Page 18 of Once Vanished
Riley cut the engine and sat motionless, scanning the perimeter.The clearing was silent—no birdsong, no rustling leaves, just the cooling tick of her car’s engine.In the packed dirt of the clearing, she could make out fresh tire tracks cutting through older ones, but no vehicle was visible.Someone had been here recently.Someone had left.
Or maybe they hadn’t left at all.Maybe those tracks were a misdirection.
She drew her weapon and stepped out of the car, keeping the door between herself and the cabin as she continued her assessment.No smoke rose from the chimney.No sound came from within.
“Leo!”she called out, her voice startlingly loud in the stillness.“I’m here.Just like you wanted.”
Only silence answered her.
Riley circled around the car, moving with careful steps toward the cabin.The wooden steps creaked beneath her weight as she went up on the porch.Through gaps in the weathered boards, she glimpsed tangled weeds reaching upward from below, like fingers straining to grab her ankles.
At the front door, she paused.Had Leo brought Jilly here only to move her again?Was this all an elaborate distraction, designed to waste precious time while he carried out the next phase of his plan?Or was Jilly inside right now, watching, waiting, possibly hurt?
“Leo, I’m coming in,” Riley announced, though she doubted anyone was listening.
The door wasn’t locked—it swung open at her touch, hinges protesting with a long, mournful groan.Riley stepped into stale darkness, gun raised, senses straining.Dust motes swirled in the shafts of fading daylight that pierced through gaps in the boarded windows.The interior certainly looked abandoned—cobwebbed furniture draped in yellowed sheets, dead leaves scattered across warped floorboards, the lingering scent of mildew and disuse.
But someone had been here.Recently.A path had been cleared through the dust on the floor, leading toward the back of the cabin.
Riley followed it, moving through what had once been a living room, past a kitchen with rusted appliances, to a door that stood slightly ajar.She pushed it open with her foot, revealing a back bedroom.
Her breath caught in her throat.In the center of the room was a rectangular pine box, its rough-hewn surface gleaming dully in the half-light.It was approximately six feet long, two feet wide—a simple, crude construction of unfinished pine planks.The lid had been sealed around the edges with clear plastic and silver duct tape, creating an airtight chamber.
Images she had seen before flashed unbidden through Riley’s mind—three previous victims, each found too late, their desperate scratches marking the insides of boxes identical to this one.
Years ago, she and Bill had tracked the Pine Box Murderer for weeks, always one step behind, until they finally caught him after the third death.The case had haunted them both—the knowledge that they had failed to save those victims, that they had been so close each time.
And now Leo had recreated it.He had studied her past, her old cases, her nightmares, her failures.He knew exactly how to twist the knife.
“Jilly!”Riley shouted, holstering her weapon and rushing to the box.“Jilly, can you hear me?”
No sound came from within.No movement.No sign of life.
Terror seized Riley’s heart in an icy grip.How long had the box been sealed?How much air remained inside?If Jilly was in there...
“Hold on, baby,” Riley whispered, her voice breaking.“I’m getting you out.”
She sprinted back through the cabin, out to her car, and grabbed a tire iron from the trunk.Seconds later she was back at the box, jamming the metal tool beneath the lid, throwing her weight against it.The nails shrieked as they pulled free, the plastic tore, and finally the lid gave way.
The smell hit her first—sweat and blood and something medicinal.Then, as dust and splinters settled, Riley looked down into the box.
It wasn’t Jilly.
A man in a police uniform lay inside, unconscious, his face pale beneath a sheen of sweat.He was young—late twenties, maybe—with close-cropped dark hair and the solid build of someone who worked out regularly.This man’s face stirred some recognition, but the connection remained frustratingly out of reach.
Riley’s eyes fell to the nameplate on his chest: POPE.
Something clicked in her memory.Pope.The name was familiar, as was the face, but from where?She had encountered hundreds of police officers over the years, worked with dozens of departments.
She saw that the plastic lining inside the box was torn and shredded from where Pope had struggled until he ran out of oxygen.She pressed fingers to his neck, finding a pulse—weak but present.His skin was cool to the touch, his breathing shallow.
“Officer Pope,” she said firmly, tapping his cheek.“Can you hear me?”
When he didn’t respond, Riley lowered herself to the dusty floor beside the box and began CPR.As she worked, her mind ran through possibilities.Why would Leo take a police officer?Why place him in this specific setting?What message was he sending?
And why did this man strike her as familiar?
CHAPTER EIGHT