by Jan Burke
As they walked back home, Frank made lists of everything they’d need to bring. Backpacking supplies, first aid supplies, radios for communicating, weapons, lock picks—he wondered if Rachel would let him borrow hers. Irene’s toothbrush, pillowcase, and her socks from the laundry basket—all items that would help to pre-scent the bloodhound Bool. The lists went on.
They were almost back to the house when Frank said, “What if this is all a wild-goose chase?”
Jack shrugged. “If this is the only lead you’ve got, chase that damned goose.”
FORTY
The miles seemed endless. We wove our way on and off the main highway at Parrish’s direction, taking smaller roads for long distances. Once out of the San Bernardino Mountains, we drove in the darkness over stretches of desolate country, surrounded on all sides by the Mojave Desert. The air was cold and the sky dark and star-filled. Under other circumstances, I would have found it a peaceful place, a place of renewal. Over those hours, it was a journey through hell.
Parrish eventually grew tired of taunting me with threats and simply barked out directions that sent us east and west and back again, as if the car were a sailboat that needed to tack to reach north. I had been able to determine that we were gradually headed north. We stopped for gas once, but only Donovan was allowed out of the car, and then only to fill the tank and clean the windshield. I tried the door anyway, which made Parrish laugh. “Childproof locks. Don’t try anything else childish, or I’ll shoot not only you but anyone who tries to come to your rescue.”
Kai seemed able to sleep through anything.
At one point, when we were back on 395 but well away from the lights of even the smallest town, the SUV drifted across the center line and rattled over its bumps, then came back sharply into our own lane. A moment later, Donovan pulled off the highway. I didn’t see a sign, but this was one of those rural exits that boasted no gas station or, for all I could see, any human habitation anywhere nearby.
“What the hell are you doing?” Parrish snapped.
“Unlike you, I haven’t had a chance to sleep.”
“There’s a place not far from here where we’ll be stopping for supplies. We can all sleep then.”
“That’s great, but I’ve only had about four hours of sleep in the last forty-eight, and I’ve hit a wall. Someone else is going to have to drive.”
Kai, who had awakened when the car stopped, stretched and said, “I could do it.”
Parrish stared at Donovan through narrowed eyes, then said, “I’ll drive. Donovan will be back here, with Irene. Kai, I need you to take charge of my weapon. You must be on your guard.”
Kai eagerly accepted this responsibility. The doors were unlocked. Donovan moved to the backseat, Parrish to the front. I considered trying to use that moment to escape into the darkness and rejected it—with my ankles bound, I would get no more than a few feet from the car, and Kai was clearly hoping I’d do something to justify making his assignment a brief one.
Parrish locked the doors and began to drive. Kai shifted his attention to Donovan.
I watched Donovan almost as carefully as Kai did, and noticed Parrish angling the rearview mirror so that he joined Donovan’s audience. But almost as soon as Donovan had taken his place in the back, he closed his eyes. His breathing grew slow and rhythmic. I waited to see if he was faking it. If he was, he was convincing.
Parrish moved the mirror. Kai returned to staring at me the way a six-year-old might stare at a batch of cooling cookies. I broke eye contact with him, and only then did I catch movement nearby. Donovan’s left hand was on his knee, near the back of Kai’s seat. His index finger was moving. His hand could not be seen by Parrish or Kai.
I stretched as much as I could within my bonds, movement that, as intended, kept Kai’s eyes on me. Under the cover of rolling my head from side to side to as if I were getting the kinks out of my neck, I watched Donovan’s finger tapping on his knee.
If I hadn’t just spent hours honing my skills with Violet, I might have failed to recognize his use of Morse code.
… .-.… .—. .. ..-. -.— – ..- -.-. .- -.
Sleep if you can.
Right. It was so relaxing being in a car with two serial killers and a kidnapper, I was going to go off into dreamland and let them take me wherever they wanted to go. I wasn’t going to pay attention to where I was being taken or watch for any opportunity to escape before they took me there.
He could not be serious.
I watched Donovan more openly, without any need to feign my wariness of him. He stopped signaling me. His breathing slowed. I was nearly certain that he was truly asleep.
I looked out the window into the blackness of the desert and considered the other side of the question of sleep. I had spent most of the last twenty-four hours feeling terrified. I had done the physical work necessary for the care of Violet and Kai. I had engaged in two short, futile fights with Donovan. I was tired. I could feel the effect on my judgment and emotions.
If I did manage to escape, I would need to be as rested as possible to stay free from Parrish. I wasn’t going to be able to change anything about where I was being taken. Knowing the general direction we were headed, I had little doubt that we’d end up in the Sierras, where Nick Parrish had spent plenty of time before he was arrested.
I wasn’t sure that Donovan was an ally. I felt uneasy about the idea of sleeping while Kai pointed a gun at me.
But I wanted to be able to fight and run and do whatever else was required to survive, and I’d stand a better chance of doing all that if I conserved my energy now and rested. If I was too exhausted to think clearly, escape was even more unlikely.
Nick Parrish glanced at me in the rearview mirror.
