John Saul (35 page)

Should he keep looking for the Jeep?

If he did, and couldn’t find it, he could end up lost in the forest, with no protection against the storm. If that happened, he knew what the end of the day would bring.

He could wander in circles for hours, telling himself that he was getting closer and closer to the safety of the Jeep, but never finding it.

Eventually the cold would begin to affect him. Sooner or later—possibly not until dark—he would sit down to rest.
And with his energy drained, fighting panic as well as exhaustion and hunger, he would feel the urge to sleep.

Not for long—only for a few minutes.

A few minutes that would turn into eternity.

Abandoning thoughts of searching for the Jeep, he considered that he could move upward, hoping to find a cave—or at least a deep enough cleft in the rocks in which to hole up until the blizzard passed. If he was protected from the wind, and blocked himself inside with a wall of snow, he would have a fighting chance of surviving through the night. Then, in the morning, with the storm over, he would recognize where he was, and either go back to the Jeep or simply make his way down the mountainside into the valley.

His other option was to try to walk out now.

He rehearsed it in his mind, trying to picture the route he might have taken since he’d left the bodies at the base of the rampart. How far had he come? Half a mile? Two miles? No matter which direction he looked, everything looked the same now.

A blanket of white, snow swirling among the trees, the wind wailing forlornly through their tops.

Nothing looked familiar, and he knew it wouldn’t, not as long as the storm lasted. Snow changed everything.

The contours of the mountains.

The look of the forest.

He could no longer even trust the footing beneath him. As the snow deepened, it covered rocks and filled crevices, turning the whole mountainside into a mine field through which he would have to thread his way carefully, testing every step before risking transferring his weight to his lead foot.

Better to go back up and try to find shelter.

He stood up, shaking the heavy snow from his boots, and started off, his head low, working his way back up the hill. He moved steadily. The slope was relatively gentle here, and the underbrush not so thick that he couldn’t make his way through it with reasonable ease.

He sensed the base of the cliff before he came to it, for as he worked his way into its lee, the wind began to ease
and he was able to stand straight up without having snow driven instantly into his eyes and nostrils.

He paused for a moment, stretching the muscles in his back, then moved on. Finally, out of the snow, a black wall of stone slowly emerged, and he felt a surge of hope that renewed his energy, letting him push forward until he was close enough to actually rest his weight against the vertical surface. The snow was already more than a foot deep at the base of the cliff, and falling steadily, drifting down gently here where the wind could not seize it. Though he could still hear the howling gale, its roar was muffled by the snow; it seemed to be coming from a great distance, and he could almost forget how it had felt only a few minutes before, when it had driven the snow at him with the force of a thousand needles, stinging his face whenever he’d lifted his head to try to get his bearings.

But where was he?

He tried to visualize a cliff such as this, but his heart sank as he realized that Sugarloaf Mountain—indeed, every mountain in the range—was studded with sheer rock faces exactly like this one.

He could be anywhere.

He started moving along the cliff, carefully working his way over the rubble that had sheered off its face. Somewhere there was bound to be a cleft, a deep overhang, something that would offer him shelter. At last he found one—nothing more than a shallow gash in the rock, but offering him some protection if the wind shifted.

He knelt down and began building a rough wall out of snow, then groped for fallen branches, shaking the snow loose from them and piling them in the gap between the face of the cliff and the wall he had built. If he could find enough dry wood and get it lit with the stock of matches he always carried in a waterproof container in his pocket, he had a better than even chance of surviving the blizzard.

He’d begun ranging farther and farther from his rudimentary shelter, when the toe of his right boot touched something.

Something that gave slightly.

He knelt down and brushed away the snow that covered the object.

And looked into Tony Moleno’s savaged eyes.

He swore softly. For all his efforts, he had only circled around, coming back to the spot from which he’d set out—how long ago?

An hour?

Two hours?

A wasted eternity.

Then, as suddenly as the hopelessness had washed over him, it receded, for he realized that at least he knew where he was.

Pulling the radio from the holster on his belt, he switched it on, and a moment later began talking to the dispatcher in Challis. Gillie would be listening in on the scanner at home.

