A cabin occupied the center of a clearing roughly the size of a baseball diamond. Her gaze followed a set of tire tracks. Forty feet from the cabin, the rear bumper of a gray Toyota 4Runner poked out from behind a stand of trees. One set of footprints led from the 4Runner to the cabin’s front door. There were no footprints heading back to the vehicle. Someone had gone inside.
The victim? The caller?
The shooter?
She reached for her door handle. Emergency lights pulsed in her rearview mirror. She glanced behind her. The lights of a patrol car cut through the predawn gloom. A few seconds later, the vehicle parked next to her SUV, and Deputy Jim Rogers emerged.
Bree stepped out into the cold and joined him behind his vehicle. Their breath steamed in the pale gray morning. Despite the temperature, sweat gathered under Bree’s shirt and vest.
She drew her weapon.
Rogers did the same. “We’re going in?”
“We are.” Bree had a clear view of the north side of the cabin, but she couldn’t see the south side or rear. “Have you been inside these cabins?”
“Yes.” Rogers squinted at the cabin. “This looks like a one-bedroom.” He picked up a stick, drew a rectangle in the snow, and used the stick as a pointer. “Main room. Bedroom. Bath.”
“Let’s check around back first.” Bree led the way to the front corner of the cabin. They stuck close to the building. Bree stopped beneath a window too high for either one of them to see inside. She motioned for Rogers to give her a boost. He cupped his hands. Bree stepped into them and peered over the windowsill, ready to duck if someone pointed a gun at her face.
The shooter could be anywhere.
She could see into the main room, a combination kitchen and living area. A wood-framed couch and chair had been pulled away from the fireplace to make room for a sleeping bag. In the fireplace, embers glowed pale orange under a heavy layer of gray-and-black ash. A backpack stood nearby, zipped and ready to go.
Stepping down, she shook her head and whispered, “Empty, but someone is squatting here.”
“Not the first time,” said Rogers.
They continued around to the back of the cabin. Multiple sets of footprints led to and from the covered rear porch, across fifty feet of open ground, to the woods. Still, they saw no body, no blood, no shooter.
Bree rounded the next corner. The shore of Grey Lake lay approximately a hundred feet to the south of the cabin, and she could see the flat, opaque surface of the frozen water through the winter-bare trees.
They halted next to another window and repeated the leg-up procedure. The single bedroom also appeared empty.
She stepped down. In a low voice, she said, “There are two closed doors.”
Rogers nodded. “Closet and bathroom.”
A bird screeched, but the woods were otherwise silent.
Bree led the way back around toward the front of the cabin.
She stopped next to the porch steps and scanned the surrounding woods. “Where are they?”
Rogers lifted and dropped a tense shoulder. “The call could have been a prank.”
“I don’t like the setup.” Goose bumps rippled up Bree’s arms. Her instincts screamed that something was wrong. In her early patrol years, she and her partner had responded to an odd call. They’d been ambushed by a gang and had been lucky to escape without any extra holes. Now, possible ambush scenarios played through her mind. “Could also be a trap.”
With a cool eye, Rogers acknowledged her point with another jerky shrug. Regardless of the danger, they were going in. They stepped onto the porch and flanked the door. Bree tried the knob. It turned, and the door opened with a squeal of rusty hinges.
Bree crossed the threshold first and swung to her left. Rogers angled to the right. Bree swept her weapon from corner to corner. Dust motes hung suspended in the pale light that poured in through the window. Her side of the room was empty. No large furniture or doors for anyone to hide behind.
“Clear,” she said.
Rogers echoed, “Clear.”
She returned to Rogers’s side, and they approached the open bedroom door shoulder to shoulder. The room was empty. Bree crossed the rough plank floor to one of the two closed doors. She pulled a flashlight from her pocket. Standing to the side, she opened the door and shone her flashlight inside. There was no one in the small bathroom.
“Clear,” she said.
Rogers crouched to check under the bed. “Clear.”
One closed door remained.
Rogers was closest. He flung the door open and aimed his gun into the doorway. A scream split the air.
Bree’s heart lurched. She pointed her flashlight into the closet. At the rear of the small space, a teenage girl stood clutching a short-handled ax in one hand and a cell phone in the other. She was pressed into the corner, and she looked as if she was trying to be as small as possible. In the eerie light, her face was as white as the snow outside, and tears streaked her face.
“Drop the ax!” Rogers shouted.
Sobbing, the girl opened her fingers and raised her hands in front of her face. She cringed. The ax and phone clattered to the floor.
“Push the ax away from you!” he commanded.
The girl obeyed, nudging the ax with her foot. Outside, sirens marked the arrival of additional deputies.
Rogers backed up. “Come out slowly! Keep your hands where I can see them.”
The girl emerged from the small space, her movements uneven and shaky. She was tall, probably eighteen or nineteen years old, dressed in worn jeans, boots, and a dirty parka. Long dark hair tumbled in a thick tangle from under a knit cap, and she looked like it had been a while since she’d showered. She moved toward them. “Y-you have to help her. He shot her. He shot Harper.”
“Stop right there!” Rogers angled off, aiming his gun at her.
She blinked at Rogers and then Bree. “Did you find Harper?”
“Who’s Harper?” Bree asked.
“My friend.” The girl wiped her eyes.
“Keep those hands visible,” Rogers shouted again.
The girl raised them over her head. “No. You don’t understand.” Her voice rose and broke. “A man shot Harper.”
Rogers rushed forward. He holstered his weapon, then jerked her hands behind her back and cuffed her. He spun her around so fast she almost went down. “Where’s the shooter? Where’s the victim?”
“I don’t know!” the girl cried. “But Harper was shot. Why aren’t you looking for her? Why are you arresting me?”
“Because you were carrying the ax,” Rogers said.
She shook her head. “It was all I had to protect myself.”
“From whom?” Bree asked.
“From the man who shot Harper.” The girl’s tone sharpened with frustration.
“Your friend Harper was staying here with you?” Bree asked.
“Yes,” the girl said. As the female officer on scene, and not liking Rogers’s rough handling of the girl, Bree moved in to search her pockets and person. She found a small folding multi-tool, but no weapons. For now, she’d bag the tool, the ax, and the girl’s phone as evidence.
Opening the phone, Bree verified the girl was the 911 caller. “What’s your name?”
“Alyssa Vincent,” she said. Her face twisted in confusion and fear.