In the back seat, Michael laughed. "Where? You see any Holiday Inns out here?"
"Smethport's up here a mile or so. Look in the book, see if there's a motel."
"No."
"Damn you, Jeannie! We find Craig at this tower, you think we're gonna be able to drive back in there? After this storm—assuming that it even stops? Bullshit! We're either gonna have to walk or get snowmobiles, and we can't do either one in the middle of the fucking night!"
"He's probably right, Jean," Michael said. "Craig's there tonight, he's going to be there tomorrow."
"Bet your ass he is," Chuck said. "He's not gonna waltz out of there during this. Besides, I gotta get some rest. Driving in this stuff makes you nuts—I get hypnotized, for crissake."
"Just keep driving."
"No," Chuck said softly, then again, louder, "No." He gently depressed the brakes, stopped the car, and turned off the engine, then the lights. The blackness was nearly palpable.
"What the hell are you doing?" Jean said.
"You wanta keep going, somebody else can drive. I'm done."
"Turn on the lights, my God, somebody could hit us!"
"Fat chance. Besides, it'd put me out of my misery. It's somebody else's turn to drive."
"I couldn't in this stuff," Michael said. "My night vision's bad. I'd run us off the road."
Sam's voice came from the back seat for the first time in hours. "And like I'm gonna work the pedals with this leg?"
"Looks like that leaves you, Jeannie," Chuck said. "You wanta drive in this shit?"
"All right," she said after a long silence. "We'll stop."
"Dandy." Chuck started the engine, turned on the lights, and began to drive. "Now will you please look in the book and see if there's someplace we can hole up till dawn?"
Jean sighed heavily, pulled out the AAA book, and flicked on the map light. After a minute or so, she said, "There's nothing in Smethport, but there's a motel in Port Allegany."
"How far's that?" Chuck asked.
"Once we get to East Smethport," she said, looking at the map, "another ten miles."
"Holy jumpin' shit! That's another hour."
"The road might be better," Jean said. "We get Route 6 at Smethport."
"Oh goodie. Turn the fucking radio on again." They had turned it off many miles before, unable to get anything but static in the storm and the mountains. "I gotta have something to keep me awake." But there was still no reception, and the white noise provided only a somnolent soundtrack to the dizzying whirlpool of pelting flakes.
"Talk to me then," Chuck said. "Keep me goin'."
"Hell, let's sing," Sam suggested.
So Sam and Chuck sang, while Jean and Michael merely listened. They sang everything from Madonna to "You Are My Sunshine" to nine inch nails to songs from The Phantom of the Opera. It wasn't pretty, but it kept everyone awake.
Route 6 had been plowed more often than 46, but driving was still hypnotic and hazardous, and they were all glad to arrive in Port Allegany. The motel was filled with stranded hunters, but the sleepy desk clerk said there was one room available with two twin single beds, and they took it. Jean and Sam slept in the beds, and the desk clerk was able to find a folding cot which Chuck claimed, while Michael settled for the chair cushions on the floor. They thought about asking for a wake-up call, but Michael said he would be awake most of the night anyway, and would wake the others at first light.
After they changed Sam's bandages, they lay in their clothes on top of the covers. Michael Brewster, as he had feared, had found it difficult to go to sleep, balancing on the narrow pillows. When he finally gave up his efforts and lay on the carpet, he fell asleep quickly, and did not dream.
Jean Catlett thought about the next day, and what it would bring. She fell asleep thinking about Ned Craig, seeing him hanging from a rope from the steel tower she could as yet only imagine.
Chuck Marriner fell asleep almost instantly, and dreamed about a tower, about it falling amidst flames, while he laughed and laughed.
Samantha Rogers slept quickly as well, despite the throbbing in her leg. She dreamed about Los Angeles in the sunshine. And outside, it continued to snow, and the wind blew the flakes so that they buried cars and covered roads and hid feeble lights.
Thirty miles northeast of Port Allegany as the crow flies, but nearly double that by roads, Ned Craig woke once again. He thought he had heard someone scream or howl, but it had only been the wind.
