Page 32 of Sour Layer

Clark

Chapter 18

Leaving Mercy’s warm body in the bed wasn’t high on Clark’s list of things he wanted to do. If he’d had his way, he would have reminded her what his touch felt like until it was seared into her mind.

He stepped out of the inn and into the cold frigid air, locking the front door behind him. His breath came out in white puffs as he slid into the truck and turned it on, blasting himself with the cold air coming out of the vent.

He loved his job. It was the only thing that kept him going on mornings like this. Mornings when he ignored the cold and let determination warm his veins.

This would bring them one step closer to finding Lynnfield. And Clark would find the fucker. No way was he ending up dead and unable to save his sister and his niece.

Clark drove to the station where Walker and Brandon were waiting inside. Walker glanced in Clark’s direction when he stepped inside. Walker’s bloodshot eyes gave away his lack of rest as he drank from a thermos, and returned his attention to the county map hanging on the wall.

“Nice of you to join us,” Walker said and gestured to the thermos sitting on the counter. “Milly sent you the thermos.”

Clark opened it and sniffed. The scent of hot chocolate drifted to his nose, and his heart settled in his chest. The memory of lazy winter afternoons when as kids their mother let them put together gingerbread houses. Milly had wanted to make it look beautiful, and Clark couldn’t keep his hands off the gumdrops. “Thanks.”

“You’ve been busy,” Clark said, gesturing to the map.

On the glass, there were black circles drawn in a Dry Erase pen around different areas with lines crossed through them. “I’ve searched all of these places.”

“Lynnfield isn’t a hunter,” Clark said.

“I know, I tried to tell him,” Brandon said. “Lynnfield’s a chemist. Friends and family, we interviewed said Lynnfield’s idea of going outdoors is watching it from the window. He was an active protestor against hunting, and he was a vegetarian for cripes’ sake. No reason for him to have a hunting cabin.”

“And yet he does,” Walker answered, pointing to a remote section near the river. “According to my brother, and proved through Brandon’s research, the cabin has been in Lynnfield's family for generations.”

“He probably doesn’t even use it,” Clark said. “What are the chances we’re going to find that he’s been using the place?”

“My brother picked up an energy footprint. I’d say chances are pretty good,” Walker answered, heading for the door.

Clark didn’t know all of the Bennetts’ abilities. They hadn’t liked to talk about them growing up. Clark wasn’t one to push for answers either. He just knew they were different as if it were something as simple as having a different shade of eye color.

Clark took one more sip from the thermos and let the hot chocolate warm his soul as he followed Walker out the door. Brandon turned to follow, and Clark pointed to the desk. “You’re staying here in the event you need to show forensics how to get to our location. Keep your radio on.”

Disappointment clouded Brandon’s gaze. It was evident he didn’t want to be sitting on the bench when danger might be on the menu. The kid was a thrill-seeker, always hunting for a fight. This case was too personal to include the cowboy.

****

Walker navigated while Clark drove toward the lake, having to abandon the truck about a mile away from the cabin site.

“So, all of your brothers decided to help?” Clark asked, gun in hand as he followed next to Walker.

“We protect our own. We always have,” Walker answered with a glance in Clark’s direction. “That includes you and your mother now that Milly married Dexter.”

Clark kept his mouth shut, swallowing the retort waiting at the tip of his tongue. There were no prints in the snow. The flurries were light, but they’d been heavier last night. Any prints that might have been left were covered up by now. The sun, just starting to peek between the tree branches in the distance, helped guide their way. Even the animals were still sleeping. It was oddly quiet. Too quiet.

They slowed as they spotted the cabin in the distance. The trees provided them cover. There was no smoke coming from the chimney. No cars parked outside. Nothing to indicate that anyone had even been there.

Clark took the lead, ducking behind trees as he quickly and quietly approached the cabin from behind. He pressed his back against a log pile then peeked into one of the windows. It was dark and dusty, so he moved up onto the porch and the sliding glass door. He peered around the edge. The cabin looked as though no one had been there in decades.

Clark tried the door to find it locked. They jogged around to the front of the house and tried the front door.

He took hold of the knob and turned. The squeak was loud in his ears as he pushed it open. Walker stopped him from walking inside and gestured to the overhang roof. “That’s not old.”

A red light shined on the camera tucked in the corner, which was pointed in their direction. Clark lifted his gun and toed the door open farther. “Lynnfield, this is the police. Come out with your hands up.”

Clark strained to hear any movement inside, and they were met with silence.

He eased inside the cabin. His eyes darted around the room, ignoring the uneasy tension cascading down his spine.

“Clear,” Clark called out, checking behind doors as he headed down the hallway. He cleared the bathroom and then paused outside the last door. The bedroom.

Holding his breath, hoping and praying to God not to find another victim dead on the other side, he shoved the door open.

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