A Cold Dark Place

Chapter Thirty-eight

Thursday, 12:22 A.M., place unknown

Emily parked in front of a weathered chain and stepped outside, her flashlight's narrow beam barely a match for the heavy shroud of weather, an approaching storm. But, of course, none of that bothered her. Nothing could stop what had fueled her hunt since it all began-her daughter. Where was Jenna? Before the last bars on her cell phone died, she'd talked to Olga Morris-Cerrino about what had happened and where she was going. Olga told her that she'd heard through her pal at Seattle PD that local cops had requested infrared flybys to search for Jenna.

"My daughter is alive," she said. "We don't need to look for a goddamned hot spot"

No one could steal her hope. Though some tried. The worst had been her ex-husband. His last remarks could not have been crueler. His words were like wedding rice in the face, spiny and sharp, unexpected. How she had ever loved him was lost forever as his vitriolic words came back to her.

"This comes down on you, Emily. You've really messed up this time. With our own daughter!"

Only Olga had seemed adamant that Jenna would be found. "To think otherwise, is to lose her," she told Emily when she saw her outside Christopher's hospital room.

"I know." Emily's voice was soft and her emotions fragile.

"You need to get a grip," Olga said. "You're stronger than this and your daughter depends on you" She looked around the hallway; several other cops with coffee hovered nearby. "Do you want to count on them?"

Emily shook her head. "Absolutely not"

Olga went on, her voice no longer hushed. "All of his vies were taken in close proximity to where he'd lived. He's good looking and lazy. That's the standard combination of any straight guy with a hot body and pretty face" She tried to get Emily to smile, but she couldn't. Instead, she hatched a plan. "I'll work some things around here. The cops are all over this, but they're no match for you"

Emily knew Olga was right.

"There's an old World War II bunker not far from the cabin. Chris thinks I should go there. I sure can't just wait here"

Emily felt her way along the iron chain, so heavy and rusted. Probably a relic from a shipwreck, the chain was meant to keep interlopers and vandals from the bunker. She was nearly out of breath, though she had barely exerted herself. So hard to breathe in this wind.

The weather could not have been worse, and for once, the radio weather report could not have been more accurate: "Gale force winds on the coast; small craft advisories in all Washington coastal waters.... .

She pulled her coat tighter and followed the length of the chain, searching for a bolt or a latch of some kind, but found none. I don't want to have to walk up there, she thought, eyeing the impossibly steep and rain-washed road to top of the bluff and the bunker. She kicked at the chain, but it stayed anchored by the four-foot creosote pilings that had been jammed into the sandy soil. She'd have no choice but to completely brave the elements and walk. She went back to the car, turned off the engine, dimmed the headlights, and grabbed a heavy Maglite from the glove box.

A second later, the flashlight's beam poking though the darkness, Emily was over the chain and in search of her daughter. She had gone directly from Christopher's hospital room to this desolate spot. If Jenna was in there, she didn't want her to wait one minute longer than she had to for her mom. She had to get her out of there as soon as she could.

Before it's too late. Before she dies. Before my life is over.

The bunker had been built on a promontory above the Pacific in World War II. It was one of several positioned around Washington state in the event that the Japanese had somehow launched a secret offensive to invade the West Coast. After it had been abandoned for decades, the locals had tried to make it a tourist destination but as the concrete interior that had once housed a pair of sixteen-foot cannons began to crumble, the state shut down the site and posted a series of WARNING and DANGER signs.

As Emily trudged her way up the darkened bluff, she could see that the heavy chain had not been a complete deterrent-several beer cans and even some paper plates indicated that the bunker might have been a party spot; charred logs indicated a campsite. Tire tracks from motorcycles and all-terrain vehicles had slashed the sandy soil with ruts that now collected water. A dozen little streams ran down the hillside, the wind roared, and she pulled her jacket closer. The cold air sliced every inch of her exposed skin.

Jenna, she thought, where are you? She didn't call out. The noise of the storm made any kind of utterance completely impractical. And if that had not been the case, Emily would have kept her mouth shut as a precaution. She worried if Jenna's captor was within the sound of her voice. If he was, there was no need to tip him off. Surprise and her Glock warm from her constant touch-were among the things she had going for her. But neither were her greatest source of strength and power; finding Jenna stood above all.

My daughter's out there and I'm not leaving until I find her and bring her home.

Something screamed. Startled, Emily looked up and into the night sky, a boiling brew of clouds. Just a seabird. She was almost there. The bunker was twenty yards away, behind a hedge of sea grasses and spruce trees so tortured by the elements they looked like alarmed figures fleeing the waves of the Pacific. The trek to the top of the bluff had taken no more than ten minutes, but with each step she felt as if the sinking sand would steal her feet. Here. I'm here. But where are you? Where is the bunker?

Emily steadied herself on the grassy and sandy layer that covered the concrete slab roof of the secluded bunker. She looked around with her light, finally tracing the edges of the roofline beneath her feet. Waving the flashlight's beam toward the ocean, she could distinguish the crisp edge of the bunker's camouflaged covering. Bracing herself against the elements, she moved slowly toward its face.

