43
Sheena
I pulled into the Little Eddy campground turnoff, so sweaty and winded you ’ d think I ’ d been running instead of driving up the mountain road.
I was exactly seven minutes early.
I swiped at the back of my damp neck and flicked my eyes toward the fast-disappearing wink of daylight sinking behind the mountain peak ’ s furthest tree line. It wouldn ’ t be true sunset for another half an hour, but with the sun down past the mountains it felt like dusk had already settled in earnest. The thick stands of lodgepole pines scattered throughout the dispersed campsites of Little Eddy made it hard for me to see whether anybody was coming down the narrow dirt road into the campground, but I kept flitting my eyes back and forth anyway every few seconds, thinking that the dark after-image was a person.
I took a breath and tried to calm myself down. As I released the whoosh of air, a sudden flash of movement through the trees made me curl my fingers tighter around the steering wheel and sit up straight again.
It was just a little girl—maybe eleven, close to Sage ’ s age—riding her bike down the bumpy dirt trails.
I wanted to roll down my window and scream that something bad was happening in this peaceful little spot in the forest, to get back to her campsite and ride away on her two-wheeler as fast as she could.
Instead, I kept my teeth clenched and watched her coast down a slope, long pale hair streaming wild in the gray light, chin tilted upward and a smile on her face as she passed the sign for Bull Creek Trailhead and disappeared among the trees.
I opened the car window a crack, and the smoky, savory smell of campfire dinners wafted through the air, making my stomach growl despite the ever-present sick dread churning. I ’ d drunk a half-cup of day-old coffee that morning, but that was all I ’ d had today. My stomach felt tight and sour, full of acid.
Four minutes. I had to stay put until then.
My eyes moved to the backpack of cash on the passenger-side floor, then back to the clock on the dash. In exactly four minutes, I was supposed to get out of my vehicle and leave all of it for the kidnappers.
I knew what I was supposed to do. The instructions couldn ’ t have been more clear. And I ’ d memorized them since the first time I saw them last night.
You will bring the cash, in a backpack, to the Bull Creek trailhead at Little Eddy campground at exactly 7:00 p.m.
Then drive away. We will not retrieve the money until you leave.
However, with each second that ticked by, unease gripped my insides like a vise hitched tighter. How could I actually bring myself to drive away, trusting that the person who ’ d taken my children would hold up their end of the bargain and contact me to return the children as soon as I made the Bitcoin transfer when I got home?
Because it ’ s all you have, my weary gut replied.
The bus driver ’ s dead-eyed mugshot from the article flashed into my mind.
My stomach coiled tighter and I flicked my eyes back to the clock on the dash.
Three minutes left.
“ Shit,” I whispered, half-word, half-whine. I ’ d actually thought that getting the money would be the hardest part.
It wasn ’ t, though. Being here in this moment alone, not knowing if I was doing the right thing or completely fucking up, with my daughters’ lives on the line, was the hardest part.
Whatever happened next was entirely my responsibility. I ’ d done exactly what the ransom note had asked, to the letter. I hadn ’ t called the police. Hadn ’ t told a soul. I had the money—most of it, anyway. And I was about to drive home like a bat out of hell to transfer that Bitcoin.
I desperately wanted someone to tell me I was doing the right thing. That by tomorrow morning, Sage and Bonnie would be wrapping their arms around my neck so tight I could barely breathe.
Then I finally let myself picture the alternative. The police and FBI showing up on my doorstep tonight, surrounding the house, when that Bitcoin transfer emptying the bond money out of the city ’ s accounts triggered a digital tripwire.
They ’ d realize pretty quickly what was happening when I completed that final step of the ransom. They ’ d find out who I was and that my children were on that bus.
I imagined a red-faced FBI officer in a suit asking me to tell him again why I ’ d been so stupid as to stay quiet, think that I could do this on my own. Surely I knew better. I imagined him telling me that the backpack of cash was the last tangible link to the kidnapper.
And now my children—and the other parents’ children—were simply gone.
Listen to your gut, Sheen. Think of Mindy Falcrest. The ‘ right ’ thing isn ’ t always the right thing.
I was biting down so hard on the inside of my cheek I could taste blood. Was that really what Dad would tell me if he was in his right mind? Or was that just a story I was telling myself because I was too terrified to think straight?
What had I done?
Two minutes.
Hands shaking, I unlocked the car doors and reached for the backpack handle.
As I moved, a flicker of gold caught my eye from the car cup holder.
Dad ’ s broken Rolex knockoff.
I reached for it, overwhelmed by emotion and panic. “ What the hell should I do, Dad?” I whispered.
I wasn ’ t expecting an answer.
But then an idea flickered faintly in the corners of my mind.
The second hand of the watch ticked toward seven o ’ clock as I let the length of the links unfold, a cold sweat breaking in rivulets down my back.
“ Shit,” I whispered again, my voice cracking. Was this a good idea or a bad idea? My tired brain floundered. There wasn ’ t nearly enough time for me to think this through.
One minute.
Do it , my gut urged, louder and firmer than anything I ’ d felt all day.
I threw the watch back down on the seat and grabbed a pen and a bank receipt, lying beneath a pair of sunglasses on the dash, praying the device still worked.
Then I scribbled out a note, wrapped it around the broken watch, and placed both items at the top of the backpack.
I couldn ’ t get all the cash. $5,700 short. This is my dad ’ s Rolex. It ’ ll be really easy to fix the clasp, and it ’ s worth $12,000, easy.
I looked at the clock. Zero minutes.
Before I let myself fall apart, I grabbed the backpack, swung open the car door and walked the few steps to Bull Creek Trailhead.
From somewhere farther down the dirt road in the campsite, the sound of an RV generator droned quietly. Someone called to a barking dog. The faint smell of meat and potatoes cooking on somebody ’ s campfire got stronger.
But all I could see, tucked into the woods by the trailhead, were dark trees and a darkening gray sky.
My legs shook, but I pushed them forward until I stood beside a cluster of huckleberry bushes, their leaves already tinged with red from the cool nights at higher elevation. I set the backpack down among them, then stepped back to see if it was visible from the edge of the dirt road.
Just barely. Only if you knew what you were looking for, though.
Then I forced myself to walk back to my car with measured steps, nothing that might make a hiker out for a walk through the woods look twice.
I didn ’ t glance back over my shoulder.
I didn ’ t hesitate as I pulled out of the campground and onto the rural highway in the direction of Sunset Springs.
I didn ’ t drive back home, though.