Cory held up three fingers. The countdown.
Three... Izzy's finger found the trigger guard.
Two... Cory's hand moved to the door handle.
One...
42
Cory burst through the door,weapon raised, Izzy flowing in beside him in perfect synchronization. "Police. Nobody move."
The scene that greeted them froze his brain for a critical second.
Tom Morrison stood by the fireplace in a rumpled suit, champagne bottle in one hand, two glasses in the other. A banner stretched across the mantle: "Happy 40th Anniversary." Candles flickered on every surface. From an ancient radio in the corner, Sinatra crooned about flying to the moon.
"Chief Fraser? Izzy?" Tom's bewilderment was absolute. "What are you doing here? Where's Janet?"
Cory's weapon lowered slightly, confusion warring with trained caution. In the corner, Tom's rifle leaned against the wall like an afterthought, clearly untouched.
"Tom, put the bottle down," Cory commanded, trying to process the disconnect between armed fugitive and anniversary celebration.
"But Janet said to meet her here at six." Tom set the champagne on the mantle with shaking hands. "Our tradition. Every ten years, we come back to where I proposed." Hefumbled in his jacket pocket, producing a handwritten note. "See? She said to meet her where it all began."
Izzy snatched the note, and Cory read over her shoulder. Janet's distinctive handwriting:My darling Tom, Meet me where it all began. We need to remember what matters. All my love, J
SLAM.
The door crashed shut behind them with devastating finality. The metallic shriek of an iron latch dropping into place followed immediately by the heavy thud of the outer bear bar—the kind used to keep actual bears out of ranger stations.
"No." Izzy lunged for the door, yanking the handle. Nothing. The door might as well have been welded shut.
Cory rushed to the nearest window. But thick oak storm shutters had been locked from outside. He slammed his shoulder against them—solid as a vault.
Izzy spun around, weapon raised again. "Tom, who else knew you were coming here?"
"Just Janet. She's the only one I told—" Tom's face went white. He clasped his hands in front of him, squeezing hard. "What if someone has her? What if they forced her to write that note?"
“Let’s stay calm,” Cory ordered quietly.
Izzy slipped her phone from the pocket of her tactical vest, then frowned up at him. “No signal.”
He shrugged. “What would be the fun in that?”
Her answering smile practically lifted him off his feet. Until the reality crashed down again.
“Why the rifle?” Cory asked Tom.
“Bears.” The older man shrugged half-heartedly. “Seen plenty of tracks over the years here, but never came across one. But I’m always prepared.”
They split up instinctively—Izzy checking the back door (barred), Cory testing each window (all shuttered and locked). The ranger station had been built in the 1950s to withstand High Sierra winters and wildlife. Log walls two feet thick. Window coverings designed to keep heat in and everything else out.
A perfect prison.
"We're locked in," Cory stated the obvious, mind racing through possibilities. Another player? Someone who'd followed them? Or?—
"Hello?" Tom was shouting now, pounding on the door. "Is someone out there? This isn't funny. Where’s my wife? Janet? JANET."
A voice drifted down from the old heating vent near the ceiling—colder than the December night outside.
