Die by the Sword (An Owen Day Thriller) Read online

  Die By the Sword

  An Owen Day Thriller, Book 5

  By Rachel Ford

  Chapter One

  Caleb Waters slammed the door shut behind him. The cabin was dark, the old kerosene lanterns hanging unlit on hooks on the walls, or sitting amid layers of dust on tables and counters. No one had been here in months, maybe years. Probably not since he’d come here during his last leave.

  They wouldn’t find him. Not here.

  The cold April wind howled outside, and silvery moonlight filtered in through the frosted glass. Frosted by cold and ice, not any kind of treatment.

  He’d be safe here.

  But he needed to get a fire lit. He could see his breath, crystalizing in great, frozen puffs every time he exhaled. It was well below freezing outside – and inside, too, since the place had no heat.

  He stumbled toward the old cast iron woodstove. There were dry logs stacked neatly nearby. There were always logs stacked nearby. You didn’t stay at the cabin without replenishing the wood.

  That was the rule.

  His fingers trembled as he loaded the stove. It had been a long hike through knee deep snow after the truck got stuck. He’d have to take care of that sooner or later.

  But that would be a tomorrow project. He could dig it out once the sun came up.

  He struck a match in the dry kindling, and flames whooshed up. He resisted the urge to place his hands over the crackling logs, shutting the door all but an inch instead.

  He heard the fire catching, the whistling intake of air as it grew. Soon – soon it would be a full blaze. Soon the place would be warm.

  Caleb turned next to a lantern. His fingers trembled as he tried to light it, but after two attempts, soft light flooded the room.

  He decided he needed to eat something. With unsteady steps, he headed toward the kitchen. Twice, he stumbled, catching himself the second time a moment before he faceplanted. Something was wrong. He knew that. He’d felt off all day.

  But no. That was bullshit.

  He’d felt off for weeks. For months. Ever since he’d come home. Ever since that damned IED had changed everything.

  The walls swam and shifted as he went, closing in one moment and then stretching away. The floor rose and fell. Shadows stretched up before him like the maw of some great, hellish underworld.

  Clutching the ever-shifting walls with his left hand, Caleb made his way into the kitchen, and pulled open a cupboard. Cans of food lined the interior.

  Another rule of the cabin: you didn’t eat without restocking before you left.

  He hadn’t brought anything. He thought vaguely that he’d need to dig out the pickup and head into town before he left.

  But tomorrow. Once his head stopped swimming. Once his brain started working again.

  Caleb pulled out a can of raviolis with a tab lid, and used his fingers to scoop cold pasta out into his mouth. He felt ravenous, as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

  Maybe he hadn’t. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember much of anything lately it seemed.

  Goddamn brain.

  He finished the can, and pulled out a second. This proved harder to open on account of the sauce already covering his fingers, but he got it eventually.

  He was disappointed to see that these weren’t raviolis, but spaghetti and meatballs. Still, he shook with hunger, so he didn’t let disappointment interfere with eating.

  Caleb worked his way through three more random cans of pastas and soups, then stumbled back to the living room. He felt better now that he had food in him, though his head still swam a little.

  The fire had begun to warm the room. He could no longer see his breath as he neared the stove. He settled by it, and closed his eyes, just to rest them. He couldn’t sleep. He had to stay awake to think.

  It wouldn’t hurt to rest them, though, he told himself.

  When Caleb opened his eyes next, sunlight streamed through the windows. The fire had burned itself out, and the cabin was cold again. Not as cold as it had been the night before, though. Not close.

  His head ached with all the fire of a hangover. But he hadn’t drank anything yesterday.

  At least, he was pretty sure he hadn’t.

  He groaned and pushed himself to his feet. The room stayed still, the way rooms used to, back before the injury.

  That was something, anyway.

  He glanced around, trying to remember where he was, and why. The cabin. He’d come to the cabin the day before, because…

  Caleb frowned. Why had he come here? It all seemed so foggy, so vague.

  He and Amy had fought. He remembered that. He remembered yelling. He remembered Amy’s brother, Liam, showing up, and more fighting.

  He remembered being afraid.

  Afraid of what?

  It wouldn’t come back, no matter how he strained his mind. Finally, head aching with effort and general pain, he decided to give it up. He’d have breakfast, and then he’d get a shovel and head down to the truck.

  The evidence of last night’s meal lay on the counter, and memories of it flooded back. He glanced at his hand – still covered in now dried tomato sauce and beef broth – and winced.

  What the hell had he been thinking?

  Caleb set to work cleaning up – starting with himself. No easy task, without running water. He could check the brook later, or if it was still frozen over, fetch some snow, and melt it on the stove. For now, dry towels would have to do.

  He was scrubbing away at his fingers when the sound of an engine reached him.

  And then, like a dam breaking, the memories hit him – all of them, all at once, jumbled and mixed, confused and confusing.

  He’d been running away last night. They were going to kill him. Yes, he’d been sure of that, hadn’t he? They were going to kill him. They had tried to lure him out to meet them, and that had failed.

