John Saul (40 page)

She cast her fear firmly aside. Whatever was out there could be no more aware of her than she had been of it only a few seconds ago.

Indeed, as the soul-numbing howl echoed once more in her mind, she wondered if whatever had uttered it could be aware of anything beyond the confines of its own mind, or whether it was, as it sounded, trapped in some inescapable hell from which it could never again emerge.

A gust of wind lashed out at her, and Olivia set out once
more, finally coming to the stone columns that marked the entrance to El Monte Ranch. But as she crossed the cattle guard, coming into the narrow lane that was the ranch’s driveway, which wound through tall trees whose trunks were surrounded by heavy underbrush, her fear came back, for whatever being had given voice to the unearthly cry of a few minutes ago could now be only a few feet away from her.

Which meant that she would have no more than a second or two to prepare herself for any attack it might launch.

Unslinging her shotgun from her shoulder, she clicked the safety off and pumped a cartridge into the chamber.

Holding the gun in both hands, she continued her slow progress up the driveway, slogging through the blizzard, the forest seeming to close in on her.

She had taken no more than three steps when she heard something moving in the woods, somewhere off to her left. Swinging around, she raised the shotgun, but nothing appeared in the sights.

Nothing except a thick curtain of white, swirling in front of her eyes, almost blinding her as she strained to see what might have made the sound.

When she heard it again, closer now, but still could see nothing, she turned and fled, plunging into the woods, her resolve not to leave the driveway evaporating in the face of the unseen creature.

By the time the deer that had been disturbed by her passage jumped out onto the driveway, then bounded toward the road in a series of graceful arching leaps through the snow, Olivia had disappeared into the storm, already lost.

MaryAnne burst through the back door, slamming it behind her, her numb fingers fumbling with the lock. Her whole body shaking, she turned around and slid the chain into place, then peered out into the blinding whiteness outside.

Was there a movement out there?

Had something moved, just barely within the range of her vision, then disappeared back into the snowfall even before she could quite see it?

“What is it, Mom?” Alison asked, her voice quavering. “Where’s Logan? What was that sound?”

MaryAnne felt tears flood her eyes as Alison spoke her brother’s name, but she refused to give in to them, refused right now to try to explain to Alison that her brother was dead.

“I don’t know,” she said, bracing herself against the back door for a moment while she marshaled her courage. “There’s something out there, Alison. I thought I saw it just now.” Suddenly she remembered the blood on her clothes, the stains that Alison would see as soon as she turned around. “It killed Storm, Alison. He’s out in the yard. I—” Her voice cracked, and finally she turned around. Alison gazed at her for a moment, and MaryAnne realized that despite her words, despite her determination not to tell her daughter what had happened to Logan, the tragedy was clear on her face.

Alison’s eyes glistened with tears and she shook her head as if to shut out the truth she could see written on her mother’s features. MaryAnne went to her daughter, put her arms around her and held her close. “Don’t say it,” she whispered. “Not now. If you say it, I won’t be able to stand it. There’s nothing we can do for him, darling. Nothing at all.”

“Oh, Mommy,” Alison moaned, a terrible constriction forming in her throat. “What’s happening? What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” MaryAnne replied.

Suddenly she sensed another flicker of motion out of the corner of her eye. When she turned to look, she caught a glimpse of something at the window over the sink.

A face—

But not a face—not a face such as she had ever seen before.

It was gone almost before it registered on her mind, but even as she stared at the now empty window, a vision of a pair of eyes lingered in her memory.

Narrow, feral eyes, glittering outside, reflecting the light from the kitchen.

Eyes that had fixed on her, bored into her, filling her with terror.

“Help me,” she said, her voice taking on a hard edge of urgency as she pushed Alison away from her. “Don’t ask any questions—just do as I say!”

She began jerking the chairs away from the heavy oak kitchen table, then shoved the table itself toward the door. “Help me!” she cried again, and her voice, cutting through the fear and grief that had paralyzed Alison, brought the girl back to life. She moved next to her mother, and together they pushed the table up against the door.