“It looks like I’m going to be spending the night on the mountain,” he said, forcing his voice to reflect more confidence than he felt. “The snow’s really coming down, but I’ve found a spot to hole up, and I’m going to be building a fire. Give Gillie a call in case she’s not listening, and tell her I’m all right, but I don’t want to try to climb back down in the middle of a blizzard. And Gillie,” he added, “in case you’re listening, don’t worry about me, and don’t try to do anything stupid. Just put your feet up and relax, and I’ll see you sometime in the morning.” He hesitated, but knew there was no way he was going to reveal the long circle he’d made. “I doubt I’ll be able to get the Jeep out in the morning, but it should be great weather for snowmobiling, so if someone wants to bring a sled up, they can find me at the base of Castle Cliff.”

There was a second of silence before the dispatcher’s voice came back, sounding puzzled. “That’s where you found Moleno and Peters, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.” Rick Martin sighed, realizing he’d let his secret out. “But I’m telling you right now that anyone who tries to rag on me about getting lost is going to get a fat lip for their trouble. Talk to you in the morning.”

If I’m still alive in the morning, he thought as he clicked the radio off.

Right now, he figured he had about a fifty-fifty chance. If the blizzard got worse, he knew those chances would go down.

Way down.

M
aryAnne threw another log on the fire. As the pile of burning wood shifted, the flames leapt up, already licking at the fresh fuel, and MaryAnne held out her hands to absorb the warmth. “Now this isn’t so bad, is it?” she asked. Outside, the snow was falling so heavily that it seemed to form a white shroud around the house, and even as she spoke, MaryAnne wondered if her words had been intended to reassure Alison and Logan, or herself.

“It’s cool,” Logan replied. “It never snowed like this at home! I bet we get snowed in for a week. Wouldn’t that be neat?”

Not if I don’t have enough food in the house, MaryAnne thought silently. And what if the electricity goes off? What if the pipes freeze? What if something happens and we can’t get out?

They were questions that had never even occurred to her in New Jersey, where even in the worst of storms, the streets were always cleared within a few hours, and there was a store only a block away. Power outages rarely lasted more than an hour or two, and if the pipes froze, all she’d had to do was call a plumber. But out here …

Would they even plow the road as far up as the gate to the ranch? They must—it was a county road, and surely she couldn’t be expected to do it herself. But what about the driveway? Who would clear it?

She thought of the tractor stored in one of the sheds out behind the barn. Was it really only yesterday that Olivia Sherbourne had promised to teach her how to drive it? They’d talked about doing it next week, but now MaryAnne wished they’d done it right away. Still, if push
came to shove, she supposed she could get it started and figure out how to operate it at least well enough to clear the snow off the driveway.

But it won’t come to that, she told herself. This will only last an hour or two, and then it will be over. Telling herself the nervousness she was feeling was caused more by her fears of who the man in the mountains might be than by the storm, she struggled to calm down.

Don’t panic over what’s probably a very stupid idea, she told herself. But a second later her ruminations were interrupted by Storm, who trotted into the den, whimpering softly as he pawed at MaryAnne’s leg, then trotted back out again. He uttered a sharp bark, and the fears MaryAnne had only a moment ago put firmly aside came flooding back.

Was something outside the house? Was that what Storm was barking about? She started to get up to go after the big dog, but Logan had already slid off the couch. “I’ll take him out!” her son said as he dashed after the shepherd.

“No!” MaryAnne cried, her fears suddenly rising. “Logan—”

She got to the kitchen just as the little boy was pulling on his jacket. Her hand closed on his arm as he reached for the doorknob. Storm, crouched by the door, was whimpering and scratching at the painted wood. “Logan, you’re not going outside! It’s freezing out there, and you’ll catch pneumonia!”

“I will not!” Logan objected. He pulled the door open just far enough for Storm to slither through, but then his mother pushed it closed again. “Aw, Mom, I never get to have any fun at all!” Logan wailed. Just then the telephone began to ring. MaryAnne glared at her son.

“Open that door, and you’ll spend the rest of the afternoon in your room. Is that clear?” Logan’s eyes narrowed angrily, but he made no move to go outside, instead moving over to the window where he could watch the dog, who was now standing in the yard a few yards from the house, his head up, one paw lifted as he sniffed at the wind. A moment later he broke into a loud baying, and raced off around the back corner of the house, disappearing from view.

