The Letter Keeper

by Charles Martin

  One of the conditions of living in Freetown is that your private life is not private. You agree when you walk through the doors that everything about you is open to scrutiny and observation. Twenty-four-seven. This does not mean we hang cameras in the bathroom, but the reasons are obvious: your protection. Along with everyone else’s. And everyone agrees this is a good idea. Especially those who have been trafficked.

  The men who once owned and capitalized off these girls are masters at psychological warfare and deception. Pimps are referred to as “daddies.” And given that most girls have massive father wounds, their daddy artificially fills that hole. From gifts to time spent to adoration to promises, they give them what they want, need, and have never had.

  While Casey was like the other girls in most every way, she possessed one striking and unavoidable difference: she was making money while at Freetown. Lots of it. Given her success, we’d recommended a wealth management guy with whom she was working, and at her own suggestion, she’d made me a signer on the account for anything over a thousand dollars. This meant she had to acquire my approval for anything greater. Which was never, because Casey never spent money.

  We knew it would be unfair to Casey, her readers, and anyone who followed her story to make her totally inaccessible. Doing so would defeat Casey’s purpose of allowing them to share their stories, which she knew was vital to their healing. From the “Contact Casey” button on her website to a half dozen social media avenues, the response to both Casey and her story was overwhelming. In return, Casey emptied herself into helping other girls. She often wrote long into the night communicating with any girl who had either escaped or wanted to. Every voice mattered. So she responded to each one.

  This meant that no matter where you were in the world, getting to Casey was only one or two clicks away. Casey was no dummy and understood the doors and possibilities this opened. With her permission, we monitored every one of them. Not to mention that the guys in DC had written programming code that allowed us to dissect every word sent to her, sifting for patterns and hunting for a hundred “signal” words. This did not mean we knew everything. But we knew a lot.

  About a week after our camping trip, Ellie found me in my basement standing at my piddle table. Her voice betrayed more than her words. She said, “I can’t find Casey.”

  The smell of cleaning solvent filled the air. “Is that normal?”

  “Not like this.”

  I checked the mudroom for her hiking boots and day pack. Both were gone. As was her sleeping bag. An overnight was not unusual for Casey, but she always checked it with us beforehand and took one of the girls with her. Often she included Gunner. She never ventured out on her own. To complicate matters, the necklace I’d given her was hanging on the mirror next to her bed. Meaning I couldn’t track her.

  Several hours later, Bones called me to the command center. When I walked in, he shook his head and pointed to the screen. “Sneaky. Which is why we missed it.”

  The screen showed a comment under the review section of her book page on her website. Not something we routinely scoured. The comment, posted the first week the book released, read, “Miss you.” Then gave a URL for a Google document. This web address was no longer valid, but after a rather thorough examination of the deleted files on the hard drive of Casey’s laptop, the tech team uncovered a new address. One that had not been changed. What they found was an active and running Google document shared by two people. Documents like this were not new and often were shared by lovers who didn’t want to be discovered because there was no trail. No bread crumbs. No to or from. This was simply a document, housed in some cloud, accessible only by those who knew the exact address. But if you did know it, you could access it from anywhere in the world—without a trace.

  Bones downloaded everything. Which was roughly akin to the size of a novel.

  I stared at the ream of paper. “How’d we miss this?”

  “She used several computers to access it and then deleted the cookies.”

  This meant Casey had circumvented the very controls we, with her approval, had enacted to protect her. The Google doc was enlightening. And it proved what I’d feared. While we’d freed her body, he still owned her mind.

  “What do we know about him?”

  “Not much. He’s slick. But he seems to know her a lot better than we do and has for a long time. He knows how to ask the right questions.”

  “You think he’s the reason she’s missing?”

  Bones nodded.

  “Any clue where they might have gone?”

  “She spends a lot of time documenting her hikes. Caves she’s discovered and explored. Deserted cabins. Favorite trails. She’s done a lot of walking. More than we thought. And farther than we thought. And . . .” He tapped the papers. “He’s no dummy. He never mentions money, but he’s asked several questions about sales and what she might do with the rest of her life now that she doesn’t have to work.”

