A moment later, he saw it was not that at all, but a ski mask of dark-colored wool through which angry eyes glared out at him, and furious breath puffed clouds of white steam into the air.
A ski mask. Like terrorists wear.
The man was carrying a rifle too, not slung over his back, but at port arms, as though he were ready to use it.
He wasn't advancing quickly upon Earl, for the snow was too thick, and every step was an effort. Earl thought it felt like some childhood nightmare, where the monster is coming after you, and you can't run at all, but the monster runs in slow motion, and you know he'll get there eventually, but the slowness gives your terror more time to mount, and hopefully you'll realize in time that it's a dream and wake up.
But Earl wasn't waking up from this one.
The man kept coming, and Earl didn't know who he was, only that he looked like a terrorist, and wasn't it possible that he had come because he thought the shots meant someone had shot a deer, and didn't these crazy people kill people who shot deer?
"Stop..." Earl said, but his voice felt weak and scared, and he could even see the snowflakes rip apart the cloud of vapor on which his word rode.
"Stop," he tried again, and it was louder, loud enough that the man, now only twenty yards away, should have heard it. But he didn't obey. He just kept plowing through the snow, his rifle swinging back and forth in his mittened hands, the barrel's dark opening all too visible to Earl.
"I said stop..." Earl brought up his loaded weapon and aimed it at the man. Surely he would stop now, seeing the rifle barrel leveled at his chest.
But he kept coming. And without even knowing what it was that he did, Earl fired his rifle at the man.
At first Earl thought he had missed, and immediately wished he had. He hadn't planned to fire, but he had. He had been that scared.
The man stopped and dropped his rifle, and Earl thought that it was all right, that the man was a friend after all, that the shot had startled him into realizing how threatening he must appear to Earl, and that he had dropped his gun to show that he meant no harm.
But then Earl saw the man bend slowly over at the waist and remain that way, legs planted firmly in the deep snow, his face an inch above the snowy surface. And Earl knew that his shot had not missed, and that the man had not fallen down instantly because the deep snow had not let him.
Earl stood there for what seemed like an eternity. Then, still gripping his rifle, he trudged slowly toward the masked man. The sweat trapped inside his clothing was rank and clammy, and his face felt as though the sweat was escaping there, drop by drop. Not thinking, he wiped his forehead with his sleeve, smearing snow on his face. The wet coldness slapped him into action, and he moved faster, dropping his own rifle as he scurried through the snow.
When he pushed the man back, Earl could see the hole in his chest. The snow in front of him was drinking up the bright blood so thirstily that Earl thought for an absurd instant of a cherry sno-cone. Then he pushed back the man's hood, pulled the ski mask from off his head, and saw Frank's face, pale except for around his mouth and nose, from which blood leisurely trickled.
Earl's mind whirled. He hadn't known it was Frank, hadn't known Frank had a ski mask along, hadn't recognized Frank's jacket, or vest, or the way he walked through deep snow. Then he knew that Frank hadn't answered him because he hadn't heard him, hadn't stopped because, head down and intent on his trek towards his friend, he hadn't seen Earl raise the rifle. And he knew something else. He had just shot down and killed his friend.
It was only the first of five similar shootings that day in Pennsylvania, in which other hunters were mistaken for the terrorists about whom everyone had heard on the radio early that morning. Three of those shot, including Frank Petrone, were killed. The other two were badly wounded.
By mid-morning, Ned and Megan felt sure that they had lost the jeep that had been trailing them. Megan, looking through the back window that the rear defroster kept clear of snow, had seen the jeep slow as they went up Goetz's Summit, and had not seen it since.
She felt more than relieved. She felt unburdened, as though all the baggage of fear had been left behind. She and Ned would be alone for several days, and might, she thought roguishly, even be lucky enough to get snowed in, if what the radio said was accurate.
"Should we stop and call Larry?" Megan asked, once it seemed certain that the jeep was no longer on their trail. "Tell him about the jeep? Maybe the police can keep an eye out for it."
