Sussman swore and sat down. He hoped the bitch decided to clean the car or something.
Constance forced herself to breathe normally, forced herself not to run to the Volvo. Instead, she approached it with Windekin and examined the front end with great care. The gravel parking area had been cleared by the snowplow; there were four other cars in it, and the black van that had no markings or windows. No one was in sight anywhere outside. She frowned at the side of the car and said accusingly, “You drove it up here with the chains on!”
“Yes ma’am,” Windekin said. He was stony-faced.
She looked inside. Three pairs of skis. Carson had decided not to try to ski in alone. She was not surprised. He was such a novice with snow; he thought he had a better chance walking in. Two miles, Sussman had said. Could Carson walk two miles through snow that might be up to his knees in some spots, up to his hips in others? She thought not. A Virginia boy, he had called himself. What did he know about snow? She continued around the car to the trunk and demanded the keys again.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Windekin said. “I’ll open it for you.” He opened the trunk lid, and this time she could not prevent her sigh of relief. The suitcase was gone.
“Leave it open,” she ordered. “I’m going to put away some of the stuff from the front.” She moved the snow shovels to the rear of the trunk, cleared a space. The Volvo had a lot of space. She continued on around the car; now it was between her and the building, between her and the van. She opened the back door and pulled out her skis. Her father had given them to her when she turned eighteen and suddenly measured five feet ten. She put the poles on the snow beside the skis, and her gloves on the floor of the back seat. Ready. Windekin was watching her, looking slightly puzzled but saying nothing, too cold to protest. She took two other poles to the trunk, and he followed.
He never could explain exactly what happened next. He thought she was falling down and he reached out to help her, and then she clamped her hand on his wrist and pulled; as he started forward, her forearm caught him in the midriff. He doubled over and somehow his feet slipped and he ended up in the trunk of the car, winded, unable to call out, to move even, and the lid closed.
She closed it on the strap of one of the poles, just to make sure he had plenty of air when he began gasping in long painful breaths. Now she moved very fast, back to the rear seat to put on the skis, thrust her hands through the pole straps. She looked at the building and the van; nothing was moving, no one in sight, and then she left the parking area through the snow, heading toward the hotel.
They had fooled around too long at the top of Childer’s Park, and then Jud had started to whine that if it got dark his mom wouldn’t be willing to drive up for them to get the truck. And Bobby had started to chicken out. What if no one was at Mel’s camp and they had to walk four miles to town dragging the fucking toboggan?
“You want to walk down, start walking. You going down with me, come on,” Herman Kohl snapped. He held up the truck keys, made a show of thrusting them in his pocket. He started to pull the toboggan toward the back side of the mountain.
“It’s no different this way,” he said without looking back at the other two. “Better even; faster.” By the time he reached the best place to start they were with him, looking glum as they all surveyed the unbroken snow ahead. It wouldn’t be faster, Herman knew; the other runs had turned to ice long ago, and this was fresh, deep snow, but it was steeper on this side and that would help.
Herman was the one with woods sense. He knew any patch of woods he had ever walked through, and he had been all over the hills here. He never thought consciously of what lay ahead, but as soon as a new feature came into view, he recognized it, like a clump of birch trees to the left. And the rotten oak that rattled brown leaves as they slid by under it. He knew to steer away from a clump that might have been snow-covered bushes, but was in fact a large erratic boulder, moved from somewhere else by the last glacier, out of place here in New Jersey. And it was great to break through the snow, to be the first ones ever to go down the back of Childer’s Park. Tomorrow a dozen guys
would want to try it, but he was the first. He saw
four pine trees and made an adjustment in their direction. Jud was laughing just behind him, and now and then Bobby let out a whoop, and the three boys leaned this way and that and picked up speed, then slowed down again. They made a good team, worked well together on the toboggan.
They were coming up on the drywall. Herman could not have said what landmark alerted him, how he knew, but he did. The unmortared walls turned up here and there all over the hills, dangerous summer and winter. In the summer you might put your foot down on a snake snoozing away in the shade of a wall; in the winter you could get killed if a runner hit a wall. The snow drifted on one side usually, and barely covered the stones on the other, hiding them, but not cushioning a fall, acting as instant brakes that stopped a sled or a toboggan and sent the rider flying, often to smash into the wall itself. He started to make the sliding turn away from the wall that was not yet visible, when everything changed.
