Cabin 12

by Freya Barker

  “Drop it,” he barks, spotting the phone in my hand. “Fucking drop it in the toilet. NOW!”

  The sharply barked order startles me and I open my hand, letting my connection to the outside world drop in the bowl.

  “Now flush,” he instructs.

  CHAPTER 18

  JASPER

  Twenty-four hours.

  She’s been gone for twenty-four hours and we are no closer to finding her.

  I drop my head onto my arms on the desk. Sunday morning and I’ve had maybe three hours of sleep total since the butt crack of dawn Friday. The urgency to find Bella is all that’s kept me on my feet. That and copious amounts of coffee, and the occasional food that is forced on me.

  Damian has barely spoken to me since finding out his sister has been struggling with depression for years. He’d been under the impression that the episode after her troubles with her ex had been an isolated incident. He’s been close to her this past year, and to find out she opened up to me about something he knew nothing about, clearly stung.

  It may all be moot, since we both know the more time passes, the less likely it becomes we’ll find her alive. Especially since the guy holding her has nothing to lose.

  I’ve gone over the surveillance footage from the single camera behind the Walmart for hours. Hoping to pick up some little detail I may have missed on an earlier pass. In the footage, we just see part of the parked truck, but you can make out the suspect riding up on a bike, looking around, and then lifting the bike into the back of the parked truck, before using a Slim Jim to open the door. The next few moments, his body disappears from view behind the open door. A flash of light at the bottom of the screen shows the exact moment the owner steps out the back door, and even though he’s off screen, it’s clear he yells something when the suspect’s head pops up.

  The scenario plays out much as we’d assumed, but the last part—the reason I keep watching it over and over again—shows Bella arriving on the scene. I must’ve played back those last moments, before you see her get behind the wheel and drive off, a hundred times by now.

  “We need fresh blood,” Damian says. I lift my head as he sits down across my desk from me. “We’re spinning our wheels, you and me. Too tired to come up with any fresh ideas.”

  Like me, Damian has not had any sleep since getting back from Europe. He’s dealing with jet lag to boot.

  “We may get some feedback from the picture of a truck similar to the missing burgundy Dodge belonging to our victim. There can’t be that many around of the 1993 models, and the silver hood is pretty distinctive.”

  The image is set to go out on mainstream media first thing this morning. It’s been blasted around social media since the briefing yesterday afternoon.

  “You care for her,” he suddenly says, taking me by surprise, and I’m not quite sure how to respond to that.

  Fuck yeah, I care about her, but I’m not sure where Damian is going with this, so I just shrug.

  “Clearly you do, or you wouldn’t have spent so much time at her place,” he prompts.

  “Hey, just doing what you asked—looking out for her while you were away.” The words even taste like a lie, and Damian doesn’t seem too impressed either, but at least he seems to drop the subject.

  He slaps his hand on my desk. “All right, call Luna and Dylan in. We’re gonna go over everything from the top with their fresh eyes.”

  He had sent them home around midnight last night, so at best they’ve had some four hours of sleep, but it’s better than nothing.

  I fish my phone from my pocket, only to discover it’s run out of juice. Not surprising, since the last time I charged it was Thursday night. Pulling a spare cord from my drawer, I plug it into a USB port, and walk over to Dylan’s desk, which holds the only landline.

  Luna answers the phone right away, apparently already on her way out the door. She promises to pick up some food and fresh coffees on the way in.

  Dylan is not so fast, but when I finally get him on the phone, he indicates he’ll be here in twenty.

  By the time they get here, the sun is coming up. Fresh eyes, coffee, sandwiches, and daylight infuse me with new hope.

  “Anything from Blackfoot’s crew this morning?” Dylan asks, his mouth full of egg sandwich.

  Damian grabs for his phone and I look around for mine, when I remember it’s charging. I walk over to my desk, pick it up and almost drop it.

  Bella: Cabin 12

  “Fuck!”

  All heads at the conference table turn in my direction.

