Indispensable Party (Sasha McCandless Legal Thriller No. 4) (14 page)

“Sounds like those dang preppers,”
Phil said.

“Who?”

Phil shook his head. “Some
numbnuts who think the world’s gonna end. So, they started a survivalist group—’cuse
me, preparedness group.”

“Are they violent?” Gavin asked.

Phil spat on the frozen ground
and considered the question.

“No,” he finally said. “They seem
to keep to themselves. But, if the crap ever does hit the fan, I expect they’ll
be plenty trigger-happy.”

Just to satisfy his curiosity, one
afternoon, he’d stopped by the Recorder of Deeds Office and sweet-talked a
clerk into pulling the property records on the parcel. She’d leaned against the
counter to give him a good look down her fuzzy, low-cut sweater and explained
that the land, and the cabins on it, had been transferred from the Commonwealth
Department of Natural Resources to a husband and wife, Jeffrey and Anna Bricker
in 2000. She told him the state had used the property as a campground in the
1940s and 50s, but it was one of dozens of campsites that had fallen into
disuse and were being auctioned off for whatever sums the state could get for
them.

Gavin had tucked their existence
away in the back of his mind.

And now, according to her mother,
Celia had fallen in with the preppers. The thought sent an unpleasant chill up
Gavin’s spine. He pressed his foot down on the gas pedal. It’d be better to get
up to the compound and back to town before nightfall.

The sun hung low in the gray sky
when Gavin pulled up in front of the gated drive leading from the state road to
the gravel approach to the compound. He sat and peered through the metal arms
into the distance but couldn’t make out whether any smoke rose toward the
horizon.

He chewed his lip, then pulled
out and drove past the private drive. He continued down the road another fifty
yards and parked along the shoulder on a patch of frozen ground that was at
least partially hidden from view by some naked brush. He killed the engine and
opened the glove compartment.

Gavin took out his gun, weighed
it in his hand, and thought. Anyone he ran into on the preppers’ land was
guaranteed to be armed. He was licensed to carry a concealed weapon, of course.
But, as a civilian, he sometimes felt carrying the gun was more of a drawback
than an advantage. When he’d been a deputy, he’d had a clear mandate and
defined guidelines for when to draw and use his weapon. As a citizen, the lines
were grayer, the risks greater, and the chance for mistakes seemed higher. He’d
taken to leaving the thing in the glove compartment more and more.

He moved to return it to the
space now and stopped, his hand hovering near the box, undecided. Finally, he
closed the glove compartment. He confirmed the gun was loaded, and the safety was
engaged, then slipped the weapon into his shoulder holster and smoothed his
jacket flat over it.

Better safe than sorry.

He put his cell phone in his
pocket and emerged from the car’s warm interior into the frosty late afternoon
air. The car gave an electronic beep as he locked the doors and jogged toward
the compound, his head down against the wind.

As he rounded the bend in the
road and neared the compound, he slowed to a quick walk to lessen the noise
from the crunch of frozen snow beneath his boots. The only other noise was the
sound of his breathing. Traffic would be light up here. Deer season was over
for the year, so the only hunters would be the hardcore types who hunted
rabbits and squirrel in the off-season. Aside from hunting, there wasn’t much
to draw anyone up to these parts. Gavin reasoned that was part of the location’s
appeal to the preppers.

He stopped twenty feet away from
the gate and stared hard at the cabins off in the distance. He saw no signs of
activity, and no recent tire tracks on the driveway. The place felt empty. He approached
the gate and vaulted over it. He felt exposed as he walked up the driveway
toward the cluster of cabins. He quickened his pace.

The first grouping of cabins sat
off to the right of the driveway, off behind the woodpile. A tarp covered the
firewood. The crusted snow showed no recent footprints. No noise hummed from
the nearby cabins. The land was quiet under its blanket of snow; it felt
deserted. Nobody home. He turned to leave.

