The yearly trip to the mountains invigorated our spirit. My wife and I enjoyed the solitude and simplicity of life untethered to technology. The cold crisp air of January left a cool burn in our throats. This year we were welcomed by fresh snowfall that covered the marred ground left by the summer fire.
A wood stove heated our cabin. This cabin brought back memories of happier times. My father died many years ago, and mom ran off with some slick willy. Never heard from her again. This cabin was the only inheritance I received. It took two long summers to fix it up.
Logs were stacked in the yard by the old barn. Not enough to keep us warm for the week. Cutting firewood was a necessity, not a chore. Felled trees lay near the trailhead. It was a simple task to split logs but physically demanding, something I needed and enjoyed. A perfect opportunity to show my son what hard work was all about. This trip was his first in three years. He couldn't come up with a good excuse to avoid it. At seventeen, he always had a reason to bow out of a family activity. This time I vetoed all of those.
My son, Jason, was sleeping on the pull out couch in the family room. I woke him earlier than he liked. It couldn’t be helped. We needed to split firewood to keep us warm through the week. My wife, Mary, would have breakfast for us when we returned.
He moaned and groaned like most teenagers when you mentioned physical labor. I told him to grab the chainsaw, ax and a few wedges. I would get the wheelbarrow from the barn. No surprise he didn’t hear, with the earbuds.
“Hey, no electronics. That’s the rule.” I yanked them out of his ears.
“It’s just pre-recorded music,” He smirked. “so I’m not on the Internet.”
“I don’t care. You need to be focused when chopping firewood.”
I went to the barn to get the wheelbarrow and told Jason to take the tools over to the oak tree lying on the ground. That would be enough wood to carry us through the week.
He was sitting on the log when I returned, quickly pulling his earbuds out before I did. It took over an hour to chop and split what we needed. We hauled it back in the wheelbarrow. We made two trips. After the second trip, I told Jason to take the wheelbarrow back to the barn then hustle back for breakfast.
My wife and I chatted as we sipped coffee and enjoyed bacon, eggs, and hash browns with a side of honey buttered biscuits. We came out here so many times, just the two of us, that for a few minutes we hadn’t noticed Jason didn’t return. When it dawned on me that he hadn’t come back, I grew agitated.
“Where the hell is he?”
Mary shrugged her shoulders. “You know him. He probably found something interesting in the barn." She pointed her fork at me then shook it. “Go get him before his food gets cold . . . but be nice.”
“I’m always nice.”
“Oil and water – that’s you two.”
I put my jacket on, walked out to the chilled air and headed toward the barn. I expected to meet him walking back — no such luck. The only footprints in the snow were mine when I first went to pick up the wheelbarrow, nothing in the direction of the cabin. The barn door was partially open, so I entered yelling Jason's name. There was no response. I looked around, expecting to see him lounging while listening to some hip-hop music, but he wasn't there, and neither was the wheelbarrow.
I rushed out of the barn and ran back to where we had chopped wood. The wheelbarrow was leaning up against a tree at the trailhead. I could see footprints in the snow that lead on to the trail. Jason wore a pair of high-end running shoes with the word marathon on the soles. Those were the footprints I saw. It had to be him, but there were two other sets of prints, less distinctive but still fresh. I followed them to the trail. Once the path entered the forest, the footsteps disappeared.
Oh, his shoes had a built-in tracker. It was used to track the miles logged, but it also recorded location. I ran back to the cabin to check his iPad.
My wife saw the worried look on my face. “What’s up?”
“It’s Jason. He’s disappeared.” I held my hand up to ward off more questions. “Hold on! I’ll tell you in a minute. First, I have to look this up.”
She hated to be hushed. “You know that doesn’t work with me!”
“He wasn’t in the barn. His footprints disappeared into the woods with two other sets.” I rubbed my beard. “I need to check his tracker.”
“You missed something. I’ll check.” She ran out of the cabin before I had a chance to stop her.
Mary always believed she knew best.
I found the app. It shows Jason or his shoes on the trail about two miles in. I took a photo of the map with my phone and grabbed a shotgun, shells, Mary’s hat and gloves as I headed out the door. I scanned the yard but didn’t see Mary, so I ran to the barn. I knew she had to be inside. I pulled the door back and called her name. No response. I searched everywhere to no avail.
