Keeper of Secrets

by J. A. Clarke

Available now from Fictionwise

Excerpt

Chapter One

     This had been a lousy idea.
     Shawna Carlton scowled at the padlock clenched in one frozen hand. Rain lashed at her back. Her jeans were soaked through. Her jacket, too thin for winter-wear in the mountains, was no protection against the hard pellets of rain or the cold. A hot shower had never sounded so good.
     The flashlight's weak beam wavered as she focused it on the tiny numbers of the lock. She had tried the combination three times already. Either she had written the numbers down wrong… or Debra hadn't given her the right combination.
     Tears fueled by frustration, exhaustion and days of stress threatened to erupt and she sagged against the old wooden door. She couldn't handle the drive back into town. Not this late at night. Not as tired as she was. Not along that ghastly, dark-as-hell, pothole-filled U.S. Forest Service road. Even if her car made it, she was in no shape for the one and a half hour drive back to Portland.
     She swiped her sleeve across her eyes, blew on her fingers, and concentrated on the padlock again. The beam of the flashlight flickered and flickered again just she rolled the last row of numbers. Nothing. In sheer frustration, she yanked up, then down on the lock and saw the bolt separate just as the weak light died.
     “Hallelujah.” Bolstered by her victory, she pulled the lock from the hooks, released the latch and pushed. The door swung open on a dark, musty cavity as frigid as a mausoleum, colder even than the external temperature. Her courage faltered.
     “Old and rustic, but it does have electricity,” Debra had assured her. Electricity meant there must be a light switch somewhere. She shook her flashlight. It cooperated with a pale circle of light for only a second. She gritted her teeth as she stepped inside and ran her hand down the wall next to the door. The surface was rough, splintery. A clingy, sticky substance wrapped itself around her fingers. She snatched her hand away and wiped it on her jeans. No switch. She shifted to her right. This time she felt something cold and metal and, just below it, the familiar shape of a light switch. She flicked it. A single bare light bulb in the center of the room came on.
     “Oh…my…God.” Old and rustic for sure. Debra had not exaggerated about that. It was a grungy retreat only a man could love. And Debra, Shawna remembered now, had never set foot in her boyfriend's fishing get-away. A miniscule kitchen occupied one corner with a cook top, a sink and a box refrigerator. A wood bunk bed stood in the opposite corner. A sagging couch sporting huge, grimy blue cabbage roses was a candidate for the landfill and a table and four mismatched chairs were pushed against an undraped window. A forest of cobwebs hung from the ceiling. Shawna shuddered, then shivered as a powerful chill gripped her body. She studied the room again. It held nothing that looked like a heat source, except for the fireplace several inches deep in ashes.
     “Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, ” she muttered. She had no one to blame but herself. Debra had tried to talk her out of this, but she had convinced herself that peace and quiet and isolation were what she desperately needed. No matter what.
     Now she wasn't so sure about the “no matter what” part.
     She sucked in a deep breath, then yanked the hood of her jacket over her head and trudged back out into the pouring rain to start unloading her car.
     Twenty minutes later, she stood in front of the fireplace again. There was a box of matches on the stone mantle above the fireplace, and three small pieces of wood in the wood box. She'd never built a fire in her life, but she was sure three pieces wouldn’t do it. The rain still fell in torrents. She wrapped her arms around herself and reluctantly turned toward the door. If the small shed beside which her car was parked didn't hold wood, she was in big trouble.
     She was soaked through, freezing, hungry and tired. Dry and warm was definitely the first priority. She pulled up her damp hood again and hurried back out into the driving rain.
     Around her the forest moaned and creaked in the storm. A gust of wind tore down the road, wrenched the door to the shed from her hands and flung it back against the wall. The light from the cabin's window was just enough to reveal two shadowy rows of neatly stacked logs. An axe and a couple of other unfamiliar tools leaned against the pile.
     A vague image of a brawny man in suspenders and no shirt, hefting an axe over his head flitted through her mind. Much good that did. She hadn't the slightest idea how to split wood and had no desire to try in the middle of a storm in the middle of the night. Whole logs would work just as well, wouldn’t they? She picked up a small one.
     “Do you think you're going to quit with the noise any time soon?”
     Shawna dropped the log and spun around. Then she shrieked, stumbled back. The woodpile poked her in the rear.
     A hulking mass stood before her, details obscured by the dark. A powerful flashlight flicked on, blinded her, moved off to the side.
     “Don't even think about chopping wood this time of night. There are noise ordinances around here, you know.” The voice was a deep rumble. Angry. Impatient.
     Shawna tried to ask a question. Anything. Her mouth refused to work. All her energy seemed to be concentrated in her pounding heart.
     “What's the matter with you? Bloody hell. Women! Where's your boyfriend? I’ll talk with him.”
     “He's?I--?”
     “Bloody hell.” The hulking mass stamped off toward the cabin.
     She was still glued to the same spot when he returned seconds later.
     “You're here on your own, aren't you?” He made it sound like a crime. The faintly accented voice was angrier.
     “Yes,” she whispered, then squeezed her eyes shut. That was stupider than stupid. She opened her eyes.
     The hulking mass was still there, bigger than ever. He uttered a rude word. A thick arm came up and pointed. “Go back inside. I'll bring in some wood.”
     “No, you--”
     “GO! I would like to get back to bed sometime tonight. And I sure as hell can't chop wood with you defending the woodpile.” Then he actually reached out, caught her arm, pulled her out of the shed. He pushed her in the direction of the cabin.
     She stumbled over the uneven ground and up the steps. Why had she admitted to being here on her own? Would that pathetic lock hold? He could break the window in the door. Forget the window, he could probably break the ancient door. He had an axe. Where had he come from, this relative of Sasquatch?
     The last thought was so ludicrous, she slumped against the cabin wall and uttered a weak laugh. He was only a man. Had to be a neighbor, although all the cabins around had seemed deserted when she'd driven in earlier. He was doing a neighborly deed and bringing her some wood. A series of dull thumps from outside confirmed it. She shivered uncontrollably, acutely conscious of the cold and her wet clothes, acutely aware of the cabin’s isolation.
     She was going to take self-defense classes with Debra for sure when and if she made it back to Portland.
     This had been a really lousy idea.
     She was still propped against the wall when she heard his boots on the steps, but simply didn't have the energy to move. If he was bent on pillage and rape, this was his lucky night. She wouldn’t be able to fend off a fly.
     He came through the door, a tall man in jeans and a bulky jacket, his arms loaded with split wood. He crossed to the fireplace without a glance in her direction, dropped his burden in the wood box, then turned. He tossed back the hood of his jacket. A fiery bush of red hair emerged. Red hair, red beard, red moustache. Several days growth at least. From under thick red brows, he glowered at her.
     “Know how to make a fire?”
     “Of course,” she lied. The cabin had shrunk, become cramped and crowded. She just wanted him gone.

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