Gavin exhaled, and the tension
drained from his shoulders. He realized he’d been prepared for a confrontation
if he’d run into anyone. His time away from the sheriff’s office had brought
into stark relief just how much stress had been involved in serving bench
warrants and bringing in defendants on contempt charges. Always wondering, as
he raised his fist to knock on a door, whether the residents had weapons, kept
vicious dogs, or were under the influence of booze, meth, or both. His private
work was considerably less dangerous. And, to his surprise, he’d become
somewhat risk adverse.

The notion that he was scared
forced him to turn back to the cabins and check them out more thoroughly.

He neared the first cabin and
pressed himself flush against the cold log wall to peer in through a bare
window. He could make out the shapes of four single beds in the dark room. All
four beds were made with gray wool blankets pulled taut across their tops. He
crept past the window to the second cabin. A quick peek inside revealed an
identical setup: four neatly made beds, no light, nobody inside.

He moved quickly from cabin to
cabin, glancing inside each and finding nothing but empty beds until he reached
the last cabin in the back row. It was set apart slightly from the others. As
he had with the others, he ran to it in a low crouch. He raised himself to look
through the window so he could confirm there were four empty beds and get on
with his day, having proved to himself he wasn’t a coward.

Inside, three beds sat empty, but
the fourth was occupied. Its occupant had kicked the wool blanket partially off
the bed; it hung over the edge, trailing onto the floor. The sheets were
twisted around a pair of legs. Gavin jammed his face against the frosty glass
and stared hard into the gloomy interior, trying to make out the details of the
person who lay face down in the bed. One pale arm was flung out over the edge
of the bed. Gavin stared hard. He thought he saw a shape of a tattoo on the
inner wrist. His pulse sped up.

Celia had a flower tattoo on her
right wrist.

The shape in the bed reared up
and rolled to the side.

He saw a flash of a ghostly
white, sweat-slicked face as the woman leaned over the side of the bed and
vomited into a metal bucket that sat on the floor. Her head hung over the side
for a moment. Gavin studied the knot of red curls that flopped over her face.

It was definitely Celia.

Gavin let out a long breath and
watched as Celia wiped her mouth with a shaking hand and lowered herself back
onto her pillow.

There were no vehicles in sight.
Someone had dropped her off and would probably be back to check on her. He told
himself he’d just confirm Celia was here of her own free will and not in
distress, then he’d drive back to town and let Sasha know he’d found her.

 He walked around to the front of
the cabin, raised his hand to knock on the door, and stopped. Affixed to the
door was a glowing yellow triangle, about the size of a stop sign, outlined in
black. The international symbol for biological hazard filled the triangle.

He rapped on the door and ignored
his suddenly dry mouth. No answer.

He knocked again, louder, and
cleared his throat.

“Celia, it’s Gavin Russell. Are
you okay?” he called. His voice echoed then died in the wind.

He pressed his ear against the
oak door. No sounds from the other side.

He ran around to the window and
pressed his forehead against the glass. Celia was looking toward the door and
struggling to push herself up from the bed. He raced back to the door and
shouted again, “Celia?”

Minutes passed. He heard a
muffled moan and the shuffling of feet, then, the sound of a deadbolt sliding
back.

The door swung inward several
inches, and Celia’s face appeared. Dark circles ringed her eyes. Her face was
as white as a sheet of paper except for two bright red spots on her cheeks. Her
lips were cracked and bleeding. She clung to the door frame, shaking from the
effort of crossing the room.

“Gavin? What are you doing here?”
she croaked in a hoarse whisper. Confusion flooded her dull, cloudy eyes.

Gavin glanced over his shoulder
once then turned back to Celia.

“I’m looking for you. May I come
in?”

She didn’t answer but shuffled to
the side to make room for him. Her footing was unsteady, and her knees buckled.
Gavin caught her under her armpits as she collapsed toward the floor.

He pushed the door closed with
one foot.

“What’s wrong, Celia? Are you
sick?”

It was a stupid question. She was
obviously sick. Her skin burned hot through the flannel pajamas she wore, and
she smelled of sweat and vomit. Her body shook in his arms.

She gave a weak nod in answer and
leaned into him. He led her back to the bed and helped her into it. She curled
herself into a ball, hugged her arms around her knees, and shivered. Gavin
retrieved the blanket from the floor and covered her.

