Chapter 17 Mac
Chapter seventeen
Mac
The clock above Ma's mantel had a second hand that jerked rather than swept. Tick. Pause. Tick. Each movement felt like a small detonation in my chest.
Eamon and Michael had been gone eighteen minutes.
Outside, the snow was coming down harder. It was no longer the gentle Christmas card variety. Wind-driven sheets turned the street into something from a snow globe shaken too hard. The storm had rolled in fast.
Ma's knitting needles tapped out a pattern—steel against steel, yarn sliding through her fingers faster than necessary.
I sat on the arm of the couch because sitting properly would have been lying about my state of mind. Claire occupied the chair by the window, a book open in her lap. She hadn't turned a page in ten minutes.
Police lights strobed through the curtains. Red-blue-dark. Red-blue-dark. Four cruisers now, officers barely visible through the snow. Protection, Clairmont called it.
I tracked each rotation of the second hand.
7:45.
My phone buzzed.
Everyone's head snapped toward the sound.
Michael: Still an hour out.
"Halfway," I said.
Ma's needles stopped. "Halfway to what?"
"The cabin."
She nodded and knitted faster.
8:30
Thunder rumbled somewhere north—rare for a snowstorm, but tonight nothing was predictable. The Christmas tree lights in the corner flickered once, then steadied.
My phone rang. My hand locked around it as everyone stared.
I swiped to answer and put it on speaker.
"Mac." Eamon's voice, slightly breathless. Background noise of highway wind. "We're fifteen minutes out. I wanted you to hear my voice before—"
"Before what?"
"Before radio silence. Once we're on site, no phones."
"Okay."
"You good?"
I looked around the room. My family arranged themselves like human chess pieces. The sweeping police lights painted everything in alarm colors as the snow continued to fall.
"Define good," I said.
A quiet sound that might've been a laugh. "Fair. Stay inside. Lock the doors."
"We've got half of SPD parked on the street."
"Good." A pause. Then: "I'm coming back."
"I know."
"I mean it. I'm coming back to you."
"Drive safe."
"The roads are a mess, but we're moving. Traffic—it's like the city was clearing a path. Never seen anything like it."
Christmas magic, I thought, but didn't say. The universe was bending in our favor.
"Just get back here," I said.
"Soon."
The line went dead.
Marcus stood by the window. Matthew and Miles sat at the dining table, not talking. Their partners had gone home—safer that way. The house was still too full.
Minutes stretched. 8:45 became 9:02.
Ma abandoned her knitting. She moved on to reorganizing the coffee table—magazines stacked, coasters aligned, and remote controls arranged by size. Claire gave up on pretending to read. She sat with her hands folded, spine perfectly straight, eyes fixed directly ahead.
9:06
My phone rang. Seattle PD number.
"McCabe."
"Mac, it's Clairmont. We're at the cabin."
I tensed.
"And?"
"She's not here."
It took me a few seconds to comprehend. "What do you mean she's not here?"
"The cabin's empty—no vehicles and no heat signatures on the thermal. We've cleared the interior. She's gone."
"Gone where?"
"Unknown. But Mac—she was definitely here. Recently. Fresh coffee in the pot, still lukewarm. And—" She paused. "You need to understand what we're seeing. Restraints are built into the bed frame. Climate control systems. Photography equipment. A schedule posted on the wall with your name on it."
"Where is she?" My voice rose. "If she's not there, where the fuck is she?"
"We don't know—"
The realization washed over me, and I shuddered. "She's here," I said. "If she prepared that cabin and she's not there—she's coming to get me."
Silence on the line.
"We're two hours out," Clairmont said quietly. "Maybe more in this weather. But I'm doubling your patrol presence. You stay inside. You lock every door and window. Do not open for anyone except uniformed officers you can verify. Understood?"
"Two hours is forever."
"Mac, listen to me. Police surround you. Your family's there. Eamon and Michael are en route. You stay inside."
The line went dead.
I told my gathered family members. Every word. The empty cabin, the equipment, the conclusion.
When I finished, no one spoke.
Then Claire reached for my hand. Her fingers were ice-cold.
"We wait," Ma whispered.
Two hours. Maybe more in this weather.
Marcus moved first. "All right. We're not sitting here like targets. Miles, check every window. Matthew, walk the perimeter inside. Mac—" He looked at me. "You stay in the center of the house. Away from windows and doors."
"Marcus—"
"Do it."
Outside, more police lights appeared. The snow kept falling, thick and fast. Somewhere in that darkness, a woman who thought she was saving me was driving south.
Ma squeezed my hand. "We've survived worse."
I wanted to believe her.
9:22
The police presence grew. Six cruisers now, officers in snow gear walking grid patterns with flashlights. One cop knocked on Ma's door. Marcus answered.
