Call of the void, p.27
Call of the Void, page 27
“You never know,” I said, reversing the Volvo and backing down the driveway.
Continuing slowly up the road, the rain continued unabated. Homes were few and far between, the driveways sufficiently long that many houses weren’t visible from the road. I checked my phone. One tiny bar.
Hearing the roar of an engine, I looked to the rearview to see a massive, mud-caked 4x4 with roll bars and fog lights riding my bumper. Grabbing the Enforcer from my bag, I slowed and pulled to the side. The monster truck tore past and continued up the hill.
Soon the road leveled off but turned into washboard, with mud-filled potholes. My progress slowed as I attempted to weave around the larger holes, occasionally bottoming out the Volvo and making an ugly scraping sound as the undercarriage met rocks. I had a premonition that this would be the last vehicle I ever drove.
After thirty minutes, the road forked. I stayed right, where the narrow road continued to climb. After a series of switchbacks, the road grew even steeper. The bald tires of the Volvo began to slip and lose traction. Second-growth trees grew dense on either side, forming a thick, green canopy that felt like driving through a tunnel. There hadn’t been a home for several kilometres. The rain stopped momentarily. I rolled down the window and slowed. Silence. No birdsongs. No breeze.
After several more minutes of climbing, the trees thinned as the road widened and leveled off. I pulled over and got out, finding myself standing at a cliff face, looking down on the steep cut of a misty, wooded valley below. The silence carried the sensation of being watched and I kept turning to look at the trees behind.
I sat on the hood of the car and trained the Nikons on the valley, sweeping them slowly left to right. Steam rose from the earth around me, mingling with the growing fog. Visibility worsened by the minute. I didn’t know the terrain, and I cursed myself for picking up such a shit car.
In the valley, about a kilometre to the left was what appeared to be a clearing. It could’ve been an old logging clear-cut, or it could’ve been nothing. Minutes later, the fog crept in and obscured it all.
Overhead, dark clouds obscured the sun. A low rumble of distant thunder.
From inside the car, my phone rang. I hopped off the hood and reached through the open window and grabbed it. Wayne.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“The mountains.”
“No shit. I know that. Have you found the house?”
“No, but I’m close ... I think.”
“For Chrissake, Donovan—”
“Listen,” I said, “you can threaten to rip up the contract tomorrow, but are you going to get your ass out here or not? ’Cause I don’t see the cops coming any time soon.”
“I’m en route. Don’t move until I get there.”
“I have to get off this road. I’m a sitting duck out here. But I think there’s something in the valley.”
“Satellite map shows something in the forest; a cabin maybe, hidden among the trees, with a clearing beyond. Head back to where the road forks and take the other road for about a klick or so. There’s a place where the two roads nearly converge again. I should be there in just over an hour.”
I ended the call and got back in the car. In the time I’d spoken to Wayne, the valley below had become enshrouded with fog. I turned the car around and drove back to the fork in the road and hooked onto the even steeper logging road. After locating the area Wayne had mentioned, I found a spot where I could pull off and reverse snugly between the trees. I ate a banana and drank some water. From my bag in the backseat, I grabbed green camo running tights and a matching pullover. I changed in the car, then tucked my hair beneath a black toque. After texting the coordinates to Fiona Saddy, I turned on the car’s engine again, and plugged the Enforcer into the cigarette lighter.
I looked down at my hands. They were shaking, and not from fear. I reached beneath the seat for the water bottle. Empty except for a trickle at the bottom. I unscrewed the cap and swallowed the warm vodka dregs. It wasn’t enough to do anything, but the burn was familiar, comforting. My hands still shook.
When I looked up, the rain started again.
CHAPTER 61
At 2:12 p.m. Wayne’s Pathfinder pulled up in front of the Volvo. I climbed into his vehicle and saw the shotgun on the seat. “Case we run into a bear,” he said. Several sheets of paper printed off Google Earth sat beside it; an aerial view of the surroundings.
Wayne chewed on the inside of his cheek. It was his tell. He had something to say but didn’t necessarily want to.
“The cops know we’re here,” I said. “I texted Fiona Saddy just before you arrived.”
“She reply?”
“Not yet, but I gave her the GPS co-ordinates.”
Cheek-chewing silence.
“What is it?” I asked.
“After you called and told me about Kent, I did a little quick research and found some news stories going back four, five years. It’s a place they prefer to keep hush-hush, but there was an exposé on the amount of drugs getting in, along with cell phones, weapons, even guns.”
“Guard corruption,” I said.
“No different than any other prison in the world. It’s a no-brainer; those guys get paid shit wages to do a shit job. But there’s something else. I cross-referenced a few ODs and they turned out to be UN gang members.”
“OK.”
“Same guys who put several of Travis Benoit’s crew in the morgue a few years earlier.”
“Danko’s in Benoit’s pocket,” I said. “He’s bringing in hot doses.”
“Some of the victims also had traces of scopolamine in their systems.”
“Devil’s Breath,” I said.
“Yup.”
He opened the door and stepped into the rain, then reached back and grabbed the Remington.
“First hike we’ve ever been on together,” I said. “Sure you’re up to it?”