Back outside, I rushed down to the trail, thinking she was there. Maybe I wasn’t able to see her from the cabin. As I ran down the path, I spotted Mary's shoe, Italian leather chestnut Tieks with a distinctive blue sole. I reached down and picked it up. Dammit, she should have waited for me. I could see by the patterns in the snow that there had been a scuffle. I knew Mary fought her attacker.
Now I was searching for Mary and Jason. My son could be at least another half mile deeper in the woods and for Mary. Well! I had no idea. The photo I took guided me to the spot where the tracker last recorded Jason’s shoes. That was a half-hour ago. My cell phone didn't show any signal. I couldn’t call for help. It was up to me. I’ll try to get a signal later.
I walked about another quarter mile when I saw drag marks on the left. It could be nothing, but I couldn’t be ignored. All of a sudden the drag marks abruptly ended. Dead end? I stopped to listen carefully and do a visual survey of the area. Something wasn't right. When I saw Mary's second shoe hanging from a bush, I knew they were close. My military training kicked in when I spotted two booby traps. They weren't animal traps. More like traps to protect from intruders. It made no sense.
Off to the right there was a derelict hunter's cabin. You couldn't even call it a cabin, just a wall, and part of a floor. I checked my phone, one bar. I was able to get a GPS signal. I pinned my location and messaged the sheriff. The chance it would get through was slim. Fingers crossed.
I crept closer to the cabin, taking a wide berth around the traps, and sat listening for sounds that didn't fit the forest. As I was about to move in closer, I saw a camouflaged cellar door open then a bone-chilling scream. A guy crawled out of the cellar looking for something, probably Mary's shoe. He needed to retrieve it because it was too close to his hideout.
All I had was the element of surprise. I couldn't use the shotgun. I knew there was another person down in the cellar waiting for his return. He didn't know where the shoe had fallen off, and the only way to find it was to retrace his steps. When he passed near one of the booby traps, I lunged forward and hit him with the stock of the shotgun knocking him into his own trap. I heard a menacing groan as the stakes he placed in the hole pierced his body.
I picked up the shoe and made my way to the cellar entrance. I still had the advantage of surprise, but I had to act quickly. His partner would get suspicious if he were gone too long. The door creaked when I opened it. Thankfully, it went unnoticed. The cellar was damp and dark. A lantern lit the path to the end of a hall. Sounds were coming from that direction. Voices . . . Mary’s was the one I recognized. I hoped there was only one person to deal with.
As I moved down the hall I tried to get a visual of the guy holding my family. I could see Jason. He looked unconscious. I didn’t see Mary or her captor. Then as I crept around the corner, I saw a woman with a gun standing over Mary. She was mumbling to herself, maybe concerned about her missing partner. I needed to act quickly before she did something drastic. I threw Mary’s shoe into the room to distract the gun-toting woman.
She turned and said, “It’s about time, you lazy piece of . . . “
Boom! I didn’t give her time to finish the sentence. “ . . . MOM . . . ?” She slumped over a chair then fell dead to the ground.
Shocked was an understatement. Mary and Jason were safe, but mom was dead. A mom I never truly knew.
Minutes later we heard quad runners. The sheriff and two deputies climbed down the ladder into the cellar.
“We’ve been looking for these two,” The sheriff rubbed his chin. “What happened?”
“My son and wife were kidnapped this morning by this woman and the guy outside in the hole.” I looked down at my shotgun. “She’s my m-mom . . . but I haven’t seen her in three years.” Hands covering my face, I dropped to the ground.
Mary looked at the sheriff, “He didn’t know it was her. She changed. None of us recognized her.”
“You’re not to blame. I’m sorry you had to be the one to find her.” The sheriff continued. "Sometimes, justice is a hard pill to swallow."
“What will happen now?” Mary asked.
“The deputy will take you back to your cabin. You’re safe now.” The sheriff waved his hand around. “This will be buried.”
“Oh! The evidence?”
“The evidence, the bodies . . . everything. This never happened. We handle things our own way in the country. No cameras or news media needed."