The blackness inside the narrow bedroom was the deepest he had ever known. No trace of starshine or moonshine came through the single window, and the square of glass was as black as the wall that surrounded it. If he lifted his head and concentrated very hard, he thought he could just make out a slice of muddy, Halloween orange beneath the door to the main room, the light of burning embers that escaped through the joints of the wood stove. But then again, maybe it was his imagination.
Megan's deep, regular breathing told him that she was sound asleep. They had had a lovely evening, playing music and singing old songs, and had then turned out the lights and gone into the bedroom, shutting out a disappointed Pinchot, who whined for all of thirty seconds before Ned and Megan heard his huge body plop itself down in front of the wood stove. Then they had made love by the light of a single candle, and fallen asleep to the howling of the wind.
Now the same howling that had sung them to sleep had awakened Ned, and he could not get back to sleep. He slowly pushed himself out of the bed, hoping that the springs would not squeak and betray him. Maybe he would have a glass of water or a cup of herb tea. His robe was over the foot of the bed, and he pulled it on and shuffled carefully, arms extended, toward what he recalled was the direction of the door.
Yes, he could feel the rough surface of the boards, and in another second he found the knob, which he turned stealthily. It had been well lubricated, and made no sound as the latch slid back. Ever so gently he pulled it inward...
And it smashed into him, pushed hard from the other side, so that he stumbled backward, hit the foot of the bed, and fell onto Megan, who woke, gasping and twisting under him. Then something huge and heavy was on Ned, and his heart trip-hammered in his chest as he struggled with it. He felt the coarse fur and the wet tongue on his cheek at the same time.
"Pinchot!" he said with a mixture of relief and anger, and a not totally sane laugh.
"Ned?" Megan said breathlessly. "Oh my God, the dog..."
"Damn it, Pinchot, you scared the hell out of me!" Ned said, fumbling for the lamp on top of the shelves by the bed. But before he could find it, Megan flicked on the flashlight, and the beam caught the big dog grinning, his forepaws and head over the foot of the bed.
Megan laughed. "Oh, don't you look so happy to get in here! Were you lonely?"
Knowing that he was being addressed, the dog wagged his tail furiously and seemed to nod, as rivulets of drool cascaded onto the blanket. "I was getting up for some tea," Ned said. "Couldn't get back to sleep."
"So you get the rest of the household up too?" Megan said sleepily, yawning and stretching so that the covers fell back, exposing her small, high breasts.
Ned eyed her in mock appreciation. "Care to join me, miss?"
Megan snorted and pulled the covers back up, then smiled. "Sure, why not? How about some Sleepytime?"
They turned on the lights in the main room, and then Ned switched on the outside light and looked out one of the front windows. "Still coming down," he said to Megan, who was putting water on to boil. The Blazer's tires are slooowly disappearing."
"Hope you don't mind," Megan said.
Ned came up behind her and put his arms around her waist. "There's nobody I'd rather be stranded with. I thought today was great, and tomorrow will be even better. Besides, there's a phone here. We get desperate, we just call in and someone will come and rescue us in, oh, two or three weeks."
Megan turned around and looked at him. She wasn't smiling. "If we called," she said, "seriously, how long would it take for somebody to ge
t out here?"
He shrugged. He really didn't know. "A few hours, maybe. Why, you bored with me already?" He kissed her, wanting her to forget everything that had happened in the past few days, to forget why they were there.
But he knew she wouldn't any more than he would. They were there because some crazy people had committed mass murders and wanted to kill Ned too. They were hiding from people who wanted to murder them, it was that simple.
They had their tea and went back to bed, shutting out the unrepentant Pinchot. In the darkness, they lay side by side, listening to the wind and the snow pattering against the window. Even after a long time, Ned knew that Megan was still awake.
"It'll be all right," he said, sliding his arm around her.
"I know it will. We're safe here. We've got plenty to eat and plenty to read. And each other." She kissed him. "You're right. Tomorrow will be even better."
He knew she was right. But a lot more snow fell before they both slept again.
THE FIFTH DAY
The wind woke them in the morning, just before dawn.
