John Saul (38 page)

But Audrey had been wild for him, and when she found out that he was being hunted by the FBI, she’d simply closed down.

Had she known even then that she was pregnant?

More important, had Shane Slater known?

Even if he hadn’t known Audrey was carrying his son, he might still have been the kind of man who’d enjoy disappearing into the mountains, depending only on himself while he thumbed his nose at the men who were trying to find him.

He would have seen it as a challenge.

And a further challenge, Olivia now realized, would have been to stay in the area and watch Audrey.

Watch her, and become obsessed with her?

Perhaps even to try to come back to her once the hunt for him had died down?

If he had, then MaryAnne’s theory wasn’t so farfetched after all, and as that realization came into Olivia’s mind, her concern for MaryAnne and the children grew into genuine fear.

Even if they stayed safely locked in the house tonight,
the problem would come in the morning. Assuming the blizzard had spent itself by dawn, Olivia knew that the town plow would be up as far as her house by eight or eight-thirty, but El Monte Ranch would undoubtedly be ignored completely. Ted and Audrey had usually taken responsibility for the last mile or so of the road themselves, attaching a snowplow to the tractor and pushing their way out in half an hour.

MaryAnne didn’t even know how to operate the tractor yet, let alone hook up the snowplow. Which meant they’d have to try to hike out.

Better, Olivia thought, if she just took her truck up there right now and led them down herself. Her five-year-old pickup had made it through a lot worse snow than this.

She brought her heaviest coat down from the closet upstairs—a bulky wool one, lined with down, which she usually didn’t need much before December—pulled her gloves on, then wrapped a muffler around her neck and head. Parked behind the house, sheltered from the worst of the storm, the pickup was covered with only a couple of inches of snow, but beneath the snow Olivia found a layer of ice. Starting the truck, she held her foot on the gas to speed the warming of the engine, then turned on the powerful defroster. A blast of cold air, quickly heating up as the engine began to warm, blew against the cold glass. As she waited for the ice on the windshield to melt, Olivia turned on the cellular phone and called the Sugarloaf deputy’s office. When no one answered, she punched in Rick Martin’s home phone number.

Gillie answered on the first ring, which told Olivia as much as did Gillie’s frightened voice.

“It’s Olivia Sherbourne, Gillie. What’s wrong?”

“Oh, God, Olivia—it’s awful. Frank Peters is dead, and so is Tony Moleno, and—” Her voice cracked as a sob choked her throat.

“Where’s Rick?” she asked.

“He’s up in the mountain,” Gillie told her. “He went up to help Tony, but by the time he got there—” Another sob cut off her words. Several seconds went by before she managed to regain her self-control. “Something terrible is up
there, Olivia! I tried to call you a few minutes ago, but all the phones are out! I tried to call everyone in the valley to tell them to come into town. It’s not safe up there, Olivia. If—”

“Gillie, listen!” Olivia cut in. “MaryAnne Carpenter and I think we know who it might be. If we’re right, his name is Shane Slater, and he’s probably been up there for years. The FBI was looking for him in Sun Valley fourteen years ago.”

“What?” Gillie demanded. “Olivia, what are you talking about? Fourteen
years
ago!”

“Look, just let the sheriff know, okay? The name is Shane Slater,” she repeated. “We’re probably wrong, but if we’re right, at least the sheriff will know who he’s looking for. And I’m heading up to El Monte right now. I’ll stop at the Stiffles’ on my way and warn them to leave.”

“Are you sure you can make it?” Gillie asked. “If you get stuck—”

“I won’t get stuck,” Olivia replied. “And even if I do, I’ll be all right. I’ve got the phone, and I’ll let you know what I’m doing.” The cellular signal began to break up, and all Olivia could hear was static crackling in her ear. “I’ll call you back, Gillie!” she shouted into the microphone that was tucked away in the headliner above the rearview mirror. She switched on the windshield wipers, watching as the thin sheet of softened ice was broken up and cleared by the first oscillation of the twin wipers. She was about to put the truck in gear when Gillie’s words suddenly came back to her.

