The Cabin

We've been at this cabin for a week now, and he's hardly spoken a word to me. I assaulted him with demands for answers when he first brought me here, and he simply ignored me until I gave up. He hasn't tied me up since I first stumbled out of his battered, rusty red pickup after hours of driving deep into the mountains. Instead he took away my shoes and threw them in the fire, knowing that I wouldn't get far barefoot in the mountains.

It's been a long week, with very little interaction. He's mostly kept to himself, every so often taking a call on his satellite phone. Most of the time I couldn't follow his conversation, but every so often he would glance over at me and mention "the girl." From this I've gathered that he was hired to kidnap me, and that we're waiting in this cabin on whoever hired him to give him further orders.

I'm currently sitting on the threadbare couch beneath the side window, my bare, sweaty knees to my chest as I lean against the glass, staring out into the forest. He's sitting on a bar stool against the counter, one leg propped up on a nearby ledge along the wall, his dirty jeans showing permanent crease marks where he bends his leg. He's playing with a hunting knife, gripping it by the blade to toss it into the air and catch it again, alternating between catching it by the handle and by the blade. His casual control of the knife frightens me, sending tremors down my spine.

His phone rings while the knife is midair, and he somehow manages to pull his phone out of his pocket with one hand and catch the knife in the other. "Yeah," he says in his gruff baritone. He listens for several agonizing seconds, his gaze flicking in my direction once or twice. "Understood." He hangs up and stuffs the phone back into his pocket.

I tried to steal the phone a few days back while he was in the shower. I succeeded in swiping the phone, only to discover that nothing I dialed went through. He came out of the shower so quietly I didn't realize I was caught until I looked up to see him standing in front of me, hair still wet, naked save for a grungy brown towel tied around his waist. He didn't get angry, instead calmly prying the phone out of my fingers. "It's a satellite phone," he said simply, before heading back to the bathroom. He kept the phone on his person from then on, making sure to hide it somewhere if he needed to shower.

He looks at me now, studying me with that frighteningly calm expression on his face. I'm just starting to get uncomfortable enough that I want to look away when he speaks. "Looks like your Daddy decided to pay your ransom."

I'm stunned, both by the fact that he spoke to me and by this new information. "My dad?" I ask incredulously.

He raises an eyebrow, which is the most expressive I've seen his face this entire week. "Is that so hard to believe?"

I'm not sure how much he knows, given that he was only hired to kidnap me, so I try to give a nonchalant shrug, although I'm not sure I'm very convincing. "I just didn't think he cared."

He stares at me, infuriatingly calm. "You are the daughter of Edward Myers, are you not?" His tone suggests that he has no doubt whatsoever of this fact.

"Well, yes, but..." I trail off. I haven't seen my dad for eight years now, and I hadn't heard from him once during that entire time. I had thought he had abandoned us. Did he pay my ransom just to save face as the CEO of Myers International? And how did this guy find me, anyway? I haven't used the name Myers since he left.

His face takes on a look that you could almost call disappointment. "You mean to tell me you've been here a week and it never crossed your mind you were being held for ransom?"

"Of course it did," I snap. "I'm not stupid." I had that figured out on the second day, when I realized he had no personal interest in me whatsoever. The only other explanation was trafficking, and that was unlikely given our remote location in the mountains. But publicly, my dad had no daughter, no ex-wife. He had used his money and influence to erase any evidence of his connection to us. So I had thought that maybe my mom was the target, given her inheritance from her parents. It's not nearly as much as my dad is worth, but it seemed the more likely explanation.

He studies me again, his eyes seeming to penetrate me to the bone. "You have no idea who your dad really is, do you?"

I open my mouth to demand an explanation, but am interrupted by a pounding on the front door. This is so unexpected for a cabin in the middle of nowhere that we both stare at the door. The pounding pauses, then resumes even more intensely than before.

The second round of knocking seems to shake him from his surprise. He nods in my direction. "The loft. Now," he orders. "Make any noise, and I'll kill whoever is at the door."

The threat of such senseless violence propels me off the couch faster than any threat to my own wellbeing would have. I scramble up the ladder to the loft, taking refuge between the two twin beds, just far enough back that I can't see the front door. I grip the mildew-riddled quilt from one of the beds in my hand, anchoring myself to reality using the feeling of the worn cotton between my fingers. And I listen.

