Dawn took a step backward, out of Damon's peripheral vision.
“How did you start El on his spree?” asked Micky.
She understood now. Damon knew that if he could get El to kill someone, then everyone would assume that El had murdered Aaron as well. Two separate killers in one day in a town the size of McRay would be just too unbelievable.
“It wasn't like that. I didn't mean for him to kill anyone.”
“Really? And what was going to stop him?”
Dawn reached down and quietly retrieved El's pistol. Micky wanted to signal to the girl somehow. To let her know the gun was empty. But she didn't dare draw Damon's attention to Dawn. He might just spin around and kill her.
“El trusted me. I was the only one who talked to him. All I had to do was tell him that everyone in McRay hated him. That they were planning on killing him today. He ate it up. Said he'd known it all along. Said he knew just what to do.”
“You set him loose like a mad dog, Damon. You're as bad as Vegler.” She spit out the name and Damon looked as though she'd slapped him in the face. “Vegler made you sick. And now you're no better than he is.”
“I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt,” Damon whined.
“So you made sure El thought that I was his friend,” said Micky.
“I did, yeah. But I knew he wouldn't hurt you anyway. I didn't think he'd hurt you. He already had plans for you.”
“I'll bet.”
“I wasn't going to let him hurt anyone. It was all a mistake.”
“A mistake? Damon! Six people are dead!”
The shotgun shook in his hands. “I followed El to Terry's place. I still had Aaron's rifle. I was going to stop El before he hurt anyone. Kill the son of a bitch. I was!”
“Then why didn't you?”
Dawn raised the pistol with both hands. She pointed it at the back of Damon's head.
“The fucking gun jammed. I was running down the trail after El and I went to cock the rifle and it got stuck. The bullet was all crumpled inside and I panicked. I'd just got to the edge of the clearing when I heard Terry screaming. I saw Dawn running into the alders, and then Howard showed up.”
“And El killed him.”
“Yeah.”
“What then?”
Dawn gritted her teeth, pulling the hammer of the pistol with both thumbs.
Micky tensed.
“I followed El,” said Damon. “Waiting for my chance. But the son of a bitch kept wrecking all the guns. He smashed Howard's before he threw them into the woods. He even burned all of Clive's ammunition.”
Micky thought of the Glock, resting in a pile of melted plastic. But she shook her head.
“El's place was full of guns.”
“And there was a bear there. I damn near walked right into her.”
“I wish you had.”
“Don't say that, Mick.”
“What are you going to do now?”
His eyes hardened again. His finger tightened on the trigger. “I can't go to jail, Mick. You know I can't. I'd go crazy.”
“You're crazy now, Damon. They'll catch you. The cops will go over every inch of this valley with a fine-tooth comb. They'll figure out what happened.”
“I'll be gone by then.”
Dawn clicked the hammer back on El's pistol, but Damon never looked away from Micky. The smile that crossed his lips was as sad as his eyes. He raised the shotgun again.
“I love you,” he said, speaking directly to Micky, ignoring Dawn, “but I can't go to prison. You know I can't. I'm sorry.”
“You never loved anyone but yourself,” said Micky.
Dawn pressed the cold barrel against the back of Damon's head. “You killed my mother,” she said.
“That gun is empty,” said Damon.
Dawn pulled the trigger.
Two shots roared.
CLOSING TIME
THE TOP FINIAL OF the swaying rocker hung by a splinter. Micky let out a long, slow breath, cautiously searching herself for new wounds. But there were none. Dawn helped her to her feet and they both stepped across Damon's body, heading for the door.
The girl's face was deathly pale and her eyes were wide. Micky knew that she had to reassure her before she went into shock.
“Thank you,” rasped Micky. “You saved our lives. You didn't just run and hide like I did when I was your age.”
They staggered out onto the landing and leaned on the railing. Neither of them looked down at Stan.
“I was so scared,” wept Dawn. “I thought Damon was right. I thought the gun was empty.”
“So did I,” said Micky, wondering if her luck was changing. She searched for Rich, over the trees. “At least you won't have to live the rest of your life not knowing if you could have done something.”
“My mother,” said Dawn. “I didn't do anything.”
Yes.
What do I say to that?
“Dawn, there was nothing you could have done. You were alone. You didn't have a gun.”
“You're losing a lot of blood,” said Dawn, staring at Micky's shoulder and making a face.
Micky peeled back the blood-soaked cloth. The bullet had clipped her collarbone and left an open track across her shoulder. She didn't think an artery had been hit or she would have been dead already. But if the bone was completely broken, it was going to mean more painful rehab.
“I'll be all right.”
“What can I do, now?” asked Dawn.
“Flag Rich down,” said Micky, knowing it was important to keep the girl busy. She pointed out into the clearing. “He'll come down for you.”
Dawn did as she was told and Micky noticed the girl's shoulders straighten when she had a job to do.
I haven't saved her yet.
Not if she blames herself.
I won't allow that.
Rich dipped his wings in a final pass and disappeared over the trees toward the strip.
Dawn glanced back toward the store, awaiting further instructions.
