Page 16 of Buried Past (First in Line #3)

Chapter eleven

Matthew

T he highway shrank to two lanes as we threaded between Douglas firs. My truck climbed the grade with steady determination toward the Canadian border.

Dorian had been unconscious for twenty minutes, his cheek pressed against glass, fogging it with each exhale. Every time we hit rough pavement or passed an oncoming logging truck, his breathing would hitch.

I kept stealing glances at his profile. He was strikingly handsome in an angular fashion. Sleep stripped away the calculated watchfulness he wore like armor, revealing something almost boyish underneath.

The route was foreign territory—I'd only driven it twice, following Marcus on pilgrimages to what he called "the only honest place left in Washington.

" The first trip was to witness his purchase, and the second was to inspect his handiwork after six months of weekend construction projects fueled by YouTube tutorials and stubborn McCabe pride.

Both times, I'd wondered what happened with Marcus to compel a man to disappear into the trees every chance he got. Now, the appeal was obvious. They were places where digital tracking died.

The turnoff materialized without warning—a gravel track that barely looked intentional. I downshifted as we abandoned asphalt.

The first pothole jarred Dorian awake.

"Distance?" His voice was thick with sleep, but he sat up straight.

"Close. Three minutes, maybe four." I navigated around a washout that had claimed half the roadway. "Marcus undersold the isolation factor."

The trees parted, revealing a clearing where Marcus's cabin squatted like it had erupted from the forest floor.

It was more modest than I remembered. Built from weathered logs, it had a single story with a covered porch wrapping two sides. Firewood lay stacked along one side in neat rows.

I parked under pine boughs as rain started to fall. Dorian was already reaching for his door. "Perimeter check."

"Secured." I caught his wrist before he could exit. "Marcus rigged this place with motion sensors on the access road and game cameras covering any other land approaches. Anyone following us would trigger alarms before they got within half a mile."

"Copy." He released the handle but remained coiled. "I'll still enter first."

There was no point in arguing. Some negotiations weren't worth the energy, especially when the person making demands possessed more experience with people who killed as part of their operations.

I shouldered our bag while Dorian approached the front door. The key waited under Marcus's designated flowerpot. I unlocked the door and stepped aside.

Dorian vanished inside the cabin while I counted seconds and tried not to think about everything that could blow up around us. Marcus's security measures might prove inadequate against professional hunters. Our escape route could turn into a trap with walls made of pine logs.

"Secure." Dorian's voice emerged from the interior.

I crossed the threshold and engaged the deadbolt behind me. It was at least a symbolic barrier between us and whatever might follow us north from Seattle.

The cabin smelled of lingering wood smoke underscored by pine oil. A fieldstone fireplace commanded the main room's far wall with cold ash scattered across blackened brick. The handcrafted furniture was built for durability rather than aesthetics, designed to survive long, frigid winters.

Dorian tested window latches and examined sightlines. I watched him work as the tension I'd been carrying since Seattle began to dissolve.

When he completed his circuit, he returned to where I stood near the door.

"Assessment?"

"Defensible." He almost smiled. "Your brother builds bunkers, not cabins."

I exhaled, more deeply than I had in hours.

I flipped a switch, and a generator kicked in with a mechanical cough. Fluorescent light fixtures buzzed to life overhead. A harsh institutional glare filled the cabin, making everything look like a crime scene.

After switching the light off, I approached the hearth. "Better with fire."

Kneeling on cold brick, I arranged tinder and smaller pieces in the configuration Dad taught me when I was eight. Newspaper twisted into loose spirals and kindling stacked like a tiny log cabin with gaps for air flow.

The match flared, and a flame caught that quickly grew into satisfied crackling. Heat soon pushed outward in waves, bringing welcome warmth in early October.

Dorian peeled off his hoodie and moved closer to the flames. He positioned himself where heat could reach every part of him.

He rolled his shoulders forward. "Storage?"

I pointed toward what looked like a closet door. "Marcus overprepared for everything."

The narrow pantry revealed my brother's apocalypse planning in organized detail.

He'd lined the shelves with canned goods—soup, beans, and vegetables with expiration dates three years out.

He stocked dried pasta in sealed containers along with enough coffee, tea, and bottled water to survive a siege.