I closed my eyes and leaned against the cold glass of the window. The last thing I remember telling myself before I fell asleep was that if Nick Parrish was watching me, it would be safer to stay awake.
FORTY-ONE
In the end, they had taken two vehicles, knowing that it might be necessary to split up for a while, and now, about an hour before dawn, their caravan had reached their destination—or near it, parked about fifty yards from the partially open front gate of what appeared to be a private camp. Signs posted at regular intervals along a tall iron fence warned that this was private property, “Keep Out.” A large wooden sign at the gate carried more specific warnings about prosecution. “An unlocked gate and a no trespassing sign,” Jack said. “I hardly know what to do with myself.”
“Could have saved the time it took me to get the lock picks from Rachel.”
“Never know—still might need them.”
They got out of the Jeep Cherokee and walked back to where Ben and Ethan and the dogs—Bingle and Bool—waited in Ben’s SUV.
Jack had made arrangements with Travis to be waiting with one of their Sikorskys at a nearby location. If Irene was here and needed medical attention, they’d be able to fly her to a hospital faster than they could ever make the trip down mountain roads. Travis had already called to say he had landed the helicopter at the field and was ready to help in any way he could.
This address, in an unincorporated area of the San Bernardino Mountains, was the only recent out-of-town destination Frank had found on the GPS in the Ford Escape.
Frank asked the others to wait in Ben’s SUV, with instructions on whom to call at the first sign of trouble. At first all three refused to be left behind, but after a brief but intense argument, it was agreed that Jack would go with Frank while Ben and Ethan stayed back. At Ben’s insistence, Frank called Ben’s phone from his own and stayed connected to that call, using his wireless headset.
“You understand I’m not going to narrate every step I take?” Frank said.
“Yes, and I’m not going to distract you by constantly talking to you,” Ben replied. “But we’re not going to be able to see you and Jack out there in the dark, and if you’re in trouble, I want to know right away.”
Despite his sense of u
rgency, Frank waited and watched for several minutes before moving closer to the gate and the small house just inside it. The house was clearly a gatekeeper’s or caretaker’s lodge, painted in the dark hunter green color that must be sold by the tanker truckload to mountain camps.
He gave more than a moment’s thought to a set of names engraved on a granite memorial in front of the Las Piernas Police Department, all murdered on the same date, all slain by a trap set by Parrish. Good friends, some of them.
He told himself this had all the earmarks of a similar trap. He didn’t know who had sent the text messages. Parrish could have sent them himself. He considered, not for the first time, calling in the San Bernardino Sheriff’s Department. It would be the smart thing to do. The right thing. But he knew the result would be calls made to Las Piernas and questions raised there and, in all likelihood, his own detention. He had friends in the San Berdoo office, but even if they responded immediately, it would take time for them to contact their bomb squad and get it up here.
He told himself this was foolishness that might end up getting him killed—and Jack, Ethan, and Ben along with him.
Then he thought of his wife spending even another ten minutes under Parrish’s control.
He looked at Jack. His friend’s facial features were barely visible in the darkness, but Frank felt as if Jack had read his thoughts. His eyes held a look of determination—and a hint of impatience.
Frank smiled. “You sure you don’t want to wait here, Jack?” he said quietly. “If something happens to you, the whole economy of Las Piernas is going to be fucked.”
“Then fuck Las Piernas,” Jack said. “Let’s go.”
Frank turned his flashlight on and played it over the house and fence. He noted several cameras and a motion sensor for an alarm system. The cameras, although of a design that allowed them to move, were motionless. The motion sensor appeared to be disabled, but that, he knew, could be deceiving—an entirely different alarm system could be operating.
He took a deep breath and eased the gate farther open. It moved nearly silently. He listened for any sounds of approach, then slipped inside. Jack followed him through.
They waited.
There was a rustling in a nearby bush. Jack turned his own flashlight toward it, and they caught a glimpse of a rabbit fleeing through the undergrowth.
The gatehouse was empty, but a check of its garage revealed a van and a Lexus. Frank knew both plate numbers—everyone in the Las Piernas Police Department had been hoping to find Kai Loudon’s van. And he had talked about the Lexus with Quinn Moore very recently.
He touched the hoods of both cars. Both were cold.
“Cabins or main lodge?” Jack whispered.
“Lodge, then cabins, but keep an eye out for an ambush.”
They reached the lodge without incident and crossed its wide, covered porch. Jack tried the front door before Frank could stop him—it was unlocked. They stood together just outside the open doorway, playing their flashlights around the large room.
“Hang on a sec,” Jack said in a low voice. He moved to the side of the porch and stacked a couple of metal outdoor chairs together, then told Frank to stand back.
“What are you doing?”
“Maybe step off the porch a few feet.”
“What are you doing?” Frank asked again, more warily.
“Just a little test.”
Frank stepped off the porch and watched as Jack picked up the chairs and threw them over the threshold. They landed with a loud clatter.
“Are you okay?” Ben asked over the headset.
“Fine,” Frank said. “That was just the sound of Jack improvising.”
Jack looked back at him with a grin.