"I don't know," said Ned. "We didn't get the license plate or anything. And maybe our imagination ran away with us. Maybe they were just going in the same direction we were."
"You know better, Ned. They came for us, and they stayed on us."
"Well, I admit it looked that way, but—"
"But nothing. You're making obtuseness a fine art, sweetheart. They weren't headed over the river and through the woods to Grandma's house. They were chasing us."
"You're right." He stopped at the next phone booth, kicking the snow away from the door so he could get in. He spent several minutes inside, while Megan watched the road nervously, almost expecting to see the jeep come up over the rise, bullets spraying from its open windows.
Nothing of the sort happened, and Ned climbed back into the Blazer. "I told Larry," he said. "He's going to call Statler, for all the good it'll do."
"Did you tell him where we lost them? Goetz's Summit?"
"I told him. Maybe they can check for a stranded jeep there. Probably find a family with two rosy-cheeked kiddies."
"Sons of Carlos the Jackal, no doubt. Drive on, buddy, drive on..."
The Blazer did a good job on the dangerous road. The chains bit into the packed snow, pulling them up hills and keeping them from skidding as they descended. They saw few other vehicles as they wound their way through the mountains of northern Pennsylvania. There were still a fair share of trucks on the road, though many were pulled over at truck stops, their drivers warm and snug inside, enjoying shared catastrophe, waiting out the storm, though Megan thought they would have a long time to wait.
Road crews were out in force, but the snow seemed to fall as fast as the big graders could push it from the roads. The tires threw the rock salt and stones under the Blazer, so that they heard a constant patter beneath them, adding to the racket the chains made.
They crossed the Potter County line just after noon, and both breathed a sigh of relief. The trip, which in good weather would have taken only an hour and a half, had taken them nearly five. They pulled into a diner whose brightly lit interior and parking lot full of trucks declared it open, and ate a lunch of soup, sandwiches, and several cups of hot, black coffee.
The truckers with whom they chatted seemed fatalistic about the storm, and didn't expect it to end until the following day. A grizzled trucker with a few days growth of beard had just heard the latest weather report, and shook his head. "This is supposed to die down this evening," he said. "Maybe even stop completely. But early morning tomorrow?" He looked around as if to make sure everyone was waiting for the punch line. "That's when the big one's gonna hit."
"The big one?" said another trucker. "Oh Christ, you're kidding..."
"Nope. A real killer comin' down from Canada. Supposed to add two and a half feet to what we already got."
"Two and a half? That means—"
"Yep, nearly five feet of snow. Haven't seen any like that in a few years."
"Try never," said a young, red-cheeked trucker who was still warming up. "I don't believe it."
"I'm not makin' it up, son, though I knew it was gonna be a bad winter."
"How'd you know that?" the younger trucker asked, putting double sugar in his coffee.
"The woolly bears."
"Huh?" The young man and a few others looked puzzled, but most grinned. Ned glanced curiously at Megan, and she mouthed Caterpillars back to him.
"Woolly bear caterpillars. They tell what the winter's gonna be like. Never fail."
; "What do you mean?"
"These here fuzzy caterpillars cross the road every fall, brown and black bands around them. You pick them up and read the thickness of the bands. Depending on how wide the bands are, and how thick the wool, that's how bad a winter we're gonna have. This year's gonna be a doozy."
The young man snorted. "And every caterpillar's exactly the same, huh?"
"Oh no, but you get a bunch of them and then you find which one's the real prognosticator."
"How you do that?"
"Draw a circle on the ground and put them in it. One that gets out first is the one to read...but only if he's heading south."
Some of the men laughed, and the young man's red cheeks grew even redder, but then he laughed too.
Megan would have liked to have stayed longer in the warm security of the diner, but Ned felt they should get going. "It's at least another two hours on these roads, maybe more," he said. "And the roads aren't going to get any better, even with chains."
