by Stephen Frey
As she’s talking I get this peculiar feeling, and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up against the inside of my parka collar. The sensation sends a chill streaking up my spine and I grab Sara’s arm and pull her to a stop. We stand there for a few seconds, frozen in our tracks, holding our breath. Then there’s a loud rustling and a sharp crack from above and Sara thrusts her arms around my neck. My eyes snap to the noises, over her left shoulder, just as a ton of snow and a large branch tumble to the ground only a few feet in front of us, causing a blast of cold air to rush past and dust us with powder. Vivian’s ESP must be rubbing off on me.
Sara heaves an audible sigh of relief but doesn’t pull back right away. Instead, she hesitates and stares up into my eyes as the pleasant, flowery scent of her shampoo drifts to my nostrils. Finally, she slides her gloves from around my neck and down the front of my jacket, slowly backs her snowshoes off mine and shakes the dusting of snow from her hair and shoulders.
Sara’s a strong woman. I can’t imagine much scares her, so the way she threw her arms around me and grabbed me so tightly seems odd. I mean, the avalanche took me by surprise, too, but her reaction seemed overdone. “Did you go inside the last time you were here?” I ask.
“No. I saw the bones and I got out of here fast.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
When we reach the cabin I check around for tracks, but, other than ours, there aren’t any. I didn’t expect to find any, since the blizzard only ended twelve hours ago and this place is deep in the woods. But after everything that’s happened in the last few days I’m taking no chances. There aren’t any windows, so I can’t see if anyone’s inside, and the only door to the place is locked tight, though it doesn’t feel like it would be hard to bust it down when I lean against it.
When I turn away from the entrance I notice what looks like a path going off into the woods, basically following the valley floor. It’s clear that the lower limbs up to about seven feet off the ground have been chopped off leading away from the place. Also, as Sara described, an area on the other side of the cabin is clear of trees. It’s pretty sizable and it seems logical to assume that the trees cleared from this area were used to build the cabin. As I gaze up, I notice that the branches of the trees at the edge of the clearing look charred. The same way the branches above the smoldering bonfire off the trail to Silver Wolf Rapids did when Bear and I went out there to check on Mrs. Erickson’s tip. I don’t feel a hundred percent positive about what I’m about to do. This is someone’s private property, and I really don’t have reasonable cause to break in. But sometimes you have to go with your instincts, and since I’m here, I figure it might be a good idea to poke around inside just to see what’s what.
“The bones were mostly over there, right?” I ask, pointing toward the clearing. Sara doesn’t answer and I glance over at her. She’s ten feet away and she’s staring in the direction of the path. “What’s the matter?”
“I thought I heard something,” she whispers.
I watch her for a few seconds, conscious of staying calm while I process what’s happening, then I shift my gaze to the trailhead. I brought my gun. I never go anywhere without it. Bear had his gun on this morning, too. I saw it hanging from his shoulder holster before he put on his parka. He never goes anywhere without his, either. That’s just the way it goes up here. On duty or off you carry it because you never know.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know, but it’s about a hundred yards out that way.” She points slightly left of the trailhead. “And it’s big.”
Sara’s a hell of a hunting guide, as anyone around here will tell you, and she works for the River Families in the fall during deer season. Like most rich people, the River Families seem to be obsessed with trophies, and for a decent day’s pay she’ll track down big whitetail bucks. I know Bill Campbell and Lew Prescott used her this past autumn and both parties bagged big bucks that were nearly Dakota County records. The deer up here have gotten pretty wily since the comeback of the wolf, but Sara’s parties always end up satisfied while most of the other guides have had a tough go of it with their clients over the last few seasons. So when Sara says she hears something big moving out in the woods, I ought to listen.
