Chapter 15 #2
Three measured raps land against the front door of Sawyer's Lodge, polite and unhurried, exactly how Gary would coach his men to announce themselves at a lodge in the middle of nowhere.
Alex sets the rifle against the wall beside the door, within arm's reach but out of sight. He flips the porch light on and opens the door.
"Evening." The voice is male, mid-range, with the practiced warmth of someone who makes first impressions for a living. "Sorry to bother you this late. We're looking for a lodge or rental where a friend of ours might be staying. She's been out of touch and her family's worried."
I press my shoulders against the wall and close my eyes.
I don't need to see his face. I know the script.
Gary wrote it, and his people deliver it the same way every time.
"Family" is a weapon. "Friend" means target.
I've heard every version of this pitch, standing in Gary's kitchen while he practiced on speakerphone.
The words were always softer than the intentions behind them.
Alex fills the doorway. I can't see him from here, but I can hear the shift in the floorboards under his weight, how he's positioned himself to block the view of the interior.
"Can't say I've seen anyone like that," Alex says. "This time of year the lodge is quiet. Just family."
The second man speaks for the first time. His voice is flatter, harder, the kind that doesn't bother with warmth. "She might have come through in the last couple weeks. Driving alone. Auburn hair, late twenties."
I stop breathing. The description is close enough to pull every muscle in my body tight.
Auburn hair. Late twenties. Driving alone.
Three facts that narrow the search to a woman who matches me in every particular that matters.
Gary chose those details carefully. He left out my name because a name can be changed.
He left out the specifics because specifics can be denied.
What he gave them instead is a silhouette, and a silhouette is harder to hide from than a photograph.
"Lot of road between here and Anchorage. People pass through. No one's been here and I don't keep guest logs."
Alex's voice doesn't change. Not a flicker, not a tell. He delivers the lie the way he handles the rifle, with the ease of someone who has done this before and will do it again without losing sleep.
"Do you mind if we leave a number? In case you see her."
"I can take a number."
Paper rustles. A card, probably, printed and professional. Gary would insist on it. The veneer of legitimacy is as important to him as the operation itself.
"Appreciate your time," the first voice says. "Beautiful property."
"Thanks. Drive safe on the switchbacks. They ice up at night."
A beat of silence. The second man hasn't moved.
I can hear it in the absence of boot leather on the porch boards.
He's still standing there, looking at something.
Maybe the interior behind Alex's shoulder.
Maybe the trucks in the lot. Maybe nothing at all, just lingering long enough to see if the silence rattles the man at the door.
It doesn't. Alex doesn't shift, doesn't fill the quiet, doesn't give the man a single thing to read. The silence stretches until it becomes the second man's problem, not Alex's, and then the boots finally move. Two sets this time, retreating together, the heavier set falling behind.
The door closes. The lock turns. Alex stands with his hand on the deadbolt, his back to me. Neither of us breathes until the boots cross the porch, descend the steps, and the SUV doors open and close again.
Outside, the engine starts. The lights come on. The vehicle backs up, turns, and begins the descent down the access road.
I step out of the kitchen. The lodge is quiet in a way it wasn't before the knock. The silence has weight now, the specific gravity of a space that just held danger and is still deciding whether it's done.
Alex turns from the door. In the dim light from the embers, his face is set and focused, running calculations I can't read.
His shoulders carry no tension. His breathing is even.
Whatever just happened at that door cost him nothing, and the ease of it tells me more about who he is than anything he's said in the days I've been here.
He's still shirtless, the glow from the embers catching the lines of muscle I had my hands on earlier tonight. The adrenaline crashing through my system doesn't know the difference between fear and want.
"They'll be back."
"I know."
"Your hospitality needs work, by the way. You didn't offer them coffee."
"I don't waste good coffee on men who work for the man who broke your ribs."
The words hit bare. The possessive fury underneath them lands low in my gut.