Ned paid the check, then drove to the gas station across the street and filled the tank. They headed north up Route 44, and passed through Coudersport, where they stopped and bought several bags full of groceries for the days ahead. The weather had started to clear. The snow still fell, but in light flurries rather than with the relentless force it had previously shown.
"Think it's going to stop?" Megan asked.
"Not if the woolly bears have anything to say about it."
"You never heard of that before?"
"Oh, I've seen those caterpillars," Ned said, "but I never knew they could forecast the weather. If our bear reader was right, though, this might be just the calm before the storm."
Megan continued to navigate, using the directions that Larry Moxon had given them. Fifteen miles northwest of Coudersport, they turned west onto a road that had only recently been plowed, and took them up the side of a mountain. Thin cables stretched fifty feet or more between each stubby post were the only things that would keep them from plunging over the side were Ned to lose control of the Blazer. Megan tried not to think about it, and kept her eyes on the road ahead.
There was a scary moment when they met the snowplow coming down the mountain, but they hugged the side of the road, reduced their speed to a crawl, and got by it safely.
"I didn't know this was in the Himalayas," Megan said.
Ned chuckled. "It's really up here, isn't it? Larry said it was on a mountain, and I guess he wasn't lying. How far from here, do you think?"
"It says we park near the top in a cul-de-sac to the right."
"If it's to the right, we'll go off the mountain."
"No, I think it curves around and then goes down the other side. We'll see."
It was just as Megan suspected. The road turned to the left and descended the mountain. But just before the turn was completed, a fifty by fifty foot space, covered with snow, appeared to their right. "Bingo," she said. "Think you can get in there?"
"I can get in. Whether or not I can get out a few days from now is another matter."
Ned drove the Blazer into the area, and stopped it near a fairly new pickup truck with a cap. It had been there, Megan thought, just a few hours, since only an inch or two of snow topped its roof.
An access road with a gate over it began at the other end of the parking area and vanished in the forest. On the gate post Megan saw something stand out even whiter than the snow all around. She got out, waded through the snow to the post, and found tacked there an envelope with Ned's name written in a thread-like scrawl. "Mail's here," she said, climbing back in and handing the sodden envelope to Ned.
He opened it, and read aloud. "'Mr. Craig, Understand you've got an all terrain vehicle. If you think she can handle the snow, raise the gate and drive her back in. If not, lay on your horn for a while, and I'll come out and fetch you in one at a time.'"
"Fetch us in on what?" Megan said. "Has he got a sleigh back there?"
"Snowmobile, probably," Ned said. "Tracks are nearly snowed over, but you can see the indentations. See? Where he took it out of the truck and then went back in?"
Megan looked and saw. She felt annoyed with herself that she had not noticed before.
"Does it say how far back the tower is?" Ned asked her.
She nodded. "Three miles. Can we get back there?"
"I'd just as soon not. But I don't see how we can get all our gear back in there on a snowmobile." He shrugged. "And I can't believe anybody is going to hear the horn three miles away, with all this snow to muffle the sound. So let's raise the gate and give it a shot. We get stuck, we can always walk back in."
The snow on the access road was not as deep as on the other roads. Tall trees arched over it, their branches heavy with the wet, clinging snow that would have otherwise fallen on the road. Still, there was a good sixteen inches of it that compressed under the Blazer's wide, chain-wielding tires.
Megan was used to the outdoors, but a snow like this, once you got away from the hazards of the travelled roads, always made the forest a wonderland. It was remarkable, she thought, how a twig scarcely a quarter inch wide could bear a depth of snow of an inch or more, like a paper-thin slice from a pie, with the twig the crust and the snow the filling. The air was still now, but if strong gusts blew through, the snow on the trees could add another several inches to the ground snow when it fell.
The road back in to the tower was little more than a vehicle-wide trail that turned and dipped constantly. A mile in, it descended for a hundred yards, and then climbed again, a climb the Blazer nearly didn't make. Twenty yards from the top, the wheels started to spin, and Ned let his foot off the accelerator instantly.
