The Cabin, page 22
“Have you found the neighbor?” Fiona asked as she donned the booties Jones handed her.
“Yes. Well, we found the grave, but we’re waiting for the medical examiner before we fully exhume the body,” Connelly said. “We were hoping you could walk us through the events as they happened here in the cabin, then take us to the car.”
Fiona dragged her gaze from the deep brown patch on the floor. “You know Rico was here with my family for two days before I arrived? He’d already killed the neighbor when I got here.”
“We’ll question your husband when he’s up to it.” Jones clicked on a tablet. “Just tell me what you know.”
Connelly retreated through the front door, and Fiona walked Jones down the hallway. She pointed out the room Caleb had been held in and the door Rico had kicked down, then moved to the master bedroom. She paused in the doorway. Her aborted attempt to seduce him played through her mind like a bad movie, and her cheeks burned. She opened her mouth to tell Jones about it but shut it again. There was no point in putting herself through that.
They returned to the living room. She told Jones and the crime scene techs about the events she’d experienced there. Her throat constricted when she described how Devon had been kicked and beaten. Had these things really happened? It seemed like fiction now, with the authorities surrounding her, taking notes and discussing the events in their rational, unemotional voices.
She strode toward the kitchen when the questions petered out, wanting to get this over with, wanting to get her things, her child, her husband and return to the normal world. She had a suspicion, however, that normal as she’d known it no longer existed. Her hope was that she’d gained the freedom and wisdom Gwen had told her about. Fiona had certainly faced a demon, maybe not the demon she’d expected to meet, but a demon nonetheless.
When they entered kitchen, Fiona saw the blood smear on the stove and floor and pivoted toward Jones. “How’s Crackers?” She’d almost forgotten about him.
“Is that the dog?”
“Yes.”
“He’s okay. You can pick him up when we’re done here.”
Fiona pointed to the stain. “That’s his blood. Rico stabbed him when he was trying to defend me.”
“Lucky he wasn’t killed,” Jones said.
“He’s tough.”
Jones gave her a tiny smile. “I think you all are.”
A lump formed in Fiona’s throat. “I can take you to the car now if you want.”
Jones disappeared for a moment and returned with Connelly. “Ready?” he asked.
Fiona gave him a quick nod and headed through the mudroom into the outside world. She narrated events as they traversed the path through the woods, pointing out where she’d climbed off the trail to find her lookout, and the spot where Crackers had found her. The feeling of unreality that had come over her in the cabin persisted. It was as if she were peering through a picture window at someone else’s life.
They skirted the gravesite. It was full of crime scene investigators, a woman Fiona assumed was the medical examiner, and more deputies. Their presence was comforting. I’m not alone. She repeated that phrase to herself like a mantra.
Another mile or so up the trail, they came to the clearing where the car had been hidden. Fiona stopped at the edge of the trees, unable to take in what she was seeing. The deputies halted alongside her. The mound was gone. Instead, the ground was covered in a carpet of pine boughs. The smell of gasoline pinched her nostrils.
“He came back for it,” Connelly said.
“He covered it in gasoline.” Fiona’s voice rose. “He locked me inside and splashed gas over the whole thing.” The horror of the experience broke the surreal pane of glass that had been protecting her. It had happened. He’d planned to burn her alive.
Jones placed a hand on her shoulder. “He never lit it.”
Connelly squatted next to the boughs, rubbed needles between his fingers then brought his hand to his nose. “The branches must have absorbed the worst of it.”
He stood and turned to Fiona. “Did you see anything about the car that might help us? The color of the vehicle? Or an insignia on the steering wheel?”
Fiona shut her eyes and forced herself to relive those terrible moments. The steering wheel had been in her way when she’d tried to knock down the branch holding the door shut. It had been black, padded leather or faux leather. Had there been a logo? She seemed to remember something embossed in the center, but what? She’d been so terrified, so intent on getting out, she couldn’t remember.
She opened her eyes. “The interior was black leather or faux leather. I remember that.”
“Good. That’s good,” Jones said. “How about the shape of the car. How big was the mound of branches?”
Fiona stepped over the boughs on the ground. “It went from here”—she walked to where the rear of the car had been—“to here.”
“How about the color?” Connelly asked. “Could you see anything between the branches?”
“It was getting dark,” Fiona said, but again she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to imagine the scene as it had been. She remembered Rico reaching for the door handle of the car and pulling it open. When he did, the driver’s door had been exposed, but she’d been on the wrong side to see the paint.
The inside of the door was black, as she’d told them. She focused her mind on the edge of door where a rim of paint might have been visible, but it blended into the evening. Blended. Why had it blended?
Her eyes popped open. “I think it was green. Not like a neon green, but like an army green, or a khaki green.”
“Great,” Jones said. “That really helps. It’s an unusual color for a car. We might be able to peg the make from that.”
“One more question,” Connelly said. “Did the car seem new or old?”
“Neither,” Fiona answered without pausing. “There wasn’t a new car smell, but it was clean. No scratches on the upholstery.”
“Great,” Jones said and made more notes on her tablet. As they tromped back to the cabin, she called in the information on her walkie-talkie. Fiona felt ridiculously proud of herself for remembering as much as she had and for helping the police. Something bordering on happiness blossomed inside her.