“Go get him!” Micky shouted. “It's up to you.”
OPENING DAY
MICKY SAT ON THE concrete bench in the center of the vast open rotunda that was the entrance and focal point of the new Wellsgate Mall, on Houston's ever-expanding west side. Behind her a fountain played the high keys as water tinkled and gurgled along the blue-tile runway that fed an indoor jungle.
Shoppers hurried past, eager to be the first into stores that offered spectacular savings on Grand Opening Day. Highclass home furnishings, state-of-the-art electronics, and upperend men's and women's fashions, including a fancy negligee store that men kept not quite glancing at. Outside, the temperature was nearing one hundred. But inside, the world existed forever at the meat-locker chill Texans loved.
Micky ignored the bustling crowd. Instead, she studied the stained-glass skylight overhead, half the size of a football field, showering rainbows on the floor below. It had taken her two years to complete the giant work and her fee was more than many artists earned in a lifetime. But more than the money, she was proud of the work.
She noticed shoppers stopping in their feverish search for bargains to follow the train of light upward from their feet, staring in wonder at the glass above. The sheer size and complexity of the work gripped them. The changing light from outside brought the glass to life, shimmering and flickering as though electrified. On every face, Micky saw awe, wonder, and, occasionally a nod of understanding.
That gladdened her.
Her heart was in the work.
It had a brooding quality that caught the eye, like a roll of distant thunder over an unseen horizon. But as the noonday sun approached zenith, the darkness was diminished, then subdued, and ultimately defeated. Then the ceiling of glass glowed with an inner fire, radiating hope and renewal.
Rebirth.
That was what she called it, although only the few who read the small brass plaque beneath the You Are Here map would ever know that. Micky Ascherfeld's name would never be a
household word. But she was all right with that.
“It works,” Micky muttered, thinking of what it had cost to get to where she was.
She thought of Marty. She'd received a couple of letters from him in the four years since the murders. He'd been in the hospital six weeks longer than she was but then moved right back to McRay. He'd laughed off his scars, but couldn't laugh off the loss of his best friend. But Micky had been gladdened to hear that a family with two young boys had moved into the Cabels’ building. At least he wasn't by himself any longer.
A couple of months after that first letter, Marty wrote again. He sent her a piece of ore with an inch-thick layer of bright yellow gold in it. And a copy of a deed to the mine naming her and Dawn as coowners with him.
There really was a mine.
Damon had been right.
Aaron had known where it was all along.
Almost as soon as Marty returned to McRay he began working his claim again. A year after he got back, he had hiked up to Aaron's to see if there might be a shovel left in the old man's toolshed. Even without Stan, Marty was still going through shovels. He said he felt guilty about busting the lock on Aaron's storehouse. But he needed the tool and the place was going to pot anyway. When he kicked open the door he nearly fainted.
It wasn't a shed at all. It was the entrance to the lost mine.
Aaron must have discovered the mine years before, hidden in the underbrush. He'd built the lean-to to disguise it. That was why he moved out of Micky's cabin down by the store and high up into the valley.
Not to get away from people.
To be close to his mine.
She smiled, thinking of the old man knowing all along. What a great joke he must have thought that was.
Micky tried to spot the stone in the center of the window above but it was invisible at that distance.
Dawn had moved in with her aunt in California after the murders. But she had become powerfully attached to Micky. So after getting out of the hospital, Micky had moved to San Francisco to be close to the girl. Their continued relationship had been good for both of them. As she grew up, Dawn developed all her mother's dark beauty with none of the aura of tension and fear that had been Terry's constant companion.
Micky built a studio and sold her works through a local gallery. Eventually she took on commissioned work as well. But she refused to go back to her old style. Instead she opened herself to new, wilder forms that bubbled up from some deep wellspring within. With each new piece her reputation grew, until she'd received the commission to do the skylight for the mall. For that she had had to move back to Texas and lease a large warehouse space. By that time Dawn was eighteen and had enrolled in the University of Houston.
Micky had insisted that Dawn see a professional therapist in San Francisco and continue seeing one in Houston. But Dawn never failed to point out Micky's own refusal to submit to therapy.
The light through the abstract glass danced at their feet and Micky watched it create strange new patterns.
“You're my therapy,” she said.
When she realized that she had spoken out loud she blushed, then smiled, not sure whether she was talking about Dawn or the skylight.
She wiped a tear from her eye and held the glittering liquid, like shattered glass, in her palm, watching the droplets come together again, forming one whole. Then she tilted her hand and let the teardrop spill into the waterway.
She smiled at her own reflection and the mirror image of the ceiling overhead. She could easily imagine Dawn's face beside her.
“Maybe both of you,” she whispered.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chandler McGrew was born and raised in Texas and lived for a number of years in Alaska. He now resides in the mountains of Maine, with his wife, Irene, daughters, Amanda and Charli, and a dog and cat, all of dubious disposition.
