Chapter 42
Cory burst through the door, weapon raised, Izzy flowing in beside him in perfect synchronization. "Police. Nobody move."
The scene that greeted them froze his brain for a critical second.
"Chief Fraser? Izzy?" Tom's bewilderment was absolute. "What are you doing here? Where's Janet?"
Cory's weapon lowered slightly, confusion warring with trained caution. In the corner, Tom's rifle leaned against the wall like an afterthought, clearly untouched.
"Tom, put the bottle down," Cory commanded, trying to process the disconnect between armed fugitive and anniversary celebration.
"But Janet said to meet her here at six." Tom set the champagne on the mantle with shaking hands. "Our tradition. Every ten years, we come back to where I proposed." He fumbled in his jacket pocket, producing a handwritten note. "See? She said to meet her where it all began."
Izzy snatched the note, and Cory read over her shoulder. Janet's distinctive handwriting: My darling Tom, Meet me where it all began. We need to remember what matters. All my love, J
SLAM.
The door crashed shut behind them with devastating finality. The metallic shriek of an iron latch dropping into place followed immediately by the heavy thud of the outer bear bar—the kind used to keep actual bears out of ranger stations.
"No." Izzy lunged for the door, yanking the handle. Nothing. The door might as well have been welded shut.
Cory rushed to the nearest window. But thick oak storm shutters had been locked from outside. He slammed his shoulder against them—solid as a vault.
Izzy spun around, weapon raised again. "Tom, who else knew you were coming here?"
"Just Janet. She's the only one I told—" Tom's face went white. He clasped his hands in front of him, squeezing hard. "What if someone has her? What if they forced her to write that note?"
“Let’s stay calm,” Cory ordered quietly.
Izzy slipped her phone from the pocket of her tactical vest, then frowned up at him. “No signal.”
He shrugged. “What would be the fun in that?”
Her answering smile practically lifted him off his feet. Until the reality crashed down again.
“Why the rifle?” Cory asked Tom.
“Bears.” The older man shrugged half-heartedly. “Seen plenty of tracks over the years here, but never came across one. But I’m always prepared.”
They split up instinctively—Izzy checking the back door (barred), Cory testing each window (all shuttered and locked).
The ranger station had been built in the 1950s to withstand High Sierra winters and wildlife.
Log walls two feet thick. Window coverings designed to keep heat in and everything else out.
A perfect prison.
"We're locked in," Cory stated the obvious, mind racing through possibilities. Another player? Someone who'd followed them? Or—
"Hello?" Tom was shouting now, pounding on the door. "Is someone out there? This isn't funny. Where’s my wife? Janet? JANET."
A voice drifted down from the old heating vent near the ceiling—colder than the December night outside.
"Forty years, Tom. Forty years of being invisible."
"Janet?" Tom's voice cracked with growing horror. "Honey, what's happening?"
"I'm done being the woman behind the great man."
"Check everything," Cory hissed to Izzy, already moving.
Tom staggered backwards, blinking hard. "Janet, what have you done?"
"What I had to do." Her voice held no emotion now. "Don't bother trying to escape. I'm armed, and I'm a better shot than you ever were."
"She's right," Tom mumbled. "She learned to hunt before I did."
They had weapons, too, but the only way to use them would be under the chink in the front door. Practically useless.
"Why is it so warm in here?" Izzy asked suddenly.
Cory followed her gaze to the old oil heater in the corner. It was running full blast, the metal glowing cherry red. Too hot for the space. And something about the flame looked wrong—
"The heater," he breathed. "She's tampered with it." Even as he said it, he could smell it—that faint, sweet odor that shouldn't be there. His pulse spiked.
Izzy was already at the heater, dropping to her knees to examine it. "Cory, look at this."
He joined her, and his stomach dropped. Where the control knobs should have been, only jagged metal stubs remained. Someone had taken a hammer to them, leaving sharp edges and twisted metal.
"She destroyed them. And the fuel shutoff—" Izzy fingers traced the smooth pipe where a valve should have been. "It's gone. Completely removed."
"There's usually an emergency shutoff." Cory searched the side panel, found the housing—empty. Red wires sparked where a button had been pried out. "She thought of everything."
Izzy checked the fuel line connection. "She sealed the valve stem. That's—is that epoxy?" She tried to grip what remained of the valve, but it was solid, immovable. "This took time. Tools. She planned this."
"Carbon monoxide," Cory confirmed what they both knew. Already he could feel the edges of a headache forming. "We've got maybe fifteen minutes before serious symptoms. Twenty before—"
"I know." Izzy stood, scanning the room. "Old heaters like this sometimes have secondary shutoffs, but..."
They exchanged a look. Both knew the truth—Janet had been thorough. This wasn't a crime of passion. This was calculated destruction.
"Janet." Tom pounded weakly on the door. "Please. Whatever I did—"
"Forty years of being invisible, Tom. FORTY YEARS." The rage in her voice was terrifying. "But I'll be the grieving widow who tried to stop her disturbed husband. Your confession note explains everything—how you lured them here, planned to kill them and yourself."
"Never wrote any note..." Tom was sliding down the wall now, legs giving out.
Cory's vision swam slightly. Too soon for that—unless the concentration was higher than he thought. They needed out. Now.
"Door hinges," he said. "Inside mounted. If we can knock the pins—"
"She'll shoot us the second it opens." Izzy's words slurred slightly.
They had to try something. Anything. The room was spinning now, that sweet smell growing stronger. Tom had gone quiet, slumped in the corner.
Cory grabbed Izzy's hand. The gesture surprised them both.
"If we don't make it—"
"We're making it." Her fierce determination cut through even as her voice wavered. "Chantal needs us."
The Lord's Prayer rose to his lips unbidden. "Our Father, who art in heaven—"
"Hallowed be thy name," Izzy joined in, her hand squeezing his. "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done..."
They spoke the words together, drawing strength from the familiar rhythm. When did his faith become her anchor? When did her courage become his?
"Get us through this," Cory added. "Get Izzy home to her girl."
"Por favor, Dios," Izzy whispered.
Tom made a sound—not quite conscious, sliding further down the wall. They were running out of time. The edges of Cory's vision were going dark, his chest tight.
"The chimney," Izzy said suddenly. "If we can break the cap—"
She staggered to her feet, grabbing Tom's champagne bottle. But her movements were uncoordinated now, the poison working through their systems.
They had seconds, not minutes. And somewhere outside, Janet Morrison waited with a rifle and forty years of rage, ready to play the grieving widow.
But they weren't dead yet. And Cory had learned to never give up while Isabella Reyes still had fight in her.
Even if that fight was fading with every poisoned breath.