Stolen(17)

But that was crazy.

She had to get home.

Home meant safety.

She dragged on an undershirt, long johns and a flannel top; buttoned a knit cap beneath her chin, and loaded up the small backpack with all the supplies that would fit. Pulling on socks and boots, she shook her head at how, only a few minutes ago, she’d been intending to hike out of the wilderness in a dress and pumps.

Threading her arms into a Gore-Tex jacket, she noted one side-pocket was heavy. Inside she found a notebook and a topographic map. As she studied the map, the mystery of her good fortune turned to comprehension.

A red X marked the spot—Frank’s Cabin.

She’d been left for dead all right. But her foolish monster had abandoned her in a forest service cabin—one of a string of huts intended to provide comfort for hikers and skiers on cross-country treks. In season, the popular huts were busy enough to require reservations. But this time of year, when it was too wet to hike, but not yet snowy enough to snowshoe or ski—the huts, like the roads, were closed to the public. No ranger would be stopping by to check on her—that was certain.

But her spirits climbed as she ascended the ladder out of the cellar and back into the room she now knew was “Frank’s Cabin.” Anchored to the bunk bed a logbook and pencil dangled from a dirty string.

She opened the book.

Inside, someone had written in heavy marker: Take what you need. Leave what you can for others, even if it’s just a note of encouragement or thanks. The words brought a lump to her throat, and her heart swelled. At first, she’d been unable to believe her luck at finding the food and clothing, but now, she understood.

It wasn’t luck.

It wasn’t coincidence.

That trunk full of treasure was the direct result of the good in people.

The hikers who’d used this cabin had provided her with something far more valuable than boots and food. They’d supplied the one thing that could keep her going. The one thing that gave her a shot at outwitting a monster and making it down off this mountain alive.

They’d given her hope.

Reverently, she read the names in the book, tracing each one with her finger, and saying thank you aloud to each person represented. Had it been Louise Bertrand who’d left the hiking boots? Perhaps Steven Peters had ditched the worn backpack. Pablo with no last name, she decided, had tired of his freeze-dried fare and left it for the next guest. With her heart as warm as a belly full of brandy, she penciled her own name in the book:

Laura Chaucer.

Then she added: Thank you fellow travelers for your generosity. I don’t know if I deserve a second chance at life, but from today forward, I will strive to become worthy of the one I’ve been given. Then she scratched out the word second and penciled in third. Twice now, she’d beaten her monster. Twice she’d lived when she should’ve died.

Dr. Webber and Dr. Duncan agreed on one thing: Survivor’s guilt had plagued her since childhood.

Why me? Why am I alive when Angelina’s dead?

Sometimes, when she looked in the mirror she thought she saw those questions tattooed on her forehead.

There had to be a reason.

She just didn’t know what it was yet.

Fatigued, she contemplated heading out now, but quickly decided to rest here for the night, and start out fresh in the daylight. She twisted her long, black hair into a knot on the nape of her neck. Before turning in, she should try to make a fire. Boil water for a freeze-dried dinner. She returned to the pump, where she filled the water bottles and her camel pack.

After gathering wood, just enough to start a small fire, she returned to the hut and began building a wood tee-pee in the fireplace. Bending down, she got light-headed and reached up to steady herself. Her fingers landed on a piece of paper atop the mantle. Careful not to straighten too fast, she stood up. Stared at the sealed envelope she’d pulled off the mantle.

What new treasure lay within? Perhaps a note of inspiration from a fellow traveler. Yes, she now considered herself a kindred spirit with those who’d come to the hut as part of a beautiful, intentional journey. And why shouldn’t she be like them—like people who made their own plans? People who made their own choices?

She weighed the envelope, and then ripped it open. At once, her knees went watery, and she had to lean against the fireplace to keep her legs under her. Inside was a note.

Written in her own hand.

And tied with pink ribbon, were two locks of long black hair.





Chapter 9





Thursday, October 24

1:20 P.M.

Task force headquarters

Highlands Hotel

Denver, Colorado



The task-force kitchen had been designated for double duty as an interrogation room. Originally part of an executive suite, the area contained a sink, microwave, hot plate, fridge, and coffeemaker. Extra seating and tables had obviously been brought in from an outside source, lending the room the same peas-and-carrots color scheme as the others. Caitlin waited with Spense while Hatcher cleared the kitchen of hungry detectives and called Grady in for his interview.