Chapter 4 - The Lights Beneath the Snow
The fireplace still burned.
Everything electrical died.
Vincent didn't move for several seconds.
Then he whispered:
“They cut the generator.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I didn't know this cabin had one.”
Neither had I.
That meant someone maintained it.
Someone expected it to be used.
The baby cried.
Vincent moved us behind the stone fireplace.
Then footsteps crossed the roof.
Not outside.
Above us.
Vincent looked upward.
There was an attic.
A hidden hatch opened.
A man dropped through.
Vincent had him against the wall before I could scream.
“Don't!”
The stranger raised empty hands.
“Callahan, I'm with Declan.”
Vincent didn't release him.
“Prove it.”
He gave a code.
Vincent loosened his grip.
The man had entered through an old emergency tunnel connected to a maintenance shed uphill.
Tunnel.
Generator.
Medical supplies.
The forgotten cabin wasn't forgotten.
It was a safe house.
Owned through a company connected to the Callahans.
“Why would Evan bring me here?”
Vincent answered.
“Because someone wanted you on Callahan property.”
So if I died, evidence pointed toward Vincent.
If my baby disappeared—
It could point toward him too.
A perfect frame.
Declan's man handed Vincent a radio.
“We found Mr. Foster's vehicle.”
Evan's surname.
“Where?”
“Two miles east.”
“Bodies?”
“One.”
I felt sick.
“Who?”
“Vincent's driver.”
The man who packed the bag.
Except he hadn't.
Security footage showed someone replacing Vincent's travel bag before he left Helena.
A woman.
Eleanor Callahan.
His mother.
The radio crackled.
Then another voice.
“Vincent.”
Eleanor.
He went rigid.
“Mother.”
“Bring Claire and the child through the tunnel.”
“Why?”
“Because Evan isn't working for me.”
Vincent looked at the video.
“You were standing beside him.”
“I wanted him to believe I was.”
“Convenient.”
“Vincent, listen carefully. If that baby remains in the cabin, everyone dies.”
“Who wants her?”
Silence.
Then Eleanor said:
“Your father.”
Vincent's face changed.
Patrick Callahan had died seven years earlier.
I knew because half Montana had attended the funeral.
Vincent whispered:
“My father is dead.”
“No.”
A sound came through the radio.
An elderly man's voice.
Weak.
But unmistakably amused.
“Still stubborn, son?”
Vincent dropped the radio.
I had never seen terror like that.
Not when my baby was silent.
Not when armed men surrounded us.
This was different.
Childhood terror.
The voice continued.
“Bring me Daniel Mercer's granddaughter.”
Vincent looked at me.
Then at my baby.
May you like
Patrick Callahan said:
“And bring me the child who can save my life.”