Turn the page for a preview of
Chandler McGrew's newest thriller
NIGHT TERROR
Coming soon
wherever Bantam Books are sold
NIGHT TERROR
SILENCE HUNG OVER THE darkened house like a shroud. Outside the window, the moon peered through skeletal pines. Gray-black clouds scudded across the sky, rats leaving a sinking ship.
Audrey Bock screamed.
The agonizingly long shriek resounded in the confines of her bedroom, and then away down the hall, like the caterwaul of a hellbent train.
Her husband, Richard, bolted upright, fumbled for the lamp. Something clattered to the floor.
Audrey screamed again, a wail of abject terror. Beneath the fury of her gut-wrenching cry, like sand shifting beneath a wave on a deserted beach, other sounds struggled toward the surface.
Richard cursed.
His fingers clawed at the bedside table.
A thin breeze fluttered the curtains.
The light finally flicked on as Audrey screamed yet again.
She stared straight ahead through unfocused blue eyes. Her back pressed stiff against the headboard. Her knees tucked tightly to her chest. Her short blond hair was tousled. Her hands flapped wildly in front of her face, warding off some unseen menace.
Richard clutched her, following her gaze across the harsh shadows of the bedroom, into the hallway, barely lit by the bathroom night-light.
“Let him go!” Audrey shrieked.
“Honey, there's nobody there.” Richard shook her gently. “It's a dream, Aud. Wake up. ”
“She's got him, Richard!” Audrey cried, so loudly that Richard winced. “She's got him!”
“Honey, it's a bad dream. Wake up!”
“Leave him alone! Leave my baby alone!”
“Audrey!”
She clawed at the sheets, but Richard tugged her back as she struggled feebly in his arms.
“She's got him,” she said, in a voice suddenly far too calm.
“You're asleep. You've got to wake up.”
“She's going to kill him. She's got my baby!”
Richard couldn't understand how Audrey could have her eyes wide open and still be sound asleep. This was nothing like one of her nightmares.
“I've got to go!” She fought him. Stronger this time, but still unable to break free.
“Honey, if you don't wake up I'm going to put you in the shower.” He wasn't sure that was such a good idea, but he didn't know what else to do. Perhaps just the threat would work.
“Don't touch him!” she screamed. This time she broke free. She stood beside the bed, wobbling, gesturing into the hallway.
Richard slid across the bed and wrapped her in his arms again. She was a head shorter than he was and weighed barely ninety-five pounds. He lifted her easily and carried her into the bathroom.
The vision followed them through the house, focused directly in front of Audrey's eyes. She clawed at the empty air. Richard lowered her gently into the tub and she cringed in the far corner, quivering, as though the icy water had already been turned on.
He stared into her eyes and fear surged through him. “Audrey, please.”
He'd seen eyes like those before.
Eyes of madness.
He remembered his mother's screams. Remembered her begging him to save her from the demons that he could not see. He remembered other eyes as well. Tara's patients. And the inmates at the institution in which his mother spent her final days. Richard was more afraid of madness than of almost any other terror on earth.
Almost.
He turned on the tap, expecting another cry from Audrey as the cold water struck her.
But her silence was worse.
She quailed in the farthest corner of the tub. The water plastered her hair to her head. Her chin rested between her knees and she shivered so violently her teeth chattered.
But still she stared straight ahead at the evil visible only to her.
Richard knelt beside her, spray soaking his pajamas. He stroked soggy hair out of her face. “Aud, it's a dream. It's just a bad dream. You have to wake up.”
<
br /> “It isn't a dream.” Her voice was mechanical, inflectionless.
He lightly slapped her cheek. “It is.”
She looked into his eyes and for the first time he thought that she could see him.
“She's here!”
He gripped her shoulders and shook her. “No one's here, Aud.”
“She's got him.” Her tone was hesitant now. Confused. Her emotions were mercurial, unstable.
“Wake up, honey,” Richard said. “You're almost awake. Come on. Stand up.”
“I am standing up.”
“No, you're not. Come on.”
He lifted her to her feet and she wrapped her arms around him and fell into his soaking embrace. They huddled together beneath the icy spray for several minutes. Until her breathing eased and her heart slowed.
“I want him back. I need to help him,” she whimpered.
“I want him back too, Aud.” He held her at arm's length and looked into her eyes. “Are you with me now?”
She gave him a curious look.
“Are you awake?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. Let's get you dried off.”
She stood compliantly as he removed her dripping nightgown and toweled her dry. Then he kicked off his own sodden pajamas and dried himself.
“Let's go back to bed,” he said, exhausted.
But she stood as still as a zombie and he realized that wherever she was, she wasn't completely back yet. He lifted her like a small child, speaking calmly to her all the time, and carried her back to bed.
Audrey awakened to the smell of frying bacon.
She stretched languorously, shocked by the feel of linen against her bare skin. She lifted the sheets and stared at her nude body. She had gone to bed in a nightie. No question about that. And that was the last thing she remembered.
She grabbed her robe out of the closet and followed the smell of breakfast into the kitchen. Richard was a great cook when he wanted to be. Better than she was.
Richard glanced up from the electric griddle as she entered.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Sleepy. What time is it?”
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