John Saul (37 page)

Joey stared in awe at the man’s powerful torso, his muscles rippling under the curling hair that all but covered his skin. “Touch it,” the man whispered. “Not human, Joey—something else—something terrible, Joey.”

Almost as if he was hypnotized by the words, Joey reached out, his fingers brushing against the thick mat of hair that covered the man’s skin.

Fur.

It almost felt like fur! If he closed his eyes, he could imagine he was stroking Storm, the hair was so thick and soft.

“It’s going to happen to you,” he heard the man say, and then he remembered the strange hairs that were growing on his head, the dark shadow the down on his face had formed.

“Why?” he moaned, the word cracking as a sob closed his throat.

The man’s arms went around the boy, and he held Joey
close. “Because I’m your father, Joey,” he whispered. “My name is Shane Slater, and I’m your father.”

His mind churned, and he could feel insanity rising inside him. It would be so easy to end it for Joey right now, so easy to close his fingers around Joey’s throat. A squeeze—a quick jerk, crushing the bones of the boy’s neck—and it would be over.

So easy …

He felt his fingers tightening, felt Joey stiffen as the pressure grew.

All he had to do was move his hands, slide them up to Joey’s neck.

In a split second it would be over.

“Nooo!”
The word rose out of Shane Slater’s throat in an anguished howl. He hurled Joey aside, staggered to the hayloft door and threw it open.

A second later he was gone, disappearing into the storm so quickly that it was as if he had never been there at all.

Yet his words still hung in the air, etched in Joey’s memory, echoing in his mind.

 … your father, Joey. My name is Shane Slater, and I’m your father.…

In the depths of his soul, Joey knew it was true.

L
ogan gazed up at his mother, his face pale, his eyes wide with fear. “What are we going to do, Mom?”

MaryAnne stood trembling by the desk in the den, the dead telephone still in her hand, a tide of hysteria rising once more, threatening to overcome her. She felt herself losing control, felt a scream of frustration and fear building in her throat. She couldn’t deal with it—couldn’t stand any more of it! Where could Joey have gone? Why would he have climbed out the window, naked, and run away into the storm? If he was out there, how long could he even survive?

The questions twisted like serpents in her mind, her confusion growing every second. All she could think of was that she had an overwhelming urge to give in to her tears, to collapse onto the sofa, to close it all out of her mind.

Her eyes began to sting with the threatened tears, but she knew she had to put the hysteria aside, had to keep going, had to at least appear to be in charge of the situation, if not for the sake of her own sanity, then for Alison and Logan. They were watching her expectantly, Logan with the trust of his ten years, but Alison clearly seeing the panic inside her. She took a deep breath and finally put the phone back on the hook, resting her hand on it for a second, certain that it would tremble the moment she removed it from the instrument that should have brought her help, but instead had betrayed her.

She cast about for something to say—something to do—that would at least occupy their minds, distract them from the fact that Joey was no longer in the house. Then she
heard a splash as a drop of water fell from the ceiling into the pan Alison had placed on the floor.

“The bathroom,” she breathed, her mind numbly grasping at something—anything!—with which to deal until she could once again begin thinking clearly. “Get some rags from the pantry, Logan.” Her legs almost refusing to obey her commands, she left the den and crossed the living room into the foyer. The stairs stretched ahead of her, and for a moment she wondered if she could even climb them. Then she heard Alison’s voice behind her, trying to offer her comfort.

“It’s not your fault, Mom! And we’ll find him! I know we will!”

Nodding, but unable to speak, MaryAnne mounted the stairs.

As his mother and sister started up to the second floor, Logan went through the dining room into the kitchen, and was just starting toward the pantry when he thought he heard something at the door.

A scratching sound!

Storm! Or maybe even Joey!

Without even pausing to call his mother, he darted across to the back door and pulled it open, certain that the dog—or Joey—would slip inside.

Nothing.

Frowning, Logan peered out into the blizzard. For a moment he saw only the swirling snow, but then he caught a glimpse of something else—something barely visible—moving in the storm.