"My God," Megan whispered. "Listen to that."
"I can't help but," Ned said.
"It sounds like it'll take the roof off."
"I'm sure they've had stronger."
"What if the tower falls on us?"
"Takes up to hundred mile per hour winds, remember?"
"Sounds like a good hundred to me," Megan said, and snuggled closer to Ned. Before too long they were engaged in teasing, gentle foreplay, and soon it became more intense.
"Does this mean," said Ned, coming up for air, "that we're going to do this twice in one night?"
"Shut up," Megan moaned, "and put that mouth to better use."
When they were finished, they lay held together by their love and their sweat. "Hot," Ned said, and tossed the covers back. He looked at her in the gray, early morning light coming through the window, and kissed a full, satisfied nipple. "God, you're gorgeous."
"Not so bad yourself for an old guy. But you better not start anything else you can't finish."
"How about starting a little nap?"
"Now that I could finish."
When they awoke again, it was 7:30, and no lighter than it had been at dawn. Ned sat up and looked out the window. It seemed as though they were in the cab of the tower rather than down on the ground. Outside was a gray-white maelstrom of snow. If he looked carelessly, relaxing his gaze, he could make out the trees and the posts that held up the porch roof. But if he narrowed his gaze and concentrated, everything became a blinding blur of indistinguishable shapes.
"I think it's still snowing," he said softly.
Megan leaned over and turned on the battery-powered weather radio. The droning voice informed them that as of 6:00 AM, northern Pennsylvania had received upwards of an additional eighteen inches of snow on top of what had fallen previously, and the forecast called for at least another twelve inches before the snow stopped in the late afternoon or early evening. Winds were out of the north with gusts up to 55 miles per hour, and many major and most secondary roads were closed due to drifting snow. Needless to say, the official winter storm warning that followed the forecast was anticlimactic.
"Do we still have electricity?" Megan asked, and answered her own question by switching on the light.
They threw on robes and went into the main room, where Pinchot was glad to see them, waving his tail like a frantic black banner and drooling merrily. Megan went into the tiny kitchen, where she dished out Pinchot's first meal of the day and put on a pot of coffee.
Ned went over to the phone, lifted it from the receiver, and held it to his ear. He was relieved to hear the even hum of the dial tone, and set it back down gently so that Megan would not hear. He didn't want her to think that he was worried. But just as he stepped away from the desk, he heard her call, "See if the phone line's okay."
He almost laughed, then picked up the receiver and put it back down again with no pretense of stealth. "It's fine," he said, and put more wood inside the wood stove. Then he went to the front windows.
The wind had died down, so that the snow seemed to fall on the ground rather than feed the previous illusion of the ground tossing it upward again. Ned supposed that it was beautiful, if you thought that white and barren desolation was beautiful. The Blazer was fender deep in snow, and he knew there would be no getting out that way. If there were an emergency, snowmobiles could make their way in, and if the phone lines had not yet blown down, Ned felt hopeful that they would remain up through the rest of the storm.
Ned could see the skeletal framework of the tower, but the overhanging porch roof hid the final fifty feet and the cab. He walked over to the side window by the wood stove and looked out. The cab was a barely visible dark box hanging high above, a boat sailing the snowy sky.
The wind had not allowed a thickness of snow to accumulate on the open steps, but the hardiest and most icy flakes had clung to the bare, harsh wood so that the short, alternating flights of stairs looked like teeth, the opposing jaws of monsters, and Ned shuddered in spite of the cabin's warmth as he thought about ascending the tower on those treacherous steps, and in that overpowering gale. At least he would be spared that torture.
"You want to set that drop-down table," Megan said, coming in and handing him a steaming mug of coffee, "and I'll rustle up some breakfast."
The coffee tasted strong and wonderful, and he downed a third of the mug, then lowered the drop-leaf table and set it with the state-issued flatware and agateware dishes, wiping the dust off them with the hem of his bathrobe. In another few minutes Megan came out with two steaming bowls of oatmeal.
"Oatmeal?" Ned said. "Whatever happened to the eggs and bacon?"
