John Saul (39 page)

“We’re heading into town,” Mark called, raising his voice to a shout to make himself heard above the wind.

“I was coming up to check on you!” Olivia called back. “Can you make it in that?”

Mark nodded. “I’ve got chains on all four wheels!”

“Okay! I’m going up to El Monte to get MaryAnne and the kids. We’ll hole up at my house if we can’t make it all the way into town!”

Mark glanced uncertainly into the rearview mirror of his car, past the twins, who were giggling excitedly at the prospect of spending the night with friends in town, to the trackless snow-covered road leading up toward El Monte Ranch. “You sure you can make it?” he called.

Olivia nodded. “I’ll be fine. But MaryAnne’s scared stiff, and her phone’s out.” Her eyes narrowed. “Did you hear about Frank Peters and Tony Moleno?”

Now Margaret Stiffle leaned forward to peer past her husband. Olivia glanced at the kids in the backseat of the little station wagon, and when she spoke again, her voice dropped slightly. “Gillie says they’re dead. And Rick’s trapped up in the mountains.”

“Jesus!” Mark Stiffle exclaimed. “What the hell’s going on around here?”

“I bet it’s Joey,” Michael Stiffle said from the backseat. “I bet he’s finally gone totally nutso!”

Margaret Stiffle glared at her son, but Olivia chose to ignore the boy’s accusation. “I don’t think any of us is going to find out until this blizzard’s over. Just be careful—if the car breaks down, stay with it! Okay?”

“Don’t worry about us,” Margaret told her. “Just take care of yourself!”

Olivia nodded, rolled up the window, and waved to the twins in the backseat as Mark slowly pulled the car away, following the tracks Olivia herself had cut in the snow on the way up. Putting the truck back in gear, Olivia continued up the road, but the farther she went, the deeper the snow got.

She shifted the truck down into its lowest gear, and the engine surged as the vehicle began creeping forward once again. She was still a quarter of a mile from the entrance to the ranch, steering more by the feel of the road under the tires than by any ability to see the pavement in front of her, when suddenly she felt the right front tire leave the pavement.

Instantly, she moved her foot from the accelerator to the brake, stepping hard on the pedal before her winter driving instincts kicked in.

As the brakes locked the wheels, they lost their traction on the ice that had formed beneath the snow. Moving as if in slow motion, the truck slewed around, drifting into a four-wheel skid that took it completely off the road.

Olivia’s hands tightened on the wheel as the truck tipped steeply to the right, both wheels on that side now leaving the road and sliding into the deep ditch that paralleled the road.

The truck jerked to a stop, throwing Olivia against the steering wheel. For a moment she did nothing at all, silently cursing herself for being stupid enough to apply the brakes in snow like this.

Finally deciding there was no point in wasting any more energy kicking herself, she put the transmission in reverse and tried to back the vehicle up, turning the wheel to the left so that the front end would swing around and force the right rear tire up the steep incline.

A moment later three of the truck’s four wheels were in the ditch, and Olivia furiously slammed her fist on the dash.

Getting out of the truck, she went around the front to see how badly she was stuck, and knew instantly that there was no hope of getting the pickup back on the road without the help of a tow truck. Sighing with disgust, she climbed back in the cab and picked up the cellular phone.

No bars were showing on the screen, and the two words “No Service” seemed to taunt her as she stared at them. What good was the damned thing if it didn’t work when she needed it?

She sat for a couple of minutes, wondering if she should stay in the truck or walk on up to the ranch.

All her common sense told her to stay where she was, to run the engine only often enough to keep the cab warm, and to make sure the snow didn’t pile up under the exhaust pipe to the point where it blocked it. The last thing she needed was for the snowplow to find her dead in the truck sometime tomorrow.

Except she was only a quarter of a mile from the gate to
El Monte, and she’d walked up the driveway literally thousands of times over the years. All she had to do was stay on the pavement until she reached the gate. From there it would be easy. The driveway was cut through the forest; there was no possibility of getting lost.