Emily could hear the surf of the Pacific two hundred feet below, pounding the embankment with a relentless fury. Gooseflesh consumed her body. Since she could barely see, she climbed down a ledge backward, facing toward the edge of the cliff. She expected it was no more than ten yards away. There was no other way down, at least none she could see with a flashlight that only produced a strong beam when she rocked it back and forth, shifting the weakening batteries.

She bent down, her back to the ocean, and slid. Her hands were frozen and wet, but she barely used them for grasping; they'd become more like hooks than hands. She dropped ten feet, feeling the relief that came when her feet rested on the packed red clay and sand of the earth.

The red clay.

She was close. Close to finding Jenna. Her heart pounded with such a hurried force, she worried that she might have a heart attack. She'd die right there. No one would find her. No one would find her daughter. Her lips were blue, and vapors curled from her mouth as she frantically searched for a way in. All the while, a fierce wind pummeled her.

The bunker had three openings, not really windows, but more the size of very small doors. Each had been fashioned with bars by the state's Fish and Game Department to allow access for bats, but to deter visitors of the human kind. A sign proclaimed the bunker as a protected habitat for Townsend's Big-eared Bats. On closer inspection, she noticed that one of the bars could easily be removed. It was clear by the color and condition of the bar darker and smoother than the others-that it had been handled. It had been moved. She tucked the flashlight under her armpit, its beam scattering in the wrong direction. She pulled and twisted and the middle bar came loose. She dropped it and it fell with a thud into the sand.

This is the way in, she thought, hoisting herself up to the opening and fishing her feet through it. She swiped her light at the floor to make sure the drop wasn't so severe as to cause an injury. She slid herself into the opening, and slumped to the wet concrete floor. She dropped to her knees. She was inside.

Once more, her light moved across the floor.

Blood? Oh God, no! she thought as she caught the sight of red spatter that had marked the middle opening. Oh no, please. The words nearly slipped from her lips as her freezing fingertips felt the red color. It was hard. Even under the layer of wetness from the rain, Emily Kenyon could feel that it was a dried pigment. Not blood. Paintball, she thought, momentarily relieved.

She pointed the beam into the depths of the bunker. It looked empty, dark, hollow The space was surprisingly largemaybe as much as two thousand square feet. She trained her light all around. There were sodden boxes full of garbage. It smelled of bat guano. A rat or maybe even a raccoon lurked on the other side of the darkness.

"Jenna?" Her voice echoed in the darkness. "Are you here?

"Help me! Get me out of here," called a faint voice-her daughter's voice.

Emily felt a jab at her heart. Toward the back of the bunker, the wall farthest from the ocean, there was a steel door. The voice was coming from there.

"Honey, I'm here"

The wind howled outside, the storm was moving at break neck speed from the gloomy waters of the Pacific. She wondered if she'd heard anything at all. The wind was messing with her. A whistle, then a shriek. There had been no answer to her call.

She tried again, inching toward the door. "Jenna?"

"Mom? Mom?"

It was her! "Yes, it's Mom!" Her gun now drawn, Emily reached for the door and lifted the lever handle.

"Help me," said the weak voice as Emily swung open the door to a small room. File boxes filled with county records were packed in rows that had once likely been neat. Right now they were a shambles. More paintball spatter. The smell of moldy paper permeated the air.

"Help me," came a voice once more. It was male this time. Young. A teenager.

Nick? Or was it Dylan, toying with her once more?

Emily aimed her light at the direction of the voice and scanned the room. A leg. A torso. A face. It was Nick Martin. He was on the floor, his legs bound by cording. His skin was ashen, and his eyes glittered like wet stones. His gaze sliced through the air. He looked so different from his photograph, even more so, Emily thought, from when she'd seen him last. With his mother. His dark hair, so carefully highlighted by Peg, was gone. Even his youth failed him right then; his handsomeness was no longer evident. He was caged. Angry and weak at the same time.

"Mrs. Kenyon, help me," His voice was a rasp. "We gotta get Jenna out of here"

"Where's my daughter?" Adrenaline was now a flood through her body.

Brown eyes stared back. "Get me out of here," he said.

Emily bent down and began to untie the ligature that was wrapped around his surprisingly muscular body. She'd thought that he was slighter. A runner or something. But he was bulkier than she remembered. Much more so. She started to loosen the cording, but something struck her as terribly wrong. It was already loose. Oddly so. Anyone could take this off. A kid this strong could break this cord with a half-assed tug.

"Mom! Don't!" It was Jenna's voice, this time, muffled.

Emily peered over Nick's shoulder. Was .Jenna right there? She looked into his eyes, but it was already too late. A pipe or steel rod came down on her, grazing her temple and striking her shoulder. Then another, this time dead on. The small musty room closed in. And as she began to fall only one thing came to mind:.Ienna and I are going to die.

From the other side of the bunker, a cigarette glowed.