Chapter 5 - The Trap in the Dark
The man with the shotgun reached the base of the granite outcrop twenty minutes later.
His name—though we wouldn't learn it until much later—was Ray Vance (no relation to Leo, though the shared surname felt like a sick joke written by fate). He was an ex-con, a squatter living in a abandoned trailer five miles down Route 9, a man who survived on poaching, illegal logging, and whatever he could strip from broken-down cars on the state highway.
He was tired, wet, and thoroughly annoyed.
His yellow halogen flashlight beam swept across the base of the granite cliff, catching the crushed mountain laurel branches where we had pulled ourselves up.
"I see your tracks, ladies," Ray called out, his raspy voice carrying clearly through the quiet trees. He stopped at the bottom of the slope, leaning heavily against a pine trunk, his shotgun resting casually over his forearm. "You climbed the rock. That was stupid. Ain't no road up there. Just dead trees and a cliff."
He pulled a silver flask from his coat, unscrewed the cap with his teeth, and took a long, wet swig before spitting into the mud.
"Come on down," he yelled, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "My car's disabled, but I got a cabin two miles west. Got a wood stove. Got dry blankets. You come down nice, and we'll get warm."
No answer came from the top of the ledge. Only the sound of the wind rattling the dry oak leaves.
Ray growled under his breath, clicked his flashlight onto its highest setting, and began ascending the granite slope. His heavy metal-tipped boots sloshed through the mud, slipping slightly on the slick slate.
He reached the top of the ledge.
The halogen beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the rusted corrugated roof and the half-rotted wooden walls of the forestry shed.
The wooden door was standing wide open, swinging gently in the wind.
Inside the shed, a tiny, flickering yellow light was visible through the doorway—a soft, warm glow that cast long, dancing shadows against the pine walls.
Ray smiled, his yellowed teeth catching the glare of his own light. "Smart girls," he muttered. "Found a shelter."
He clicked the safety off his shotgun with a sharp, heavy THUMB. He held the gun at his hip, the barrel pointed directly at the open doorway, and took three slow, heavy steps across the ledge.
He reached the threshold.
"Party's over, sweethearts," Ray said, swinging his flashlight and the shotgun barrel into the room simultaneously.
The room was empty.
The source of the light wasn't a lantern or a campfire. It was a single glass mason jar sitting in the middle of the floor, filled with kerosene, a thick strip of torn burlap fabric burning slowly as a makeshift candle.
Beside the jar lay Valerie’s nylon team rowing jacket—soaked, muddy, and draped carefully over a bundle of dry pine branches to make it look like a crouching figure in the dim light.
Ray froze, his brow furrowing in sudden confusion. "What the..."
He stepped completely inside the doorway, lowering his gun barrel half an inch as his brain tried to process the scene.
He didn't look up.
Standing on top of the heavy wooden tool crate directly above the doorway, wedged into the narrow rafter space between the ceiling joists, was me.
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I didn't scream. I didn't hesitate. I didn't give him a second to turn his head.
I swung the four-pound cast-iron felling axe down with every ounce of strength left in my body, driving the sharp, double-bitted steel edge straight toward the dark shape below.