We stand still for thirty seconds, but I don’t hear anything. As my eyes flicker back and forth between her and the direction in which she’s looking, I think about how I figured she’d be involved with any cult that was operating in Dakota County. But she’s the one who brought me out here, so that involvement seems unlikely now. Even if she’s decided she no longer wants to be in the cult, it’s crazy to think she’d rat on them after what happened to Cindy Prescott and that poor girl who almost fell off the cliff. It’s not like Sara’s got anywhere to go. She’s lived all her life in Dakota County, and as far as I know, she’s got no relatives anywhere else. And as mean as I’ve heard she can be, she’d be no match for whoever killed Cindy. I can say that with certainty after having seen the condition Cindy’s body was in at the estate.
“We should get out of here,” she whispers.
“I don’t hear anything.”
She’s still staring in the direction she pointed a few moments ago. “Something’s out there. I know it.”
“It’s probably just an animal.”
She takes two steps toward me, still gazing at the trailhead. “I’ve got a bad feeling, Sheriff.”
“Well, I’m going inside.”
Her eyes race to mine. “What?”
I nod at the door. “I’m going in. I didn’t come all the way out here not to take a look inside. Especially if these people are burning animals like you said. Especially with the way Cindy was—” I interrupt myself in the nick of time. That was almost a big mistake. If I’d confirmed the ritual way in which Cindy was killed, Sara might have sent the information out into the county almost as quickly and indiscriminately as Mrs. Erickson would. Sara isn’t usually much of a talker, but this would be huge news in Bruner, and that would make it tough for even her to resist talking. People are people no matter who their ancestors are. Folks in Dakota County like to hear what Mrs. Erickson has to say, but most of them don’t really listen to her. With me as the source the news would be taken very differently.
“The way Cindy was what, Sheriff?”
Details of the murder will get out soon enough, but I want to keep them under wraps as long as I can. “Nothing.”
“Sheriff?”
“I can’t say anything,” I snap as I turn back to the door, squat, and grab the handle. “I already told you that.”
“Sheriff!”
“No! That’s the end of it.”
I push the door a few times, but the handle’s only a foot above the snow, so it’s tough to get much leverage. I need to hit it as close to the lock as possible with as much force as I can if I’m going to get in. So I spend several minutes clearing a space in front of the door. All the while Sara gazes into the woods.
It doesn’t take long to get the snow out of the way. I grab the handle, coil myself up, and slam my side against the wood. The door doesn’t give way completely on my first try, but almost. Another shoulder and a hip to it and the lock busts, the door swings back on its shiny new hinges, and I stumble inside, falling to my hands and knees on the dirt floor. After I struggle back to my feet and my eyes adjust to the dim light, a chill snakes up my spine. Like that one did a few minutes ago a split second before the snow cascaded down in front of Sara and me. Except that this one is ten times as powerful and my body actually contorts involuntarily when the spark reaches the base of my neck.
Dark curtains cover the walls; animal skulls—mostly rams and goats—hang suspended from the ceiling; half-burned unlit candles line the walls on the dirt floor, and there is what appears to be an altar at the far end of the room in front of several rows of crude pews. As I come before the altar I see that it’s covered with a dark purple cloth. On the cloth are two crossed, gleaming sabers with what look like i
vory handles; a human skull with a black pentagram painted on the forehead with one of its points going straight down toward the nose; a pentagram with one point going straight down knitted into the cloth at the skull’s chin; two tall white candles rising from two ornate silver candle holders; and a blood-stained knife lying beneath the pentagram.
My pulse takes another jolt at the sight of the knife. It’s a steak knife with a black handle and a serrated tip. It looks exactly like the one I found up on the trail to Silver Wolf Rapids—and exactly like the two that are missing from my kitchen drawer.
“Sheriff Summers!”
I whip around, shocked by Sara’s voice for the second time today. “Jesus, what is it?” She’s standing in the entrance.
“Let’s get out of—” She stops herself as she glances around the room. “What is this place?” She catches her breath. “My God, it’s the cult,” she blurts out, answering her own question in a hushed voice. “This must be where they get together. It’s probably their headquarters or something.”