  “It’s Bella.” I look at the time signature. “Eleven forty-five she sent a message.”

  Damian is out of his chair like a shot and snatches the phone from my hand.

  “Cabin 12?”

  “Call her back,” Dylan suggests.

  “No. She’s clearly had her phone hidden on her, I’m not going to risk alerting the suspect by drawing attention to it,” I point out.

  “How did we miss that?” Damian asks, stalking over to his desk where he’s been going over the details of the case all night. He shuffles through the paperwork and comes up with a report. “Here—it says her phone was found inside the car, in her purse.”

  “Must be her work phone,” Luna points out. “Do you have a tracker installed on her phone?” she asks Damian, but since I know the man, I already know the answer and immediately slide behind my computer.

  With Luna leaning over my shoulder, I type Bella’s number into my tracking software, and we watch the little color wheel turn as the system is scanning for a signal.

  “Anything?” Damian asks, getting impatient.

  “Nothing.”

  “Did you plug in the right number?”

  I try again, punching each one in carefully.

  “No signal.”

  “Could her battery have run out?” Damian wants to know.

  “The tracker requires a bare minimum of power. Even if there’s not enough power to run the operating system on the phone and it shuts itself down, there’s usually enough residue left for the tracker to work.”

  I see realization dawn on his face, and I’m sure mine shows the defeat I feel.

  “So what does that mean?” Dylan asks, and while Damian and I stare at each other with painfully clear understanding, Luna is first to answer.

  “It means sometime between eleven forty-five last night and this morning, the battery on Bella’s phone was destroyed.”

  Bella

  My face hurts.

  I try to move and discover it’s not the only thing hurting, my whole body seems to throb.

  For a lanky kid, Connor packs quite a punch.

  I almost cried when he made me flush. I didn’t even know if my message had sent before the surge of water surely killed my phone. I should’ve waited for a better moment instead of panicking and trying to get a message out. If I’d slipped the phone back in my pocket as soon as I heard him moving around, I still would have a chance. A better one than now, because even if Jasper received my message, what could he do with it?

  Hindsight being twenty-twenty, I would’ve done better giving him the name, Ridgeview Rentals. At least he’d have a location. Now all he possibly has is a fucking number.

  Connor had backhanded me so hard, I stumbled and fell into the bathtub, which I am feeling this morning.

  It does not make for a comfortable sleep, lying on a dirty kitchen floor, chained up to the refrigerator. Especially when your body is bruised.

  I peek at the couch from under my eyelids, not that I can see much from my vantage point. That’s where he collapsed last night, after chaining me back up. I guess I should count myself lucky I’m still alive. He could just as easily have shot me, but for some reason didn’t. I somehow have to make sure to keep it that way.

  There’s no movement from the couch at all, but then I hear the toilet flush. I close my eyes the moment I hear his unsteady steps walk into the room.

  “Bella?”

  I’m su
rprised to hear him use my name and inadvertently my eyes pop open, as I try to sit up, wincing against my stiff limbs.

  He looks almost contrite standing over me. “I’m sorry I hurt you.” If not for the gun in his hand, I could almost believe it.

  Still, I wouldn’t be surprised if a part of him did regret hitting me. I’m not a psychiatrist, but from what I’ve observed of him, I’d bet that he suffers from some kind of mental disorder. Schizophrenia or perhaps multiple personality disorder, I don’t know, but there are definitely two sides to him.

  My job is to keep the shy and contrite side engaged, and make myself as indispensable as I can.

  “I should probably clean those dressings,” I suggest, completely ignoring his apology. “We don’t have any antibiotics, so I have to make sure the wound doesn’t get infected.”

  He appears to consider it for a moment before finally sitting down at the kitchen table, still in his boxer shorts. A rank odor hits my nose, but I can’t be sure if it’s him, me, or the floor that is still disgusting.

  “Are there any cleaning solutions around?”

