“Yes. They’re either trapped or they’ve called for backup. Either way, you can’t stay there long.”
“In the bedroom, under the mattress, there’s a satellite tracking device. activate it and I’ll have someone come for you within 6 hours.”
I should have been overwhelmed.
I should have broken down.
Instead, I felt a strange clarity.
“No,” I said firmly.
“No, Abby, you’re in danger.”
“I’m going to Callispel,” I interrupted. “To that federal agent you mentioned. These people, including our daughter, tried to kill me tonight. I’m not running away. I’m going to make them pay.”
Silence stretched between us.
“You don’t have to do this,” Frank finally said. “We could disappear together, start fresh somewhere else.”
“Is that why you did all this? So we could spend our golden years looking over our shoulders?” I asked.
“No, Frank. I want justice. I want our life back.”
Another long pause.
“You always were stronger than I gave you credit for,” he said softly.
“All right, I’ll make arrangements, but please be careful. These people won’t stop coming.”
As I ended the call, I sat in the small cabin, surrounded by wilderness, miles from everything familiar.
Nathan had cast me out, believing I would break.
Instead, he had set me free.
Come morning, I would begin my journey to Callispel, not as a victim seeking help, but as a woman carrying the weapon that would destroy those who had underestimated her.
Let them keep hunting.
This time, I would be ready.
Dawn broke over the mountains, painting the sky in watercolor strokes of pink and gold.
I had slept fitfully on the narrow cot, jolting awake at every creek and rustle from the surrounding forest.
The satellite phone remained silent after my conversation with Frank.
No further instructions, no warnings of approaching danger.
I took inventory of my resources.
The backpack with cash and documents, a basic first aid kit, 3 days worth of canned food, and the handgun I kept within reach despite my limited experience with firearms.
According to the map, Callispel was approximately 40 mi away, an impossible journey on foot through mountainous terrain.
The cabin’s single window faced east, providing a view of the valley below, and crucially, the road leading to Frank’s property.
Through a pair of binoculars I found on a shelf, I spotted activity.
Several vehicles parked haphazardly.
Men in dark uniforms establishing a perimeter, not police.
No marked cars or flashing lights.
These were the same private forces from last night, now expanded in number.
They were searching the woods methodically, working in a grid pattern outward from the house.
It wouldn’t take them long to discover the hunting cabin if they kept at it.
I needed transportation and fast.
The map showed a small settlement 8 mi north, little more than a cluster of homes and a general store serving the scattered ranches and vacation properties in the area.
If I could reach it without being spotted, perhaps I could find help, or at least a ride to Callispel.
I packed quickly, leaving no trace of my presence, and slipped out of the cabin.
The morning air carried a bite of autumn chill as I oriented myself using the map and compass for my supplies.
The most direct route would keep me exposed on ridgeel lines.
Instead, I opted for a longer path through denser forest and creek beds that would provide cover.
Hours passed as I picked my way through the wilderness, my city legs protesting every incline and rocky stretch.
I hadn’t hiked in years, not since Frank and I had taken weekend trips to Yellowstone when Sophia was young.
The memory of those happier times sent a pang through my chest.
How had my little girl grown into someone willing to see her own mother killed for money?
By midday, I reached a dirt service road that, according to the map, led toward the settlement.
I followed it cautiously, ready to dive into the underbrush at the first sign of vehicles.
The road curved around a reservoir, and suddenly the settlement came into view.
A dozen weathered buildings clustered around a crossroads with mountains rising majestically behind them.
I adjusted my appearance as best I could, smoothing my hair and brushing dirt from my clothes before approaching.
A simple story formed in my mind.
A tourist whose car had broken down, separated from my tour group, needing help.
Simple, believable, and most importantly, unremarkable.
The general store’s screen door creaked as I entered.
An older man looked up from behind the counter, his weathered face registering mild surprise at the sight of me.
“Morning, ma’am,” he greeted. “don’t often get folks walking in.”
“Everything all right?”
“Car trouble,” I explained, summoning a sheepish smile. “I was photographing wildlife when my rental died about 5 miles back. My phone has no service out here.”
He nodded sympathetically.
“That happens plenty. Where are you trying to get to?”
“Calispel, I have friends expecting me.”
“Well, I’d offer to take a look at your car, but my knees ain’t what they used to be. My son runs the tow service, but he’s out on a call.” He checked his watch. “mail truck comes through in about an hour headed that way. Margie might give you a lift at least part of the way.”
I thanked him and purchased a few supplies with cash, water, a packaged sandwich, a baseball cap that would help conceal my face.
As I waited, I perused the bulletin board near the entrance, plastered with local notices and advertisements.
A freshly posted flyer caught my eye, and my blood ran cold.
My own face stared back at me alongside the word missing in bold letters.
The text described me as a 68-year-old woman with possible dementia who wandered away from her family’s Montana property.
It listed Nathan as the contact person, claiming he was deeply concerned for his mother-in-law’s safety.
The store owner noticed my attention.
“Just came in this morning,” he commented. “Some fell in a fancy SUV put him up all over town. Said his poor mother-in-law got confused and wandered off.”
“They’ve got search teams out looking.”
My mind raced.
They were covering their tracks, establishing a narrative that would explain my disappearance or my death if they found me.
If I turned up dead in the wilderness, everyone would blame confusion and exposure, not foul play.
“Terrible thing,” I murmured, angling my face away.
“They’ve been calling for her.”
“Said she might be distressed or paranoid,” the man continued. “Talking nonsense about people being after her. Alzheimer’s is a cruel business.”
The perfect setup.
If I approached authorities claiming a conspiracy, Nathan had already planted the seed that I was delusional.
Who would believe an elderly woman over a respected businessman with political connections?
The bell above the door jingled.
I tensed, then forced myself to relax as an elderly woman entered, not one of the men from last night.