When they reached the neighbor’s grave, the feeling faded as quickly as it had come. Through the trees, she witnessed two medics hoist a body bag onto a gurney.
7.7.2
DEVON
Devon jockeyed into the driveway next to Fiona’s car. He’d been liberated from the hospital that morning, and the Big Bear police had released their vehicles the day before. He’d already made appointments to have both cars detailed. He wanted to wash every trace of Rico from their lives. Fiona left the mountain with Caleb after lunch, but he’d had to handle insurance paperwork with the hospital. He’d followed several hours later.
Home had never looked so good. The front yard was trimmed and leaf-blown and wholly suburban. Nothing wild about it. Christmas lights twinkled above windows that glowed the gold of electric lighting. Their neighbors’ homes on either side were decorated for the holidays as well. Cars filled the driveways and parked along the street. There were people everywhere.
The smell of the ocean, not pine forest, met his nostrils as soon as he opened the car door. He eased his aching body outside, readjusted his sling, and walked up the front path.
Crackers met him at the door and gave him a subdued wag. He was still wearing a “cone of shame” to keep him from chewing at his stitches. Fiona popped her head out from the kitchen doorway. “You made it.” She strode forward and kissed him. “I was worried.”
“Nothing but ibuprofen today. The drive was fine,” he said. “Where’s Caleb?”
“He fell asleep on the way home. I put him in bed.”
Devon entered the living room and gazed around him. He felt as if he were returning home after a tour at war. He walked to the fireplace, so different than the one at the cabin, and ran his hand along the smooth wood mantle. He stared at the painting above it—a Laguna Beach scene with Bird of Paradise in the foreground and tiny sailboats scudding along on a gray-blue sea in the background.
He sank into a deep green easy chair and picked up the framed photograph from the table next to it. It was of Fiona and him on their wedding day. Red ringlets fell around the face of a plumper, younger-looking Fiona. He, on the other hand, was leaner. But they both radiated joy. Would they ever be that happy again?
“Hungry?” Fiona leaned against the wall. He hadn’t heard her enter.
“No. I’d love a glass of wine, though.”
She disappeared into the kitchen again, and he set the photo down. The room was the same as it had been when he’d left, but it felt different. It seemed bigger, cleaner, more open. They’d have to get a tree and fill some of that space. Christmas was only two days away.
He’d dreamed about the cabin last night. He’d smelled the stifling, smokey air, felt the dark wood walls close in around him, and when he tried to wake, something held his arms and legs immobile. When he finally roused himself, he was sweating. He had a feeling he’d be dreaming about the cabin for a long time to come.
“Here you go,” Fiona handed him a glass of wine and folded herself onto the couch with her own glass. “Good to be home.”
“Yeah.” It was the understatement of the century, but he didn’t have the energy to expound.
Crackers joined them, whacking the cone on the coffee table. Fiona laughed, leaning down and untangling him. Her laugh made Devon ache inside. It was so clear and beautiful. How had he never before noticed how wonderful her laugh was?
“Olivia should be here soon to get him,” she said. “I’m going to miss him.”
“Me too.” Devon took a sip of wine and let it fill his mouth and nose with sensation before swallowing. “Let’s start looking for a puppy this week.”
Fiona sat up straighter. “Really?”
“Yup.”
She pinched her forehead. “Have you made up your mind about the breed?”
He waved his wine glass toward Crackers. “The Crackers breed. I want one like him.”
“Me too.”
They sat in silence while they finished their wine. Words seemed inadequate for the first time in his life. He wanted to soak this moment in through his pores, to let it flow through his bloodstream and heal the places the doctors couldn’t reach. He was home with his amazing wife and his beautiful boy. They’d walked through the valley of death and come out the other side, alive if not unscathed. It was a miracle.
A knock jarred him out of his revery. Crackers hoisted himself to his feet, gave a half-hearted woof, and padded toward the door. “He’s going to protect us with every last ounce of energy he’s got, isn’t he?” Devon said.
“No need this time. Wait until he sees who it is.”
The house felt empty after Crackers left with Olivia and Brian. Their reunion had been emotional and touching. Devon watched it with awe. How had he never realized how strong the bond between dog and owner was? How had he never realized that dogs weren’t things you picked out like new cars or pieces of furniture? Dogs were family.
He ate a bowl of soup, not because he wanted it but because Fiona said he should, and she was probably right. Then they got in bed. He lay under the electric blanket he’d always taken for granted and stared around his bedroom with the same sense of wonder he’d felt in the living room. This was his bedroom. His bureau. His armchair. His bedside table. His lamp. It was as if he had to convince himself.
He rolled over on his good side to view his wife, and froze, all warmth and wonder fleeing. “What are you doing with that?”
Fiona sat up, propped against the headboard, her gun in her hand. “He’s still out there.”
“He won’t come here.”
She turned her gold-brown eyes on him. “What makes you think that?”
“Why would he?” Devon heard the tension in his own voice.
“He wants me.”
Devon rolled onto his back with a grunt and gazed at the ceiling. “He turned you down once.”
