CHAPTER IX

Hal Watson struggled on through the snow-filled ruts of the narrow roadway. At each turn he paused to look about, straining to see through the ever-darkening mist, looking for anything at all which might provide shelter. He continued to rub his left shoulder where the discomfort seemed to be growing worse. He tried not to dwell on the possibility that he was suffering some sort of attack.

A heart attack? He could not allow himself to focus on that as a fact.

No, he told himself. It’s just a pulled muscle. I’m sure of it. I did something to it scrambling out of that car. It can’t be anything other than that.

His breath came in short pants, visible steam rising into the air with each gasp. The cold was crippling. Wearing only street clothes and slick-soled shoes, he was at a distinct disadvantage. Only a fool would venture out into this weather dressed as he was…and Hal Watson was no fool.

He almost laughed at himself, at the sheer irony of it all. He should be at home right now, curled up with a hot drink in front of a blazing fire…perusing a favorite book…or listening to a favorite bit of music.

Marilyn would be safe at home with him, getting ready for her busy day tomorrow, clearing up a bit in the kitchen…or even sitting there with him, talking over her current activities, her night out with Damon, their future together….

He had to stop this. It would not get him through the next few hours. And he had to get through…survive somehow…to get back and tell his tale.

The monster back in the car had to be discovered. The truth must come out.

Just as he thought he could go no further, and was prepared to slip down in the snow and rest…fall asleep…whatever, he spotted something just off the roadway.

You could easily miss it, if you weren’t looking. It was a small dark rectangular shape, halfway hidden by draping firs and cedars. The road was starting to curve in the opposite direction, which would distract anyone driving by away from it.

There was no clear path in to the little clearing, but being on foot, Hal could see enough to make his way carefully through the trees towards it.

He hoped it was indeed a shelter of sorts. He was beginning to believe that, in spite of his miraculous escape from the wrecked car, he could easily die of exposure out here in a snowdrift.

With the heavy snowfall covering all traces, his dead body would lie out here unnoticed for months, until spring thaws revealed his whereabouts. And even then, he realized, they might not find him in the shelter, if that’s what it was, for long afterwards.

As he drew nearer to the darkened blob, he sobbed a sigh of relief.

It was, indeed, a cabin. Small and humbly-constructed, but definitely an abode, with a door and (he saw, with jubilation) a small, sturdy chimney poking up through a cedar-shingled roof.

If there was dry firewood in there, he would be able to start a fire!

He fingered the thin matchbook in his pocket. He was not a smoker, but he carried it always, “just in case.” Tonight, that silly little precaution might save his life.

But how to get in?

He struggled up steep steps to a rough-hewn deck, and made his way to the door. He tried the old-fashioned latch but, of course, it was locked tight. He thought a minute, then reached up and felt above the door jamb.

Nothing.

Then he looked down. A small overhang shielded the doorway from the snow. In front of the door lay a thick sisal welcoming mat. He bent and pulled up the corner.

There was the key.

Elated, he picked it up and grasped it tightly in his frost-bitten fingertips. Carefully, he directed it in to the keyhole. He struggled to turn it.

At first he thought it wouldn’t work. But then, gradually so as not to break it off, he worked it back and forth, until, miracle of miracles, it turned.

Saying a little prayer, he took hold of the knob and opened the door.

Heaving a sigh of relief, he lunged forward into the darkness, not caring what was ahead. He fell to the floor and lay in a heap for a little bit, trying to still his pounding heart, trying to ignore the ache in his shoulder, and trying to gain enough strength to make the last effort to save himself.

Finally, after a few minutes, he recovered enough to get up and take stock of his surroundings. There was no light, of course, and the few windows were all heavily shuttered. At first he stumbled and hit against various objects until he had enough sense to stand still and let his eyes adjust as much as possible to the dim surroundings.

Night had not yet fallen completely, and the bit of ambient light creeping in from the open doorway allowed him to begin to make out the interior of the room.

Eventually, he could see the outlines of a small stone fireplace set into one of the side walls. He moved toward it, hands outstretched to encounter any obstacles in his way. He stopped in front of the hearth and took stock.

Immediately to the right was a metal stand holding several long-handled tools…to the left was a large bin.

Hoping the miracle would continue, he felt about for the mouth of the bin, then reached down inside. His groping fingers touched something solid and angular. He grabbed hold and pulled it up and out.

A small log! With any luck now, he could get a fire going. With that, all things were possible.

He needed some starter…paper of some kind. He pulled out the small diary-sized notebook he always carried, and began ripping the pages out, one by one, and crumpling them up. He did not care what he was tearing up, or what messages or stray phone numbers he was destroying.

What did any of that matter now?

Finally, he had a small pile of crumpled up paper. Tinder? He reached back into the bin and was rewarded with a small bundle of fir limbs, needles still attached. They appeared to be dry enough to serve.

He pulled out his precious matches. He couldn’t waste any of these. He must make sure he got the fire set and going strong with just one or two. He picked up the log and laid it gently on the grate, tucked the fir kindling in and around it, then nestled the little bundle of crumpled-up paper deep down in the midst of it all.

Taking a deep breath, he took one match from the book and struck it on the firing strip. Once, twice, he struck without luck. Maybe he had carried these around too long?

What if, after all this effort, he could not get the match to strike?

One more time. He held the book firmly in his left hand and just as firmly pulled the edge of the match along the strip with his right.

It lit!

