by James Hunt
Amongst the white were figures hunched over in the snow. The weather had made them faceless, but Kate knew they were Dennis’s men. And when she reached for her pistol, she prayed that Mark made it back safely, and her mind flashed images of her children. Holly and Luke laughed, and as she straightened her arm to fire, Kate wished that she had been given another chance with Luke. She wished that they had been on better terms the last time they spoke. And she hoped that her son wasn’t tormented by the fact he never got to say goodbye. Because she knew she was.
“Kate, get down!”
The voice thundered from behind her, and Kate didn’t have time to get a good look at Rodney before hell rained over her head.
Kate clamped her hands over her ears, but her palms did little to muffle the gunfire above. Each gunshot vibrated her body, and when she lifted her face, she saw bullets flash in brilliant streaks of light, her cheeks warmed by the heat generated by the constant barrage of gunfire.
Minutes passed, and still the thunderous roar of whatever weapon Rodney had brought with him continued its assault on the convicts, and it wasn’t until she looked down into the hallway that she realized that Harley and his men had ceased firing as well.
And then it was suddenly over, the gunfire ended, only their continuous vibrations rattling through Kate’s body as she lifted her head toward the sky. She watched the snow fall, deaf to the world.
A rush of cold drifted toward her, and then Rodney was near, his lips moving quickly, extending his hand into the tunnel. But she just stared at him as if he were some type of mirage. A shove from behind propelled her body forward, and without thinking, she raised her hand to meet Rodney’s as his firm grip wrapped around her wrist.
Rodney pulled her from the tunnel, and Kate stumbled blindly through the snow. She turned toward the direction where the prisoners had attacked, but the faceless silhouettes had been transformed into bloody piles in the snow.
Kate’s jaw dropped at the number of corpses. It looked as if it stretched farther than she could see through the snowfall. Blotches of crimson and black contrasted with the white. And when she turned back around, everyone had already been pulled from the station, and Rodney was gripping her by the shoulders with both hands. Again his lips moved quickly, but she stared past him toward the hulking gun that was planted on a sled, smoke still rising from the weapon’s thick barrel.
“Kate!” This time Rodney’s voice broke through as he shook her harshly. “Kate, we have to go, now!” He pulled her with him on his retreat, but even as her feet moved, her eyes remained glued to the dead, and then as they passed the weapon that Rodney left behind, her eyes fell to it, and the mountain of bullet casings that rested beside it.
9
The snowfall didn’t make the tracks any easier to follow, but Billy had once tracked a deer for six miles through a worse storm than this, and that was in the Rockies. Now, those were real mountains, not the hills he and his brother found himself in now. He missed the mountains of his youth. But if he had to choose between being back in a cell or stuck in these hills, he’d gladly choose the latter.
Martin brought up the rear, huffing and grumbling louder than he should have. He leaned against a tree trunk, his shoulder eliciting a loud thump against the bark, triggering snowfall from the dead branches. “Find it?” He hacked and then spit a wad of phlegm in the snow.
“No,” Billy answered, his eyes scanning the endless sea of white, the rolling mounds of snow blurring together for the past dozen miles they’d already chewed up.
“Let’s head back,” Martin said. “The trail’s cold.”
Billy placed his gloved hand in the snow. He was tired. He was hungry. But unlike his brother, he wanted to get on Dennis’s good side. Despite his older brother’s apathy, he understood what Dennis was doing, and he wanted to ensure himself a seat at the table.
“We’re close,” Billy said, continuing his trek through the snow.
Martin groaned and shoved himself off the tree, continuing his labored breathing.
The group had done a good job of covering their tracks. Whoever was leading them made a smart move in having them walk in a single-file line, but the real problem was the fresh snowfall. It was like searching for a piece of paper in a sea of white. The trail was nothing more than a subtle break in the pattern of the snow.
Billy stopped, his eyes catching a hint of that path up to his left. “C’mon.” He waved his brother forward and hastened his pace. He was close. He could feel it in bones like a radar signal.
Tracking had come second nature to him ever since he was a boy, when his mother used to send him out to fetch his father from the bar. Martin was good, but to Billy, tracking was like breathing. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t find.
Growing up dirt poor as a kid, Billy turned tracking into a game for himself. He’d time himself, blindfold himself, anything to make it more of a challenge. But he’d always find his target. It was a skill that his brother noticed quickly, and by the time he was sixteen, Billy was already running in a gang with Martin, hunting down men for anyone who’d pay.
In a way, he was a bounty hunter, though most of the time, the people that paid him wanted them not only found but also dead. Billy had never liked killing. That was Martin’s forte.
But if they could pull this off, they would have a seat at the table, just like they did when they performed all of those jobs for those mobsters in New York.
Billy remembered all of the perks that came with working for men in a position of power. The girls, the food, the liquor, the parties, the cars, and all of the shiny stuff he’d seen in magazines and on television as a dirt-poor kid in the mountains were suddenly his. And after six years of being locked up, he was ready to do whatever he could to get those things back.
He followed the broken trail, losing it once more before finding it again, and as his eyes scanned the endless forest, he stopped cold. Just ahead, between two groups of trees, he saw an unnatural mound of snow. It was pitched downward, lying flat, like snow that had fallen on a roof.
