Chapter 4 - Into the Woods
The mountain road winding through the Mount Hood timber reserve was narrow, slick with wet pine needles, and shrouded in a dense, ghostly fog.
Rachel drove her small sedan as fast as she dared, her windshield wipers slapping rhythmically against the glass. The GPS on her phone had lost satellite signal five miles back, forcing her to rely on the saved image of the old topographical survey map.
She turned off the paved state highway onto a rough, unmaintained gravel logging trail marked only by a rusted brown sign: USFS ROAD 402 — NO MAINTENANCE.
Tree branches scraped loudly against the sides of her car like fingernails on a chalkboard. The rain turned the gravel into thick, brown mud that threatened to pull her tires off the track at every steep curve.
After two miles of nerve-wracking driving, the trail dead-ended at a weathered wooden gate secured with a heavy steel chain and combination padlock.
Rachel stopped the car, killed the headlights, and sat in the dark stillness of the forest.
Beyond the gate, shrouded by ancient Douglas fir trees, she could make out the faint, dark silhouette of a small log cabin. No lights shone from its windows, but a thin, almost invisible wispy spiral of grey smoke was rising from the stone chimney into the damp air.
Someone was inside.
Rachel reached into her glove compartment and pulled out a heavy steel flashlight. She opened her door quietly, taking care not to let the latch click, and stepped out into the freezing mountain drizzle.
She climbed over the wooden gate, her shoes sinking deep into the cold mud.
Moving cautiously from tree to tree, she kept off the main dirt pathway, using the dense ferns and thick Underbrush for cover. Her heart was beating so loudly in her ears she was terrified someone inside the cabin might hear it.
As she drew closer to the cabin's rear window, she heard a voice—cold, sharp, and familiar.
"Eat your soup, Lily. Stop staring at the window."
It was Melissa.
Rachel crept up to the side of the wooden cabin, lifting her head just high enough to peer through the small, dirty glass windowpane.
Inside, the cabin was lit only by the warm orange glow of a small wood-burning stove.
Sitting at a rough wooden table was eight-year-old Lily. The little girl was wearing her purple jacket, her dark curls messy, her small face pale and streaked with dried dirt. Her hearing aids were missing from her ears.
Melissa stood near the stove, stirring a metal pot, a small black handgun tucked noticeably into the waistband of her jeans.
"Where is my mommy?" Lily asked, her voice small and trembling, her lips moving awkwardly without her hearing aids to guide her pronunciation. "You said Mommy was coming."
Melissa turned around, setting a bowl on the table with a harsh clatter. "Your mother isn't coming, Lily. Your mother is sick. She set fire to your house."
"No!" Lily cried out, her small hands forming tight fists on the table. "Mommy loves our house! You told me to say those words on the phone! You made me say the blanket was pink!"
Melissa stepped forward, grabbing Lily roughly by her arm. "Listen to me, you ungrateful little brat! Your father built a life for us, and your mother tried to ruin it! You are going to stay here until the court gives your dad full custody, and if you say one word about that phone recording to anyone, I will make sure you never see your mother again!"
Rachel felt an explosive wave of primal rage surge through her chest.
She turned away from the window, looking around the dark muddy yard for anything she could use as a weapon. Her hand struck a heavy, two-foot-long iron prybar resting beside a stack of damp firewood near the back porch.
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She picked up the iron bar, her knuckles white, her jaw set like granite.
Rachel walked straight up the wooden back steps, lifted her heavy foot, and kicked the cabin door with all the force in her body.
