Chapter 5 - The Dead TradeZ
The safehouse was a dilapidated cabin five miles off the grid, tucked deep into the dense pine forests of the Cascade Mountains. It had belonged to Nora’s late grandfather—a rotting structure of cedar logs, rusted iron roofing, and windows boarded up from the inside.
I dragged Nora through the front door, her head bleeding profusely where Zane had smashed it against the steering wheel. Jeremy locked the thick wooden door behind us, sliding a heavy oak beam across the frame.
The air inside was cold, smelling of mold, dried pine needles, and age.
"We need light," I panted, laying Nora down on a ratty corduroy couch in the living room. "Jeremy, find a flashlight. Don't turn on any overhead lights."
"There's kerosene lamps in the kitchen," Nora groaned, wincing as she clutched her head. "In the cabinet below the sink."
Jeremy moved through the shadows with quiet efficiency. Within minutes, a soft, amber glow illuminated the small room. He brought a bowl of cold water and a torn bedsheet to my side, helping me dab the blood from Nora’s forehead.
He was silent again, but it was a different silence now. It wasn't the traumatized retreat of a broken five-year-old; it was the calculated quiet of a soldier standing guard.
"Nora," I said, leaning close to her face. "You need to tell me everything now. No more half-truths. No more protecting Zane’s letters. Why did those men have guns? Dean is a corporate executive, not a mob boss."
Nora let out a bitter, wet laugh that ended in a harsh cough. "You still think this is about Vantage Enterprises, Claire? Vantage is just a front."
I frowned, looking up at Jeremy, who was watching Nora intently.
"Twenty years ago," Nora began, her voice hoarse, "Dean and Zane got involved with a syndicate out of Vancouver. They were using Vantage’s shipping routes to haul unregistered cargo—pharmaceuticals, illegal weapons, human trafficking victims. Dean provided the logistics, and Zane cleared the customs forms through his division."
My heart plummeted into a dark, bottomless abyss. "Customs forms... Zane was just an accountant..."
"Zane was the key master," Nora corrected, looking me dead in the eye. "He knew every border patrol agent, every shipping manifest, every blind spot on the Puget Sound. But eight years ago, the syndicate lost a shipment worth twelve million dollars. The syndicate threatened to kill Dean’s entire family if the money wasn't recovered."
She pointed a trembling finger toward Jeremy.
"Zane didn't steal four million dollars to screw Dean over," Nora whispered. "He stole it to pay off the syndicate. But he was short. So he offered them something else."
"What?" I gasped, the room spinning around me. "What could he possibly offer them?"
"Information," Nora said. "The location of a federal witness who was testifying against the syndicate’s boss. A woman named Sarah Lin. Zane traded her location to clear his debt."
I covered my mouth with both hands, horrific realization washing over me like ice water.
"And the black bag..." I whispered, the words barely audible. "The bag Zane had on the boat..."
"It wasn't just paper evidence," Nora said, tears finally overflowing her eyes. "It was the federal witness protection file for Sarah Lin. Janice took that bag off Zane’s desk because she thought it contained her birthday present—a plush rabbit Zane had hidden inside it. When Janice fell into the water with that bag, the file was destroyed. The syndicate thought Zane double-crossed them."
"They didn't just let her drown," Jeremy suddenly spoke, his voice cold, steady, and terrifyingly calm.
I turned my head to look at my son. He was staring at the floor, his fingers tracing the edge of the tire iron he still held.
"What did you say, Jeremy?" I asked softly, terrified of the answer.
"Janice didn't drown," Jeremy said.
He raised his head. His eyes were completely devoid of tears, replaced by an ancient, unyielding fury.
"I saw the man in the yellow raincoat," Jeremy said. "He pulled her out of the water down at the dam. He looked at Dad, Dad nodded at him, and the man put Janice in the back of a black van."
The kerosene lamp flickered violently as a gust of wind rattled the cabin windows.
I sat frozen, the breath completely stolen from my body. My mind refused to process the sentence. For eight years, I had visited an empty grave. For eight years, I had mourned a little girl whose body was swept out to sea.
"She’s... she’s alive?" I sobbed, the words clawing their way out of my throat. "Jeremy... is your sister alive?!"
Before Jeremy could answer, the old landline telephone mounted on the cabin wall began to ring.
The harsh, mechanical bell echoed through the dark house like a death knell.
RING.
RING.
Nora stared at the phone in sheer terror. "No one has this number. Nobody."
RING.
I slowly pushed myself up from the floor, my legs shaking so badly I could barely stand. I walked over to the wooden wall, reached out a trembling hand, and lifted the black plastic receiver to my ear.
"Claire," Zane’s voice came through the speaker, distorted by heavy static and the sound of wind. "I know you're at the cabin."
"Where is she?" I screamed into the receiver, tears streaming down my face. "Where is my daughter, Zane?!"
A long, heavy pause filled the line, followed by the soft, chilling sound of a child’s mechanical music box playing a familiar tune—the melody of Happy Birthday.
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"She’s been waiting for her pie, Claire," Zane said, his tone devoid of all humanity. "Bring Jeremy to the old timber mill by midnight. Just you and him. If I see a single police car, I’ll finish what I started eight years ago."
The line went dead.