  He squints his eyes looking at me. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

  “No, I didn’t mean that. I just want to clean a little before I take off the bandages. I don’t want to expose you to more possible bacteria. I’ll just check under the sink.”

  I find a small bucket and a rag, and in the back there’s an almost empty bottle of Mr. Clean. It’s enough to fill the bucket with warm soapy water and I turn to tackle the table first. After that I concentrate on the floor, getting as much caked-on blood off as I can. I have to change the water twice, and each time I get close to Connor, he lifts his feet off the floor without the need for prompting.

  During the time it takes me to get the worst of the crud removed, his gaze has not left me.

  “It won’t be nearly as bad as yesterday, but it’ll still be uncomfortable when I take the packing out.”

  “Okay.”

  I carefully unwrap the bandage from his leg, and pull the stack of gauze from the wound. It sticks a little, and I hear him hiss.

  “Sorry. I’ll be more careful.” With a little bit of isopropyl alcohol, I soften the spots that adhere, and gently peel it back.

  I’m actually surprised the wound doesn’t look more inflamed than it does. I use the alcohol to clean the hemostat and use it to remove the packing.

  “So how long have you worked at McDonald’s?” I purposely don’t look at him but stay focused on his injury. It takes him a moment to answer.

  “Almost a year,” he finally shares.

  “Oh, yeah? I remember my first job was at McDonald’s, but I was still in high school in Farmington.”

  “You lived in Farmington?” I look up at his surprised question.

  “Yeah, was born and raised there. I only moved to Durango last year.”

  “My grandfather lives in Farmington. Well, he does now. When I lived with him, he was in Shiprock. He’s in a seniors’ home.”

  “I see. So you moved here when he went to Farmington? What about your parents?”

  I knew it was a risky question the moment it left my mouth, and the sudden tension in the muscle under my hands confirms it.

  “They’re dead.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I quickly try to desensitize the situation when I hear the change in his voice, but I’m afraid the damage is done.

  “They killed my dad, killed my mom too, when she started asking too many questions. They claim the first was self-defense and the second suicide, but none of that is true. None of it!”

  His voice had been steadily rising until he actually shouts the last few words, making me flinch.

  I stay quiet for a few minutes, waiting for his breathing to return to normal while I carefully put clean dressings on the wound.

  “Who did that?” I finally ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

  “Fucking cops, that’s who. Swept it under the rug, and when Mom asked around, they hung her from the rafters in the attic. She never would’ve left me alone.”

  “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

  He suddenly grins in my face. “Don’t be. I’m making them pay. Kept my grandpa quiet for years, by paying him off, but money don’t work on me.”

  He’s getting agitated and the leg I’m trying to work on starts bouncing.

  “Connor, you have to keep still so I don’t hurt you,” I try, putting a restrictive hand on his knee.

  Suddenly he latches on to my wrist, squeezing so hard I’m sure my bones will snap. “Let’s see how he likes me killing his cops. I’m saving him for last.”

  Attempting to stay calm, I plead with him, “Please let me go, that hurts.” But it’s as if he doesn’t hear me.

  “How is that for justice? He deserves all the pain I can give him.”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about, but you’re hurting me, Connor.”

  “Officer McMahan. Or maybe I should call him Chief now. Dad never had a gun. Didn’t believe in violence. Your chief of police shot an innocent man, and then tried to bury it, paid off my grandpa, but I’m not gonna let him.”

  “Okay, Connor. Okay, I believe you.”

  Finally he releases his tight grip on my wrist, and I rub to get the blood flowing again.

  “Did you know my dad was killed on a Wednesday night?” he asks.

  “No, I didn’t.” I carefully start wrapping his leg, hoping I can keep him calm.

  “Yeah. I don’t work on Wednesdays.”

  “Is that in memory of your dad?” I want to know.

  “No. It’s because I planned to be busy handing out payback on Wednesdays; the same day he died.”

  Jasper

  “Fucking Sunday morning,” Luna grumbles. “Everyone’s either at church or still in bed. Can’t get an answer anywhere.”

