Chapter 2 - The Smoke in the Hollow
Northstar Hollow hadn't changed, and that was its primary offense.
The cabin sat in a natural bowl where two mountain creeks converged before plunging down into the Brierfall watershed. Built by Silas Vale in 1954 from hand-hewn white pine logs chinked with lime and horsehair, it had a low-pitched tin roof that was currently weighted down by two feet of powder and long, blue-tinted icicles that dripped like stalactites from the eaves. A single brick chimney rose from the center, puffing a lazy, grey signature of seasoned oak smoke into the darkening twilight.
Warren stopped at the edge of the clearing, his boots sinking six inches into the untracked drift. Behind him, the German Shepherd—whom he had already mentally dubbed Ghost for the way she moved without sound—paused at the treeline, her notched ear twitching as she caught the scent of woodsmoke and old creosote.
"Come on," Warren said over his shoulder. "The floor inside is cedar. Better than the pine needles."
She didn't need a second invitation. She trotted past him with her head low, her tail tucked tight against her skinny rump, and squeezed through the heavy oak door the moment Warren pushed it open with his shoulder.
The interior was a time capsule. Silas had died in his sleep with a paperback western open on his chest, and according to the county sheriff's report, nobody had set foot in the place since the coroner's van hauled the old man down the pass in October. The air inside was dry, smelling of old paper, wool blankets, sheep fat, and the faint, sweet musk of dried sage hanging from the rafters. A kerosene lantern sat on the scarred trestle table, unlit. In the stone hearth against the far wall, a bed of coals still glowed a dull, stubborn cherry-red beneath a grey blanket of ash.
Silas had known how to bank a fire so it would keep its heart for a week without fresh fuel.
Warren closed the heavy oak door, dropped the iron drop-bar into place, and slid the deadbolt home. The click of the lock was loud in the small room. Outside, the wind was beginning to rise, whistling through the high hemlock boughs with a sound like a distant train crossing a trestle.
He pulled the puppy out of his coat pocket. The little creature was warm now, its heart hammering against Warren’s palm like a trapped sparrow. He set it down on the braided rag rug in front of the hearth. The pup staggered two steps on oversized paws, sneezed twice, and collapsed into a boneless heap against Ghost’s front legs.
The mother dropped down immediately, wrapping her lean body around the small form in a protective crescent, her amber eyes never leaving Warren as he moved about the room.
"Relax," Warren said, tossing his duffel onto the iron-framed cot in the corner. "If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't have carried your kid in my pocket."
He struck a wooden match against the stone fireplace, touched it to the wick of the lantern, and set it on the table. The yellow light chased the shadows back into the corners, revealing the details of his grandfather’s final months. A mug of dried coffee sat beside the sink; a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles rested on an open Bible on the sideboard; and on the wall above the stone mantle hung Silas’s old Winchester .30-30, its walnut stock oiled and polished to a dull amber glow.
Warren walked over to the mantle, his fingers brushing the cold barrel of the rifle. He checked the action—smooth, clean, loaded. Silas had never left a weapon unloaded in his life, not even when his joints swelled up so badly he couldn't button his own flannel shirt.
"You knew something was coming, didn't you, old man?" Warren muttered, staring at the framed black-and-white photograph of Silas standing beside a logging tractor in 1968, his face as unreadable as a slab of granite.
He set about making a pot of coffee using the dented enamel percolator on the cast-iron stove, feeding dry birch kindling into the firebox until the iron plate began to ping and groan with the rising heat. While the water heated, he checked the pantry. Silas had left behind jars of home-canned peaches, salt pork, hardtack, and a half-full stone crock of sharp cheddar cheese packed in wax.
He sliced off a chunk of salt pork, dropped it into a cast-iron skillet, and tossed a handful of scraps to the shepherd. Ghost caught the meat out of the air with a lightning-fast snap of her jaws, her teeth clicking together like a steel trap. She chewed twice and swallowed, her ribs heaving as the protein hit her starving stomach.
"Easy," Warren repeated. "Eat too fast and you'll throw it up."
She didn't argue. She ate the second piece with the same terrifying efficiency, then turned her attention back to the pup, licking its head until the fur stood up in wet spikes.
Warren poured his coffee into a chipped ceramic mug that read Brierfall Timber Days 1984, walked over to the small west-facing window, and wiped a circle of frost clear with his thumb.
The sun had dropped behind St. Orin Ridge, leaving the sky the color of a bruised plum. Down in the hollow, the shadows were already deep enough to hide a regiment. Through the glass, he saw the faint, ghostly tracks he and the dog had made in the snow—and, intersecting them at the edge of the clearing, fresh tire treads.
The silver pickup.
It had turned around at the end of the logging road and idled out there for ten minutes before backing into the dense stand of second-growth cedar where the old timber-loading ramp used to be. No lights. Just the silhouette of the cab half-swallowed by the falling snow.
Warren took a slow sip of the black coffee, the bitterness burning the back of his throat. He set the mug down on the windowsill, reached out, and closed the wooden shutters over the glass, sliding the iron latch into place.
"We have visitors," he said to the dog.
Ghost didn't growl this time. She simply rose to her feet, her notched ear cocked toward the heavy oak door, her muscles bunching as she adjusted her weight for a run. The puppy let out a confused squeak and scrambled after her, its tiny claws clicking against the floorboards.
May you like
Warren walked over to the corner, picked up his duffel, and unzipped the side pocket. He didn't pull out a Bible or a spare pair of socks. He pulled out a black tactical case, unzipped it, and lifted out a suppressed 9mm Sig Sauer P226 MK25—the sidearm he’d carried through three continents and a dozen deployments that never happened on paper. He checked the chamber with a practiced, silent slide of the breech, verified the magazine was full, and shoved the pistol into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back.
"Stay with the pup," Warren told the dog. "I'm going to go see who likes to visit empty cabins in the dark."