The door opens, the hinges creaking with the weight of the door. "Yeah?" he says, his tone sounding bored.

"I apologize for disturbing you," a deep, yet soft voice with a hint of a regional accent says. "But I'm here to inform you that there is a forest fire heading your way, and your cabin is now in the mandatory evacuation zone. For your safety, please evacuate within the next six hours."

"A fire?" he asks, sounding somewhat surprised. I'm not sure if it's the fire he's surprised about, or the fact that the authorities were aware there was a cabin here.

The ranger, or fire fighter, whatever he is, answers, but I've already tuned out the conversation, my mind whirling. I may not be able to get any help from the man at the door, but that doesn't mean I can't take advantage of this opportunity. After all, the officer must have come here in a vehicle of sorts. If I could somehow make it to the vehicle without being noticed, I could sneak in and hitch a ride. That way, I could be gone before he realizes, and the officer would be safe as well.

There is an awning window in the wall just above the head of his bed. Taking care not to make any noise, I step up onto the nightstand, brace the palm of my hand against the low ceiling, and lean over to reach for the latch. It would be easier to open if I stood on his bed, but I know by now that the box spring mattresses are so old that they squeak and groan with the slightest shifting of weight.

I get the latch open right as I hear him thank the officer. I push the window open, wincing as it makes a slight creak, but luckily he closes the door at the same time, and the creaking of the door masks the sound of the window. I panic a little, but the sound of a car door slamming shut spurs me on. With one hand against the ceiling and the other grasping the window frame, I stretch my leg over and through the window. It's a bit of a stretch, but while I'm not as flexible as I was when I quit gymnastics two years ago, I'm still more flexible than most.

With a little hop I shift my foot from the nightstand and brace it against the wall. The muscles in my arm burn as I maneuver my other leg into the window opening. The opening isn't very large since the window only opens slightly beyond a 45-degree angle, but it's just large enough for me to wriggle through.

My shorts get caught on the window frame, and as I pause to free them I hear the ladder groan beneath his weight. I panic and push myself out the window, letting my shorts tear as I drop to the ground. Because I dropped so abruptly my landing is less than ideal, and I stumble to my knees, twisting my ankle as I fall. Sharp twigs, stickers, and rocks scrape against my bare knees and hands as I push myself to my feet, desperate to get to the officer's vehicle before he leaves.

I race around the cabin to the front, ignoring the sharp twinge of pain in my ankle and the rocks and branches that beat against my feet. My heart sinks as I see the officer's vehicle just pulling out of sight, the dust from the road the only indication it was ever there. I falter for a moment, wondering briefly if it's worth it, before shaking myself out of my hesitation and darting after the vehicle. I plunge headlong into the dust, the particles of dirt stinging my eyes and irritating my lungs.

"Jessica!" Hearing him call me by name for the first time makes my heart leap into my throat. He doesn't exactly sound angry, but he doesn't sound pleased, either. Either way, a shudder of fear runs down my back, and the thought of what he might do when he catches me spurs me onward. I follow the dust trail, stumbling over various stones and cutting my feet on shards and broken branches.

I hear the crunch of tires on dirt, and I feel a leap of hope in my chest. But then I'm yanked backward by my hair, my hopes dashed as I'm thrown to the ground.

"There you are," he says, not even sounding winded. "You got farther than I expected."

I look up at him as he stands over me, a look on his face that I can't quite interpret. My chest is heaving from the exertion of running, and sweat drips down my forehead and mixes with the dirt on my face. I cough, both from the dust and from being so winded. I push myself up enough to prop myself up on my elbow, digging my fingers into the dirt road to give myself better traction.

He squats down, his elbows resting on his knees, and gives me a curious look. "Why did you run?"

I'm baffled by the question, and my only answer is to give him an incredulous look.

"I only just told you that your dad paid your ransom, and yet you ran anyway," he explains. "Why?"

I open my mouth, close it, then open it again. "You really expect me to believe you'd just let me go?" I ask. "You haven't exactly been hiding your face from me."

