Chapter 92
EMMA
The north ridge. The old cottonwood line. The dry creek bed.
I slow Smoke to a walk as we approach, my eyes scanning around me. The road that leads from the Turner spread through to the Circle H is ahead, past the thicket of trees. The clearing where I saw the abandoned barn is just a ways down the road, I think. It’s a short walk from here.
I dismount and tie Smoke to a tree, far enough back that he won't be visible or heard from the road. He nips my shoulder, as if telling me not to go.
“I’ve got to.” I stroke his neck. "Stay quiet, boy. I'll be back soon."
The camera comes off my shoulder. I check the settings—ISO 800, shutter speed 1/500, aperture f/5.6. Fast enough to capture movement in the late afternoon light, wide enough for depth of field if I need to document multiple subjects.
I’m ready.
I move through the tall grass, staying low, using the cottonwoods for cover. When I get close to the road, I drop to my stomach behind a fallen log and bring the camera to my eye.
Through the 200mm lens, the barn jumps into sharp focus.
Two pickup trucks are parked outside—both newer models, both with Montana plates. A third vehicle, a white cargo van, is backed up to the barn's side entrance.
Men are moving between the vehicles and the barn. Four of them, maybe five. Dark clothing, work gloves, moving with purpose.
I raise my camera and start shooting.
Click. A man carrying a wooden crate from the barn to the van.
Click. Another man checking his phone, his face visible in profile.
Click. The license plate on the van—clear and readable.
My heart is hammering, but my hands are steady. This is what I do. This is what I'm good at. Document. Capture. Preserve.
A white truck the size of an average UPS delivery truck pulls up to the barn. One of the men in the yard opens the back, waving to the driver, who hops out of the cab.
I zoom in, focusing on the cargo inside the new truck. Wooden crates. Cardboard boxes. They could have anything in them—toys, china, drugs, weapons, gold... Whatever the Turners are into.
I photograph everything. The men's faces. The men standing around, smoking. The men looking at their cell phones. Two men carrying a box out from the barn and setting it just inside the truck.
As they walk away, the crate shifts. I hear the bang of the wood as it rocks.
What? I freeze, my finger on the shutter button.
The crate shifts again, and there’s no one near it. It’s not from being moved by the men, but from whatever’s inside.
What the hell?
Something is alive in that crate—and the men are obviously not surprised because none of them pay any attention to it.
I get my cell phone out and take a video, hoping the zoom function is good enough. Then I tuck it back in my pocket and lift my camera. I adjust the focus, zooming in tighter, straining to see if I can see any marks on the crate.
Through the slats in the wood, I see movement.
A hand. Fingers squeezed through a gap in the slats, pale and trembling.
I gasp. Oh God.
Oh God. Is there a person in there?