  Cunning. “What’s the last thing they wrote to each other?”

  “Like everything else, it’s written in a convoluted romantic lover’s code. Something Romeo initiates and to which she quickly and willingly responds. He uses words from their past, which he established in earlier communications, suggesting he’s a master at calculation.”

  The mercury was dropping and a dusting snow had begun to fall. Temperatures were below freezing and would remain that way for several days. I returned to Casey’s room, grabbed a fleece jacket she often wore, and knelt with Gunner, allowing him to rub his nose in it. “I need you to find Casey.” I patted the bed where he often napped alongside her. “Find Casey.”

  I then walked him downstairs and stood at the trail, which led into the mountains. I let him smell the fleece one more time, pointed to the trail, and said, “Find Casey.”

  Gunner bounded off, climbed Paraclete Peak, and disappeared into a wall of white. The snow would erase both Casey’s tracks and her scent, so our chances were slim at best. I returned to my basement and began packing, which was where Summer found me. When she appeared, she was carrying a pack and wearing boots and a down puffer jacket and beanie. “I’m coming with you.”

  I’d learned not to argue with her when her voice sounded like that. I stared at her but said nothing.

  She continued, “If she’s willingly gone with Romeo, then you’re not just rescuing her body but her heart and mind. And . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t think you’re the one to do that.”

  I had a feeling she was right. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’re a man, and whether you like it or not, she’s running from you . . . and everyone like you.”

  It made sense in a twisted and messed-up way.

  While Casey had spent a lot of time in these mountains, no one knew them better than me. That included Bones. Chances were good I knew every cabin and cave for miles and had slept several nights in most all of them. Unless we were totally incorrect in our interpretation of the vague descriptions of their rendezvous, they were headed to a cabin. Someplace with a fireplace and a view. Someplace he could access with a Jeep and then wine and dine her and talk about all the good times they once had. Where he could rewrite their history. Then drug her and drive her out of Colorado and hole up until she gave him the account numbers. Then he’d contact me and use her as leverage. “Transfer the money or never see her again.”

  Simple.

  I could think of half a dozen cabins within fifteen miles that served this purpose.

  We stepped into the snow and my phone rang. It was Bones. “His name is Carl Mason.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Served several stints for trafficking, drugs, weapons. Owns a tattoo parlor. Presents himself as some sort of an artist with ink.”

  “Got a picture?”

  My phone dinged. I opened the pic. Flame tattoos crawled up his neck and onto the sides of his cheeks. Ink tears dripped from the corners of his eyes, and the fingers of a demon, dri
pping with blood, appeared on his forehead and temple, sliding out beneath his black hair—suggesting that at one time someone had tattooed his shaved head. His eyes were permanently inked with black eyeliner. And his arms were entirely sleeved. Everything about this guy was dark.

  Bones continued, “Don’t let him get you in a small room. He was NCAA Wrestler of the Year twice and then spent six years studying jiujitsu in Brazil, where he was undefeated against some of the best fighters in the world. While there he learned to traffic flesh. Currently, he’s making his way up the MMA ranks. None of his fights have gone into the second round. His fight videos are . . . not entertaining.”

  “How’s he know Casey?”

  “No idea. But if she’s run off with him, then he must have gotten to her early in her life and he’s using those hooks.”

  I was about to hang up when Bones’s voice stopped me. “Murph?”

  “Yeah.”

  He was quiet. I knew what he wanted to say. I was coming off some difficult injuries and it’d been a while since I’d strapped on my helmet.

  “I got it, Bones.”

  The phone clicked dead.

  Summer and I stepped into the night where the moon was high and cast our shadow on the trail. Gunner had been gone an hour. He’d return when he picked up her trail or got hungry. Casey was smart. She knew I’d send Gunner, and if she’d hidden this much from us, then I knew not to trust or bank on my experience with her. His tethers were anchored deeper than mine. Casey was a puppet on a string, and I was not the puppeteer.