A slow smile spreads across his face. "You're right," he says, pushing himself to his feet. He pulls out his hunting knife, tossing it once and catching it by the handle. "I wasn't hired to kidnap you," he says matter-of-factly. "I was hired to kill you, whether your dad paid the ransom or not."

My heart clenches in fear, and it takes all I've got to keep my voice steady, although I don't exactly succeed. "Then why ask for a ransom at all?" I scoot backward a couple of inches.

He shrugs, taking a step closer. "My guess is that their motive isn't money, but rather watching your dad suffer."

My mouth suddenly feels dry, and I find myself licking my lips. I scoot backward a few more inches.

Quick as a rattlesnake, he reaches down and grabs me by the hair again, yanking me to my feet. I cry out in pain and fear as he spins me around so my back is to him.

"Sorry kid," he says in my ear, not sounding sorry at all. "It's nothing personal."

I reach up and clutch my ears, as if blocking them will protect me from what is coming. I shut my eyes, expecting to feel his knife in my side or at my neck at any moment. My instinct is to fight him, but I know it wouldn't do me much good, as the officer is likely several miles away by now.

He pulls my hair taut, and there is an added pressure to my hair that makes it feel like it will be torn out by the roots, and then I'm suddenly released. I stumble forward, and I use my momentum to both put some distance between us and to spin around to face him.

He's holding his knife in one hand and a fistful of long hair in the other. My hand shoots up to feel my now chin-length, ragged locks.

"There," he says, holding up my chopped-off hair. "Jessica Patterson is now dead."

"Wha--" I'm completely baffled by this unexpected turn of events. "Why...?"

He gives a nonchalant shrug. "I like you," he says plainly. "You're clever and resourceful, and you don't lose your cool when you're frightened. I could use someone like you." He closes the distance between us before I can react, and he takes my hand in the one holding my hair, turning it so my palm is turned upward. "Hold still," he says.

An arrow of pain shoots up my arm as he slices my palm with his knife, leaving a line of blood that wells up and drips off the edge of my palm. "Ow!" I reflexively yank my arm back, but he keeps his grip on my hand. "What was that for?"

He wraps the cut-off hair around my palm, letting it soak up my blood. "Evidence," he explains. "I can't collect my money without evidence of your death. Normally I'd bring a finger or an ear, but I'd prefer to have you with working hands and hearing."

I shudder at the thought of him cutting a finger or ear off a slain corpse to bring to his employers. "But I'm not dead," I say, stating the obvious.

"My job was to kill Jessica Patterson," he says, unwrapping the hair to check the cut on my hand. "And I have done that. From now on you will start a new life as a new person."

I try not to think of the implications of what he said, instead focusing my attention on the present. "Did you have to cut my hand?" I ask. "I'm pretty sure my feet are bleeding plenty."

He smirks. "Good point. Although I'm betting they want to send the evidence to your dad, so blood untainted by dirt would be better in case he confirms it with a DNA test."

His words drive home the reality of what is happening. My mom is going to have to live on thinking that I am dead. My dad, too, but I'm not sure he would care nearly as much. I swallow. "So, what?" I ask. "Are you putting me in a witness protection program or something?"

He chuckles. I've probably seen him express more emotion in the last five minutes than I have the entire week. "No," he says as he ties my bloody hair in a knot to keep it together. "You'll work for me. You do owe me your life, after all."

I open and close my mouth as I try to think of a way to respond. "Are you going to have me kill people?" I ask hesitantly.

He leans back and studies my face. "No," he says after consideration. "I don't think you have it in you. But I can teach you to be my support." He glances up at the sky. "It's a stroke of luck there's a forest fire nearby," he comments. "We can set fire to the cabin and claim your body burned with it, and no one will suspect a thing."

His casual comment about setting fire to the cabin is yet another reminder of the occupation of the man I owe my life to. He gently turns me by the shoulder, steering me in the direction of the cabin. "We'd better get back and get you bandaged up," he says. "We've got a long road ahead of us if we want to put some distance between us and this place." He starts walking, not waiting to see if I'm following, and speaks to me over his shoulder. "Oh, and you might want to put some thought into your new name," he says. "I can't call you 'Kid' or 'Girl' all the time."

I hesitate for only a moment, then take a deep breath before limping off after my new mentor.