Smoothly, so as not to blow out the smoldering tip, he held it, hand trembling, to the paper cone. At first nothing happened. Then, as if touched by an angel, the flame of the match grew in strength and became one with the paper. Then the paper caught fire and blossomed like an orange-red flower in the darkened stone cavern of the fire pit.

Taking one of the metal fire tools from its stand, Hal carefully began introducing the tips of the fir branches in to the merry little imp of a flame. At first he despaired of getting the branches to pick up the bits of fire and clasp them to their limbs. He had no trouble doing this, getting his own fireplace to perform, when he was safe at home.

But this situation was different. So much more depended on this.

Still, his luck held. One by one, the needles on the twigs, then the limbs themselves, began to burn with vigor. The room began to lighten up a bit. Things seemed a bit cheerier.

But would the log take?

That was the big “if.” He wondered if there was another log…or more…hidden away in that bin. He didn’t dare turn his attention away from the fledgling fire to look, but he began to worry about how he would keep the fire going without fuel? Was there a chair or a table in here? Did he have the strength to take them apart to use as firewood?

He watched and waited. Prodding here and there around the perimeter of the little fire, trying to direct the searching fingers of flame toward the mighty meal of a log, sitting right there in its midst, just waiting for the fire to devour it.

* * * *

Hal continued to watch anxiously, as first one then another of the kindling twigs in the rough stone fireplace caught fire.

If only the solid log would catch!

At last he felt comfortable enough to glance about the tiny room. His eyes had adjusted to the dim light cast by the tiny flames and he looked for anything at all that might be of use to him.

As soon as he was confident he could leave the fire unattended, he made his way back to the wood bin and removed the lid altogether. He could see a stack of good-sized logs resting in the bottom, and he had already spotted two spindly chairs he thought he could break apart as well.

So firewood was taken care of, at least for the moment. Then he saw a large box of wooden kitchen matches perched conspicuously on the rough-hewn fireplace mantle, so he need not have worried about his own short supply of fire-starters.

A makeshift counter of sorts had been set up at the back of the room, and there was a small tin pie safe resting on it. Opening it up he was elated to see several rows of canned beans, soup and the like. More than enough to keep him nourished for a while. He could probably eke out a week’s worth of meals, if he was careful.

On the far wall a camp cot made up with heavy quilts and blankets promised a warm place to sleep.

So far, so good.

He began to rummage around for anything else that would be useful, and pulled out a compact first aid kit. Some odds and ends of clothing and a heavy parka hung from pegs on the wall and nearby were a pair of ancient galoshes which looked roomy enough to fit him.

He had been hoping against hope for something like a short-wave radio set up, or even a phone of some kind, but found nothing which might provide a means of communication with the outside world.

Too much to expect, he supposed.

His own cell phone had been left behind at the house in the panic and urgency of his forced withdrawal. There might not be service this far out in any case. Still, he wished he had had the presence of mind to thrust it in his pocket at the last moment. His abductor might not have noticed, and it was always possible he could have gotten an emergency call out before they were too far out of town, in time for someone…anyone…to find and rescue him.

He sighed again, realizing that therein lay his dilemma.

No one knew where he was. Probably no one was even aware he was missing. Unless…or until…the mess back at the house was discovered, no one would know anything was wrong. He was due in court tomorrow, and if he didn’t show up he felt sure his secretary would go out to the house to find out why. She had a key, and no doubt she would be the one to discover what had happened there…and that he was now missing.

But he had no idea how long this storm might last, and if the snowpack ended up as deep as he feared, there would be no way he could fight his way back down that long trail to civilization, nor would there be any tracks remaining to point the way to his location.

He tried to recollect how many miles he had driven before the accident, but drew a complete blank. He had been more concerned about the individual in the back seat than judging how far they had come.

And then, too, there was the issue of the continuing dull ache in his left arm and shoulder. He kept telling himself he had merely strained it, either getting out of the car, or struggling up that blasted hillside.

But he was well aware of the other, more serious, possibility.

It would do him no good to make the effort to walk out of here, only to die along the way of a severe heart attack.

No. He was stuck here for the long haul.

And that thought frightened the hell out of him. He had thought he was resigned to his fate. After all, he had nothing left to live for now, did he?

But somehow the urge to survive was still burning in his soul.

He pulled out a second log and placed it near the fire, ready to re-stoke the blaze when necessary.

Then he stripped off his wet shirt, pants, shoes and socks, and stretched them over one of the rickety chairs near the fire to dry. He sorted through the mish-mash of clothing until he found a roomy pair of sweat pants, a long-sleeved woolen shirt and heavy knit socks that, thankfully, fit him well enough. He drew them on, not caring if they were soiled or musty.

What difference did the niceties make now?

Some short time later, Hal Watson was seated before a roaring fire in the most comfortable chair, wrapped in a blanket, watching beans heat up in a little kettle on a hook over the open flame. A tin cup of melting snow gleaned from the front stoop sat on the stone hearth.

He had found tea-bags as well, and was surprised to realize he was anticipating the little improvised meal to come with something akin to elation.

He sat gazing into the fire, trying to reason through his predicament.

His legal training was useful to him now. He had spent many an hour talking a client through some disastrous calamity or other, getting them to see the advantage of remaining calm, and looking—always looking—for the best way forward.

Now he must do the same for himself.

As the beans bubbled away over the fire, he began to feel a little more optimistic.

At least he wasn’t going to die of exposure out in the storm tonight.

With any luck, Hal Watson would find his way back home eventually.

Then there would be all hell to pay for the individual who had wrought all this havoc.