“That’s not what I mean.” She sounded angry, and he hated that their peace was broken. “He wants to kill me. I think he believes it will atone for killing my brother.”
Devon pondered that. Rico had grown more and more unpredictable during the time in the cabin. When he’d first arrived on the doorstep, Devon had believed him to be harmless. As the days progressed, he realized how wrong he’d been. But irrational? He wasn’t sure about that.
“You didn’t see him in the woods,” Fiona said. “He opened the car door and spoke to someone. I was terrified. I thought he was throwing me into a vehicle with a homicidal maniac.”
“How do you know he thought it was Chuck?” Devon made a mental note that it seemed natural to use Rico’s nickname for Fiona’s half-brother now, and that might be a good thing. It was a funny name. The humor destroyed some of the danger and horror attached to his memory.
Fiona seemed to think about that for a minute. “He said, She’s here, just like you wanted. It sounded like someone had been asking for me, but there wasn’t anyone there.”
Devon turned his head on his pillow and stared at her. “Didn’t mean it was Chuck. It could’ve been some long dead relative, or a demon from his imagination.”
She lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “But it wanted me.”
“Or a woman. Any woman.”
Fiona bit the inside of her cheek. “Maybe, but maybe not. Either way, I’m loading the gun.”
“Do you think that’s safe?” Anger at Fiona flared in Devon’s chest. He wanted to put Rico, Chuck, the cabin, all of it in the past. Why was she dragging it into this almost perfect night?
“I’ll put it in the bedside table. Caleb never goes in there.”
“Unload it in the morning?”
“Right. I’ll unload it in the morning.”
A frisson on nerves ran down Devon’s back. She was making him feel afraid, reviving the terror he’d been doing his best to bury. “Maybe we should have Caleb sleep in here with us.”
“I thought about that,” she said. “But he wanted to be in his own room, and I couldn’t think of any way to bring him in ours without scaring him. Besides, if Rico comes for me it’s safer for Caleb to be somewhere else.”
Fatigue overwhelmed Devon. He yawned. “Rico’s probably halfway to Cabo.” He wasn’t sure he believed that, but he wanted to. It was over. He repeated those words to himself like a mantra.
They turned out the lights, and each sank into their side of the bed. They didn’t make love or even cuddle up together. It was enough to know the other was there. Devon drifted off, feeling safer than he had for a very long time. They were stronger together. He held onto that thought like it was a lifeline.
7.7.3
FIONA
Fiona’s phone vibrated in her lap. She’d set it to go off every hour. The house was a silent hug around her, but she no longer trusted the quiet. Devon was probably right about Rico. She forced an image into her mind of him sitting in a taqueria somewhere deep in Mexico, sipping a margarita.
She’d spent the past two days hanging around Arrowhead Village, visiting Devon in the hospital and playing with Caleb at the shoreside playground. As time elapsed, the events at the cabin took on a surreal air. It was as if they’d never happened, or as if they’d happened to someone else.
She’d gone over the story several times on the phone. Once with Olivia, then Devon’s parents, and finally Gwen. She’d spoken to the owner of the cabin, who’d called her after the police had interviewed him. The more she told the story the less real it seemed.
The police didn’t want the press to know about the home invasion until they’d captured Rico. They were already getting hundreds of phone calls—false sightings of the escaped convict. It took too much manpower to eliminate them all. She supposed the cops were afraid of starting a panic as well, but they hadn’t taken her into their confidence. Either way, the lack of media coverage contributed to the unreality of the whole thing.
It had been such a relief to be off the mountain, she’d been sure she’d sleep like a brick. But as soon as she entered the house, the memory of the fear she’d felt when she heard her half-brother had escaped hit her like stale air. She was back on high alert.
Now that she was awake, her bladder was singing. She threw the covers back and slid from bed. After the trip to the bathroom, she walked down the hall to Caleb’s room.
When the holidays were over, she would make an appointment with her therapist. Seeing her son in danger had flicked on an emergency switch inside her. She was having a hard time turning it off. Putting him to bed in another room, even his own room, had been difficult. She felt like she was missing a limb whenever he was out of sight.
His Winnie the Pooh nightlight shone through his open door, creating a patch of light brown on the dark floor of the hallway. No sound came from within.
Fiona pushed the door open, took a step inside, and everything inside her froze. The curtains fluttered at an open window. She hadn’t opened it. It was cold out. Had Devon done it to air out the room and forgotten about it? She crossed the room in three long strides, slammed the window shut, and locked it.
“Hey there.”
Her gaze shot to the bed. A pair of eyes glittered like obsidian in the dark room.
It was his voice. His hateful voice. “What are you doing here?” She whispered so she wouldn’t wake Caleb, so her child wouldn’t feel the panic she felt, the panic that turned her blood to ice water.
“Came to get you,” he said.
A sense of inevitability washed over her. She’d feared this moment as soon as she’d heard Rico wasn’t by the lake when the cops arrived. Truthfully, she’d feared something like this would happen the first time she’d seen her half-brother sitting next to his lawyer in the courtroom years ago. He’d turned his head to look at her, and she’d glimpsed a nightmare world in his eyes.