“Joey?” he breathed, but even as the word left his lips, the phantom disappeared into the storm.

But he’d
seen
it!

He
knew
he had!

It was right outside! Without thinking, he stepped out onto the small back porch, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Joey!” he yelled! “Hey, Joey! Is that you?”

His words were drowned by the wind, and he hesitated, wondering whether to go a little farther—just a yard or two—and call again, or whether he should go back into the house. But then the wind made the decision for him, lashing
at him, driving snow into his eyes, blinding him for a second. He turned around, about to stumble back into the kitchen, when suddenly the wind shifted, creating a brief vacuum within the house and the back door slammed shut in Logan’s face.

He reached for the knob, trying to twist it.

Locked!

Why hadn’t he checked it before he’d come out?

“Mom!” he yelled, pounding on the door. “Mom, I’m locked out! Let me in!”

Once again his words disappeared into the wind as quickly as he uttered them, and Logan felt a stirring of panic as he realized that the bathroom was on the other side of the house. They’d never hear him yelling unless they came downstairs.

The window! Maybe he should break the window in the back door.

But his mom would kill him! He could almost hear her: “For heaven’s sake, Logan, don’t you ever think before you do something?”

He could go around the house, staying real close to it so he wouldn’t get lost in the storm, and try all the windows on the way. And if he hadn’t found one that was unlocked before he got to the other side, then he could yell right up at the bathroom. They’d have to hear him then! They’d have to!

He shivered in the cold, the wind cutting right through the sweater he’d put on earlier, when he’d still been hoping he might get to go out and play in the snow. Now, though, he wished that at least he’d put on his jacket before he came out on the porch. But who thought the dumb old door was going to blow shut!

Hunching his shoulders against the blowing snow, he left the back porch and started toward the front of the house, testing each window as he came to it.

All of them were locked.

He was just coming to the front of the house when once more he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned toward it, straining to get a better look, but this time it didn’t disappear back into the swirling white blanket.

Instead, he saw the massive shape come toward him, emerging out of the snow like some horrible demon from a nightmare. As Logan stared up into the coarse, heavily bearded face of the mountain man—his mane of black hair matted with snow and blowing wildly in the wind—the little boy’s voice died in his throat and he turned to run. The house forgotten, the danger of the blizzard driven from his mind by the twisted features of the terrifying vision that had appeared out of the storm, Logan raced away, slogging through the drifting snow, lurching farther out into the yard, until even if he’d turned around, he would no longer have been able to see the house which was only ten yards away.

When he tripped, sprawling facedown in the snow, he felt the hands on his body.

Strong hands, with nails so long and sharp he could feel them even through his sweater.

Now he found his voice, uttering a scream of terror, but it was too late.

He felt himself being lifted up, held immobile in the man’s arms.

“Nooo!”
he screamed once again. “Let go of me! Help me! Mom! Mom!”

“Shh, shh,” Shane Slater said, struggling to hold onto the squirming boy. “Have to get you—”

But before he could say anything else, there was a sudden howl of canine fury and a blur of motion as Storm hurtled out of the blizzard, charging toward Shane Slater, his teeth bared, his eyes glinting as they fixed on the hated man whose scent alone had always terrified him.

Now, though, the dog saw no more than the threat to the little boy, and his instincts to guard the child overcame his fear of the man. His eyes glowing, he launched himself into the air, leaping toward the throat of the man whose arms were wrapped around Logan Carpenter.

Shane Slater, momentarily stunned by the dog’s sudden attack, reacted instinctively, raising his arms to protect his throat from the animal’s dripping fangs.

Raised his arms, in which he still held Logan Carpenter.

Too late, he tried to turn away, tried to protect the boy as well as himself from the German shepherd’s jaws.

Storm twisted his body in midair as his intended victim tried to duck away, his great jaws snapping closed as they came in contact with human flesh.

Logan Carpenter’s flesh.