“Yeah, I thought we’d just stroll up all casual-like,”—he tucked the butt of the shotgun into his armpit and pulled his blue windbreaker around it—“and pretend we’re Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
We stepped into the woods leading downhill to the original service road. Several minutes of walking brought us past the place I had pulled the car over earlier.
A few hundred yards further, the road descended steeply. The sound of a revving truck came from up ahead and we cut into woods on the right side of the road. Seconds later, another mud-caked 4x4 roared past, too fast to see who was at the wheel. Coming out of the woods, we continued down the road. If we’d been driving—even if we’d been looking for it—there was a good chance we wouldn’t have spotted the entrance. Only travelling on foot allowed us to see the tire tracks turn sharply off the road into what initially appeared to be impenetrable brush and forest. A closer look showed that several large, broken branches and loose bushes all but completely obscured a dirt path leading between two trees, just wide enough for a vehicle to pass through. Leaving the camouflage intact, we entered the woods ten feet to the right of the path. Maneuvering around stumps and deadfall, we moved parallel with the path. The trees grew dense and tall as skyscrapers, largely blotting out the sky above. The sudden darkness was disorientating, making me feel like it was suddenly nighttime.
Wayne held up his hand and we stopped. The only thing I heard were his heavy breaths, blending with the hiss of the rain in the trees. He pointed to the Nikons on my utility belt and I handed them over. After peering through the binoculars he passed them back to me and I took a look. “Ten o’clock,” he said.
Following his direction, I saw the makeshift driveway a hundred yards to the left, and a padlocked metal gate blocking it. “That’s not an official forestry gate, I can tell you that,” he said.
Several more minutes of creeping brought us within sight of the corner of a log structure ahead. I was so focused on it that I nearly tripped over a foot-high metal post. My eyes counted more of them to the right, situated every ten or fifteen feet. I snapped my fingers and pointed, alerting Wayne.
“Dog collar sensors,” he said, as raindrops slithered down his face. “Got your zapper juiced up?”
I patted the device at my side, and we kept moving forward. Through a dense stand of pine, the log cabin appeared. Low and sturdy, with a stone chimney, it seemed bigger than your average cabin. The earth rose up over the stone foundation, and the structure was so thoroughly covered by moss and lichen that it looked as though nature was reclaiming it. Three wooden steps led up to a small porch with two rocking chairs. A black-painted door was built into the centre of the structure with a window to its left. If it weren’t for the small, gray satellite dish, and the series of black solar panels on the roof, seeing the cabin was like stepping back in time more than a hundred years.
A steady humming sound came from behind the cabin.
No brown Yukon in sight.
Wayne pointed to a small camera situated beneath an eave, aimed toward the door. Well-worn ruts from vehicle tires ran around the right side of the cabin to what looked like a clearing behind.
“What’s that sound?” I asked.
“Generator,” he said. “This is not a weekend warrior’s place. I’ve seen shit like this before, with those off-the-grid Sovereign Citizen whack-jobs. That fucker is built into the ground. No normal person would build a cabin like this in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere.”
“Papa Danko was a purported recluse. Maybe this was his Shangri-La.”
Something flitted by the window, vaguely female in shape. Too far away to make out features.
“Somebody’s home,” Wayne muttered.
“Danko’s not here yet.”
“We don’t even know for certain if this is his place.”
“There’s nothing else around.”
“We don’t know that either. In fact, we could write a book on what we don’t know.”
“We know that this place is sketchy as fuck.”
“That much we can agree on. Check your phone, see if your cop friend got back to you.”
I did. “Nope. Still no bars.”
Wayne removed his phone and took several photos of the cabin and the surroundings. “Let’s go back and wait at the vehicles. Frank knows where we are, but I told him I’d check back within the hour.”
“Look, we’re here now. Let’s get a little closer, take a quick peek, and jet. There’s only one way for a vehicle to get in here, and if it comes, we’ll hear it a mile away. We get something solid to give to the cops, then let them do the heavy lifting.”
“Fuck that,” he said, turning. “I got sandwiches back at—”
From the cabin came the sounds of faint crying. The backdrop of rain gave it a haunting quality, and it disappeared so quickly that we were left blinking at each other.
“That was a kid,” I said.
“Ah, shit.”
“You’re not going to leave a helpless child up here are you? You won’t be able to sleep at night if you do.”
“I hate you, Donovan.”
I unholstered my Enforcer. “How ‘bout it?”
He adjusted the Remington beneath his jacket. “Quick one.”
We moved out from the cover of trees. The rain had turned the earth surrounding the cabin to mud, making our feet sink several inches with each step. I pointed to a series of large, water-filled boot prints leading away from the porch. Wayne nodded and led the way up the steps and onto the porch. I winced as the wood creaked beneath our combined weight.
With my back to the log wall, I looked through the window. The exterior glass was normal, but an inch beyond was a translucent sheet of plexiglass, which gave the objects in the room a blurry, indistinct look. At the top of the plexiglass pane was a row of small air holes.
Wayne saw it and swore under his breath. From inside the cabin came a muffled thud, followed by the faint but unmistakable sound of a baby wailing. Then it was gone, replaced by the rattle of the generator.
