help her put the groceries away. We spent the rest of the afternoon making tamales. For the first time, I was able to hear my mother’s truth behind her sometimes brusque words, instead of my interpretation of them. It was a revelation.

  “Wanna watch a movie?” I flop down on the couch and grab the remote.

  “What kind of movie?” Mom says, wiping down the counter.

  “I’m not sure, I’ll see what’s on.”

  “Should I make popcorn?” she asks, and I hide a grin behind my hand. Always with the food.

  “Sure. There’s some in the—“

  “Cupboard above the fridge, I know,” Mom finishes for me, as she dries her hands on a towel. She probably took stock before she went shopping. It means she saw what else I stock up there as well.

  “Grab the wine while you’re at it.”

  Ten minutes later, she walks in with a tray holding the wine, two glasses, a bowl of popcorn, one with nachos, a small bowl of salsa, and another with the fresh guacamole she just whipped up on the spot.

  I’m ready with a box of tissues and Steel Magnolias lined up on Netflix.

  Two hours later I roll into bed, stomach full, completely cried out, and oddly satisfied as I listen to Ma’s soft snores on the other side of the mattress.

  I grab my phone and shoot off a quick message.

  Me: Goodnight xox

  Jasper: Night, Squirt. I’d much rather cuddle you than my pillow.

  I chuckle softly as I put my phone on the nightstand and tuck the covers over my ear.

  From behind me I hear my mother’s sleepy voice.

  “He seems like a nice boy.”

  CHAPTER 14

  JASPER

  We’ve been digging for days with little to show for it.

  Between the demands of the investigation and Bella’s parents in town, I’ve kept a low profile, limited to a few calls and nightly texts since the weekend.

  Luna is putting together a suspect analysis, based on what we know so far. Dylan has been looking at every navy Ford F-150 in a fifty-mile radius, and ever since I discovered the police report Blackfoot hinted at over the weekend, I’ve had my nose to the grindstone trying to make sense of the multiple red flags that went up when I read it.

  The report describes a simple traffic stop on a white pickup with a taillight out, which resulted in the death of one Franklin Davis, a forty-three-year-old general laborer, on his way home from a job site up near Hermosa. According to the report, the man had reached under his seat, despite repeated requests by the officer to stop moving. The moment the officer spotted a weapon in the man’s hand, he fired a shot, instantly killing the single occupant of the vehicle.

  The first red flag went up when I saw the officer’s name: Tom McMahan, the current chief of police. The second was the time lapse between when the initial notification of a traffic stop went out to dispatch, and when the second call reporting the shooting came in. Twenty minutes separated the two, which did not exactly line up with details in the report. The third red flag was the notation at the bottom of the file that certain items in evidence had gone missing, most notably the reported weapon.

  A sick feeling has been eating at my gut, and for once, since Damian went on his honeymoon, I am tempted to call and tell him to get his ass home. Blackfoot may have asked me to look into this on my own, but after trying to sort through bits and pieces of it, I’d feel a fuck of a lot better if I had Damian at my back. I’m not going to keep my boss out of the loop on this. I’m increasingly uneasy carrying this on my own, given the potential scale of what should be a full-fledged investigation.

  “Did you hear?” Dylan asks, as he walks into the office. “The funeral for Cummings is this coming Friday.”

  There had been no funeral for Belker, whose family had the body shipped home to Nebraska for a quiet cremation. Law enforcement was bound to come out strong for this one, with full pomp and circumstance.

  “Where’d you find that out?”

  “I bumped into one of the dispatchers when I was grabbing lunch at Applebee’s, she mentioned it.”

  “I didn’t know you had a contact in dispatch.” This from Luna, who’s been quiet most of the afternoon, but likes to try and get a rise out of Dylan on occasion. Her tone is teasing.

  “Wouldn’t call her a contact, exactly,” he admits a tad sheepish. “She’s a girl I dated a few times, who happens to be a dispatcher.”

  “She been there long?”

  “Trish? I think about six or seven years. Why?”

  Both sets of eyes are focused on me and I only hesitate a moment. “Because I need someone to talk to in dispatch, who’s been there for a while, and can keep their mouth shut.”

  “Have you called the boss?” is Dylan’s first question, when I finish filling them in on what I’ve been doing.