Except that a tiny voice in the back of her mind warned her that this was exactly how hundreds of people had lost their lives in storms like this one. People had even been known to freeze to death halfway between their houses and barns.

But she was convinced that the wind was finally beginning to slacken, and even if it didn’t, this wasn’t the great plains, where there were hundreds of miles without even a tree to use as a reference point. This was Idaho, and the forest was everywhere. All she had to do was stay out of it, and she knew damned well she could walk from here up to the ranch blindfolded, if she had to.

Making up her mind, she took a flashlight out of the glove compartment and her shotgun from the rack behind the seat. Leaving the keys in the truck’s ignition, she pulled on her fur-lined gloves, wrapped her muffler around her head and neck, and got out.

She started up the road, feeling each step with her foot, kicking the snow aside to make certain she was still on the pavement.

When she turned around, the blizzard had closed in on her, and even the truck, which couldn’t have been more than fifty feet away, had disappeared into the blinding snow.

Olivia Sherbourne felt completely alone.

T
he freezing wind, driving the snow before it, finally began to penetrate the thick shearling coat that was MaryAnne Carpenter’s only protection from the blizzard. As the cold crept through her flesh into her very bones, her mind at last began to emerge from the shell into which it had retreated. She stared down into Logan’s face and had the odd sensation that she was looking into the face of a stranger.

This was not her son—it
couldn’t
be her son! This was someone else, some stranger who only looked like Logan. Logan was still alive—he
had
to be still alive. And she would find him.

She would carry this child—this stranger she refused to recognize as her own flesh, her own blood—into the barn, and then she would go on looking for Logan.

She staggered to her feet, stumbling as she struggled to clutch the body in her arms closer to her chest, and something deep inside her reminded her to walk into the wind. A few moments later she came to the fence and paused, leaning against it for a moment as a great sob racked her body. She shuddered, her knees weakening, and for a second thought she might collapse under the load she was bearing.

And why not?

Why not give in to the impulse to simply lie down in the snow—which suddenly seemed to her as soft and inviting as a warm blanket—and go to sleep? Not for long—just for a little while, just for a few moments, to give herself time—

Time for what?

Time to die!

The words galvanized her, and she knew with perfect certainty that they were true.

If she lay down, even for a moment, she would die.

And Alison would be alone, alone in the house, alone with whoever was out here, hidden somewhere in the blizzard.

But who was it? Who was out here, concealed in the blinding whiteness, striking out with the viciousness that had killed her son?

A stranger named Shane Slater? A man whose name she’d never even known until a few minutes ago?

She must be wrong! She must have simply grasped at a straw, invented a story to fit what was happening but mask the truth of it.

Joey!

Could it possibly be that her own godchild had done this?

She tried to imagine it, but her mind refused to entertain the thought.

And yet …

Joey had been out the night the man in the campground had died.

He had been out the night Bill Sikes had died, too!

And he’d had reason to hate his father.

Memories—cruel memories—flickered in her mind, quick visions of Joey glaring at her furiously, his temper suddenly flaring, a frightening darkness coming into his eyes.

No! She wouldn’t believe it—it couldn’t be possible! He was only a little boy! Yet even as she tried to reject the thought, it lingered in her mind, refusing to be dismissed.

But it
had
to be someone else! The man in the cabin—even if her theory about Shane Slater was completely wrong, there was still someone up in the mountains, someone Frank Peters and Tony Moleno had been tracking all day!

But what if there was no man? What if there was no one at all?

She’d heard nothing from the deputy, nothing from anybody!

What if Joey had found the cabin years ago, and only led Rick Martin up to it to protect himself?

Was he capable of such a thing?

She didn’t know. She didn’t know what he was capable of, or even what he might be thinking. She didn’t know him at all!

But if it was Joey, who would he strike out at next?

Alison?

Herself?

He could be anywhere—stalking her, circling around her even as she stood by the fence, pressing herself against it as if it alone could somehow protect her. Steeling herself, she willed the rising panic away, then felt a surge of strength course through her body. No more!