He'd stacked board games on the bottom shelf: Monopoly, Scrabble, and Settlers of Catan still in shrink wrap.

"Impressive hoarding." Dorian examined a can of split pea soup. "Is your brother expecting nuclear winter?"

"I think the experience with Michael battling Project Asphodel, as well as that obsessive arsonist stalking him, changed him a little." I pulled down tea and crackers. "Miles calls it productive anxiety."

The rain upgraded from tentative drops to serious precipitation, drumming against the windows with increasing conviction.

The cabin's layout was simple. The main room held the fireplace and kitchen counter. A double bed and dresser furnished the bedroom. The bathroom had a composting toilet and a shower that would run hot as long as the propane held out.

Everything was functional, nothing decorative except for a single photograph on the bedroom dresser—Marcus and James on a mountain trail, both grinning with exhausted satisfaction.

I heated soup on the propane burner while Dorian examined the cabin's security features. Motion sensors guarded the front door, and a radio scanner on a shelf near the kitchen was set to emergency frequencies.

Dorian seated himself at the tiny kitchen table. "Do you always pace when cooking?"

"Do you always quote Beyoncé when you're bleeding internally?"

"How did you know I quote Beyoncé?"

"I heard you whispering the words on my couch. It was 'Survivor'—Destiny's Child."

Dorian shrugged. "Truth is truth."

A beat of silence passed.

I raised an eyebrow. "Wait. Do you know the whole song?"

"Don't test me unless you're ready for Destiny's Child a cappella."

The threat sounded real. I backed away and returned to my stirring.

We ate standing at the kitchen counter, sharing soup from mismatched bowls. It was simple food and probably the first meal we'd shared without checking windows or calculating escape routes.

Dorian finished his soup and set the bowl aside. "What a tidy little apocalypse hideout—with board games."

I laughed. "That's James's contribution. He insists on backup entertainment for when Marcus finishes inspecting the solar panels and checking the perimeter." I rinsed our bowls in the small sink. "Apparently, even wilderness retreats need structured activities."

The rain intensified outside. I listened to the steady rhythm while a knot in my chest began to unwind.

Dorian returned to the fireplace and settled into one of Marcus's hand-hewn chairs.

I found blankets in a cedar chest and offered one to him. He was in the chair closest to the door, and I took the other, stretching my legs toward the heat.

Tea for him and coffee for me. Steam rose from our mugs in lazy spirals.

I broke the silence by sharing an old story. "Might as well get to know the family better. Miles tried to teach a CPR class when he was ten. Found a plastic dummy in Dad's gear, dragged it to the backyard, and announced he was opening McCabe Medical Academy."

Dorian's attention shifted from the fire to me, one eyebrow raised.

"Charged the neighborhood kids fifty cents for certification courses. Had them lined up around the block. Marcus made official-looking certificates on the computer. I got recruited as the guy who pretended to drown in the kiddie pool so Miles could demonstrate a water rescue."

I sipped my coffee, remembering the chaos of that summer afternoon. "Problem was, Miles had been watching Dad practice on the dummy, but he'd missed some crucial details. He spent twenty minutes teaching eight-year-olds to perform chest compressions on the victim's stomach."

Dorian chuckled softly.

"Mrs. Patterson from next door called Dad at the station when she found her grandson trying to save his perfectly healthy little sister by giving her stomach compressions while she was eating a popsicle.

Dad came home to discover chaos—kids chasing each other around the yard, insisting they needed to practice lifesaving techniques on anyone who would hold still long enough. "

A genuine laugh escaped Dorian. It seemed to surprise him as much as it pleased me.

"Your brother's confidence sounds dangerous." He settled deeper into his chair.

"Miles never met a situation he couldn't improve with enthusiasm and questionable expertise. He's still like that." I watched the firelight play across Dorian's features. "Your turn."

"My turn for what?"

"Story. Something from before all this. Before running and before Hoyle." I gestured vaguely at the cabin around us. "Something normal."

Dorian stared back into the fire, fingers wrapped around his mug. When he spoke, his voice was smoother and less guarded than I'd heard yet.

"I spent three weeks as a youth group leader in Vermont. I was a summer camp counselor for kids whose parents wanted them to experience wholesome outdoor activities." He paused and smiled briefly.

The fire crackled, sending new shadows dancing across the cabin walls.