"Detective Yoon. We're establishing a tighter perimeter. Nobody in or out without an ID check."
My phone buzzed.
Eamon: 90 minutes from you. How are you holding up?
Mac: Holding. Police everywhere. House is locked down.
Eamon: Good. Stay in the center of the house.
Mac: Drive safe.
Eamon: Always.
Claire stood near the Christmas tree, carefully unhooking ornaments. The fragile ones. Hand-blown glass, inherited ceramics, and delicate things that would shatter if someone stumbled into them.
"Mom," I said.
She looked up. Her hands stopped.
"You don't have to—"
"Yes, I do. These belong to your family. They're irreplaceable. I'm not letting them break tonight."
I crossed to help her.
"The blue one," she said, pointing. "Your father gave that to Ma the year you were born."
I reached up. Unhooked it carefully. The glass was as thin as an eggshell, painted with frost patterns.
"He was terrible at shopping. Always waited until Christmas Eve. But he saw this in a shop window and thought—" She paused. "He thought it looked like hope."
We worked in silence. Unhooking memory after memory. Packing away the breakable pieces of McCabe history while police lights strobed through the windows and snow hammered the roof.
10:03
My phone buzzed.
Eamon: An hour.
Mac: Okay. I love you.
Dots appeared. Stayed visible for several seconds.
Eamon: I love you too. Soon.
10:21
The lights went out.
Not a flicker. Not a brownout. Just an immediate, total absence of light.
The Christmas tree died mid-twinkle. The refrigerator's hum cut off. The clock's second hand stopped.
Ma's voice: "What in the—"
"Don't move." Marcus's command cut through the dark. "Nobody move until I get a light."
I froze. The darkness was complete.
A flashlight bloomed near the window. Marcus's face appeared behind it, underlit and strange.
"Breaker?" Matthew asked.
"No." Marcus moved toward the front door. "Whole block's out. Look."
I turned toward the windows. No streetlights. No porch lights on neighboring houses. The cruisers killed their light bars—black silhouettes in the snow, flashlights knifing the dark.
"The storm," Miles said. "Power lines down somewhere."
Officers shouted—muffled through walls and snow but urgent. Radio static crackled.
Ma appeared from the kitchen with a camping lantern—battery-powered, LED, bright enough to carve a glowing circle in the living room.
"Everyone, stay together," Marcus said. "Center of the house."
We moved. Stumbling in the dark, hands on walls for guidance. Claire grabbed my arm.
Glass shattered.
The sound came from below. Basement. Something breaking inward.
Everyone froze.
"Basement window," Matthew whispered. "Southeast corner."
That window. Small. Ground-level. The one Eamon hated.
"She's inside," I said.
"Get them out," Marcus said to Matthew. "Back door. Get Ma and Claire to the officers."
"Marcus—" Ma started.
"Now. Please."
I grabbed Ma's arm. Claire reached for my other hand. We moved toward the kitchen, the camping lantern swinging and casting wild shadows.
Behind us, Marcus and Miles headed for the basement stairs.
"Wait—" I turned back.
"Keep moving," Matthew said. His hand landed on my shoulder, propelling me forward.
I heard more sounds from the basement. It wasn't the sound of panic.
Walking. Methodical. Someone who knew exactly where they were going.
"Go," I told Ma. "Both of you. Out the back door."
"Not without you," Claire said.
"I'm right behind you. Go."
Matthew already had the door open. Cold air and snow flooded in. A flashlight beam caught us immediately—from an officer stationed just outside, weapon drawn.
"Get them out of here," I said.
The officer grabbed Ma's arm. She resisted.
"Claire—"
"I'm coming," Claire said, and her hand tightened on mine.
"Mom." I made my voice firm. "You taught me to stand my ground. Now let me."
She looked at me. Snow caught in her hair, reflecting the flashlight beam. For a second, I saw every lesson she'd ever taught me.
Then she let go.
The officer pulled them into the snow.
Matthew stood in the doorway. "Mac—"
"I'm not leaving. I grew up in this house, almost as much as you. I know every room. If she's inside, I'm the best chance we have of—"
Of what? Stopping her? Buying time?
I didn't know. Still, it was impossible to run.
Matthew exhaled. "Stay behind me. You see her, you run. Understood?"
"Understood."
He stepped back inside and let the door swing shut.
We stood in the dark kitchen. Snow drummed the windows. Footsteps creaked on the basement stairs.
They were coming up.
The basement door was twenty feet away. Closed. No light underneath.
The knob turned.
I stopped breathing.
The door opened.
A flashlight beam spilled into the kitchen. Too bright to see the person holding it. I saw only glare and a silhouette—a woman.
"Mac." The voice was soft. Clinical. Almost gentle. "Your family's safe. It's only us now."