After a short supply at the grocery store for some useful items, we headed out towards Firecreek Mesa. The drive took us up the same highway we had gone to get to the large nomad camp, but we pulled onto a dirt track on the opposite side of the road well before that turn, heading west. We climbed in altitude, the two track road winding us up through pines and then into mixed conifer and aspen. It was a beautiful area, one that I hadn’t experienced yet in my short time in Melspol. I could see why it was a great hunting destination, the area looked perfect for deer and elk, as far as I knew.

We trundled up to what was called the eastern slope, where many hunting cabins were situated.

“Ok, here’s where we start hiking. It’ll be faster than driving to each one individually,” Oak explained as we got out in a rough parking lot.

We shoved food and supplies into two packs and then headed out. Also, on Oak’s recommendation, we donned bright yellow hunting vests so as to distinguish ourselves from prey. We didn’t have much to go on, but Oak was confident that we wouldn’t be able to miss a cabin.

“They’re all in a row here on top of the slope. We can easily hike from one to the next.”

So it seemed. The first one we came to was a well built little log cabin, big enough for a whole family to stay in if need be. There were two vehicles parked out front. Neither was a black Dodj pickup. We knocked on the front door and after a few moments, it swung open to reveal three men. Curiously they spoke to us from the doorway as we introduced ourselves and asked over Clint Roth, but none of them knew him. They took our card good naturedly and promised to call if they came upon him.

“Wow, this place is packed,” Oak observed as we came to the next cabin, where four cars were parked. At this one, we found only one fellow present who had stayed behind while the rest of his party headed out to hunt for deer.

“Back’s acting up,” he said, grimacing as he allowed us inside. “Just couldn’t do another trek today.”

He explained he was part of a party of seven and showed us his archery permit.

We came to three more cabins in the space of the first hour, meeting at least one person at all of them, with similar stories of hunting for the weekend, and no knowledge of Clint.

“These are the more recently built cabins,” Oak informed me as we continued our cross slope trek. “Rentals to folks looking to hunt for a week or so. The older family cabins will be at the other end. You’ll know them when you see them.”

It was quite true. While the first five cabins had been well constructed, some of them appearing almost brand new, the next cabin we came to was a dilapidated thing with half its shingles missing and a collapsed front porch. A round from a large aspen had been positioned in front of the door to gain entrance. There was no car outside it. We knocked for several minutes, then did a circle of the small cabin and peered in through filmy windows. From what I could see, it looked empty and unused. The next one we came to was in a similar state, though it had a car parked in from, a white pickup. I gingerly paced across the weak looking porch and knocked. For a time nothing happened.

“They might be out hunting if they’re after deer,” Oak suggested.

I frowned at the door. “Melsopol Police! Open up!” I called in through the drafty front door.

Nothing happened.

“We can circle back if we don’t find Clint further up. Wrong car anyways.”

I reluctantly agreed and we moved to the next. We moved to the next family cabin. This ramshackle edifice did have a black truck parked in front of it. I felt a jolt of excitement before we got close enough to see it was a Chevel pickup not a Dodj. We knocked. This time I could tell someone was inside, as there came a clatter like someone had dropped something. We waited patiently. I knocked again, about to call out when the door was yanked inward nearly off its hinges, revealing a large man who looked as though he was about three sheets to the wind. His eyes were flickering open, his clothes were hanging off him and his whole body stank of whiskey.

“What?” he grunted.

“Hello sir, my name is DI Senel, this is Inspector Oak. We’re with the Melspol Police. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“I’m not doing nothing illegal. This is private property,” the man slurred, attempting to swing the door closed. I placed a hand on it to prevent this.

“What’s you name sir?”

He glared at me with his droopy eyes. “Hamel. Burk Hamel.”

“And this is your hunting cabin Mr. Hamel.”

“I own this cabin,” Hamel said disdainfully. “Now clear off.”

“Do you have a hunting permit this fall, Mr. Hamel?”

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“Archery,” Hamel said, turned for a moment and fumbling for something, which I hoped very much was his permit and not his bow. He shoved a soiled paper into my hand a second later.

“And do you know a Mr. Clint Roth at all Mr. Hamel? He owns a cabin in this area. We’re trying to find him.”

Hamel squinted at us, swaying a little on the spot. Then he shrugged and pointed along the eastern slope. “Roth cabin’s three up, maybe four. I don’t know him. Knew his daddy a bit back then.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hamel. Have a pleasant hunting trip.”

We hastily backed out of the area. “Whew!” Oak exclaimed once we were out of earshot. “I hope he doesn’t try to hunt like that!”

“Doesn’t look like he’d be coordinated enough to string an arrow,” I agreed.

“I remember seeing guys like that when my dad took me and my brother hunting. Guys that came up here to go on a binge.”

“Might be we find Mr. Roth in a similar state,” I said, recalling the detritus around his house.

“Do you really think he’s got Luna?” Oak asked after a moment as we hiked along. “And that he’s doing…terrible things to her?”

My gut clenched for a moment. If I was barking up the wrong tree about the drug syndicate, Luna might well have been up here helpless in the woods being subjected to god knew what horrible acts. It was almost too gruesome to consider, though I had heard of such terrors in the capital before.