  Without a phone to trace, all we have is Bella’s cryptic message. It was her idea to look for lodges, ranches, and resorts that advertise cabin rentals.

  Damian’s been on the phone with Keith already, filling him in and getting his input, since he was born and raised in Durango. He provided us with a list of possibles, and Dylan had found a few online, but we couldn’t afford to eliminate any other lodgings or even rental condos either. Anywhere they might have a room twelve, unit twelve, or cabin twelve.

  So far though, our calls have netted zero. Either because they didn’t have a number twelve of anything, the rooms weren’t occupied, or because the renters didn’t match the description of the suspect by a mile. Anything close we would check out.

  “Found another one east of town, up in the mountains. About forty minutes out,” Dylan pipes up. “Owner says the cabin is rented for the month. Small one bedroom, secluded from the others. Renter is a single guy by the name of Robert Patton.”

  “Could be using a fake name and ID,” Luna points out.

  “I’d expect him to be closer to town, but fuck, it’s better than nothing. Dylan, let’s go.” Damian stands up and pockets his phone, but when I make a move to get up as well, he stops me. “Need you and Luna to keep digging. We can’t afford to all go on what might be a wild goose chase. You two are more familiar with the facts of the case than either Dylan or me.”

  Even though I’m itching for fucking something to do, I can’t argue his point, and watch as they walk out the door.

  “We’ll find her,” Luna says, when I turn back to my screen. “She’s a tough cookie. We’ll find her.”

  “Not so tough,” I point out, but Luna shakes her head.

  “You’re wrong. Just because someone is depressed doesn’t mean they’re not resilient. I’d actually like to wager most people suffering from depression are stronger, because they often have fight to get up and keep going every single day. And the majority face that battle alone. Don’t count Bella out.”

  It’s about half an hour later that my phone rings and I snatch it up, hoping for some news.

  “Greene.”
<
br />   “I may have seen that truck.” I don’t immediately recognize the voice until he introduces himself. “It’s Ouray, you came sniffin’ around the compound last week, left me your card.”

  Right, the Arrow’s Edge MC.

  “I remember.”

  “Been out of town since early yesterday mornin’, just got back, readin’ the newspaper, see a picture of this fuckin’ truck.”

  I shoot up straight in my chair and put the call on speaker right away, so Luna can listen in. “Where’d you see it, and what time was that?”

  “Rode out at four, woulda been shortly after, since I saw it right at the intersection at Junction Creek Road, where it turns into County 204, headin’ north.”

  I’m already pulling up the map on my screen.

  “Which direction was it going?” Luna asks from behind me.

  “Well, hello, darlin’. North. Fuckin’ saw the woman behind the wheel and it nagged at me at the time. Shoulda stopped. No reason a woman’d be drivin’ up the mountain at that hour. No reason that can stand the light’a day, anyways. There ain’t nothin’ up there. Paper says she’s missin’?”

  “Taken at gunpoint,” I specify. “Look, do you know of any places up that way where he might’ve taken her? Anywhere they rent cabins?”

  “Not anymore. Used to be. Riverview or Ridgeview—somethin’ like that. Most of them got leveled, but they sold a few to some hunters, I believe. Can’t be sure.”

  “Would you happen to know the last owners? A name at least?”

  “That won’t be hard, it’s the old man’s brother, he still owns most’a that land.”

  CHAPTER 19

  JASPER

  “Fucking wait for me, Greene,” Damian barks.

  I called him the minute I hung up with Ouray. He’s about half an hour out, and I’m not about to sit on my ass and wait around for him to get here.

  “You can meet us up at the Arrow’s Edge compound. I’m not going in half-assed, Boss, but I won’t sit here and twiddle my fucking thumbs until you get back.”

  “Tell him I’ll load up their gear, save them a stop at the office first,” Luna says, heading over to the large locker in the hallway that stores a variety of weapons, ammo, and tactical gear. She pulls out two large duffels and starts stuffing them.