“So much for sneaking in,” Frank said to him.
Jack shrugged. “Two things. We can step in that far without getting blown up, and we can stop whispering.”
“Shit yes, we certainly can, because you might as well have set off a fucking fire alarm.” Frank shoved the tangle of chairs aside and stepped into the room.
Jack gave him a look of mock dismay. “You brought me along to provide subtlety?”
“Hilarious. Jesus, Jack. If you don’t mind, I’d like the Cirque du Soleil SWAT team to let me take it from here.”
“Don’t mock—I have my uses.”
They searched the lower floor of the lodge, turning on lights as they went quickly from room to room. It was a task Frank would not usually have attempted without backup. Despite the quiet following their grand entrance, Frank could not shake the sensation that they were not alone in the building.
However differently he would have approached entering the building, he trusted Jack and knew him to be a good man to have at his side in a fight. Jack had gained his fighting experience the hard way. In his adventurous—some would say misspent—youth, he had survived any number of down and dirty street fights. So he wasn’t going to pass out or run off at the first sign of trouble. They were both armed, and although Jack favored knives—he could throw a knife with deadly accuracy—he was also an excellent shot. He kept in practice, had steady aim, and best of all, could keep a cool head.
The lodge was designed so that it could have operated as a small inn even without the cabins. Several of the rooms were connected by shared bathrooms, which meant that someone could easily move unseen into a room they had already searched and wait for an opportunity to ambush them. Because of that, despite Jack’s “test,” once they were past the front entrance, they seldom spoke.
The floors were wooden, although there was carpet in the hallways. Once they were off the carpet, it was hard to move quietly. Inevitably, boards in older buildings squeaked.
Frank’s flashlight had a strobe setting on it, and as they entered each room, he used that feature, which would make it harder for any attacker to see them.
One of the first rooms they came across was a small office. Paperwork lying atop a desk was addressed to Quinn Moore.
“So it’s his place?” Jack asked.
“Looks like it.”
“Could you be in trouble for breaking and entering here?”
“Not as much trouble as I think he’s going to be in.”
They entered a commercial-sized kitchen, where they discovered a set of concrete stairs leading to what appeared to be a cellar, and as they hurried down them, Frank found himself wondering if he would find Irene held captive there. The heavy door was unlocked. As he cautiously pushed it open, he thought of Kai Loudon’s basement and felt a stab of fear about what an unlocked door might mean.
Frank recognized a familiar scent—gun oil. His hand located a wall switch, and the room flooded with light. Even recognizing that scent, he was unprepared for what met his eyes.
“Holy shit,” Jack said.
“Everything okay?” Ben asked.
“We’ve found an arsenal,” Frank said.
The room, which had probably once served as storage for food, wine, or kitchen supplies, was now lined with cases holding neat rows of weapons—mostly knives but also handguns, rifles, and assault weapons. A closer look showed additional stores of ammunition and explosives.
“Why leave weapons behind?” Jack asked.
“I don’t know,” Frank said. “Maybe they wanted flexibility, and these guns and explosives just didn’t suit their plans. Maybe these all belong to Quinn Moore and he didn’t want to share.” He took a closer look at the explosives and shook his head. “They’re lucky they didn’t blast themselves into the middle of next week.”
Ben’s voice came over the headset. “Maybe those are supplies for his army of Moths.”
“Maybe,” Frank said, relaying Ben’s guess to Jack.
“Possible,” Jack said.
“Let’s do a quick barricade of the stairway and then get on upstairs.”
Jack worked with him to block the door into the armory with some heavy sacks of flour and a table and chairs.
At the top of the stairs leading to the second
floor, Frank saw bloodstains on the hallway carpet. He closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing, to stay focused. Don’t assume it’s her blood. Approach it like any other scene. Try to figure out what happened here.
He wanted to search the other rooms as soon as possible, so it was going to be a quick study in any case. He could see bullet holes in the walls and clear signs of bullet damage to a small wooden table. He did no more than glance at them—he knew that touching the bullet holes would completely screw things up for the San Bernardino evidence team—but it appeared that weapons of differing calibers had been used. And the patterns of stains and damage seemed to indicate that two individuals had been hit. The stains were just outside two rooms, a bathroom at the other end of the hall and a bedroom.
Quinn Moore’s injuries came to mind. It wouldn’t be hard to compare DNA here to the DNA found on his bloodstained clothing. Frank made a mental note to mention Celox to the SBSD lab.
Three of the rooms nearest the gunfight had recently been slept in—unlike in other rooms they checked, there was bedding on the mattresses in these rooms. One of the pillowcases had bloodstains on it.
Next they came across the room that housed the security system’s monitors. All the cameras and alarms were off.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Jack said.
“It does if you’re expecting company. Company you want to give access to or company you want to trap.”
They opened room after room with no sign of Irene, their search speeding up until they came to a set of rooms with dead-bolt locks and exchanged a glance as they tried the first one. It opened easily and the room was empty, but it was clear someone had slept in the bed.
Frank leaned close to the pillow, saw a strand of long black hair on it. Took a deep breath. Drew in her scent.