34 - Monty
34
Monty
—
“Everything circles back to Hoss.” I pace back and forth in the sitting room, my fingers curling into fists, my insides a mayhem of sorrow, impatience, and cold, seething rage.
It’s been two days since the gruesome package arrived. Two days without answers.
Leo and Kody stand nearby, their expressions mirroring my turmoil. Frankie sits on the edge of the couch, her face lined with fatigue.
We’re all haunted by the contents of that box. Too haunted to sleep.
Locating the cabin has become our priority. If we find the cabin, we’ll be closer to finding Wolf’s body or the location where he was pulled from the river. There would be clues there. Footprints. Something.
But first, we need to know whose heart that is.
Without involving the authorities, I sent the box with the organ and photo to New York to be analyzed by a forensics team. I pulled strings, called on some discreet connections, and cut through red tape, with Wilson managing the investigation.
The results should arrive any day now.
From the moment the package arrived, we’ve done nothing but brainstorm, plot, and strategize, our collective minds focused on finding the stalker. We’ve gathered every resource, analyzed every clue, and formed theories that twist and turn with no end in sight.
The four of us have thrown ourselves into the task with a relentless hunger, driven by the urgent need to bring Wolf home.
Dead or alive.
Kody, his brooding eyes darker than usual, leans over a map spread out on the table. “If this stalker has been following Frankie, they must have access to surveillance equipment or resources. They know our movements, our vulnerabilities.”
“We need to think about who benefits from this chaos.” Leo runs a hand through his shoulder-length hair, the Viking braids tangling around his fingers. “Who gains from our suffering?”
Frankie sent her list of suspects to Wilson. People from her past, friends, associates, fuck buddies—it wasn’t a long list. Still, I wanted to memorize every name and hunt them down myself just for touching her.
Wilson has the daunting task of cross-referencing our suspects with flights and passenger lists. Someone was near Hoss when Wolf jumped off that cliff. His body must’ve drifted miles downriver, but eventually someone found him and took that photo.
Someone was in those fucking hills, lurking in an unsurvivable place where no human would venture.
That same someone knows about the flight logs I found in my father’s cellar. Wilson is circling back to Alvis Duncan in Whittier to gather more information on the men who collected those logs over the years.
“What are your thoughts on Pushkin?” She bends over a notepad on the oak coffee table, reading the riddles and poetry quotes for the hundredth time.
Beside her elbow sits the leather-bound copy of Pushkin’s poems that I unearthed from the wall in my father’s office. Months ago, I had the book analyzed for codes and cryptic messages. Another dead end.
“Alexander Pushkin.” I take a deep breath. “To understand the quotes, you must understand the man. He was a Russian poet and literary genius, who suffered from morbid, delusional jealousy and fucked anything that walked. Like a paranoid, pathological Don Juan of his time. Ironically, he loved his wife and constantly accused her of infidelity. He was also known for his rages and would fight a duel at the drop of a hat. As it turns out, it was a duel that took his life.”
“So he was unhinged?” Leo lifts the leather book, thumbing through the pages.
“Pretty much.” My forehead twitches. “Whoever sent those quotes to Frankie knows I found the book of poems.”
“Or they put the book in that wall, hoping you would find it.” Leo inspects the spine and inner book flaps. “Along with those flight logs.”
“Since the stalker enjoys referencing Pushkin…” She turns back to the notepad on the table. “It’s safe to assume this person is unhinged, too.”
“That’s a given,” Leo says.
Carl’s investigation into how a human heart arrived with the groceries is another dead end. Someone must’ve slipped the box onto the pallet of food before it was loaded onto the boat in Sitka harbor. There were no cameras or eyewitnesses in the loading area.
Leo returns the book and crouches beside a different box on the floor. This one contains all the things they brought from Hoss. The flight manual, survival gear, Wolf’s keepsakes and drawings, and the slippers Denver stole from me. Melanie also returned the journal, thumb drive, and bag of bones.
The kidnapping cases are still open and will probably remain so forever. But as expected, the detectives moved on to more pressing investigations.
Over the past two days, we’ve watched Denver’s video multiple times.
The solution isn’t here. I’m certain of it.
“We need sleep.” I rub my pounding head.
“We need answers.” Kody grabs his crossbow from the box, checking the strings.
“I just…” She bites her lower lip as if trying to hold back the words. “I don’t know if I can handle it if it’s him.”
She means Wolf. But I don’t know if she’s referring to him being the stalker or the owner of the heart.
The photo could’ve been staged. Leo confirmed that Wolf had access to a digital camera. But none of them know if it was missing after his disappearance. They never thought to look for it.
We need to find that goddamn cabin.
“We won’t jump to conclusions.” I move to her side, taking her chin in my hand. “We’ll wait for the analysis.”
Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, a reservoir of unwept tears. She looks physically drained, with a noticeable lack of energy in her movements.
I step back and find Leo’s gaze, giving him a silent demand to call it a day.
“We’ll find him, love. But right now…” He moves in and lifts her into his arms, ignoring her protests. “It’s time for bed.”
He carries her upstairs to the guest bedroom where they sleep now. They moved into the main house after the package was delivered. When I ordered that move, they didn’t argue.
Someone sent a human heart to my heavily guarded island. We’re not taking any risks.
Two days later, the call comes.
Sitting in the gazebo beside the pool, we pore over the map Sirena sent, discussing the sections of the Brooks Range that her team has already scoured.
Pulse racing, I answer the call on speaker.
“Monty,” Wilson says, “I received the results from the forensic investigator.” Papers rustle in the background. “The heart matches Denver Strakh’s DNA.”
Shock slices through me. Frankie’s mouth drops open, and Leo and Kody exchange puzzled glances.
“Denver’s?” Relief floods in as I shake off the surprise. “How is that possible?”
“You said Denver’s body was dumped in the tundra around the same time that Wolf jumped off the cliff.” Wilson coughs, his voice hoarse with age. “It’s plausible that your perpetrator was waiting nearby and collected both bodies.”
“The plane in the hills wasn’t trophy hunters.” Kody’s jaw tightens. “We saw it a week after Denver died. It’s connected.”
“Maybe,” Wilson says. “It doesn’t show up on any flight logs in Alaska or Canada, so that alone makes it suspicious.”
“Fingerprints?” I ask.
“None. Everything you sent was clean. Too clean.”
“Whoever it is, they’re fucking with us.” Leo’s unique eyes flash with anger. “And they have Wolf’s body.”
“The photograph was analyzed.” Wilson sighs. “I’m sorry, but it’s not a fake. The image is Wolfson, based on your identification. But it doesn’t confirm whether he was dead or alive at the time of the photo.” He explains the technical details about the camera that was used, the time of day, and the angle of the shot. “Wolfson could’ve set the camera on a timer, propped it against a boulder, and taken the picture. But that’s inconclusive. Would a camera survive that fall? Would a human survive it? Right now, the only evidence we have is the heart belongs to Denver and Wolfson’s body made it out of that river.”
Wilson ends the call with the promise to continue digging through the long list of potential suspects. The writing on the back of the photo may help us identify the culprit once we have a shorter list of perpetrators.
“I killed Denver,” Frankie whispers. “We received his heart. How is that possible?”
Kody scoots toward her, snaking an arm around her back.
“Wolf is still out there.” Her eyes water. “He could still be alive.”
The uncertainty gnaws at us, an ever-present agony made worse by a false sense of hope.
We all know Wolf didn’t survive that jump.
“We need to find that cabin,” I say, determination in my voice. “I’m calling Sirena.”