Herman was blinded by a sharp pain in his head that made him duck with his eyes closed. He heard Bobby yell something, and the front end of the toboggan hit the wall. Herman was thrown, and when he landed, he did not move for several minutes. He drew in a sobbing breath and tried to sit up. He was in a drift that had almost buried him. He struggled to get free; the headache was subsiding and he no longer was blind, but he couldn’t make out where he was. Then he heard Bobby and Jud fighting up near the wall, and now he saw that he had been thrown over it, had rolled twenty feet or more down the hillside before the drifts stopped him. Jud was screaming shrilly, like a girl. Herman got to his knees in the snow and yelled at them both to cut it out, but it was not that kind of fight. He could see Bobby’s back, Jud’s arms flailing; the screams grew in intensity. He yelled hoarsely at them; at the same moment Bobby half lifted Jud, turned with him, and smashed his back against the wall. Jud’s arms went limp and the screaming stopped abruptly. Herman yelled again, and this time Bobby lifted his head and turned slowly until he saw Herman. He did not move away from Jud, instead he picked up the boy’s head between his hands and smashed the back of his head into the wall, then did it again, and again.
Herman threw up in the snow. “Jesus!” he whimpered. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” He was slipping down the hill, watching Bobby, who was still facing him, but with a look that was not human. “Jesus! Jesus!”
Bobby let Jud fall and got to his feet, watching Herman. He took a step toward him, moving as if he were blind, his arms swinging loosely at his sides. He tripped on the wall and plunged over it, landed face down in the snow. Herman struggled to his feet and tried to run.
He fell, got up, and pulled himself through the deep snow, fell again, struggled up again. Every time he looked back Bobby was stumbling through the snow after him, sometimes falling, sometimes rising, always coming after him.
“Jesus, Jesus!” Herman kept sobbing. “Oh, Jesus!” He was heading toward the old hotel in the valley, instinctively seeking the nearest shelter, a place to hide, to find a weapon in—a board, anything.
Carson Danvers had to think deliberately about every movement. Lift the left leg, drag it out of the snow, move it forward, put it down. The problem was that he was not able to lift his leg out of the snow; he was dragging it through instead, and it was a leaden weight. He was within range, and had been for a long time; they were all around him, pressing against his head, brushing his face. He staggered and caught himself against a tree and took several deep breaths. That did not help. A burning pain shot through his lower back when he pushed himself away from the tree after a minute. Both thighs seemed on fire. He heard himself laughing at the thought of walking into the hotel on fire; he took another deep breath. Lift the right leg… . Then he stopped again in bewilderment. Tracks. He looked at them hard, something large, breaking through the snow like a plow. Then he laughed again.
A Woozle! He was tracking a Woozle! The laughter was more like a sob than anything else. He had to rest a minute or two. The image of Gary swam before his eyes. Gary with his eyes shining in delight at Pooh and Piglet tracking the Woozle. He had to rest. He dragged the suitcase with him to a tree trunk where he could stop for a few minutes, rest. He sat down in the snow with his back against the tree, his knees drawn up to ease the pain. After a moment he put his head down on his knees. Just for a minute or two, he told himself. How long had he been wandering in circles tracking the Woozle? Elinor and he always took turns reading to Gary, each of them loving it possibly even more than the boy.
Winnie the Pooh
was their favorite. If he tried hard, he thought he could even remember the words, the sentences.
“One fine winter’s day when Piglet was brushing away the snow…”
Chapter 20
CONSTANCE KNEW CARSON WAS IGNORANT of
the treachery of snow, how it could trick the eyes, dazzle the senses; how it could drain energy and heat so insidiously that a person would not even be aware of fatigue until collapse was certain. Then, after the battle had tilted, one would crave rest, just a few minutes of rest, and those few minutes would ensure muscle stiffness and charley horses, and more rest would be required. She did not try to ski very fast, not on fresh snow that was unknown, through woods that were unknown. A rock, a stump, a log, any of them might suddenly appear, or worse, not appear, leaving no time to avoid the hazard. She was cautious.
She did not know how much of a head start she had. Fifteen minutes? If she was lucky. Ten? Possibly. Unless they had a crack skier among them they wouldn’t come that way. By the road? Again, possibly. They would not let Charlie take off after her, she hoped, prayed. Not Charlie. He couldn’t catch her, but he might try, if they allowed it. He knew he had to stay out of range, but she no longer trusted his awareness of his own danger in competition with the strong pull the thing seemed to exert on him. When the trees thinned and she could see a good stretch ahead, she speeded up. She had to find Carson, find the suit and the device that Charlie insisted was not really a bomb. First she had to find Carson; down the hill, across the valley, somewhere on the other side of it he would still be struggling in the snow, trying to reach the hotel. Unless he had collapsed already. She speeded up again.