“What is it, Mom?” Alison pleaded. “What’s out there?”

“I don’t know,” MaryAnne replied, her voice shaking. “I saw—there was something looking in the window, Alison. I barely saw it, but—” She shuddered, once again remembering those terrible slits of eyes staring in at her. “Oh, God! It won’t hold!” Her mind raced, trying to think of something—anything—that might prevent whatever was outside from getting into the house. But there were too many windows, too many doors.

The gun!

“Come on!” she yelled. Turning, she bolted out of the kitchen, raced through the dining room and the living room, into the den. She fumbled with the door to the gun cabinet, then remembered it was locked!

The key!

Where was the key?

Rushing to the desk, she jerked open the center drawer with enough force to pull it all the way out. Instantly, its contents cascaded to the floor. A collection of pens, pencils, paper clips, and all the other detritus that had collected in the drawer spread around her feet. She fell to her knees, scrabbling through the mess with trembling fingers, finally finding what she was looking for.

“Open it!” she yelled to Alison, throwing her daughter the keys as she started jerking the other drawers open, searching for the box of shells she’d put away after Olivia had given her the shooting lesson.

She found the box and opened it, her eyes widening as she saw there were only two left. Clutching them and
throwing the empty box aside, she ran to Alison, jerking the gun out of the rack as soon as Alison opened the door.

“What’s going to happen, Mom?” Alison asked as MaryAnne fumbled with the gun, Olivia’s instructions on how to load it suddenly gone from her mind.

“It’s all right,” MaryAnne told her, her trembling voice belying her words. “We’re going to be okay!” A moment later her mind cleared, and her fingers found the release that opened the magazine. She slid the two shells inside, closed the magazine, then pumped a shell into the firing chamber.

“Put some more wood on the fire, Alison,” she said, though she knew the chattering of her teeth and her shivering body came more from fear than cold.

Alison started toward the fireplace, then froze, the color draining from her face as she stared at the window.

MaryAnne’s gaze followed her daughter’s, and she gasped.

Peering in through the window were those same eyes she’d seen only a few moments ago in the kitchen. Now, though, the rest of the face was visible as well.

The heavy features, the eyes sunken deeply and glittering almost as if electricity was surging from within them.

The tangle of matted hair, caked now with snow.

The man was bare-chested, and MaryAnne could see the corded muscles of his arms, his powerful shoulders.

Suddenly she knew.

It wasn’t Storm who had killed Logan at all.

It was the evil creature that stood outside the window, impervious to the storm, glaring in at her with eyes filled with an insane fury that chilled her soul.

She raised the gun, pressing the stock firmly against her shoulder, then squeezed the forefinger of her right hand on the button that would turn on the laser sight.

An instant before the red light flashed on, its brilliant beam slashing through the storm outside, the face disappeared from the window.

“Who is it?” Alison wailed, backing up to cower against the wall opposite the window. “What does he want?”

MaryAnne said nothing, holding the gun steady, the barrel
pointing toward the window, but when the face did not reappear, she finally lowered it. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know.”

Wearily, she went to the fireplace, pulled a log from the wood box and threw it onto the pile of glowing coals.

The flames leaped upward, curling around the fresh log, which began to crackle as its sap ignited.

Then, a second later, there was a pounding on the front door. Alison’s eyes widened, and she came over to stand by her mother, pressing close to her.

The pounding at the door was repeated, followed by a long silence. MaryAnne felt her pulse racing and imagined she could hear the thudding of her heart. She was about to take a step toward the door to the living room, when there was a crash, followed by the tinkling of glass.

“He broke in!” Alison screamed. “He’s inside the house!”

“Don’t move,” MaryAnne told her. “Just don’t move at all.” Once again she raised the gun, training it on the doorway to the living room, her finger already pressing the button on the laser sight.