“What the hell are you stopping for—”
Billy held up his hand, and his brother froze. Then after a second’s pause, Martin crept as quietly as a mouse—each footfall in the snow was soundless. Billy pointed, and Martin followed his brother’s hand toward the slanted roof.
“Son of a bitch,” Martin said, whispering to himself in disbelief. “And here I was thinking you’d gotten rusty.” He clapped his brother on the shoulder. “All right, let’s go back and—”
“No,” Billy said, removing the pistol from his holster. He’d only fired it a couple of times. But ever since his hookup with Dennis, he’d gotten better at killing. Though he still didn’t like it, he didn’t mind it as much anymore. “The place doesn’t look big. Can’t be more than a dozen people inside.” He scanned the area. “And they don’t have any guards set. We can take them by surprise.”
Martin spun his brother around, shaking his head. “No. You remember what Dennis said. He wants us to come and get him.”
“By the time we find him, things could have changed. It’s better if we take care of this now. It’ll be less he has to deal with when he gets back from the trooper station.”
“What the hell’s gotten into you?” Martin asked. “Why do you care so much about what that asshole wants? You think he cares about you?”
“No,” Billy answered, though his tone was more defensive than he meant it to be. “I just don’t want us to get left behind.” He knew there was safety in numbers. And right now, Dennis had the most. If that changed, then maybe so would Billy’s opinion, but he’d go down that road when he crossed it.
Martin laughed. “God, you always were worried about shit like that, weren’t you?” He grunted and then removed his pistol. “You sure you can handle this? We’ll be outnumbered.”
Billy turned back to the cabin, tightening his grip on the pistol. “Not for long.”
Luke awoke, sweaty and sore and alone
in his bed. He blinked away the sleep in his eyes and saw the bandage across his chest. He lifted a hand and gently grazed the fabric. An aching pain throbbed his entire chest, his surroundings foreign.
He moved his tongue around his lips, which were rough and chapped. He tilted his head to the left on his pillow, finding a glass of water on the nightstand. He reached a shaking hand and curled his fingers around the cool glass. His grip was weak, and he could barely lift his head to drink, but when he tasted the water, he drank thirstily.
Luke emptied the cup and then weakly set the glass back on the nightstand, nearly dropping it as it hit the wood with a heavy thunk.
Lines of water ran down the corners of his mouth, and he shut his eyes. Slowly, his memory of events returned. Images from their escape from Fairfax, and then arriving here at the cabin flashed in his mind. And then his anger flared at the remembrance of his conversation with his mother.
The door opened, the knock that accompanied it more ceremonial than practical. “Luke?”
He smiled. “Hey, Holly.”
The door remained cracked, and Holly was only a tiny sliver in the narrow space. “Can I come in with you, or are you still sick?”
“You can come in, but don’t—”
Holly burst inside and then catapulted herself onto the bed, landing on Luke’s stomach and sending a bright flash of pain throughout the wound on his chest. He yelped, and Holly’s playful giggle turned to a gasp, and she slinked away, afraid she was in trouble.
“Jump on the bed,” Luke said through gritted teeth.
Holly lowered her head sheepishly. “I’m sorry.”
Luke closed his eyes, taking deep breaths until the pain eased. “It’s all right.” He opened his eyes and found her still sulking, and the rest of the anger melted away. “I’m fine. Really.” He forced a cheesy grin. “See?”
Holly approached, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. She picked up his hand, and started playing with his fingers. “Are you still mad at Mom?”
Luke frowned. “Who told you I was mad at Mom?”
She flashed him a teenager-like stare, and for a moment she looked older. He didn’t like that.
“There’s very thin walls in here,” Holly answered, then she paused. “So are you? Still mad?”
Luke sighed. “I don’t know, Holls. I guess a little.”
“You shouldn’t be mad,” Holly said.
“Says the girl who’s been mad at her for the past year,” Luke replied accusingly. “What’s changed your tune?”
“I don’t know.” The words matched a genuinely unsure tone as Holly tried to bend Luke’s pinky finger to an unnatural angle. “I like having her around.”
Luke had forgotten how much she missed as a kid. Their mom was gone a lot more than when he was little. Better jobs at bigger airlines meant longer hours and more time away from home. “You missed her, huh?”
“Yeah,” Holly answered. “I guess I did.” She plucked at his leg hair, and she giggled when he winced.
Luke tried to smack her hand away but couldn’t reach due to his limited mobility. “Stop, you freak.” But that only made her try it again and increased the level of giggles, and even Luke started to laugh. “Ugh! You’re lucky I was shot!”
Luke took her hand, engulfing it quickly with one snatch, his grip gentle but firm. “Hey. I want you to do something for me, okay?”
“What?” Holly widened her eyes, making them grow big and round like full moons. They always looked so green whenever she was worried. It was as though the emotion brightened them.
“You know it’s not safe, right? That there are people out there who want to hurt us?”
“I know,” she answered. “I’m not a kid.”
“Good, because if something ever happens and we are in trouble, I want you to hide somewhere good and don’t make a sound, no matter what.”