There’s nothing I can say, no way I can protest anymore. The weight of the evidence is too great. “You can’t say anything to anyone about this, Sara,” I warn her. “You understand?”
But before she answers she shrieks and turns away to look outside.
Just as I hear someone moan softly. At least, I think I did. It sounded as if it was coming from behind the altar, and I hustle around it as fast as I can on my snowshoes. Behind it there’s a door, and I unzip my parka, yank my gun out, and move to the left side of the door, barrel pointed at the ceiling. I glance back at the entrance but Sara’s gone.
I hesitate beside the door, straining to hear anything from behind it, staring at the empty entrance, straining to hear anything from outside. But I don’t, I don’t hear a thing except the sound of my own shallow breathing. I reach for the knob with my left hand and turn it slowly, then push the door open, bring the gun down in front of me, and back off a step.
When there’s no reaction from within I lean slowly around the side of the doorway. It’s tough to see much in the dim light but I can tell this is a much smaller room than the main room. I have a tiny, four-inch silver flashlight attached to my holster and I pull it out quickly, flip it on, and scan the room. The beam shakes in front of me as I focus on certain objects. Past the doorway two chests are stacked one on top of the other directly in front of me against the far wall, and to the right there’s what looks like a curtain spanning the width of the narrow room. But when I look at it more closely I see that it’s not a curtain. It’s actually a row of about ten black robes hanging from a silver rod, and three of the robes have purple stripes across the upper arms.
Then I hear the moan again. It’s coming from the left and it’s louder this time. I whip the flashlight beam around and it illuminates a sack on the floor. I rush to the sack, kneel, lay the gun beside me on the dirt, throw off my gloves, and start fighting the knot of the drawstring that’s keeping it tightly closed. Finally, I get the knot undone, pull open the string, and yank the sack back. Inside is a hog-tied young boy clad in just a dirty white T-shirt and jockey shorts. He can’t be more than seven years old. His eyes are closed and the skin of his arm feels like ice. He’s barely alive. I don’t need a doctor to tell me that.
There’s a noise behind me and I grab my gun, hustle to the left side of the door—so I can fire more easily with my right hand—and peer out into the main room. Two figures stand just inside the entrance. I can’t make out their faces and I can’t tell if they’re armed.
“Who’s there?” one of them yells.
“Police!” I yell back. “Put your hands up!”
They duck down and suddenly there’s a hail of bullets coming at me. They’re medium caliber, probably 9mm like mine, judging by the sounds they make as they smack nastily into the wood all around me and plow into the chests against the far wall. I’ve got another clip in my pocket so I respond heavy with five shots of my own as I hold just my hand around the doorway.
“I’m hit, I’m hit!” I hear somebody scream. “Jeeesus Christ! I took one in the shoulder. God, it hurts like—”
What sounds like a cannon shot drowns out the guy’s voice. It had to have come from a shotgun, probably a twelve gauge because of how loud the report was and because the shell blew a hole in one of the chests the size of a beach ball. Two more blasts blow into the small room in rapid succession and one of them disintegrates part of the door frame above me on its way through. Whoever’s shooting must have an over-and-under model, so he’s probably got two more rounds in the gun. I hunch beside the door as kindling sprinkles down on me like ticker tape in one of those old newsreel parades. I stick my hand around the doorway and blow five more shots into the altar room, then it’s quiet after the sounds of my shots fade away. I lean hesitantly around the side of the doorway and strain to hear anything. I can’t let them sneak up close, then rush me. That would be the end of Sheriff Paul Summers. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about following in my father’s footsteps.
I lean a little farther out, exposing myself to gunfire, searching the makeshift pews in front of me for any movement, but I don’t see anything. I’ve got four shots left, and I reach into my snow pants pocket for the spare clip, quickly lean far enough out of the room to check left and right outside the door, see no one, then empty what’s left of the clip in the gun into the altar in case one of the men managed to crawl up behind it. But there’s no indication that anyone’s on the other side of the altar and I have no doubt that my bullets went straight through it. If there’d been someone behind it, I’d have hit him.
