Chapter 24 - The Scent of Pine and Kerosene
Two miles up the logging track, the ruts veered sharply to the right, cutting toward an old, abandoned weigh station that had once served the timber clear-cuts.
Through the storm, the skeletal silhouette of a rusted tin roof emerged from the gloom. Parked beneath the rotting overhang was an old, wood-paneled station wagon—Mrs. Gable’s car.
"Stop! David, stop!" Richard cried out.
I slammed the brakes, the ABS pulsing violently under my boot as the truck slid to a halt three feet from the wagon’s rusted bumper. Before the truck had even fully stopped, I threw open the door and leapt out into the knee-deep snow, pulling my heavy wrench from the truck bed's toolbox.
"Maisie!" I screamed into the howl of the wind. "Maisie!"
The driver’s side door of the station wagon was wide open, swaying lazily in the gale, snow piling up on the faded fabric of the front seat.
I rushed forward and peered inside. The car was empty. The keys were still hanging from the ignition, turned to the accessory position, the battery completely dead. On the floorboards of the passenger side lay an overturned thermoses of hot cocoa, the dark brown liquid frozen into a sticky sludge across a pink vinyl backpack.
"She was here," I whispered, my heart tearing in two.
Richard came up beside me, panting heavily, clutching his chest. He bent down and picked up something small lying in the snow just outside the rear door.
It was a little yellow knitted mitten. The yarn was frayed at the thumb where Maisie had a habit of chewing on it when she was nervous.
"She dropped it on purpose," Richard said, his eyes wide as he handed it to me. "She knew you'd come. Maisie’s smart, David. She left a trail."
I clutched the tiny, freezing mitten against my chest, feeling the phantom warmth of my daughter's hand. The wrench felt heavy and cold in my other fist.
"They transferred her here," I said, looking around the clearing.
The heavy tire tracks we had followed didn't stop at the weigh station. They circled the open yard, churned up the mud beneath the snow, and pointed straight back toward the main artery of the ridge trail. But there was something else in the air—sharp, caustic, and unmistakable above the clean scent of frozen pine.
Kerosene.
"Why do they smell like fuel?" Richard asked, sniffing the freezing air.
"They brought extra drums," I said, remembering Julian’s connections to the illegal timber outfits. "The border crossing through the woods isn't plowed in winter. They’re running a modified Caterpillar plow or a skidding rig to clear the way through the pass, and those beasts drink diesel and kerosene like water."
Behind us, a siren wailed weakly, cutting through the storm. Sheriff Vance’s squad car finally crawled into the clearing, its front bumper cracked and hanging loose from hitting a snowbank. Vance threw his door open, stumbling out with his winter parka zipped to his chin, his service weapon drawn and held low against his leg.
"Did you find them?!" Vance shouted over the roar of the wind.
"They swapped vehicles ten minutes ago," I yelled back, holding up the yellow mitten. "They’re in a heavy hauler, heading for the ridge gate. Vance, you have to call the Canadian Mounties! If they cross the line—"
"I already tried," Vance yelled back, shaking his head grimly as he pointed to his dashboard radio. "The storm knocked out the repeater tower on Mount Katahdin. My radio is dead. Cell towers are completely down up here. We’re on our own, David."
I looked down at the tiny mitten in my hand, then up at the steep, dark trail disappearing into the white vortex of the blizzard.
May you like
"Then let's go end this," I said.
***
