Chapter Eight

Steve grunted as he came groggily awake. His head felt as if a team of slam dancing elephants had taken up residence in his brain. He tried to lift a hand to his temples, in an attempt to relieve the pressure, but he found that it only brought pain to his neck and shoulders. Everything else hurt as well. Maybe hold off on moving for a sec, he thought.

Almost hesitantly he fought to lift unusually heavy lids. Light invaded his pupils, increasing the headache to nausea-inducing proportions. Swallowing, he tried again, more slowly, and found that he was looking down at his lap. It took a moment for him to realize that his head was lolling forward.

Well, first things first. Look up. The action was easier thought than done. Stiffened back and neck muscles were not ready for that activity and complained every inch of the way as he shifted his head to upright and then moving past center to bump it against something hard and rough behind him.

The tender areas of his head objected, but he had other things to think about. Like the fact that his arms were bound tightly behind him, pressed between his back and a very large tree. The tree had a very thick root system. He knew the root system was thick because he was seated uncomfortably atop one of them.

His feet were tied together with some sort of thin synthetic twine. He was willing to bet that the same material had been used to secure his upper body to the tree because the material was beginning to bite through the material of his flannel shirt.

He knew that there was a very important reason that he was trussed up to a tree like a captive from the old west, but it eluded him at the moment. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. He shifted his legs, to see if he could work himself loose some how. Mistake. Big Mistake. His right knee protested with a war cry that told him quite plainly that movement was absolutely not allowed.

He swore softly and repeatedly to himself until the pain died down to an ache which throbbed in time with the slam-dancing elephants. Coming to terms with the fact that his body was working against him, he focused on the other things around him. As he looked at his knee, he saw a shoe print there. It took him back, and suddenly he remembered. He was in a heck of a lot of trouble.

Worry flooded his senses as he recalled that the fact that he probably wasn't alone. Ms. Professional Butt-kicker was around somewhere. He remembered all too vividly that right around sunrise she had thrown him to the ground, and shoved the gun in his throat. He'd been sure that his life would begin flashing before his eyes at that point. But then they'd heard the sound of a car. It wasn't all that close, but it was close enough that they would have heard a gunshot.

Steve had somehow found the presence of mind to bluff that it was probably the ranger, making sure no one started hunting season early. The comment hadn't gone over well at all, though he was sure that she must have found some merit in what he'd said due to the fact that there were no bullet holes in his body at present.

He was thankful that the words had bought him some time. Unfortunately the cost of that time was that she'd taken her frustrations out on him. Somewhere between the love stomp on his injured knee and additional blow to the head, things had gone blissfully dark.

But now it appeared that hours had passed. He was alone, tied to a tree, and he had no idea where his assailant had gone. His dad could be arriving at the cabin any minute now. And the woman could have him in her clutches, as well. The worry escalated to helplessness and outright panic. This woman wasn't someone his dad could influence with a warm, friendly smile. She meant business, and there was no way she would be confusing him with Peterson.

*

Mark didn't hesitate. Upon finding Steve missing, the first thing he did was to try his cell phone. Thankfully it worked. He contacted the Forest Service and explained the situation. They promised to send out a couple of rangers, but warned that it could be mid-morning to mid-afternoon before anyone would arrive. It seemed that the bad weather had trapped some campers somewhere in the woods.

His next call was to Jesse and Amanda, alerting them to please call him if they heard from Steve. He then called information so that he could contact a police chief in a neighboring town that he'd met at a State Policeman's benefit. After having contacted everyone, and pulled every string he could think of, Mark found that he was still alone in a ransacked cabin. His son was still missing and there wasn't much he could do aside from waiting and worrying.

He was afraid to go out and search because the cabin was the place that Steve expected him to be. Why hadn't he come up last night? Why hadn't he left with Steve like he was supposed to do?

Trying to push the negative thoughts aside, he focused on what he did know. There were droplets of blood. Just the thought of them sent a spear through his heart, but he forced his mind to focus. What did the droplets tell him?

Judging by its color and consistency, he guessed that the blood couldn't have been there more than 4 hours old. Okay, so four hours ago, more or less, something had happened in the cabin. The jury was still out on exactly who the blood belonged to.

There were muddy footprints everywhere. Initially, he'd thought that they might be Steve's, but Steve was normally very careful about tracking mud inside. Also, the size of the prints was much too small. The boot impressions did not belong to his son. His worry increased another notch. There had been someone else in the cabin.

He headed back into the bedrooms, intending to inventory what he could find there. The first odd item was that the window was open and the bed had been slept in. A cool breeze wafted inside. The thin blankets did not seem to be adequate covering for the current weather conditions, let alone night time temperatures. Had someone sneaked in through the window?

The picture was beginning to look grimmer, and Mark was fighting hard not to panic. But then he found Steve's holster, badge and ID, still packed away in his luggage. His gun, however, was missing. He knew that Steve would never take the gun and leave the badge. In his son's mind the two went hand in hand. And then he saw the gun. It was under a rickety looking dresser in the opposite corner of the room. He moved toward it and unthinkingly removed it from beneath the furniture. Two tiny red smears on the grip caught his attention. He had no doubt that the red smearing was blood. Steve's blood.