The cabin, p.18
The Cabin, page 18
Caleb trotted to the where the jacket hung. It took him several tries before he was able to pull the coat down so he could reach into the pockets. He returned a moment later with the knife held in front of him like he had the lit matches. Devon took it, pulled it open, and ran a thumb along the edge—not sharp, but rough now, after cutting snowman arms.
Two minutes later, the ankle tie split and Devon was free.
He gazed at his child. Fiona would want him to take Caleb and run. She would want him to leave her if he could save their son.
He couldn’t do it.
He wouldn’t do it.
“Come with me.” He reached out a hand, took Caleb into the bedroom, then upended the boy’s suitcase onto the bed. He pulled a pair of snow pants, a thick sweater, and thermal socks from the jumble of clothes. Then he limped into the living room and took Caleb’s jacket, hat, mittens, and boots from the front hall and brought them back with him.
“I’m going to go find Mommy,” he said. “While I’m gone, I want you to put all these clothes on. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” Caleb said.
“Put your boots on, too. You need to be ready to go out in the snow as soon as we get back.”
The solemn expression returned to Caleb’s face, and Devon got a glimpse of the man his boy would grow into. “Okay,” Caleb said.
“Lock the door behind me.”
After Devon heard the lock click, he shuffled to the living room, put on his own boots and jacket, then headed toward the kitchen. A streak of red was smeared across the stove front and on the floor next to it. He stopped for a moment, the color a stark reminder of the danger he was facing. He’d heard what he’d thought was the dog’s death. Apparently not.
The knowledge that Crackers was alive and had escaped gave him hope. Not a big, brass band kind of hope, just a single flute song of hope, but it was more than he’d had before.
Devon thrust the small pocketknife into his jacket pocket again. It was a feeble weapon compared to the butcher knife Rico carried, but like the faint melody of hope within him, it was something.
The mud room door opened and slammed closed like a bellows fanning chill air into the house. Devon shut it firmly behind himself and walked out into the freezing night.
7.5.5
FIONA
Rico leaned into the car and addressed someone in the back seat. “She’s here. Just like you wanted.”
He cocked his head to one side as if he were listening to a response Fiona couldn’t hear. He straightened and began to shift the branches that covered the car until he uncovered the door handle for the rear seat. With more shuffling of branches, the door opened with a loud creak. He looked at her. “Get in.”
Fiona couldn’t move. The paralysis of a nightmare had taken over her limbs, and they refused to obey. Not that she wanted them to get inside the car. No, she wanted them to run, fast and far in the other direction, but her body wouldn’t cooperate.
“I said, get in,” Rico repeated.
Adrenaline hit her like a shot of whiskey, she reconnected with her feet, turned, and ran. In two long strides, Rico was on her, knocking her to the ground. “I don’t think so.”
He lifted her to her feet and dragged her toward the car. Panic, blind and thoughtless, surged through her. She fought with fingernails and teeth, twisting in his grasp with all her strength, but his grip was a steel trap.
He placed a hand on her head and shoved her down into the backseat of the car like a cop making an arrest, then slammed the door shut. She hugged the door, terrified to see who or what was in this tiny space with her. Every boogie man from every childhood terror paraded in front of her eyes. She expected claws to rip her from the door, teeth to tear her apart, but nothing happened.
Minutes passed in cold silence. Finally, Fiona pivoted on the seat, still pressing herself against the door, and gazed around the car’s interior. Her pulse began to slow, her breathing grew regular. There was no one there. She was alone.
She pushed herself away from the side of the car and leaned over the front seat. Nobody there either. There was nowhere else to search. She was the only person, alive or dead, in the vehicle. What had Rico been playing at? Had he been trying to scare her?
“She’s all yours,” she heard him holler at the car.
Stephen King’s Christine floated through Fiona’s thoughts. Did Rico believe the car had thoughts, a personality? Was he offering her as a sacrifice to a gas-guzzling god?
He was delusional. That was the answer to all her questions. Rico was delusional.
This understanding brought both fear and hope. Fear, because delusional people were also unpredictable. Hope, for the same reason. She had no idea what he’d do next.
He might march away, leaving her at the car’s mercy, in which case she could wait ten minutes and leave. Or he might... Might what? The only way to know would be to enter into his delusion, and that would be as terrifying as it was impossible.
Metal screeched behind her, and she spun in her seat. The car windows were completely covered in pine needles. She was blind to the outside world. Rico must be getting something from the trunk. A moment later, she heard a thump. He’d closed it.
Her pulse was thudding in her ears. She inhaled and exhaled deeply, trying to still it. She needed to hear what he was doing. A long moment later, she heard a splash, as if he was throwing water against the car. Why... God, no. She smelled gasoline. It wasn’t water; it was gas.
Fiona reached for the door and yanked at the handle. It wouldn’t budge. She was locked in. Child safety locks maybe.
She threw herself at the front seat, toppled over it, and reached for the driver side door. The handle lifted and the door popped open, then stopped. She pushed again. It didn’t budge.
He’d barricaded it with something.
