Chapter 9 - Blood in the Woods
Margaret froze, her blood running colder than the river water. The items were not relics from her father’s time. The duffel bag was modern Cordura nylon, and a half-eaten energy bar on the wooden crate was still soft, the wrapper crinkled recently.
"Someone is using Julian's old cache," Margaret whispered to herself, the horrific puzzle pieces clicking into place. Julian hadn't just been hiding financial documents; he had established safe houses along the creek border. But if Julian was dead, who was occupying it?
Suddenly, a twig snapped outside the broken doorway.
Margaret instantly snuffed out the lantern with her palm, burning her skin, but she didn't utter a sound. She pulled Lily behind the tin chest, tucking the girl into the narrow gap between the wooden wall and the floorboards. "Stay silent, no matter what happens," Margaret breathed directly into the child's ear.
Footsteps approached the threshold—heavy, uneven, dragging slightly. A silhouette framed by the faint moonlight stepped into the cabin. The smell of wet wool, copper, and cheap tobacco drifted into the room.
"Margaret?" a hoarse, ragged voice called out from the dark.
Margaret held her breath, her hand finding the heavy iron crowbar resting beside the hearth. She rose silently from the shadows, raising the iron weapon above her shoulder, ready to strike.
"Don't swing, Maggie... it's me," the voice groaned, followed by a wet, hacking cough.
The man collapsed to his knees, dropping a hunting rifle to the floorboards. Margaret hesitated, reaching forward to strike a match. The tiny sulfur flame bloomed, illuminating a gaunt, bearded face covered in dried blood and deep purple bruises. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and an improvised tourniquet bound his left thigh.
Margaret’s knees nearly buckled. "Julian?"
It was impossible. She had stood beside his closed bronze casket at St. Jude's Cemetery two weeks ago. She had placed white lilies on the polished wood.
"Julian... you're dead," she whispered, the match burning down to her fingertips.
"David staged it," Julian gasped, clutching his wounded leg, his breath rattling in his chest. "Put a drifter from the rail yard in my burning truck. Needed me alive to give up the bank passwords. I broke out of their shed two nights ago, but Evans' deputies... they hunted me like a dog." He looked up, his one good eye widening as he spotted Lily peering from behind the trunk. "My God, Maggie. Why did you bring the girl?"
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Before Margaret could answer, the beam of a high-powered spotlight cut through the cabin window, pinning them in blinding white light. A voice boomed through an electric megaphone from the clearing outside: "Julian! Step out with your hands up! We have the perimeter surrounded!"
It wasn't David. It was Sheriff Evans.