Whether it was Joey or something else who was out here, she wouldn’t let herself fall victim to it. She would survive.

She and Alison both would survive!

She moved quickly now, her step more sure, following the fence to the barn. Then she was there, holding Logan’s body tightly as she fumbled with the door latch with fingers already gone numb from the cold.

Inside, she thought. Have to get him inside. Can’t leave him out here, can’t leave him to be buried in the snow! The latch finally opened, and she pulled hard on the door, forcing it open against the mounding snow just wide enough to wriggle through.

Her eyes darted around the gloomy interior of the barn, and she heard one of the horses nicker softly. Carrying Logan’s body with her, she hurried past the stalls the horses occupied and opened the latch of the fourth one. It was here that only a few nights ago she had found Joey sleeping on a bed of straw. Now she gently laid Logan’s body on the floor, kneeling beside him, her hand resting on his cold cheek, her eyes fixing on his face. But for the terrible wound in his throat, she could almost imagine that he might be only asleep, might awaken at any moment.

Suddenly the horses began moving restlessly, and then
Buck, in the next stall, whinnied loudly. A second later MaryAnne heard a sound behind her. Whirling, she saw the wrought-iron latch of the door that led from the stall directly into the pasture move, and realized what had spooked the horses.

Someone was outside, trying to get in!

Joey!

It had to be Joey!

No! The horses had never been afraid of Joey!

As whatever was outside gave vent to a terrifying howl, MaryAnne’s heart began to race. Panic once more welled up inside her, and this time she was powerless to put it down, powerless to regain control of herself. She fled from the stall, her feet pounding on the wooden floor of the barn as she raced toward the door. Shoving it open against the wind that had blown it closed, she dashed outside, oblivious now to the wind and the snow, her only goal to reach the safety of the house.

The unearthly howl rose over the wail of the wind in the trees, then died away, choked into silence by the driving snow. Olivia Sherbourne stopped in her tracks, a violent shudder passing through her, her skin crawling as the cry faded into the blizzard.

Not human, but unlike any animal she had ever heard, either.

Even the mountain lions that could still occasionally be heard, their terrifying yowls echoing across the valley, had lacked the strange note of anguish that Olivia had heard in that one brief cry.

Anguish, and rage.

It was as if whatever being had emitted the sound were so filled with inexpressible emotions that it had finally been reduced to a single, unintelligible howl of fear, confusion, and anger.

Suddenly Olivia knew where she had heard that sound before.

It had been years ago, long before she’d moved west. She had taken an apartment near a mental hospital, attracted by the cheap rent. It had not taken her long to discover why
the rent was so low, for no more than a week after she’d moved in, she’d begun hearing the screams from the institution next door. Looking out her window, she’d seen a heavily screened porch, high up on the fourth floor. Although it was the middle of winter, and the temperature was nearly zero, there had been a woman on that porch.

Her hair unkempt, wearing only an overcoat over her nightgown, the woman stood at the heavy metal screening like an animal in a cage, her fingers clenched around the cold metal, her lips stretched into a painful grimace as her anguished cry welled up from her lungs, exploding from her mouth with the same mixture of terror and fear that Olivia had just heard floating on the winds in Sugarloaf Valley.

Inhuman, and yet uttered by what was—or once had been—a human being.

Gillie Martin’s frightened words of warning echoed once more in her mind:
Something terrible is up there
.

Something that had killed at least four people.

And something that was no longer up in the mountains, no longer hiding itself in the wilderness, but had come down into the valley.

Olivia glanced around. Though she could feel the wind finally beginning to slacken, the snow was still falling heavily, and the powder scoured up from the valley floor mixed with the new flakes dropping out of the sky to reduce her visibility to only a few yards. As the whiteout closed around her, she felt a stab of fear.

What if the tortured being that had uttered that chilling cry had already caught her scent, was already moving closer to her, searching her out?