  Freetown sits high in a valley. Jagged ridgelines stretch north and south over peaks ranging from twelve to fourteen thousand feet, and the trails up here are faint. This area was settled a hundred and fifty years ago by opportunistic miners digging for silver and gold. The digging gave rise to boom towns at ten thousand feet. Complete with schools and bars and churches and whiskey stills. When the ore ran out, folks deserted, giving rise to ghost towns. Frozen in time a century ago. Colorado is full of them. Many are accessible by Jeep. Many are not. I didn’t know if Casey had gone north or south, so with a fifty percent chance of being either right or wrong, we headed north.

  Three hours and four miles later, the snow began falling harder so we stepped beneath a boulder outcrop and huddled against the stone. It was cold, the wind was blowing, but I chose not to build a fire because I didn’t want to give away our presence or location. I knew she was cold, but Summer never complained. The expression on her face told me she was worried.

  Time was not our friend. It never was. The more that passed, the more difficult it’d be for Gunner to find any scent, and the deeper tattoo-boy could sink his hooks. Two miles away sat a cabin where we could rest up and get warm. It wasn’t accessible by Jeep so I doubted he’d use it, but it brought us closer to those that were. So, despite the worsening weather, we kept moving.

  Two hours later, I crept through the pines and sat studying the cabin. Summer shivered behind me. With no sound or movement, I pushed open the door. Nothing but four walls and a cot built along the wall. A wood-burning stove in the corner. Probably built by an itinerant preacher or schoolteacher, the cabin was nothing more than an overnight shelter for anyone moving between towns who needed to escape the elements.

  Summer’s teeth chattered as she spoke. “I don’t suppose you’ll build a fire in that thing?”

  I shook my head.

  “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

  I sparked my Jetboil to life, boiled water, and handed her a hot cup of instant coffee. She held it between her hands, hovering over the steam. “Best cup of coffee in the history of coffee.”

  Over the next hour, the snow fell in large flakes, filling our footsteps and covering any tracks. Sipping my third cup of coffee, the satellite phone rang. It was Bones. “I’ve got a heat signature on satellite about six miles north of you.”

  “Any bodies?”

  “Not yet. Which means he’s smart.”

  “You got a track on Gunner?”

  “He’s about to walk up to your door.” Gunner’s collar had been fitted with a GPS tracker similar to what I’d given the girls, although his would last for weeks at a time simply because the physical size of his collar allowed for a larger battery. Bones continued, “Looks like he’s been up to the cabin, turned around, and now found you.”

  I opened the door and Gunner stood staring at me. A grin on his face. He walked around me and snuggled up with Summer under the blanket. “Nice to see you too.”

  Between the snow and the terrain, it took four hours. Over the last half mile, we could smell the wood-burning fire. Years ago, I’d weathered a night here when a whiteout forced me inside. The cabin sat at the tree line at twelve thousand feet, had been built of huge logs, and had a gas range, hot and cold running water, and battery-powered lights charged by rooftop solar panels. It was self-sufficient and off the grid. We studied it through binoculars for almost an hour before moving to the barn, which sat tucked inside an aspen grove. The snow had quit, which meant we had nothing to cover our tracks, so we approached through the trees beyond the barn, accessing it from the rear. We climbed into the loft, and I cracked the door, allowing us a view of the house where smoke spiraled out of the chimney. A dim golden hue of light revealed shadows walking around.

  I turned to Summer. “I need to get a closer look. Keep Gunner here and don’t follow me.”

  She nodded. “How do you know he’s not expecting you?”

  “I don’t.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

  Just then my satellite phone vibrated. The message read, “Five million dollars. Six hours.” The text included a picture of Casey. Eyes glazed over. No doubt drugged. He knelt behind her. His intention clear. The message concluded with account numbers.

