Chapter 29
The cabin is quiet by night. The others don't understand it, never could, but Kenneth Anderson likes his privacy. Likes the idea that he's alone with it, that he's beaten it and can face it whenever he pleases.
His cabin is small and barren; Anderson hardly owns any furniture. A small night stand, hand cut from wood he harvested himself. Nevermind the laws. Those who protect the forest have a right to take of its blessing for themselves. Payment, in a sense. If it weren't for him and his kind, much of this forest would very likely be gone by now. A bed in the corner, its four posts made of logs. A hardwood chest against the back wall, padlocked and chained so that even Anderson himself will have a hard time getting in should he ever wish to retrieve its contents. A portrait hanging on the wall, seven people, smiling, and looking like the luckiest team in the world.
Anderson sits up late this night. For the first time in months he has felt the urge to turn on his little radio, to tune into the dealings of the outside world. Years now he has been without contact, and yet suddenly now…now it is irresistible.
On the nightstand, the radio crackles and chirps while among the static officially rational voices keep Anderson appraised of the situation on the Charles Malone case. Anderson's blood runs cold as the detached news anchors rattle off details of the others' deaths. He risks a glance at the portrait above his bed, and a chill runs through his blood.
As he watches, the door creaks open. Images of the first time flash behind Anderson's eyelids. He is going to go like them. He is the last, and now only Charlie is left.
A car chase, says the voice on the radio as Anderson slowly falls to his knees. Badly injured. Escaped into the brush. Anderson's palms come together of their own accord, and before he knows what is happening, his lips are moving in prayer. The right prayer, this time. Body never found, says the radio.
Anderson bows his forehead to the floor and shuts his eyes against tears as the door closes again, and footsteps move across the room. He waits for the blow to come, but it never does. Silence. And then a sound Anderson has never expected to hear.
It was dark and cold, and the smell of wood was all around. For a moment Angela swayed on her feet, trying to get her bearings. In the absence of anything to grab onto, she was forced to fall to her knees as her head swam. In the corner, a radio was on.
After a moment she managed to regain control enough to look up again, and this time she could see that the radio was giving off just enough green light to bring the room around her into a dim shadow of existence.
She was in some kind of cabin, though the whole thing seemed to be empty somehow. She could barely make out shapes of furniture along one wall, but there seemed far too much space in the middle of the floor. Why would anyone want to live in such a place? The entire thing smelled of soil and wet wood, and it nearly turned her stomach again. The pain in her arm was threatening to take over once more and she bit her lip, glad to have any other sensation to focus on.
A strangled sound from the middle of the room made her jump, and she was suddenly aware of a figure kneeling a few feet away from her, bent all the way over to the floor. Her first instinct was to run, but he had to have seen her by now. She cleared her throat, and slowly the man raised his head.
"You…you didn't kill me," he mumbled, still looking at the floor.
"Kill you? Why would I…" The very thought of it sent her stomach into dizzying acrobatics, but she had to admit there was no denying the possibility anymore. This was getting far too strange.
"Because I'm—" The man broke off, swallowed hard. "Because of what I did."
Angela's heart jumped to her throat as Constantine's words came floating back to her. A spirit of justice.
"What did you do?" asked Angela, groping for an explanation. Anything but what her reasoning told her was the truth. She didn't think she could ever face herself again if it turned out to be true.
"Them." He gestured to something on the wall, and Angela could barely make out the sparkle of something under glass. A picture frame, her detective's instincts told her. "We tried to cheat it. We didn't believe that any of this would actually happen."
"I don't want to kill you," she said, surprised at how desperate her own voice sounded in her ears. "I don't want to kill anyone. I just want to know what the hell's going on here."
Slowly, the man got to his feet. Switched on a light. Opened a drawer in the nightstand and pulled out a gun. Angela flinched, but he was pointing it toward himself.
"Go," he said softly. "You've got to find Charlie. He's in the woods somewhere. I'll do the rest of this for you."
As she turned and bolted for the door, Angela heard a muffled gunshot from the cabin behind her, and then the sound of something heavy falling to the ground.