Chapter 3 - The Hocking Hills Trace
The highway heading south toward Logan, Ohio, was empty, the dark asphalt cutting through rolling hills of pine and gray sandstone.
Tom’s hands were steady on the steering wheel of his Ford F-150, but his mind was a storm of calculations. He had spent his entire life learning how to read maps, how to navigate terrain, and how to find people who didn't want to be found.
Linda Mercer’s "cabin" wasn't a rustic shelter; it was a three-million-dollar timber-frame estate perched on the edge of a ravine in the Hocking Hills state forest. Tom had been there once, three years ago, during a brief, fragile period of reconciliation between Emily and Ryan. He remembered the layout: a long, gravel driveway protected by an electronic gate, thick hemlock woods on three sides, and a steep drop-off to the rear.
His phone rang through the truck’s dashboard speaker. It was Deputy Miller.
"Tom," the deputy said, his voice carrying the distinct, tired sigh of a man who had spent the last two hours dealing with wealthy lawyers. "We’ve got a problem."
"He’s out," Tom said. It wasn't a question.
"His uncle called the magistrate directly," Miller admitted, his tone tight with professional embarrassment. "Ryan was booked on a misdemeanor domestic assault charge, and he was released on a ten-thousand-dollar personal recognizance bond within ninety minutes. His lawyer argued that because he has no prior record and is a 'pillar of the community,' there was no reason to hold him."
"And the children?" Tom asked, his eyes scanning the dark highway ahead. "Did you put out a custody alert?"
"We tried," Miller said. "But there’s no formal custody agreement in place because they’re still married. Under Ohio law, until a divorce is filed or an emergency protection order is signed by a judge, both parents have equal access to the children. We can't file an Amber Alert unless we can prove there’s an active threat to their physical safety."
"The father just beat their mother into an ICU, Ben," Tom said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register. "Is that not an active threat?"
"Legally? Not to the kids, not yet," Miller said, sounding genuinely sickened by his own words. "Ryan’s lawyer presented a signed statement from Linda Mercer claiming the children are safe at her property under her supervision. The judge accepted it. Tom... where are you?"
"I’m driving," Tom said.
"Don't do anything stupid, Tom," Miller warned. "Ryan’s lawyer is already trying to file a restraining order against you on behalf of the family. If you show up at that property, they’ll have you arrested for criminal trespass before you can even see the boys."
"I’m already gone, Ben," Tom said, and disconnected the call.
He reached into his glove compartment and pulled out a small, heavy black object—a retired police-channel scanner he had kept from his days coordinating with the county emergency services. He switched it on, the static filling the cab of the truck before settling into the rhythmic, dry chatter of the regional dispatch.
He also pulled out a small, steel case. Inside was his old, service-issued Smith & Wesson .38 Special. He didn't want to use it. He had spent thirty-five years saving lives, not taking them. But he had also spent thirty-five years seeing what happened to people who relied on the system to protect them when the system was bought and paid for.
He pulled off the state route onto a narrow, gravel county road. The trees rose on either side like towering stone pillars, their branches blocking out the faint starlight.
As he approached the coordinates of the Mercer cabin, he turned off his headlights, driving by the pale, gray light of the moon. He parked his truck half a mile down the road, tucked into an old logging trail that was overgrown with wild blackberries.
He stepped out of the cab, the cool night air smelling of damp earth and pine needle rot. He didn't take the main road toward the gate. He knew Ryan would have security cameras mounted on the brick pillars.
Instead, Tom climbed over the rusted wire fence that marked the state park boundary and disappeared into the thick hemlock woods, his heavy boots moving with the silent, practiced grace of a man who had spent his youth hunting in these very hills.
Every tree was a shadow; every rustle of dry leaves was a potential threat. But as Tom walked, his mind was perfectly clear. He wasn't thinking about Ryan’s lawyers, or Linda’s wineglass, or the broken lock on the front door.
He was thinking about Emily, five years old, holding his hand as they walked through the county fair.
May you like
"I won't let them take them, Emmy," he whispered into the dark. "I won't let them take your boys."
Ten minutes later, the massive, log-cabin structure of the Mercer estate appeared through the trees, its wide glass windows glowing with a warm, deceptive light in the dark forest.