  He was savvy, working fast, and I’d underestimated him. He wasn’t going to use her as leverage to get her money. He was going to use her as leverage to get to the deeper pockets of whoever was funding Freetown. Smart. I forwarded it to Bones as I heard the Jeep engine turn over.

  We didn’t have long.

  I made my way around the house as a muscled body carried a female frame out the door and trudged through the snow. I knelt and whispered to Gunner, “Choctaw.” In my training of Gunner, I’d chosen unmistakable words with distinct syllables. This one meant, “Get him.”

  Gunner shot through the snow like a wolf, launched himself through the air, and caught Mr. Clean in the groin. The guy immediately dropped the body and began screaming at the top of his lungs. While Gunner latched a vise lock on his ability to continue his lineage, I made it to Casey, lifted her off the snow, and was thinking about stealing the Jeep when a second man I’d not seen with muscles like a silverback gorilla jumped on my back like a cat. He wrapped me in a knot like a pretzel and was causing no small amount of pain when Gunner let go of gorilla number one and latched on the face of gorilla number two, who quickly let go of me. In the dim light of the house, gorilla number two lifted a pistol from his hip and was about to press it into Gunner’s chest when the +P 230-grain hollow point from my Sig 220 caught him in the right shoulder, spun him, and sent him to the ground—where miraculously he focused on me and pressed the trigger.

  His round missed me, and in the air I heard myself whisper, “Front sight . . . pressss.”

  Nobody shoots my dog. Period.

  Gorilla number one lay in the snow, moaning, trying to stand yet finding it difficult, so I turned out his lights and returned to Casey, who had yet to wake. I lifted her a second time as Summer appeared. I nodded toward the Jeep, set Casey in the backseat, and was in the process of slamming the gear shift into reverse when I felt the burn in my left shoulder followed by the report of the rifle. I dumped the clutch, spun snow ten feet in the air, turned the Jeep a hundred and eighty degrees, and we shot down the hill under the echo of two more rifle reports. The rounds narrowly missed my head as evidenced by the two small holes in the windshield in fron
t of me. I redlined the engine, and we descended five hundred feet down a treacherous incline before I stopped and turned to Summer, who sat ghostly and white-knuckled in the backseat holding Casey’s head.

  About the time I clicked on my flashlight I saw we had a problem. A really big one. Casey wasn’t Casey. Summer was holding the head of a girl neither of us had ever seen. When they’d carried her from the house, I’d assumed she was Casey.

  I was wrong.

  We sat speechless. The girl was beautiful, and her carotid proved a strong pulse, but she wasn’t Casey any more than I was. I cussed beneath my breath and turned to Summer. “Drive this thing down this mountain.” She tried to protest, but I stopped her. “Take it as far as it will let you. Bones can track both you and Gunner. He’ll meet you.”

  Summer started to protest again when my sat phone vibrated. Another message. This one read, “Five hours.” It included a picture of Casey wearing less clothing and concluded with a smiley emoji. In the back of my mind I heard Casey asking me to protect her, and me telling her that I’d never let anything happen to her.

  Summer grabbed my left shoulder, smearing blood across both of us. “I’m not leaving you.”

  “You have to. Bones’ll pick you up about a mile down where this road meets the county road.”

  She was not convinced. “Murph.”

  “It’s okay. Just drive.”

  I’d underestimated this guy twice and didn’t plan on doing it again. I hopped out of the Jeep and began trudging back up the hill. Gunner tried to follow, but I stopped him. “Stay.” He turned in a complete circle, telling me he didn’t like that idea, then jumped back into the Jeep and whined. I climbed quickly through the snow, my lungs burning, while the Jeep’s taillights disappeared through the night. I needed to return to the barn to grab my pack, which held my crossbow, so I circled west, climbed hand over fist through the biting cold, and appeared in the trees just behind the barn. I tried to step quietly, but there’s no such thing as walking quietly in snow. I reached the barn door, slipped inside, and felt two muscled hands rip me off the ground and toss me through the air, where I slammed into the wall of the barn.