“I sincerely hope not. But we had better make sure.”

We strode on, casing three more cabins in various states of shabby until we finally came to it. An old black Dodj pickup was parked outside of a cabin so battered, that I was amazed it was even standing. It looked as though a good gust of wind might topple it.

This time, we took a different approach. Oak stayed off to the side, taking cover behind a nearby tree, her hand on her weapon in case I needed cover. I approached the house and knocked on the door. I nearly knocked right through it, as the wood was old and damaged.

“Mr. Clinton Roth,” I called. “Please open the door.”

There came no reply. We waited. Suddenly there was a loud crunch from behind us.

“What the hell?” a reedy voice called. I spun around and for the second time in four days, I found myself staring down a man aiming a bow and arrow at me. I froze, while Oak skirted around her tree to the other side, pulling her gun.

“Melspol Police!” she called, and I could hear the shake in her voice. “Drop your weapon!”

The man stared at us for several drawn out seconds and then lowered the bow. “The hell is this?”

“Please put your weapon on the ground sir,” Oak said.

After observing her gun for a steady moment, the man complied.

“Mr. Clinton Roth?” I asked, as my adrenaline began to lessen its course through my bloodstream.

“Yeah. Who’re you?”

“DI Senel and Inspector Oak of Melspol County. We need to speak with you Mr. Roth. How about inside?”

Roth stared stupidly at us for a few moments and then shrugged, bending down to retrieve the bow and arrow.

“You can leave those,” Oak said quickly.

Roth looked back up at her and then shrugged again and headed towards the front door of his cabin. He unlocked the door and allowed me inside first, while Oak marked him with her gun. The cabin was untidy in a dusty sort of way, as if it was rarely used. The whole place was a single room, with a bed in one corner, a fireplace opposite it and a small kitchen area with a few chairs nearer the door. There was also a large chest freezer which appeared to be locked. I eyed this for a long moment, before looking at the rest of the place. Roth’s whiskey habit was evidenced by an empty bottle on the kitchen counter and a half consumed one next to the fireplace. His shotgun was sitting upright next to the bed. I crossed to it and quickly unloaded it, placing it on the bed with the shot off to one side. Clint glared at me.

“This is private property,” he said stomping over and jabbing a finger in my face. “You can’t just march in here and touch my gun.”

“I’m merely taking the gun out of any equations, Mr. Roth.”

He squinted. “What the hell do y’all want?”

“How long have you been at your cabin Mr. Roth?” Oak asked.

Roth furrowed his brow. “Four days or summit. Why?”

“Are you aware that there was a kidnapping in Wiggins, which took place the same day you left to come to your cabin?”

Roth frowned at us, looking lost. “Kidnapping? What the hell does that have to do with me?”

“A ten year old girl was taken Mr. Roth.”

“So? What of it?”

“You have a criminal record, do you not? Indecent exposure in front of children?”

Roth’s pasty face went burgundy. “I never did nothing to those kids!” he shot. “What the hell does it matter that was three years ago. I was drunk, I got the wrong house, I told them cops that a hundred times.”

But then I saw comprehension dawn on him. “You think I took some kid up here? To what? Fuck um?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Would you mind opening your chest freezer Mr. Roth?”

Roth glanced at the freezer and I saw a sudden anxiety pass over his face. “Hell no,” he said after a moment, regaining his defiance. “Y’all need a warrant to search my belongings.”

I glanced at Oak. Getting a warrant could take all the rest of the weekend with half the force absent. She seemed to be considering this reality as well.

“How about we broker a little deal here, Mr. Roth,” I said. “You give us a quick peak in your chest freezer and around the rest of your property, and we won’t write up an incident report about you pointing a loaded bow at a county police officer.”

It was Roth’s turn to raise his eyebrows. He looked like he was considering this hard, but something was still causing him indecision.

“Y’all are just here about this kidnapped girl?” he asked slowly.

I frowned. “Yes,” I said, wondering where this was going.

“Fine, you got yourself a deal,” Roth said. He crossed to the freezer, opened the lock and then threw the top open.

Oak and I strode forwards. Inside, were blocks of melting ice, in addition to what appeared to be the carcass of a large bird. I couldn’t see anything else in there and turned away but Oak said, “I’m sure you’re aware that turkey season doesn’t begin until November 1st, Mr. Roth?”

“Look, you said you’re just here to find some missing kid, right. So you can look the other way this time? I mean the bird was fucking perfect, I had to take the shot.”

Oak glared at him, but I squeezed her arm, indicating that this wasn’t our fight. She sighed. “Can you show us around the rest of your property, Mr. Roth?”

He did so, but we found nothing of interest. The outhouse was disgusting, but empty, and the small butchering shed outside was similarly clear.

“Am I clear now?” Roth asked. “I got hunting to do.”

I waved him back to his cabin as the two of us headed back the way we had come. But Oak called over her shoulder, “Game Warden Presley’s going to be checking permits and catches down at the highway turn off Mr. Roth. I suggest you keep to the hunting guidelines.”