  “Been tempted, but—”

  “Guys, quiet!” Luna suddenly barks, diving for the scanner on her desk and cranking up the volume.

  “...Suspect Caucasian, in his late teens, early twenties, black shirt, pants, and ballcap, camo backpack, riding a small silver-colored bicycle. Was last seen heading into the residential area between Columbine and Delwood...”

  “Attempted car theft behind the Frontier Baptist Church on Forest,” Luna clarifies when I look at her questioningly. “Could be our suspect.”

  “I’m heading out there,” Dylan announces, already on the move.

  I’m left looking over at Luna. “It’s Wednesday.”

  “I know,” she says with a grin. “It’s a pattern.” She gets up and walks over to the large whiteboard on the wall, adding the suspect description, and Wednesday in large red letters.

  “Looks like, but what the fuck does it mean?”

  “Not a clue,” she admits. “But I’m positive it’s important.”

  “YOU LOOK TIRED,” BELLA says when I show up on her doorstep unannounced.

  I was on my way home, frustrated with another day of running down leads and forming theories, when I found myself turning right instead of left coming down from Rock Point Drive.

  Luna kicked me out, after helping me to dig into Franklin Davis’ family and discovered that not quite six months after Davis was shot, his wife committed suicide, leaving their almost fourteen-year-old son, James, an orphan. He’d been placed with his maternal grandfather in Shiprock, the fall of 2013, but the grandfather since had moved into a seniors’ facility in Farmington. No record of where James ended up. His name is now at the top of our whiteboard.

  “I am,” I freely admit, coaxing her out on the porch and pulling the front door closed behind her. “How are you?” I ask, wrapping my arms around her tightly and looking down in her large brown eyes. Without waiting for an answer, I kiss her like I’ve been starved to do since Sunday.

  “Better now,” she says, when I finally let her up for air. “Although my mother is trying hard to eradicate what little sanity I have left. I get she means well, but God I’d shoot myself if I had to live with her. I’ve been trying to convince her to go back to the hotel the last two nights, so I can breathe a little, but I can’t get her to go.” Suddenly her eyes light up, and I know she’s up to something when she drags me inside, straight through to the kitchen. “Ma, look; Jasper is here. Why don’t you go with Papa? Have a nice meal at the Strater, you guys love that Diamond Belle Saloon. Jasper will keep me company, won’t you, Jas?” I bite back a grin. Conniving little thing, but I’m not about to complain.

  “Majaderías, I have dinner cooked already. Why would we go spend money w
hen we can eat right here?”

  “Carmella,” her father’s voice is firm. “We’re leaving.”

  “I made pollo mole poblano, your favorite,” she tries, but he won’t have any of it.

  “I feel like roast beef.”

  “Pero...”

  “Ma, really. Go.”

  It takes ten more minutes for her to grab her stuff after her husband informs her, in no uncertain terms, she is sleeping in his bed tonight, but we’re finally on our own.

  “Are you ready to go back to work Friday?” I ask, stuffing the last bite in my mouth. If I ate like this every day, I’d be sporting a pot belly in no time.

  “Tomorrow, actually. Ryan called this afternoon. The flu has been doing the rounds apparently. On nights for another two weeks, and then off for a long weekend before we go back on days.”

  “Sounds like our date will have to wait a bit longer.”

  “I do get a day or two off, you know,” she says, sliding off her stool and inserting herself between my knees, draping her arms around my neck. “And in the meantime, we have tonight.”

  I slip my hands around her waist and down to her ass.

  “Mmmm. Have all your visitors left?” Her face shows confusion, before she clues in and her bottom lip juts out.

  “Not quite,” she admits grudgingly, but I kiss the pout from her lips.

  “Then I guess we’ll have to get inventive.”

  Bella

  The house has been quiet since my parents left after lunch.

  They’d shown up this morning, just minutes after giving Jasper a lazy kiss goodbye on my porch. The man had made true to his promise. He got very inventive last night and discovered erogenous zones I wasn’t even aware I had. Which reminds me, I have to wash my sheets, before my mother’s spicy chocolate sauce won’t come out anymore. I will have very sweet memories to go with my mother’s pollo mole poblano from here on in. I hope to God she never finds out.