Something terrible is up there
. As the words echoed in her mind, so also did the memory of Shane Slater’s strange, veiled eyes.

Shutting off the engine, she took the keys out of the ignition and fitted one of them into the lock on the glove compartment. The door dropped open and she reached inside and pulled out a box of shotgun cartridges, then used another key to unlock the gun rack that spanned the space behind the truck’s wide seat. Taking her shotgun out of the rack, she carefully loaded the magazine, checked the safety, then put the gun back in the rack.

She stopped herself just in time as her fingers reflexively moved to relock the gun rack. If she needed the gun tonight, she suspected she might not have time to mess around with a key.

Restarting the truck, she put it in low gear, made a wide U-turn, and started down the driveway to the road. As soon as she left the shelter of the house, the snow deepened, and for a moment she wondered if she ought to stop and put on chains.

No time for that.

She switched the truck into four-wheel drive. It surged ahead, breaking through the drift in the driveway. When she came out onto the road, it was just as she had expected. Though the southbound lane was lost under a bank of snow that had built to almost three feet in some areas, the lane she was using was almost clear.

Though she increased her speed slightly, Olivia kept the truck in low gear, for even with the four-wheel drive she could feel the tires struggling to hold their traction on the snowy roadway, and every blast of the arctic wind made the truck swerve. The run up to El Monte Ranch, which normally took no more than a few minutes, was going to take a lot longer this afternoon.

“Logan? Where are those rags?” MaryAnne stood impatiently at the top of the stairs, calling down to her son. It had been more than ten minutes since she and Alison had come upstairs, and the towels in the bathroom were already sopping wet, while water still puddled the floor, and the carpet in the hall had squished under her feet as she’d gone to the head of the stairs.

The diversion of dealing with the flood in the bathroom had given her enough time to compose her nerves. She had already decided that she had no choice but to go out into the blizzard to look for Joey. If he hadn’t gotten lost in the storm, the only place he could be was the barn, where she’d found him twice before. She knew which direction the barn was, and it wasn’t more than thirty yards from the house. Certainly she could make it that far without getting lost, couldn’t she?

“Logan, do you hear me?” she called out, her annoyance at her son’s lollygagging growing by the second. When there was no answer from the floor below, she took a deep breath, resisting the urge to give in to her temper, and hurried down the stairs. She moved quickly through the dining room and was halfway across to the pantry door when she stopped short, staring at the floor just inside the door.

A small pile of snow was rapidly melting into a puddle.

The panic she’d only a few minutes ago succeeded in conquering flooded back into her now, and she dashed to the door, jerking it open. “Logan!” she cried. “Logan, come back here! This instant!”

As the wind struck her, she stepped back into the house, slamming the door behind her, then heard Alison pounding down the stairs. “Bring my coat, Alison!” she shouted. “Hurry!” A few seconds later Alison dashed into the kitchen, the heavy shearling clutched in her arms. “Logan’s gone!” MaryAnne told her, grabbing the coat and shoving her arms into its sleeves. “How could he have done something so stupid?” Without waiting for a reply from Alison, MaryAnne jerked the door open once more and stumbled outside.

In the kitchen, Alison ran to the open door, calling after her mother.

“Mom, don’t! Don’t leave me alone!”

But it was too late. MaryAnne was already disappearing into the swirling snow, but she turned around for a moment, calling out to her daughter. “Stay inside, Alison! Don’t leave the house!”

The words were almost lost in the wind, but Alison heard them. A moment later, as her mother finally disappeared into the white miasma, she helplessly retreated into the kitchen, closing the door behind her.

Suddenly the house, which had seemed so warm and cozy only a little while ago, now seemed very large.

Very large, and very empty.

MaryAnne stumbled through the snow, almost blinded by the wind-driven powder, uncertain of where she was going.
“Logan!” she called out. “Honey, where are you? If you can hear me, just yell! I’ll find you, Logan.”

She paused for a second, but heard nothing. She looked around, realizing she could no longer see either the house or the barn.

Where was she?

Desperately, she tried to remember which direction she’d gone when she left the back porch.