"Time to start getting Spartan again," Megan said, setting down the bowls and returning to the kitchen for juice, maple syrup and skim milk.
"Don't you think I should keep my strength up?"
"Among other things. Oatmeal's good for you. Now eat."
"This tastes like shit," Sam Rogers said.
"It's good for you," Chuck Marriner replied.
"I haven't had oatmeal since my grandma rammed it down my throat." Sam let her spoon slap back into the viscous surface of the cereal. Droplets of milk splashed onto the Formica table top.
"Oh, that was mature," Chuck said. Michael Brewster wiped a stray white drop from his jacket without saying anything. "They're out of ham and eggs, Sam," Chuck went on. "They didn't get their deliveries, okay? So eat the fucking oatmeal."
"I don't want oatmeal." Sam waved a hand at the harried woman behind the counter. "Hey! You got any donuts?"
The woman shook her head as she poured coffee. "Sorry, hon, all out."
"Jee-zus," said Sam, slamming her fist on the table.
"Why don't you have some toast," Jean suggested coldly. "Toast and jelly."
"Toast sucks."
"Eat the oatmeal," Chuck repeated. "You oughta have something warm."
"Who made you my fuckin' mother, motherfucker?" She said it loud enough so that several men at the counter turned and frowned at her. "Sor-ree," she sneered at them.
"You don't want to eat, don't eat," Jean said, putting a small bite of oatmeal in her mouth. "But when the rest of us finish, we're gone."
"I'm not hungry," Sam said, pouting. "Let's just go."
It was 8:00, and all of them had slept longer than they had thought they would. Michael, who had slept on the floor, was the first to open his eyes at 7:30. They had quickly washed up, checked out, brushed the snow and chiseled the ice off the jeep, and managed to get out of the parking lot. They got stuck twice in the process, and Michael and Jean had to get out and push while Chuck coaxed the jeep along until it hit plowed road.
A hundred yards down the street they had found an aluminum diner right where the motel clerk had said it would be, although as soon as they entered the waitress had warned them that they didn't have much of a selection. "Delivery trucks aren't getting through," she had sai
d in a voice that bubbled with phlegm and weariness.
But all of them except for Sam had found something to eat, and now Chuck got up and walked over to two burly men sitting at the counter. "Hear anything about the roads east?" he asked them with a friendly smile. One shook his head, the other chuckled. "That doesn't sound good," Chuck said.
"It's not good," the head shaker agreed. "Route Six is no treat, and everything off of it, is snow covered—thick with it."
"You think I could get a jeep through?"
"Where you going?" said the other man.
"Like to go up 49. Northeast Potter County."
"Whew..." The man shook his head again. "I was you, I'd stay put until this stuff ends. Then give 'em another day at least to get plowed."
"You don't think they're gonna be out?" Chuck asked.
"Oh, they'll be out," said the head shaker, "but I don't know how good a job they're gonna do. Last couple winters been pretty mild, so the local townships cut back, y'know? Manpower won't be up to this, that's for sure."
"Damn," Chuck said. "We really gotta get up there. Guess we'll just have to chance it."
"What's your hurry?"
"Got some buds snowed in up there in a cabin."
Chuckles chuckled again. "Hope they got a lot of wood."
"Oh yeah," said Chuck. "There's no real danger, or y'know, they'd have called the cops or somebody. They got a cellular phone along. But see, the one guy's gonna be the best man at my brother's wedding on Saturday..." Chuck pointed at Michael. "That's him there. He's marrying her...the short one."
Shakey shook his head again.
"Yeah, I know, she's got a real mouth on her. It's that Tourette's syndrome...makes you talk dirty when you don't want to? She was engaged once before, but at the wedding when the preacher asked her if she took this man and all that, she said..." Chuck leaned in close and whispered. "'Shit yes, you bet I do, cocksucker.' Well, that did it for that wedding."
"I can understand that," said Chuckles.
"But she's really a sweet kid," Chuck went on. "We wanta make sure the wedding goes just as planned, because any little thing'll set her off. Why, if Bobby can't get to the wedding, she'll probably wind up calling all the guests assholes. Or worse."
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