A brilliant red dot appeared on the far wall of the living room, its edge crystal clear, despite the light in the room.

She heard a scuffling sound, then a grunt.

A shadow appeared on the living room floor. MaryAnne’s eyes fixed on it, watching it change shape as the man who cast it moved slowly toward the door to the den.

As her eyes caught a movement just beyond the door, she jerked the gun to the right, instinctively squeezing the trigger.

The gun roared, and a hole appeared in the wall that separated the den from the living room, instantly followed by a howl of pain. A split second later the man appeared in the doorway.

His chest was covered with blood and his left hand clutched the wound in his side where the buckshot had penetrated the wall and slashed through his skin to lodge in the muscles of his belly. He started toward them, staggering
into the room, his right hand reaching out toward them, its clawlike nails slashing at the air.

Despite the panic rising in her, MaryAnne pumped the second cartridge into the chamber, raised the gun, and once more pressed her fìnger on the laser switch. The red light flashed on, centered on the man’s stomach.

Holding her breath, she once more squeezed the trigger.

Again the roar of the gun filled the room, and MaryAnne felt the impact of its kick wrench her shoulder, but she held her balance.

His eyes opened wide as the buckshot, unhindered by the wall of the den, tore into his stomach, knocking him backward. Blood began spewing from the wound, but he seemed unaware of it. He leaned against the door frame, his eyes flicking around the room as if he were searching for something, and then he began to sink down to the floor.

His legs gave way, and suddenly he dropped, rolling over on his back.

His right hand, which only a second ago had been reaching out toward MaryAnne, now went to the wound in his belly, moving spasmodically, as if he were trying to pack his ruined intestines back inside his shredded skin.

Then, his eyes closing, his whole great frame shuddered and he lay still.

MaryAnne and Alison Carpenter stared in shock at the body, still oozing blood, that now blocked the door to the living room. Neither of them moved, neither of them even breathed.

Time seemed to stand still.

Outside, the howling wind of the blizzard, finally spent, died away.

Silence—a terrible silence—filled the house.

“W
h-Who is he?” Alison stammered, her voice barely audible. Her whole body trembled as she stared at the man lying on the floor, blocking the door to the living room.

MaryAnne opened her mouth, but no sound came from her throat at all.

Her knees felt weak and her heart was still pounding, but slowly she managed to get her breathing back to normal.

She had done it.

She had actually killed a man.

A twinge of nausea wrenched her gut, but she put it down, refusing to give in to it.

He’s not a man, she told herself.

Even if he has a name, and it’s Shane Slater, he’s still not a man, but a monster.

A monster covered with her son’s blood.

This
was what had killed her son. This—this
creature
whose corpse was sprawled on the floor had killed her little boy.

She understood it all now.

It was this man whom Logan must have seen.

How long had he been out there, creeping around the house under the cover of the blizzard?

Was this the first time he’d come?

But she knew better than that.

It was this—thing that had terrified the horses in the barn and set Bill Sikes to prowling in the dark, searching for the source of their fear.

She shuddered now as she thought of how often he must have been out in the yard, concealed in the darkness of the night, peering in through the windows, watching them.

Spying on them.

Had they ever been safe from those eyes as they sat in the den or the kitchen?

And what had he been looking for?

But she knew why he was there, for as she gazed at him now, she was absolutely certain who he was.

The man whose picture she’d found in Audrey’s photo album only that morning.

And now that she could see him in the flesh, even through the distortions of both his life and his death, she recognized the resemblance to Joey Wilkenson.

The same strong brow line, the same firm jaw.

The ears set close to the head, though Shane Slater’s were large—unnaturally large.

She knew why he’d come. He was watching Joey.

Watching his son.

But what had he wanted tonight?

Had he come to kill them and take Joey away with him? Or had it been something else, something she could never even guess at? She took a step toward him and stared once more into his twisted face, his open eyes seeming to be fixed on her as if he were still alive.