Chapter 28 Cabin on Fire
His mind raced, looking for an explanation. Their plan had been clear: deliver the evidence, disperse, and then watch Aunt Bea’s cabin. Thorne’s men had already broken into it once, leaving that chilling, threatening note, a stark reminder of their enemy’s reach, a sign of his escalating desperation, and hints of the lengths to which Thorne might go to keep them quiet. If it was Eleanor who picked Clara up, the most likely choice, then she may have taken Clara back to Crestline, to the small apartment above her general store. A safer haven, less exposed than Henry’s or even Bea’s cabin, a place where Clara could remain hidden.
It was a rational thought, a lifeline he clung to amidst the rising tide of his anxiety. Yes, that had to be it. Eleanor would have gotten Clara clear, kept her close. The evidence would be safe. Clara would be safe.
He got in his pickup, the engine turning over with a tired cough before roaring to life. He sent gravel far behind him as he spun his tires, rushing back down the winding, narrow road leading away from Henry's cabin, the truck rattling over the washboard surface. The sun, high overhead, cast long, distorted shadows through the dense canopy. The air grew still, heavy with an unspoken tension, a premonition that settled deep in his bones.
Then he saw it. A dark plume, thick and ominous, billowing up into the pristine blue sky. It was too close. Too large. A sick feeling churned in his stomach, cold and metallic. Not a controlled burn. Not a forest fire. This was… closer. His own cabin.
He pressed his truck harder, reaching speeds that were well beyond safe on these treacherous mountain roads. The smell of smoke intensified, sharp and acrid, burning his nostrils, tasting of ash and destruction. As he rounded the final bend, pulling into the long, gravel lane that led to his secluded home, the world tilted.
Flames. Orange and red tongues, ravenous and relentless, were consuming his cabin. The roar of the fire was deafening, a hungry beast devouring everything he owned, everything he had built. Black smoke choked the air, swirling around the skeleton of what was once his sanctuary. The heat was immense, even from a hundred feet away, pushing him back, searing his skin. The sound of timbers groaning, glass exploding, the hungry crackle and hiss of consumption and destruction.
Suddenly, a memory, cold and sharp as a mountain spring in winter, pierced through the shock. He remembered promising Clara he’d meet her there. Here. Back at his cabin, once the drop was complete, once the immediate danger had passed. A rendezvous point. She would have insisted that Eleanor bring her here. Surely she wasn’t… He couldn’t think of it. The thought buckled his knees, a silent scream tearing through his throat, a primal fear that threatened to unmoor him completely.
“No!” he screamed, rushing forward, ignoring the searing heat, the crackling inferno. “Clara!” he roared, his voice raw, futile against the hungry roar of the flames. He scurried frantically around his place, a man possessed, searching for any sign of her. The woods around the cabin were singed, but thankfully untouched by the direct fire. Twisted metal, charred timber, shattered glass, that was all that remained of his home. He circled the perimeter, eyes scanning desperately, praying for a glimpse of her pack, a dropped scarf, anything. But there was nothing. Only the stench of burning wood and the sickening realization that she wasn’t there, or if she had been, she was gone.
The frantic search yielded only emptiness. His heart hammered against his ribs. He rushed back to his truck, the engine still idling, a desperate beacon of hope amidst the wreckage. He put it in reverse, and then turned, leaving the fiery ruin of his home behind him, the smoke a black finger pointing accusingly at the sky. Bea’s cabin. That was the other rendezvous point, the fallback. It had to be. It had to be.
The drive to Aunt Bea’s cabin, only minutes away, felt endless. Every turn of the wheel was an eternity. The image of the burning cabin was seared into his mind, an indelible stain. What if Thorne’s men had found her there? What if they had been waiting? The thought twisted in his gut, a cold, hard knot of terror. He pushed the old truck faster, the engine whining in protest, but he barely noticed, his focus singular and desperate.
As he approached the weathered log structure, a fragile sliver of hope, almost too delicate to acknowledge, flickered within him. Her cabin was untouched. The familiar Subaru Outback, dusty but intact, was sitting exactly where she’d parked it. A breath he hadn’t realized he was holding escaped him in a ragged sigh. A small victory, a tiny reprieve from the inferno of the last hour, a glimmer that perhaps, just perhaps, Clara was here.
Then he saw them. Two figures, solid and unmoving, standing guard near the cabin’s porch. David, burly and silent, holding an assault rifle with an easy familiarity that spoke of long years in these mountains. Mark, leaner but just as formidable, gripping a worn shotgun, his knuckles white. Both looked grim, their faces etched with a grim determination that sent a fresh wave of unease through Ethan.
He killed the engine, the sudden silence deafening after the roar of his truck and the imagined crackle of flames still echoing in his mind. He stepped out, his gaze sweeping frantically past them towards the cabin door, searching, pleading, for any sign of Clara. His voice was a raw croak. “Where is sh—”
Mark cut him off, his voice flat, devoid of its usual dry humor. His eyes, usually crinkling at the corners, were hard and unblinking. He didn’t meet Ethan’s gaze directly, instead staring at a point just over his shoulder. David remained motionless, a silent, imposing sentinel. His words fell like stones over Ethan, heavy with a weight that would crush him.
“We have some bad news for you, Ethan.”