The dog’s teeth sank into Logan’s neck, piercing the jugular. Shane Slater instantly dropped down to lay the boy on the ground, and seized the dog, grasping its muzzle with one hand and its neck with the other. With a quick twist he broke the dog’s grip on Logan. Storm uttered a high-pitched yelp of agony as his mandible shattered under the uncanny strength of Slater’s hand.

Leaving the dog lying where it fell, twitching in pain in the snow, Slater picked up Logan, holding him close to his massive chest, bending over him to protect him from the icy wind.

Blood was gushing from the wound in Logan’s neck, pouring into Shane Slater’s thick beard, matting the curly hair that covered his body.

“No,” Slater whispered, his voice barely audible even to himself, and taking on a strange singsong tone. “Don’t die … Please don’t die … Have to stop it … can’t stop it … didn’t want to … never wanted to … no more … please, no more … let it stop …”

He began rocking, crouching low, his body curling protectively around the dying child, his murmuring voice fading away into a low sob.

At last, when the blood stopped flowing from Logan’s neck and the boy’s body lay limp and lifeless in his arms, Shane Slater laid him gently in the soft snow, then straightened up.

He knew what would happen when they found the boy. They would blame him, for they would never understand that he had been trying to protect the child, trying to save him from freezing to death.

He staggered away into the snow, his lips moving, though no sound was any longer emerging from his throat, for his mind was beginning to fail, fragmenting into tiny pieces.

Once more he began circling the house, peering in through the windows, seeing the fire dancing on the hearth,
the comfortable furniture, the brightly lit kitchen, filled with the kinds of food he hadn’t tasted for nearly fourteen years.

Almost fourteen years since he had been in a house like this, fourteen years since he had seen the men who had come to town looking for him, and had chosen to disappear into the mountains rather than let them take him away and lock him up again.

Tonight, one more time before he died, he would go into the warmth of a house.

A real house.

This house.

O
livia Sherbourne paced nervously in the small living room of her house down the valley from El Monte Ranch, moving to the window every few seconds to gaze out at the raging blizzard.

Was it wishful thinking, or was the wind starting to slack off a bit?

Probably my imagination, she decided. The snow was drifting in distinct patterns, for the wind was coming out of the north, sweeping down the slope across the valley from Olivia’s house, so that, though the front of her house was already banked with drifts that came nearly up to the windowsill, the small fenced pasture that extended from the back of her house out to the narrow band of aspens and cottonwoods that edged Coyote Creek as it wandered along the border of her property was still relatively clear. She tried to visualize the road, running almost straight up the valley floor. Most of it would still be passable; though drifts would be building on the south side, the north lane should be open.

Twice she’d picked up the telephone to call MaryAnne Carpenter back, but both times it had been busy.

Now, though, when she tried a third time, her phone was dead, and she realized what must have happened.

MaryAnne’s phone hadn’t been busy at all—it had just gone out before her own.

But if her phone was out of order, why hadn’t MaryAnne simply put the kids in the car and come down? As she glanced out the window once more, Olivia thought she knew the answer. Surely MaryAnne would stay in the
house rather than risk getting stuck in the car with the three children with her.

Especially if she thought Shane Slater might be somewhere in the vicinity, possibly looking for Joey.

Was it really possible? The idea seemed so farfetched.

And yet, as she remembered back fourteen years—was it really that long ago?—Olivia began to wonder.

She’d never warmed to Slater, even by his alias, “Randy Durrell.” Even when she’d first met him, she hadn’t been able to put the name together with the person. “Randy” had always seemed like a warm, boyish sort of name to her, but Randy Durrell hadn’t fit her image at all. From the very beginning she’d seen something in his eyes—a strange hard glitter—that made her wonder if he was quite sane.

He’d been big, and quiet, but not the kind of quiet that instilled a sense of calm and comfort. Rather, it had been a tension within him, as if a spring somewhere inside was being wound tighter and tighter, and every day he was getting closer to flying apart.