“Hello …” MaryAnne said distractedly, picking up the phone even while keeping a watchful eye on Logan.

“MaryAnne?” Olivia Sherbourne asked anxiously. “What’s going on up there? You sounded terrified when you left those messages.”

“Olivia!” MaryAnne cried. “Thank God! Tell me—what do you know about—” She hesitated, seeing Logan watching her, listening to every word she said, then sent him back to the den. Only when he was gone did she explain her strange idea to Olivia. “Olivia, Joey wasn’t premature at all. So Ted can’t be his father!”

There was a silence at the other end of the line, and for a moment MaryAnne wondered if the connection had broken. Then Olivia spoke, her voice hollow. “His name was Slater,” she said quietly. “Shane Slater. But that’s not the name we knew him by.”

MaryAnne’s blood ran cold. “Olivia, what are you saying?”

Another silence, then: “He was a strange man, MaryAnne. He showed up in Sun Valley in the spring that year. He told everyone his name was Randy Durrell. Everybody liked him, and Audrey was crazy about him. I mean, really crazy about him. And then he disappeared one day.”

“Just disappeared?” MaryAnne asked.

“We found out why the next day,” Olivia went on. “Two FBI agents showed up, looking for someone named Shane Slater. They had pictures, and there weren’t any mistakes. It was the same guy Audrey had been seeing.”

“Dear God,” MaryAnne whispered. “What had he done?”

“I don’t know,” Olivia replied. “They never told us. They just told us he should be considered very dangerous, so I’ve always assumed he must have killed someone.”

There was a long silence, which MaryAnne finally broke. “They never caught him, did they?” she asked.

“If they did, we never heard about it,” Olivia told her. “But it was nearly fourteen years ago, MaryAnne. It couldn’t be the same man! It—”

“Why not?” MaryAnne broke in. “What if he just disappeared up into the mountains and has been living in them
ever since? What if he knew Audrey was pregnant? What if he knows Joey’s his son?”

“MaryAnne, calm down,” Olivia interrupted as MaryAnne’s voice began to take on a hysterical edge. “It’s all just speculation. You don’t know—”

“I know Ted wasn’t Joey’s father, and I know he abused him!” MaryAnne shot back. “I know everyone around here looked the other way, and I even know why! Ted was rich! So rich no one would blow the whistle on him. But what if Joey’s real father was up in the mountains, and he knew what Ted was doing? What would he do, Olivia? What would
you
do?”

MaryAnne’s outburst was met with a long silence, but when she finally spoke, Olivia Sherbourne’s tone was quietly somber. “I would have killed Ted, I suppose. And I might even have killed Audrey for letting Ted abuse my son.”

“Which is exactly what I’m thinking,” MaryAnne said, her voice trembling.

Almost feeling MaryAnne’s fear coming over the wire, Olivia spoke once more. “MaryAnne, until we know exactly what’s going on up in the mountains, I think you’d better pack up the kids and bring them down here. It’s starting to look like this is turning into a real blizzard, and I don’t like the idea of you getting stuck up there. Even if you’re completely wrong—which I have to say I think you are—you’re going to be terrified if you get snowed in.”

MaryAnne gazed out into the darkening yard. If anything, the snow was coming down faster than ever. Already, she could see it drifting deeply against the side of the barn. “I wonder if I can even make it,” she said. “It looks like it must be a foot deep already.”

“If you leave now, you shouldn’t have any trouble,” Olivia assured her. “That Range Rover is built for weather like this. I’ve got plenty of room, and—”

“Mom!” Alison yelled from the den. “The roof’s leaking!”

“Oh, God,” MaryAnne groaned. “Olivia, let me call you back in a couple of minutes. Alison says the roof’s leaking!”

Olivia groaned. “Want me to come up and give you a hand?”

“I’ll call you back,” MaryAnne repeated, then dropped the phone back on the hook and followed her daughter to the den. By the time she got there, both children were staring up at the ceiling, where a damp stain was spreading across the cedar planks and water was starting to drip down to the floor.