“I’ll take first watch,” Kyle said, retreating a dozen feet away and wrapping the sleeping bag around his shoulders.
It was early, but I’d learned to grab a few hours of sleep when I had the chance, no matter the time of day. Some inner sense woke me when it was time to take my turn at watch. Sahdev woke up a couple of hours before dawn and insisted on spelling me. I woke as the sky began to lighten, ate a bag of peanuts, then tapped Kyle awake to let him know that I intended to scout ahead alone.
“I’ve been trained to recognize booby traps,” I said, when he and Sahdev protested. “Be back for you as soon as I’ve determined the best route to the cabin.”
Jerry had said we were a quarter mile from the cabin, close enough to see smoke rising from the chimney if the potential bomber had a fire going in the fireplace. There was no sign of smoke. Either the man was gone from the cabin or he’d decided to avoid letting smoke give his presence away.
I proceeded slowly up the trail, scanning for tripwires. Hadn’t gone far before I spied a dark-colored fishing line stretched across the trail a few inches above the ground. One end was attached to a round eyelet screwed into a tree trunk; the other to one of those magnetic window alarms homeowners could buy at most hardware stores. Trip the wire—break the connection—and an ear-shattering alarm would go off, warning of your approach.
I stepped over the tripwire and continued up the path. Three more similar alarms bisected the trail. Hard to believe Jerry and Vince managed to avoid them. The trail split into two, with one narrow path heading toward the cabin—whose roof I could just spy through the trees—and one veering west.
I advanced with caution toward the cabin. Came to a dead stop a foot from another tripwire. I let out a slow breath. The man meant business. Instead of merely activating an alarm, this one would set in motion a deadly series of events. I crouched down to examine a feather spear trap. Trip the wire and you let loose a spring stick with sharp spear tips attached to the end. Great way to kill wild boar, or anybody trying to encroach on your land. Shit.
An intruder might decide to abandon the path and advance through the woods. I carefully walked through a break in the trees, an area where the ever-present ferns had been smashed underfoot, and found myself face-to-face with another booby trapped tripwire. A log swing embedded with spikes awaited an unwary trespasser.
Miles would have loved to pick this guy’s brain.
Worked my way around the cabin, discovering a perimeter shield of similar traps. Triplines laced the ground, connected to more magnetic window alarms, sound grenades, two more feather spear traps, and a snare that would drop a heavy rock on a man’s head. I found two more Punji stake pits and several small arms cartridge traps, set off by foot pressure, another favorite of the Viet Cong. It’s a wonder Jerry and Vince blundered their way out of here without triggering more concealed traps.
I hunkered down and examined the cabin’s wide porch and only door. Couldn’t tell if anyone was inside, watching and waiting, but that spot between my shoulders tingled, a familiar warning sign from the primitive part of my brain. Carefully retraced my path back to our encampment.
“Place is lousy with traps,” I said. “You gotta watch every step.”
Didn’t want to risk Hector detonating any booby traps, so I put him on a leash and clipped it to a sturdy sapling. I led Kyle and Sahdev to the vantage point overlooking the cabin’s entrance. We held position for an hour, waiting for any sign of movement. Nothing. Decided to approach the cabin and get a look inside. Jerry said the hunters saw bomb-making materials when they looked through the window. If the two of them could navigate the porch safely, we could do the same. Still, I’d check first for nail spikes and more cartridge traps. No way I’d touch the cabin door. Wouldn’t put it past the man to protect it with a chemical bucket drop—or if he was a truly evil fucker—a shotgun booby trap.
After clearing our route, I signaled Kyle and Sahdev to join me on the porch. We peered in through the window and studied the items scattered across the kitchen table. Spools of wire and wire cutters. Piles of sound grenades and magnetic window alarms. Nails and spikes. An ax. A knife. Nylon cord. Everything a man might need to build booby traps, but nothing that hinted at bombmaking on the scale of the ones that brought down The Dalles Dam.
Huh.
Kyle took a step backwards, then froze. A loud clicking sound broke the silence.
What the fuck was that?
TEN
Kenzie
Consciousness returned in increments, as if my stingy brain doled out awareness grudgingly, one sensation at a time. Sound came first, soft footsteps and the clatter of something scraping over the floor, maybe a chair or table being dragged from one place to another. A heavy blanket pinned me in place, and the sheets I lay on were nasty, as if coated with dried sweat. Crap. I felt nasty, all my cracks and crevices damp and pungent. My scalp itched from hair too-long unwashed, and my mouth tasted foul. I wrinkled my nose. Gross. Struggling against inertia, I opened my eyes, then squinted at the sunlight that flooded the room. Pain stabbed through my head, and I groaned.
“Holy shit! You’re awake!”
I winced and blinked against both the brightness and the loud, excited voice. Somebody leaned over my bed, and I shrank back in my pillow as a face slowly swam into focus. A teenage girl with bright eyes beneath thick, black bangs smiled down at me.
“You’ve been out of it for days,” she declared. “Ever since that hot biker and his friends brought you here.”
The last thing I remembered was climbing on the back of Ripper’s bike when we left the bed and breakfast. That was days ago?
“Where am I? What day is it? And where’s Ripper?” I whispered, my voice cracking.
“It’s Monday afternoon. You’re in a cabin on Lost Dog Lake. Pastor Bill sent your friends on a job, but don’t worry. They should be back tomorrow.”
Lost Dog Lake? Pastor Bill? My head was swimming, nothing made sense, and the pain that pierced my skull made me want to puke.
“I’m Hannah,” she continued. “Hannah Lee.” She made a face. “I know. My name kind of sounds like that city in Hawaii, or a line from that song about the dragon, but really, that’s just a coincidence. It’s Hannah Lee, H-a-n-n-a-h space L-e-e.” She spoke so quickly that I had trouble following her, but she radiated an infectious goodwill.
“I’m Kenzie Dunwitty,” I croaked.
“I know! You sound awful, Kenzie. You want some water?”
The question triggered a visceral response, my tongue and mouth suddenly parched. “Yes, please.”
She held a glass of water to my lips, and I raised my head to drink. The room spun and I fell back, clutching my head and moaning.
“Fuckity fuck fuck,” Hannah said. “Sorry about that. Let me get you a straw.”
The door swung open, and Hannah stood up straight. All the eagerness and animation vanished from her face. She folded her hands meekly and fixed her eyes on the floor.
“Did I hear you speaking to Mackenzie?” A tall, pudgy man who looked to be in his fifties crossed the room to stand by my bed.
“Yes, Pastor Bill. She just woke up.”
Deep grooves appeared beside his nose, and his sparse blond brows drew together as he frowned his displeasure. “I instructed you to call for me immediately if she awoke. I expect my orders to be obeyed, child.”