Liquid splashed against the passenger side of the car. The smell inside grew stronger. Fiona flew into a frenzy. She battered the door with her hands, pushed herself away from it, and kicked it with her feet until the interior fabric and plastic ripped and dented. The door remained shut.
The locks. Why hadn’t she thought of that? She pressed the childproof lock button and darted to the passenger side of the car. It wouldn’t open. She fell over the seat into the rear of the car and tried both doors. No good. He must have done something to the locks.
She climbed up front, pushed every lock button again and again, but heard no responding click. He’d jammed them somehow. Only the driver side door was unlocked, but it only opened a few inches.
Think. She had to think. What could be holding the door closed? If she knew, she might be able to work it free.
She lay on the seat, brought her face close to the opening, and peered through. One end of a thick tree limb had been dug into the snow and dirt outside. The other end was propped against the door. All she had to do was knock it aside.
Her gaze skittered around the interior of the car. What could she use? The vehicle was new and very clean. It had none of the detritus of motherhood that she toted around. No sippy cups, no children’s books, no toys or crumbled Goldfish.
She dropped to the floor and searched under the driver’s seat. Nothing. She moved to the passenger seat and saw a dark, oblong shape in the far recesses of the space. She reached under the seat but couldn’t grab it. She shoved her arm forward, scraping her skin on the seat adjustment bar. This time, she felt fabric brush against her fingertips, but that was as far as she could reach.
Fiona jumped to the rear seat, thinking she might be able to grab the item from there, but there wasn’t enough room between the seat back and the floor for more than a finger. The object was too fat to fit.
She climbed up front again, flattened herself on the floor, and thrust her arm as far under the seat as she could. She felt like a vet she’d once seen in a video who had shoved an arm inside a cow to deliver a calf. The long metal bar on the underside of the seat dug into her shoulder painfully. She grimaced, just as the vet had done, but she pushed until she could just pinch the fabric between the pointer and middle fingers of her right hand. The grip was tentative, but she had it. She sucked in her breath and drew the object toward herself, inch by inch.
The odor of gas was so strong now her eyes began to tear. She squeezed them shut. Without her vision to guide her, the thing stuck and was gone. She flapped her hand around, latched onto it again, gave a heroic tug, and the passenger seat gave birth to a compact umbrella. She held it up, tears cascading down her cheeks from both joy and gasoline fumes.
Fiona shoved the umbrella through the crack in the driver side door and whacked at the air. In it’s compressed state, it was too short to reach the branch. She brought it inside, elongated it without opening the top, then shoved it outside again.
It bounced against the branch this time, but she didn’t have enough leverage to knock it down. She hadn’t heard the sound of sloshing gasoline in at least a minute. In fact, she hadn’t heard anything outside the vehicle. A vision of Rico snapping on a lighter played in her mind. She had to get out of this car, and she had to do it now.
As she pulled the umbrella back to try again, her elbow struck the seat adjustment lever. The seat adjustment lever. Of course, she hadn’t been thinking straight. She grabbed the lever, slid the seat back as far as it would go, thrust the umbrella through the opening and whacked the branch with all her strength. It hit the ground with a thud, the door swung open, and Fiona fell onto the snowy dirt.
She lay there for a moment, catching her breath and listening for Rico, but heard nothing. Where was he? She slid onto her stomach and pressed herself onto her knees, eyes scanning her surroundings.
His booted feet were planted behind the vehicle, his stance wide. The car hid the rest of him from view, which was good. If she couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see her. Fiona crept on hands and knees toward the front of the car and the dark shadows beyond. Maybe he wouldn’t notice she was gone. Maybe he would light the car on fire believing she was still inside.
Everything in her wanted to stand and run as fast as her exhausted, wounded body would go, but she resisted the urge. Slow and silent were her best hope of escape.
Seconds seemed like hours as she put one knee in front of the other, inching her way to the dark woods. When she reached the tree line, her shin hit a pine cone that had been hidden by the snow. It cracked loudly in the quiet night. She froze.
Several long seconds later, she continued her crawl. He hadn’t heard, or he’d assumed it was an animal. Either way, he hadn’t come to investigate. Once Fiona passed five large pines, she felt safe enough to stand.
The escape had led her to the wrong end of the trail. The cabin was on the opposite side of the clearing. Keeping the car on her left, she moved as quietly as she could back the way Rico had dragged her.
Every footfall echoed in her ears. The crunch of ice, the swish of fabric against fabric, her breath, all sounded like the opening of an orchestral moment to her ears, but he must have been so intent on what he was doing he hadn’t noticed.
The farther Fiona got from the clearing, the lighter she felt. She was almost giddy at her escape. She’d heard people describe the joy that comes when they faced death and defeated it, but she’d never experienced it until now. Happiness bubbled inside her like an open bottle of champagne.
Logically, she knew this was foolish and premature. Her would-be killer wasn’t far behind, he was still armed, and he would return to the cabin eventually. He’ll think I’m dead, though. She grinned at the thought. As far as Rico was concerned, she’d be a ghost. She jogged forward, anxious to find Devon and Caleb and get away before Rico discovered the truth.
She replayed her victory moment, the swipe with the umbrella that gained her freedom, and stumbled on a tree root. The umbrella—she’d left it lying in the dirt. She’d also left the car door open. He’d be sure to see those things, then he’d know.
