Chapter 4 - The Hunt at Pine Ridge
By late afternoon, the winter sun hung low over the snow-covered peaks of Pine Ridge, casting long, bruised shadows across the dense pine forest. Two unmarked police cruisers and a state trooper SUV crawled up the winding, unplowed dirt road toward Richard’s isolated cabin.
Inside the lead car, Officer Vance kept his eyes fixed on the treeline. He turned to me—insisting I come to identify any potential hiding spots or property layouts—while Daniel sat in the back seat, staring blankly out the frosted window, his knuckles white.
“Mrs. Pierce,” Vance said quietly, keeping his voice below the hum of the heater. “The local precinct checked the utility logs for the cabin. Motion sensors were triggered inside the cabin about twenty minutes ago. He’s there.”
“He has a basement storm shelter,” I said, my voice steady now, purged of fear and replaced by cold resolve. “He built it himself ten years ago. It has a reinforced steel door and a separate ventilation pipe running out near the woodshed. If he’s cornered, that’s where he’ll go.”
When the cruisers rounded the final bend, Richard’s vintage pickup truck was parked haphazardly against the side of the wooden cabin, its engine still ticking faintly from the cold air.
Officers poured out of the vehicles, weapons drawn, boots crunching loudly on the frozen crust of snow.
“Richard Pierce! Step out of the house with your hands visible!” Officer Vance’s voice echoed sharply through the silent forest, startling a flock of crows from the pines.
The cabin remained dark and silent. No lights flickered through the frosted windows. No door creaked open.
Daniel bolted from the car before Vance could stop him. “Dad! Open the damn door! I know you’re in there!”
“Mr. Pierce, get back!” Vance shouted, motioning for backup to cover Daniel as he reached the front porch.
Daniel didn't listen. He slammed his shoulder against the heavy oak front door. With a loud snap of splintering wood, the latch gave way, and Daniel tumbled inside the dim living room.
I followed closely behind the officers, stepping into the cabin. It smelled of old cedar, pipe tobacco, and something else—a sharp, chemical tang that mirrored the scent in our kitchen.
“Clear!” shouted one of the troopers, sweeping the small kitchen and hallway.
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“He’s not in the main rooms,” Officer Vance said, shining his tactical flashlight down a narrow hallway at the back of the cabin. “Check the floor access.”
We found it behind the utility closet: a heavy trapdoor built flush into the wooden floorboards, fitted with a modern digital keypad lock. And right beside it, on a small wooden stool, sat Richard’s laptop, open and glowing.
