Page 53 of Into the Fire

“The turnoff’s coming up,” Dante said.

“I know where it is.”

“You were somewhere else. I didn’t want you to miss it.”

“I was organizing the morning.” That was mostly true.

I slowed for the forest road and turned.

“Map first,” I said. “We put Nash’s positions against it. Then the notebooks. Start with June and work forward and back.”

“Looking for what?”

“Anything we read past the first time because we didn’t know it mattered.”

Dante nodded along and drank his terrible coffee.

The truck rattled over the cattle guard, and the larches closed in over the road. The cabin came into view; needles drifted against the steps, and the insulation still hung at the south eave.

I was two strides from the porch with the key out when I stopped.

The door had sagged in its frame.

It had done that when Dutch was alive. He never locked it. You had to lift the handle before the deadbolt would clear the strike. I’d done it when Dante and I left, the same as I’d done the October I shut off the water.

Now it was sagging. The door was closed, but not locked. I put the key back in my pocket.

Dante stepped up beside me. He waited for me to show him what had made me stop.

“The door’s sagging,” I said. “You have to lift it to lock it. When it’s locked, it doesn’t sag.”

“I see.”

“Stay here.”

Dante stopped.

I looked back toward the road.

“Tire tracks?”

“If we didn’t just ruin them.”

I walked to the edge of the forest. Near the trees, two tire impressions crossed the soft dirt and disappeared into the gravel. The grass between them was still pressed flat.

“Someone parked here.”

Dante looked at the cabin. “Recent?”

“Looks like it.”

“You locked the door last time,” Dante said.

“Yeah.”

“Who else has a key?”

I thought about it. “There used to be a spare in operations.”