"We're digging ourselves in," he said. "You drive, I'll push."
He got out and Megan crawled behind the wheel. When she heard him shout "Go!" she accelerated gently, and the Blazer began to move. Ned trotted behind it, pushing as it went up the last sharp incline. Megan concentrated intently, afraid that if she lost traction, the vehicle might slide back on Ned, but they made it to the top with no further trouble. On the level at last, she stopped, and they traded places again.
A short time later, Megan thought she saw something through the white latticework of branches above and ahead of them. The curtain of flurries made everything appear vague and dreamlike, but there was an instant in which it seemed to be the ghost of a building, an incredibly tall edifice through which the white sky was somehow visible. Then she knew that she was looking at the tower, and revised her fancy to make it the skeleton of a building.
"There's the tower," she said, and Ned nodded. She appraised it as best she could through the trees and snow. "That's a tall one," she said.
"Second highest in the state, Larry said." Ned's voice was outwardly calm, but Megan could hear a note of uncertainty in it. He had told her that he thought he would be okay with the tower, since it had railings all the way up. But she knew that just the sight of the thing might unnerve him, and was afraid that it had.
"No big deal," she said. "With all this snow we probably won't even have to go up there at all."
"I'm going to go up," he said oddly. "Snow or not."
Ned tried to keep his attention on the intricacies of the road ahead, but the gaunt, high form of the tower dominated his field of vision. There, above the treetops, it stood, like a sentinel waiting just for him, knowing he would come, reaching high above the trees that surrounded it, old and mighty as they were on their own, threatening him with its imposing height.
No, not threatening him, but daring him.
He had not been atop a tower like that since before the incident in Vietnam. Observation towers were nerve wracking enough, but he could handle them. Fire towers, however, were another matter. They were merely a framework, and he unwittingly shared Megan's simile of a skeleton. In tall buildings, the walls and ceilings and floors were the skin and muscle that retained the illusion that all was well, that you were as safe hundreds of feet in the air as you were on the ground.
But in a fire tower, the skeleton had no muscles or flesh, only the bones, thin and, so your eyes told you, insufficient to hold itself erect. It was an illusion, like a walking skeleton in a horror movie. There was no way it could work, and yet it did. Except for the cab, that enclosed, square room on the top, there were no floors, no walls, no ceilings, only an open stairway with narrow wooden stairs, and a waist high whisper of steel to serve as a handrail. That was all. It would be, Ned thought, like climbing a ladder of breath, with only faith to keep you from falling, the whole fabric of steel drifting down after your plunging body like feathers.
Or snowflakes, he corrected himself, turning on the wipers to clear the wet film from the windshield. The road straightened now, and ahead he could see the small, low outlines of a building amidst the trees. It was the cabin in which the tower men lived during spotting season. The base of the tower itself was still hidden by the forest, although its top loomed so high overhead that he would have had to put his face against the windshield and look up to see it. He did not want to do that. It already loomed too high in his thoughts.
A snowmobile, whose bright red color was plainly visible through the thin layer of snow that had claimed it, sat next to the cabin like a friendly beast ready to fetch for its master. Just as that image struck Ned, an actual beast ran from around the side of the cabin. Its movement was so quick and unexpected in the otherwise sepulchrally still scene that both Ned and Megan gasped. Its black, shambling burst of speed made Ned think of a bear, but then he saw that it was only a huge dog, and laughed as it bounded to the side of the Blazer, its huge tail sweeping the snow like a broom, barking loudly and merrily.
"Now that's a monster," said Megan. "Um, you're not opening the door?"
"He seems friendly enough," Ned said, "but you never know. The way he's barking, I'm sure his master will be out in a minute." Ned thought about blowing the horn, but decided that might scare the dog. So he and Megan waited, enjoying the antics of the huge dog.
Hunters Page 17
