Chapter 4 - The Abandoned Boathouse
The station wagon bounced violently over the rocky, mud-slicked dirt road, sending loose gravel spraying against the undercarriage. Lily whimpered from the back seat as the car swayed dangerously from side to side beneath the towering, skeletal pine trees.
“Mark, are you crazy?” Clara shouted, grabbing the overhead handle to steady herself as the vehicle skidded slightly on a patch of wet moss. “Where are you taking us? This road leads nowhere!”
“It leads to the old boathouse,” Mark said through gritted teeth, his foot pressing harder down on the gas pedal. “If they’re following us, I need to lose them where there are no cameras, no streetlights, and no witnesses.”
“You’re leading them right to us!” Clara argued, turning back to check on Lily, who was clutching her wooden music box to her chest like a shield. “We should be heading toward the police station, not out into the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night!”
“The police won’t help us, Clara,” Mark yelled back, his voice cracking with a mix of fear and desperation. “Not when they find out who those men work for. Trust me. Just trust me for once.”
The car broke through a dense thicket of brush and rattled to a halt in front of a rotting, weather-beaten wooden boathouse that hung precariously over the dark, churning water of the reservoir. The headlights swept across the peeling gray paint and shattered windows of the dilapidated structure.
Mark killed the engine, plunging the car into sudden, suffocating darkness broken only by the dim glow of the dashboard clock.
“Stay here,” Mark commanded, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the heavy silver key he had taken from the birthday cake.
“I’m not staying in this car while you walk into a trap,” Clara said, pushing her door open before Mark could stop her. The cold, wet wind whipped her brown hair across her face as she stepped out into the mud.
Mark sighed, stepping out on his side and hurrying around to shield Clara and Lily. He scooped Lily up into his arms, burying her face against his shoulder so she couldn't see the gloomy surroundings. Together, they hurried toward the rotting wooden dock leading to the boathouse entrance.
The heavy oak door of the boathouse was secured with a massive, rusted iron padlock. Mark stared at it for a second, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the silver key.
With a deep breath, he inserted the key into the padlock. It turned with a loud, echoing click.
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As Mark pulled the heavy door open, a beam of moonlight pierced the gloom, revealing a dusty floor covered in old newspapers and a single wooden chair. Tied securely to the chair was a man neither of them expected to ever see again.
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