The fragile joy she’d felt disappeared as quickly as it had come. He would come after her. He might be tracking her right now.
Fiona shot a glance to the right and another to the left. She needed to get off the trail, hide in the woods. He’d expect her to run straight to the cabin. She had to do the unexpected. Defying every bit of advice she’d ever heard about hiking in the woods, Fiona darted off the path and into the brush.
Her plan, if it could even be called a plan, was to find a vantage point where she could watch the path. He’d return to the cabin for Devon and Caleb. Even in his psychotic state, she was sure he’d do that.
She searched the ground for a downed tree limb. She hefted one but discarded it, then settled on another. It was the right weight, heavy but not too heavy. The branch would serve as a walking stick as she climbed uphill, deeper into the woods. Later, it would become a weapon. The hunter would become the hunted.
MOLLY: Oh, my goodness, people. This was such a tense episode. It’s a terrible place to pause, or maybe it’s a good place. I could use a breather, a moment to decompress.
Fiona is such a badass. I’m so incredibly proud of her. And Devon, too. You’ll see as we move forward, he’s become a true humble hero.
Now, back to my musings about Rico. The question this week is simple, although your answers may not be. Here it is: Do you think Rico is seeing into the supernatural, or do you think he’s simply psychotic?
Join me next time for more Murders Under the Sun.
(cue music)
VO: If you enjoyed this episode, please leave us a five-star review on your favorite podcast service—it really helps. Murders Under the Sun is edited by Jim Wilbourne, theme music is by Eclectic Blends, and I’m your host, Molly Shure.
Part Seven
MURDERS UNDER THE SUN
SEASON SEVEN; EPISODE SIX
* * *
MOLLY: Welcome back to Murders Under the Sun. I’m Molly Shure, your host.
I expected the answers to last week’s question to be widely divergent, and I was correct. The vast majority of you had entrenched positions. Only a handful were in the undecided category.
In church circles it’s taught that believers are given “gifts of the Spirit.” They range from very practical things like administrative skills to the more woo-woo, like discerning of spirits. I think people whose gifts are on the practical side of the spectrum tend to squint their eyes at the those whose gifts are on the woo-woo side.
I’ve always been a feet on the ground, I’ll believe it when I see it kind of person. This series of crimes has shaken me, though. I can feel myself being dragged kicking and screaming toward the other end of the spectrum.
Thank you Dr. H for chiming in and assuring us that the visions Rico described last week were compatible with the symptoms of a psychotic break. Those who’re looking for a natural explanation now have a psychologist’s viewpoint to add weight to your perspective.
But there were many of you, like me, who lived the skeptical life until... You’re stories were compelling.
I’m afraid we’re going to have to leave this argument here. I don’t think there is a definitive answer to these questions. So, let’s return to Devon and Fiona’s narratives. Maybe we’ll find clues to their perspectives in today’s episode.
The trail of prints in the snowy ground told a story. A man’s large feet and the dragging steps of someone smaller. Fiona’s. His wife’s. Resolve seeped through Devon, hardening him cell by cell.
He followed the prints across the field behind the house and into the woods. The last time he’d gone this way, he’d been dragging the sled with Bob’s body on it. The memory brought a stab of fear. Not Fiona too, please. Devon couldn’t allow his imagination to go there.
He walked more quickly, stumbling over roots and rocks until his eyes adjusted to the forest gloom. He couldn’t see the footprints any longer, but where else would they have gone? He’d seen their steps leading to this trail, and there weren’t any branches heading off in other directions.
Up ahead, he saw an opening in the trees. It was the place they’d buried Bob. He slowed. What if Rico were there with Fiona now? Devon slid behind a pine and mentally mapped his course forward.
He moved from tree to tree with as much stealth as an injured, out-of-shape, middle-aged, suburban lawyer could, which was to say, not much. However, even with the crunching and thumping and fumbling, nobody burst through the brush and attacked him.
When he reached Bob’s final resting place, Devon rested too. The moon lit the small clearing, and he could see that it was empty. No Rico. No Fiona. No visible prints.
He wrapped an arm around his ribcage, squatted, and peered at the ground the way he’d seen Native American trackers do in movies. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Bent twigs? Scuffs in the snow? But he looked because he hadn’t a clue what else to do.
He was about to rise, his thighs burning, when he noticed something. A single heel print. At least he thought it was a heel print. He duckwalked closer. Yes. His pulse rose with excitement. He measured it with a thumb and pointer finger, held his hand stiff and measured the distance against the span of his own heel. Smaller. It was smaller.
It had to be Fiona’s. He stood and, his thighs beginning to tremble with the strain of squatting, hugged his ribs more tightly. Thing was—this print was headed toward the cabin.
He pivoted and looked behind him hoping to see another clue, but there was nothing but darkness that way. Had she escaped? Had Rico released her? Or was this an old print from another day, another person?
If he was an experienced woodsman, he would know these things. He’d have noticed the particular marks her shoes made and be able to tell them from other shoes. He’d be able to calculate how long the print had been there based on weather conditions or whatever, but those things were outside his pay grade.