  And now they’d found him. Someone was on the mountainside below, following the old track as far as he’d gotten, until snow rendered it impassible.

  They’d come for him. They’d found him.

  Nine hours later, a thousand miles away

  “I think they’re going to kill me…”

  The call ended abruptly with a sound of breaking glass, and Owen Day stared at his phone. It had come in at twelve minutes past eleven in the morning – nine hours ago.

  In the six months since his medical discharge, Owen had been unable to shake the night owl habits he’d picked up during his time in the United States Army. So he’d been asleep when the call arrived.

  Most nights, he found a kind of peace in the darkness and solitude of evening. But not that night. Not when he woke to find eight identical alerts: Missed Call from Waters, Caleb; and a ninth: Voicemail from Waters, Caleb.

  He knew the name, and he knew the Montana area code. It had been a little over six months since he’d last heard from either – right before Owen had changed his own number.

  Wondering vaguely how Waters had got ahold of his contact information since he’d gone to such lengths to hide it, his more pressing thought had been why? Why track him down now?

  Why eight calls?

  He’d hesitated to press Play. That meant acknowledging the contact. Opening this line to the past. To the way things had been before The Incident.

  And yet, Waters had called eight times in a row, all within minutes. Not like Caleb Waters. Not like him at all.

  So Owen had pressed Play, and he’d listened in growing alarm as his friend’s voice came across the line.

  Now, he stood staring at his phone. He should have jumped into action as soon as he heard it. He should have been returning the call, or phoning Caleb Waters
’ command, or his wife, or the cops or – something.

  But the sound of Waters’ voice had left him reeling, fighting back sounds and images he’d planned to forget forever. Like he’d known it might.

  He focused on the phone, on the pale screen with its Play button and the paragraph of rough transcription below. The text swam as visions of different screens fought to replace the reality before him, as the echo of long dead voices filled the empty room.

  Sweat beaded his forehead, and Owen drew in one breath and then another.

  Breathe and focus on the present. On what you can see and feel.

  He squeezed the phone case, taking in the texture of plastic and rubber between his fingers. He felt the moving air from a nearby fan as it played across his face and through his hair. He pressed his toes into the hardwood under his feet.

  Focus on the present. On what you can see and feel.

  As quickly as they’d struck, the sounds and images retreated. The text, the transcription of Caleb’s message, came into focus.

  “Owen? It’s me, Caleb. Look, I know – I know you have things to work out, but I need your help. I can’t tell if it’s me or them. Me or them. I don’t know if I’m losing my mind. Maybe I am. Maybe it’s all in my head.”

  He read it and re-read it, trying to make sense of the words. But the transcription lacked the emotion, the pregnant pauses, the smashing sound that preceded the end of the call.

  Owen pressed the Speaker button and closed his eyes as the static of a bad connection filled the room. Then Caleb’s voice followed.

  Tense. Fearful.

  “Owen? It’s me, Caleb. Look, I know – I know you have things to work out, but I need your help. I can’t tell if it’s me or them.”

  A pause, long and strained. Then, “Me or them,” again. Frustration and anger crept into his tone. “I don’t know if I’m losing my mind. Maybe I am. Maybe it’s all in my head.”

  Silence again, then a loud smashing sound and Caleb’s voice, high and panicked. “I think they’re going to kill me…”

  Glass shattered, and then the line went dead.

  The fear in Waters’ voice had been genuine, no doubt about that. He was afraid that someone was coming after him.

  But so had the confusion about his own sanity. I don’t know if I’m losing my mind. Maybe I am. Maybe it’s all in my head.

  Owen thought about the sounds of breaking glass and smashing objects. That hadn’t been in Caleb’s head. But that didn’t mean it was someone else, either.

  If Caleb had imagined someone after him, someone trying to kill him, he might have shattered that glass himself in panic.

  Owen redialed the number and listened as it rang and rang, finally reaching voicemail. “You’ve got Caleb’s voicemail. I can’t take your call now, so leave a message.”

  He hung up, and frowned into the unlit room around him, thinking about the difference in those tones – the one in the voicemail greeting and the one in his messages. The Caleb Waters he remembered, and some other Caleb Waters.

  A man who feared for his life and doubted his own sanity.

  He tried the number again, and again it rang through to voicemail. This time, he left a message. “Caleb, it’s Owen. Call me back.”

  He waited for the ring of a returned call for several minutes. Nothing came.

  He tried to make sense of the message, but with no success. He hadn’t heard from Waters in six months. Six months, in the military, could mean anything. He knew that only too well.

  Six months ago, Waters had been fine. Rational, sane, healthy. Unafraid and unconfused.

  So what had changed?

  Owen dialed the number again, cursing under his breath as he reached voicemail.

  He switched on the lights and made his way into the office. In the bottom drawer of the desk, under a stack of papers, he found what he was looking for: an address book with names and numbers penciled in.

  Under W, he found three entries:

  Caleb Waters

  Amy Waters (wife)

  Marissa Waters (mother)

  An address and phone number accompanied each name – the same number that had called him following Caleb’s name, and another Montana area-code for Amy.

