Emily Kenyon 01 - A Cold Dark Place

parked in front of a weathered chain and stepped outside, her flashlight’s narrow beam barely a match for the heavy shroud of weather, an approaching storm. But, of course, none of that bothered her. Nothing could stop what had fueled her hunt since it all began-her daughter. Where was Jenna? Before the last bars on her cell phone died, she’d talked to Olga Morris-Cerrino about what had happened and where she was going. Olga told her that she’d heard through her pal at Seattle PD that local cops had requested infrared flybys to search for Jenna.
    “My daughter is alive,” she said. “We don’t need to look for a goddamned hot spot”
    No one could steal her hope. Though some tried. The worst had been her ex-husband. His last remarks could not have been crueler. His words were like wedding rice in the face, spiny and sharp, unexpected. How she had ever loved him was lost forever as his vitriolic words came back to her.
    “This comes down on you, Emily. You’ve really messed up this time. With our own daughter!”
    Only Olga had seemed adamant that Jenna would be found. “To think otherwise, is to lose her,” she told Emily when she saw her outside Christopher’s hospital room.
    “I know.” Emily’s voice was soft and her emotions fragile.
    “You need to get a grip,” Olga said. “You’re stronger than this and your daughter depends on you” She looked around the hallway; several other cops with coffee hovered nearby. “Do you want to count on them?”
    Emily shook her head. “Absolutely not”
    Olga went on, her voice no longer hushed. “All of his vies were taken in close proximity to where he’d lived. He’s good looking and lazy. That’s the standard combination of any straight guy with a hot body and pretty face” She tried to get Emily to smile, but she couldn’t. Instead, she hatched a plan. “I’ll work some things around here. The cops are all over this, but they’re no match for you”
    Emily knew Olga was right.
    “There’s an old World War II bunker not far from the cabin. Chris thinks I should go there. I sure can’t just wait here”
    Emily felt her way along the iron chain, so heavy and rusted. Probably a relic from a shipwreck, the chain was meant to keep interlopers and vandals from the bunker. She was nearly out of breath, though she had barely exerted herself. So hard to breathe in this wind.
    The weather could not have been worse, and for once, the radio weather report could not have been more accurate: “Gale force winds on the coast; small craft advisories in all Washington coastal waters… .
    She pulled her coat tighter and followed the length of the chain, searching for a bolt or a latch of some kind, but found none. I don’t want to have to walk up there, she thought, eyeing the impossibly steep and rain-washed road to top of the bluff and the bunker. She kicked at the chain, but it stayed anchored by the four-foot creosote pilings that had been jammed into the sandy soil. She’d have no choice but to completely brave the elements and walk. She went back to the car, turned off the engine, dimmed the headlights, and grabbed a heavy Maglite from the glove box.
    A second later, the flashlight’s beam poking though the darkness, Emily was over the chain and in search of her daughter. She had gone directly from Christopher’s hospital room to this desolate spot. If Jenna was in there, she didn’t want her to wait one minute longer than she had to for her mom. She had to get her out of there as soon as she could.
    Before it’s too late. Before she dies. Before my life is over.
    The bunker had been built on a promontory above the Pacific in World War II. It was one of several positioned around Washington state in the event that the Japanese had somehow launched a secret offensive to invade the West Coast. After it had been abandoned for decades, the locals had tried to make it a tourist destination but as the concrete interior that had once housed a pair of sixteen-foot cannons began to crumble, the state shut down the site and posted a series of WARNING and DANGER signs.
    As Emily trudged her way up the darkened bluff, she could see that the heavy chain had not been a complete deterrent-several beer cans and even some paper plates indicated that the bunker might have been a party spot; charred logs indicated a campsite. Tire tracks from motorcycles and all-terrain vehicles had slashed the sandy soil with ruts that now collected water. A dozen little