She’d started toward the barn, but when Alison had called out to her, she’d turned around.

Stupid!

But the action was instinctive, just as the overriding imperative to come out into the blizzard and find her son had been.

Too late, she realized that she’d brought nothing with her. Not a flashlight, certainly not the shotgun from the rack in the den.

Suddenly an image formed in her mind. An image of a large ball of nylon string, sitting in the bottom drawer of Audrey’s desk. All she’d have had to do was tie the end of it to the doorknob!

She shoved the thought aside, unwilling to waste time condemning herself for her own stupidity. If she didn’t find Logan soon—

Which way?

Which way was the house?

The barn?

Which way should she go?

Tentacles of panic closed around her. She felt her lungs constrict as if metal bands were being tightened on her chest. She took a step, then changed her mind, and started off in another direction. A few steps later, suddenly certain she was going in the wrong direction, she stopped again, hesitated, then veered off toward the left. This time the terrible fear that she was only moving farther from the house stopped her after only three steps.

Think!
she commanded herself.

The wind!

From which direction had it been coming?

She stood still, concentrating hard, then remembered the
kitchen door and the wind pushing at it every time she’d tried to shut it.

The north!

It was coming down the mountainside from the north, and sweeping across the pasture.

If she walked into the wind, sooner or later she would come to the fence around the pasture, and then she could move along the fence to the barn. Hope surged in her heart, for as well as shelter, she might find Joey and Logan there, too!

Her panic receding slightly, she turned slowly, until at last the wind was blowing directly in her face. Leaning into it, shielding her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket, she started moving slowly forward, the stinging crystals lashing at her cheeks, her eyes starting to water from the cold.

After five steps she felt her left foot strike against something.

Something that gave as her shoe struck it.

Dropping to her knees, she brushed the snow away from the object that lay in the yard, and stifled a scream as her fingers touched Storm’s fur.

Her mind raced as she dug the snow away from the dog’s lifeless body. Was that what had brought Logan outside? Had the dog come scratching at the back door, only to run away when Logan opened it?

She brushed the last of the snow away, and found herself staring at the dog’s broken jaw, twisted away from his muzzle, hanging open, his pink tongue dangling over his teeth.

Not pink—

Red!

MaryAnne saw the stains in the snow around the dog’s head, and a wave of nausea hit her. What could have happened out here? Storm must have attacked something.

Something that had fought back, and killed him.

Had Logan heard Storm barking, or even heard only his last howl before whatever attacked him finished the kill?

“Logan?” she called out once more. “Oh, my God! Logan!” Whatever had killed Storm must still be out here. The dog’s body was still warm, the blood in his mouth still
fresh—he couldn’t have been dead more than a few minutes!

Her eyes streaming now, partly from the blizzard, partly from the terror she felt at the thought of what must be out here—possibly only a few yards away, possibly already catching her scent and beginning to stalk her—MaryAnne started to stagger away, still intent on reaching the fence and then the comparative safety of the barn.

But once more she stopped, for this time, through the tears in her eyes, she saw the object that was blocking her path before she tripped over it.

Once more a scream rose in her throat, but this time she made no effort at all to mute it.

As she dropped back to the ground to gather the lifeless body of her son into her arms, another scream emerged from her throat, a high, keening wail of despair as Logan’s head flopped backward, exposing the terrible wound in his neck.

Clutching the body of her son in her arms, MaryAnne began to sob, the pain in her soul threatening to destroy her sanity as she rocked back and forth, cradling Logan as she had when he was only a tiny baby.

The blizzard howled around her, engulfing her in its white shroud, but MaryAnne was no longer aware of anything except the terrible agony of holding her dead son in her arms.

An agony, she felt with searing certainty, from which she would never recover.

Olivia Sherbourne was easing around the bend in the road, slowing almost to a stop as she prepared to turn into the Stiffles’ narrow driveway, when she saw their car—a small Subaru station wagon—making its way toward the road. Pulling over as far as she could, she waited until Mark Stiffle had swung around in front of her, then rolled the window down just far enough to be able to talk with him.