  It was a worst-case contact list.

  He knew Caleb had one somewhere with his old number on it – and Owen’s brother, Andy’s, contact info. Just in case Owen had never made it back.

  This had been his list, in case Waters didn’t make it back. So Owen would know who to contact. They’d promised each other that, he and Caleb.

  “Fuck,” Owen said, punching Amy’s number into his phone.

  The line rang without answer. He glanced at the clock. Quarter after nine. It would be eight there. Not too late for a call.

  But the line went on ringing, until another voicemail message played. “Hey there, you’ve reached Amy Waters. Leave a message!”

  A woman’s voice, cheerful and peppy.

  Owen cleared his throat. “Hi Amy, this is Owen Day. I’m a friend of your husband’s. I was wondering – if I could talk to him.”

  He was about to leave his number when a voice – a live voice came on the line. “Hello?”

  It was unmistakably the same person who had recorded the voicemail greeting – but with no hint of the cheer or peppiness.

  “Amy?”

  “Speaking. Who is this?”

  “I’m Owen Day. I knew – know – your husband. I was hoping I could talk to him.”

  A moment of silence. “You one of his army buddies?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, you can go straight to hell then. Every damned one of you.” And with that, the line went dead.

  Owen stared at his phone. What the hell? She had hung up on him. That was obvious.

  But why?

  Had Caleb told her how Owen had gone off the grid, how he’d changed his number and done everything he could to vanish from anyone’s radar? Anyone but the VA, anyway.

  No. She hadn’t shown any sign of recognizing his name. It hadn’t been personal, but general vitriol.

  You can go straight to hell then. Every damned one of you.

  His hand hovered above her number, wondering if he should redial – or if he would only upset her further.

  But again – why? Why would she be upset to hear from someone with whom Caleb served? Why would she damn them all?

  Then, fear twisted the pit of his stomach.

  Was he too late? Had something happened – something final, something that might provoke the kind of grief that would mix with anger?

  Bringing up the browser on his phone, he typed in Caleb Waters Clark’s Plateau Montana, and hit Search.

  A handful of results answered his query: a writeup in the local paper about Caleb and several other local graduates enlisting in the army; articles about his graduating class; Henry Waters’ obituary, listing Caleb as his sole surviving child; a police blotter, listing Caleb among several men who had been arrested at a local bar three months prior; and Caleb and Amy’s wedding website.

  But no notice of death. No obituary for Caleb himself.

  The twist in Owen’s stomach unclenched a degree, but not entirely. Whatever it was, it might not have hit the paper yet.

  He decided he would try her number again. He had no choice. He had to find out what was going on.

  The phone rang as he closed the browser. Amy’s number plastered across his screen as an incoming call.

  She was calling him back.

  Pressing Accept, he said, “Hello?”

  He didn’t hear Amy’s voice, though. He heard a man’s. A man he didn’t recognize. “Is this Owen Day?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “This is Liam Stacker. Amy’s brother.”

  Shit. “I’m trying to reach Caleb.”

  “I know. Amy told me.”

  “Is he okay?”

  A moment of silence, and then a sigh. “Mr. Day – Owen. You don’t mind if I call
you that? Amy says you’re a friend of Caleb’s.”

  “That’s right.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “Very well.”

  Another sigh. “You been in contact with him recently?”

  “No,” Owen admitted. “Not in about six months.”

  “Then I’m afraid I have bad news for you. Caleb’s not the same person you knew. You may not know this, but he got drummed out of the army for a head injury four months ago.”

  Owen blinked. He didn’t know. That would have happened after he’d gone dark.

  “He’s been – different – since. Angry. Prone to fits of temper. Sometimes, violent fits.”

  “Is he okay?” Owen asked again.

  “Define okay.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Can I talk to Amy?”

  “No. She’s not up to talking to anyone right now.” Another moment of silence. “You say you were close to Caleb?”

  “Like brothers.”

  “Then I guess you should know: they had another big fight. Caleb punched her, hard, and then stormed out. I’ve got no idea where he is, and that’s for the best – because if I saw him right now…well, it wouldn’t end well. The fact is, Owen, I want her to press charges. I want her to get the hell away from him.

  “I know she won’t. She loves him. I don’t know what you’re calling for, and I got to say, I’m not super interested. But if you do get ahold of that son of a bitch, wherever he is…you tell him from me: he lays his hands on my sister again, and they’ll be taking me away in cuffs, and him in the meat wagon. You understand?”

  Owen didn’t reply.

  “Now, I’m going to ask you not to call my sister again. She’s got enough shit to worry about without that bastard’s friends ringing her. Okay?”

  And with that, for the second time that night, the line went dead.

  Chapter Two

  Owen’s plane arrived at the Billings Logan International Airport at seven AM the following morning. Billings put him several hours from the town of Clark’s Plateau, but due to the time of year – early April preceding tourism season – and the extremely limited notice, it was the best he could do.

  He’d spent the night contacting everyone he knew who knew Caleb. A fruitless night of dead ends and mixed answers.