“But—”
Luke tightened his grip. “No buts, Holly.” And before she opened her mouth to answer, he pulled her close, dropping his voice to a whisper. “And this isn’t a promise you can break.” He held up his left hand, extending his pinky.
Holly regarded the pinky, those eyes still wide and bright green. She nodded and then wrapped her pinky around his. “I promise.”
Luke exhaled, knowing she meant it. She might act like a teenager, but a younger sibling never forgets the promises from childhood. For them, that was the pinky promise. Whenever either of them did that, they knew the other meant business.
Luke kissed her forehead and then rested his head back on the pillow, yawning. Fatigue had gripped him again, and the room started to fade to black. “I love you… Holls…”
Holly reached up on her tippy toes and kissed Luke’s cheek. “I love you too,” she whispered in his ear and then left.
Outside, the snow had picked up, and it made it hard for Mark to see very deep into the woods. But he still kept his eyes glued to the horizon, waiting for Kate to return. Over the course of his relationship with his wife, he had become very good at waiting. He could argue that he was the most patient man in the world. But this kind of waiting was different than before. It was dangerous.
Mark squinted, thinking he saw something in the snow, but once his eyes set on it, it didn’t move. Nothing but sheets of white waved against a sky fading into night. Uneasy, he walked to the kitchen and grabbed Luke’s medication, passing the townspeople who had taken up whatever space they could find on the floor.
Most of them were asleep. Mark imagined that they hadn’t had a good rest in a while—either that, or the adrenaline from the sprint here had finally worn off. But for the number of people crammed inside the cabin, it was quiet.
Mark tapped on Luke’s door. When there wasn’t an answer, he cracked it open. “Luke?”
The boy was asleep on the bed, his head turned away from the door, and the covers pulled all the way up to the white bandages that covered his shoulder and chest, which rose and fell steadily with each breath.
Mark watched him for a moment and then stepped as quietly as the old wooden floorboards allowed him.
Luke may have not been his biological son, but that didn’t mean he loved the boy any less. Luke was eight when he first started dating his mom. And for a child that had experienced so much pain and trauma, he was wonderfully kind. There wasn’t a trace of the evil that controlled his father.
But it was a thought that lingered in the back of Mark’s mind, the question of “what if?” What if the smiling boy had that evil inside of him? Because despite the teachings of his mother and the guidance Mark had tried to give the boy, there was no guarantee that he would be good.
Luke knew the truth about his real father. He knew what happened to him as a baby, and the crimes his father committed. But now, all those worries that Mark had experienced about the boy’s future when he was younger resurfaced. Dennis wasn’t locked away anymore. He was out there, somewhere in the cold, killing people who did nothing to deserve to die.
And what would happen if Dennis found him here? What would the father do to the son he kidnapped all those years ago and used as a hostage to escape the authorities? History enjoyed repeating itself. And Mark feared that another repetition was close at hand.
“Luke?” Mark asked, gently shaking Luke’s arm. “Luke, you need to get up.”
The boy groaned, his eyes fluttering open.
“Hey, it’s time for your medicine.” Mark extended his hand, his open palm holding two pills.
Luke reached for them lazily and then downed them with a swig of water. When he was finished, he leaned his head back onto the pillow, closing his eyes again. But sensing Mark was still in the room, he opened them.
“What’s wrong?” Luke’s voice croaked as he frowned with concern.
Mark battled with telling him the truth, about everything. About what happened with Claire back in Fairfax, about the fact that his real father was out there in the storm, trying to kill anyone that opposed him. And the more he thought abou
t it, the more he realized what he needed to say.
“Your mother lied to you,” Mark said. “About what happened in Fairfax. About Claire.”
Luke tensed. “What?”
“After you were shot, your mother and Claire carried you through the forest,” Mark answered, gathering his nerve for the truth. “But they had trouble moving you. There was a lot of gunfire, and you need to understand that everyone was scared, including your mother—”
“What. Happened.” The words came out more as growls than actual speech, and Luke’s eyes glinted with fear and anger and confusion. And for a moment, Mark wondered if he’d made a mistake, if he’d gone too far.
“Claire left you,” Mark said, his tone blunt. “She left you to save herself, and it was your mother who dragged you to the plane and got you to safety.”
The words swirled through the air, and it looked as though Luke were examining them before he finally let himself hear them.
“Your mother wanted to spare you from that truth,” Mark said, watching Luke’s face contort to further confusion. “But I’m not going to sit here and watch you make her feel bad for trying to spare your feelings. You’re old enough for the hard truths of life.”
And so Mark waited, the silence passing between them building anxiousness.
“Why?” Again Luke’s words came out cracked and broken. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want you to make your own decisions and form your own thoughts, and you can’t do that without the truth.”
Luke nodded, his eyes drifting to the foot of the bed.
“And there’s something else,” Mark said, the spit disappearing from his mouth. “Something you need to know about the people that are out there.”
Mark reached for Luke’s hand when a gunshot thundered, followed quickly by shattering glass. Screams came next, and by the time Mark was at the door, there was already a bloodied body on the floor and two men with guns in the living room.
Mark stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him. The pair of intruders were dressed like the men at the town.