He crouched by her bedside.

 “How did you know I was here?”
she asked. Her eyelids fluttered closed, then open.

“Your mom’s worried about you,”
he said.

“Oh no, Mom,” Celia said. “I missed
church.”

Gavin looked around the room. Aside
from the beds and the puke bucket, it held a rough-hewn wooden table at the
head of each bed and a metal footlocker at each foot. An unlit pot-bellied
stove sat off to the side of the room with a small stack of wood beside it. The
room was chilly and damp. There was no bathroom, no kitchen. It was a not a
place he’d have chosen for convalescing.

Celia barked out a wet, phlegmy
cough that racked her thin body. She opened her eyes, and they rolled back into
her head as she coughed again.

Gavin grabbed Celia’s fleece
jacket from the footlocker. “Come on, we’re getting out of here.”

Celia opened her eyes wide, and
terror filled her slack face. She struggled to her elbows. “No!” she shouted,
triggering another coughing fit. She moaned and leaned over the side of the
bed, heaving dark yellow bile into the bucket.

Gavin ignored the irritation that
flared in his chest and kept his voice soft. “Celia, you need to see a doctor.”

Celia clamped her hand around his
wrist, like a claw. “You don’t understand. I need to lay low.”

The realization that he didn’t
know why Sasha was looking for Celia hit Gavin. “Are you hiding from someone?
Are you in trouble?”

Celia stared up at him with
watery eyes. “Gavin, please, go. You can’t get involved in this.”

“Are the preppers keeping you
here?”

“They’re letting me stay here, is
all. And they’ll be back soon to check on me. Please, you have to leave.”

Celia sank back into the bed, out
of breath from talking.

“Well, they aren’t taking care of
you. And I didn’t see your car anywhere. I’m not leaving you here as sick as
you are with no way to get to a hospital, Celia.”

“It’s just the flu,” she
protested. Her hairline was slick with sweat.

“Whatever it is, you’re too sick
to be here. What are you doing for food? Water? Heat? This is insane. I’m going
to get my car and come back for you.”

Gavin placed her jacket beside
her on the bed.

“I’ll be back in less than five
minutes. Put your coat on. I’ll pull as close as I can to the gate and come in
and help you to the car.”

Celia shook her head but didn’t
answer. Her eyes were closed again.

He headed for the door. If he had
to carry her out against her will, then that’s what he’d do. She was in no
shape to stop him.

He looked back at her before he
closed the door. She had turned on to her side and appeared to be asleep
already. He stepped out of the cabin, sucked in a lungful of cold air, and
jogged down the path.

Anna heard the
old Jeep’s rattling engine off in the distance and hurried to finish her
thought. Then she capped her pen, closed her journal, and rose from the table.
She hurried through the kitchen to the powder room and flicked on the light to
assess herself in the mirror. She patted her hair, whisking a stray strand
behind her ear, and smiled at the natural flush that stained her cheeks. Joy
stirred in her chest: her husband was home.

She was in the kitchen putting on
the water for tea when Jeffrey eased open the door.

“Welcome home,” she said, turning
from the stove to greet him with a smile.

He returned her smile and dropped
the duffel bag on the old oak table then crossed the room to kiss her.

“It’s quiet around here. Did you
sell the kids while I was gone?” she heard him say, his voice muffled by her
hair and their embrace.

“No such luck. They had lunch
then fed the chickens and did their chores in record time, so I told them they
could run around for a bit outside before we tackle math. How was your trip?”
she laughed, pulling back to look up at him.

He was tired. She could tell by
the deep lines that creased his upper cheeks under his eyes.

“Productive. How were things
here?”

“Productive,” she answered. “We
wrapped all the gifts for the toy drive and the kids finished their science
projects. I think Clay has a chance to take the home school division this year.”

He nodded, proud but not
surprised. They’d raised their children to work hard, set goals, and achieve
those goals. She knew Jeffrey expected nothing less.

The kettle steamed out a whistle,
and she removed it from the heat. She was eager to sit quietly with her husband
for a spell before the kids realized their father had returned and came
bounding into the house to greet him.