I take a deep breath, unclasp my snowshoes, make it to my feet, and move into the main room. It’s empty. It’s not like there’s anyplace to hide in here, and now that I’m in the room I can see everything pretty clearly in the light from the entrance. I’d see someone lying in the pew area or standing behind the curtains covering the walls. I steal quickly to the front door and, again, flatten myself against the wall to the left of the doorway. After a few seconds I lean around the side, squint, and peer outside. In the snow I see two sets of tracks coming to the front door directly from the trailhead, then two sets leading away. And there are drops of red alongside the footprints—what I assume is blood.
I stare at the trailhead for thirty seconds, quickly going through my options. I have to get this boy out of here as fast as possible. He’s in bad shape. But I don’t want to stumble into an ambush, either. It looks like whoever those people were ran in the opposite direction to the one I’d take, but you never know. They might swing around a ridge and lie in wait for me.
I assume Sara ran, too—I see her tracks leading off into the woods as well. I grit my teeth and curse under my breath. Was this all a setup? But how could she possibly have known I’d be out in the woods this morning? And, if she did know, even if Bear called her on her cell phone to tell her, how could she have possibly found me out there? It would have been like finding a needle in a field of haystacks even if she knew the general area I was going to be in, and I would have had to have mistakenly turned north for her to have any chance of running into me. How could she have known I’d do that? She couldn’t have. Plus, she was the one who tried to get me to leave a few minutes ago; she was the one who heard them coming. No, that’s all way too much coincidence. I bet she knows more about the cult than she’s telling me, because I always figure she knows more than she’s telling me about anything, but I don’t think she and Bear set me up. I don’t mind a good conspiracy, but it’s got to have some legs to it.
I rush back to the small room, grabbing the bloody steak knife off the altar on my way. Then I put my snowshoes back on, untie the boy, wrap him in my parka, hoist him over my shoulder, retrace my steps to the entrance, and lay him down gently on the floor. I take another long look at the trailhead, then slip outside and make a quick lap of the cabin, gun out in front of me. When I’m back at the entrance I scoop up the boy and head out. He probably only weigh
s sixty or seventy pounds, but the extra few inches I’m sinking into the snow sets my leg muscles on fire right away. It’s going to be a long trek home, but I’ve got to keep pushing, I’ve got to get there as fast as I possibly can.
This boy’s life is in my hands.
16
TO MY AMAZEMENT, when I finally make it home the entire driveway is clear of snow except for a thin layer of slush. Bear even dug a path leading from the top of the driveway to the back porch, and he cleaned off both cars. He must have spent most of the time I was gone outside, shoveling. That’s the only way even he could have finished the job so fast by himself.
I finally broke out of the pine trees and onto 681 a half mile north of my house—I’ve done the drive between the house and town enough times that I recognize every inch of that seven miles, even when it’s snow-covered. Then I hustled south in the cold and the fading light of the late afternoon with what little strength I had left after climbing up and down those ridges carrying the boy, paranoid that someone was closing in on me from behind.
I don’t know what happened to Sara. I half-expected her to slip out from behind a tree like a phantom or hear her voice out of nowhere again as I was slogging through the woods, but I never heard or saw her. As I lurched along with my human cargo I convinced myself once and for all that she couldn’t have set me up at the cabin, that there was no conspiracy. At least, that she isn’t part of one. It seems awfully odd that those two guys showed up out there at the exact same time we did, but I can’t think on that now. I have to do all I can to save this boy, and not because he could be a vitally important factor in terms of shedding light on the cult and, potentially, on Cindy’s murder. I have to do it because he’s an innocent young kid who’s been through a horrible ordeal.