A chill ran through me.
Wayne tried the door and it didn’t budge. He looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “Got your religious pamphlets handy?”
I holstered the Enforcer and nodded, removing a small satchel from my utility belt.
He hammered the door three times with his fist. “Hello? Anyone home? We’re lost and need directions.”
It was my turn to raise my brows. He shrugged and hammered again. A commotion sounded from inside, followed by the sudden shriek of a child, in fear or in pain.
“Everything all right in there?” Wayne called out.
Through the window, I caught a glimpse of someone moving from one room and disappearing into another. Wayne stepped aside and I crouched in front of the door with my tools. The door was solid and heavy, but the lock was old.
My fingers shook a little as I went to work with the tension lever and pick, focusing on my breathing and blocking all thoughts, allowing muscle memory to take over. With the pick I lifted the pins one by one, placing them in the same position as if a key were in the lock. I turned the lever.
Click.
I nodded up at Wayne, tucked away my tools, and picked up the Enforcer.
The baby screamed.
Wayne turned the knob. “We’re coming in!”
He pushed open the door and a shrill, ear-piercing alarm cut through the air. It was more of a screeching sound, like something an animal might make if tortured. Wayne yelled something, but I couldn’t make it out over the alarm.
Shotgun ready, he entered the cabin, and I followed. Scattered over the brown carpet were large, multicoloured, plastic building blocks. Beanbag chair. Sagging couches. An ancient box TV with a DVD player on top. Finding Nemo played on the screen. The air was thick with a musky animal smell. Not pets, but like savage beasts living in a cave. In the far-left corner of the room, a trapdoor was open in the floor.
To the right was the bedroom, empty and windowless except for an unmade double bed and a small vanity and stool. Makeup and skin products. Jewelry. Similar to the pieces in Emily’s room.
Just off the living room, an open doorway connected to the small kitchen. The open back door swung on its hinges as a muscular figure with buzzed hair, tank top, and camo shorts sprinted away, past an attached shed and into an open field on which sat an old tractor and a yellow VW van.
Lola.
Wayne was already through the door and I was close behind when something flashed in my periphery. I whirled to see a small brunette in a white dress scampering through the trapdoor in the living room. The girl turned and looked at me with large, vacant eyes, just before she disappeared beneath the floor. Though her hair had been dyed dark, I recognized her from the photo in Davis’ cubicle. It was Kaylee Green, who had vanished last year.
CHAPTER 62
“Kaylee, stop!” I shouted, the words mute against the alarm as I ran to the opening in the floor. A steel ladder led down to darkness. Clipping the Enforcer to my utility belt, I climbed down after her. Eight feet down, my feet hit concrete. Floors and walls and ceiling, all concrete.
In the gloom of the narrow hall, I could make out a steel door a few feet to my right. It was ajar. I pushed it open and stepped through into an even narrower hallway lit by a string of small bulbs hanging amid exposed wires from the low ceiling. Behind me, the door swung nearly shut, muffling most of the alarm from above.
Then the lights went out, plunging the hall into blackness.
“I’m here to help you, Kaylee!” I called out.
Nothing.
Then came the baby’s cries again, now muffled and faint. Triggering the flashlight function on my phone, I aimed it down the hall. A door on the left was ajar. I pushed it open, and the room was the size of a closet, with a folding chair and a shelf containing four CCTV monitors covering various angles of the cabin’s exterior. The top-left monitor showed the open front door. In the corner of the screen, a vehicle pulled up close to the cabin, and a moment later a large, stooped man shambled out wearing a black corrections uniform. Looking all around, he warily approached the open front door and stared directly into the camera.
Paul Danko.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, tapped the screen a series of times, and the alarm died. With calm deliberation he put the phone back, turned, leapt nimbly off the porch, and disappeared around the left side of the cabin.
Leaving the closet, I ran back down the hall. The door I’d come through was now closed and locked, and there was no handle on this side. Sprinting back to the surveillance closet, movement on the lower-right monitor caught my eye. The camera showed part of the muddy field, the rear wheel of the van in the background. The edge of the frame showed what appeared to be the muscular hindquarters of a dog, moving side to side as though trying to pull something.
The dog backed up, dragging Wayne into the frame. The dog’s teeth were sunk into Wayne’s calf. With his free leg, he kicked at the animal. Lola suddenly stepped into the frame, using the stock of the shotgun to smash him in the head. Flipping the gun around, Lola aimed the weapon at Wayne’s head.
The dog renewed its attack, latching onto the inside of his knee.
I ran from the room and further down the hall, holding up my phone for light. A door to the right was open, and I slipped into another room. This one had a dirt floor and stank of urine, excrement, and chemicals. Somewhere back down the hall came the child’s crying and a girl singing in a soft and tremulous voice.
Shining my light around the windowless room revealed old Mason jars and cracked plastic children’s toys, some half-buried in the dirt-floor. Littered everywhere were paper plates, fast food wrappers, and plastic forks and spoons. In the far-right corner, flies droned above a white bucket, wads of toilet paper all around.
