Chapter 100 - The Ridge Cabin
Two miles through deep snow on a freezing December night is a brutal trial for an old woman, and even worse for a crippled man who had spent thirty years hiding in the shadows. By the time the rough log shape of the hunting cabin emerged through the trees, Alistair was barely standing, leaning his entire weight on my shoulder.
I kicked open the cabin’s low wooden door, dragged him inside onto a bare pine bench, and dropped the heavy oak bar into the doorframe.
The cabin was freezing, smelling of cedar shavings, dry kerosene, and dust. No power lines reached this high up the mountain. I set the oilcloth package on the rough-hewn table, took off my wet gloves, and found Arthur’s old hurricane lantern on the shelf. With trembling hands, I struck a wooden match.
The amber flame flared to life, casting long, dancing shadows across the log walls.
Alistair slumped over the table, coughing violently, clutching his chest. "We made it," he wheezed. "They won't find this place until morning."
"They won't find it at all if we don't give them a reason to look," I said, reaching into the pocket of my coat. I pulled out Arthur’s old satellite phone—the one he had kept in his tackle box for deep-sea trips off Nova Scotia, the one whose subscription I had quietly maintained out of a secret bank account in Lisbon.
May you like
I powered it on. The small monochrome screen blinked green, searching for a signal through the canopy of pines.
Alistair looked up, his pale eyes narrowing at the oilcloth on the table. "Open it, Myrna. Before you make any calls. You need to see what Arthur actually wrote."