“I’ll tell you a fairy tale,” Charlie said to Sussman when the other images vanished. He was shivering.
He started to tell about the thing in Old West, disregarding Sussman’s look of skepticism, which soon became one of baleful disbelief that he made no effort to soften.
“So why’d Foley tell me to keep away altogether? Why not take a generator down there and turn it on if that stops it?”
“Because the boys in white lab coats want to study it,” Charlie said with great weariness. This was what Carson had run into. No one could believe it who had not personally seen the effects. A fairy tale. An agent he had not seen before stuck his head in the door and called out.
“They found Hershman. They’re bringing him in.”
Sussman went to the door, Charlie at his side. They waited on the porch for two men supporting another one between them who was covered with snow. He moved like a zombie. Like poor Mrs. Eglin, who screamed and screamed, and then turned into a zombie. This one was not screaming. Charlie felt nausea and hatred well up together. A couple more men appeared, talking in low voices. They all looked cold, not dressed for treks through the snowy woods; they looked frightened. When they reached the building the two small groups had merged and they all entered together. Some went for coffee, with much foot stamping. No one was talking above near whispers.
“What happened to him?” Sussman demanded, as the two holding up Hershman lowered him to a chair. He sat where they positioned him without movement. His face was vacant, his eyes dull. When he sat down, his hands dangled at his sides.
“We found him crawling in the snow,” one of the agents said. His voice trembled. He turned and went to the table that had coffee.
“Jesus Christ!” Sussman stared at the casualty, then turned abruptly. “There are cots in there. For God’s sake, put him to bed. We’ll get a doctor.”
“What was that banging?” asked one of the agents, averting his gaze from the two men who were leading the zombie into the hall.
Sussman glared at him. “What banging?”
He tilted his head, shrugged, and returned to the table to add sugar to his cup.
Suddenly Charlie saw again the seconds before Constance had slammed the door on her way out, striding across the room, sweeping up her cap and gloves. How long ago?
“Good God!” He tore across the room, out the door, hearing Sussman’s curse, then hard steps pounding after him. He ran to the Volvo with several men close behind, one with his gun drawn, but now they could all hear the banging, and it came from the trunk of the car. Charlie was first to reach it. He saw the keys in the snow beside the rear tire, and he stepped on them, mashed them down into the snow, scuffed more snow over them as he hit the lid with his fist. There was an answering bang.
“Windekin,” he said mildly, and stepped back out of the way. The agent who had already drawn his gun was right by him. He looked too young to be allowed to carry a gun, and too frightened. Charlie glanced inside the car; two pairs of skis. Then he looked at the snow and saw the tracks that vanished into the woods.
Someone found a crowbar and they forced the lid open, helped Windekin out. He had vivid red spots on his pale face. When he saw Charlie, he took a step toward him and nearly fell down. His legs were too cramped for him to walk alone.
“Where’s the woman?” Sussman demanded.
Windekin shook his head. “She slugged me and shoved me in there. That’s all I know.”
“She’s gone down the hill on skis,” someone called, and they went to the side of the car and looked at the tracks.
“She’s gone down there? What for?” Sussman glared at Charlie. At that moment a new car appeared on the driveway. Fred Foley, Byron Weston, and another man had arrived. Looking infinitely relieved, Sussman hurried over to speak to Foley.
Charlie went down on one knee to examine the wheel closest to the roadway; the chain had broken. He clucked softly and went to the wheel near the snow and looked at that one and shook his head sadly. He found and pocketed the keys he had buried in snow earlier, then got up and brushed himself. He sauntered over to Foley and Byron Weston.
“… with a scar on his face. May be dangerous. I want him brought in, and I want him undamaged. Understand. Not a scratch.”
“And the woman?”
Foley shrugged. “Bring me that man.”
Charlie waved to Byron, who yelled, “Is Loesser down there? Charlie, he can’t burn that hotel! Not this time! Is he around?”
Foley had got out of the car to talk to Sussman; Byron Weston was still inside. The driver started toward the building. Sussman motioned to his men; they all trudged back to the hunting camp.
Charlie waved again to Byron, this time in farewell as the car left him in the parking area. The young agent was still with him, in the rear of the group heading back to shelter and warmth. Charlie snapped his fingers in exasperation, wheeled about, and hurried back to the Volvo. The young agent went with him. At the trunk of the Volvo Charlie leaned over, inspecting the lock. When the agent drew near, Charlie straightened up suddenly and hit him in the jaw. It was too fast for defense, too unexpected; the young man dropped. Charlie took the gun from his hand, got in the Volvo, started, and made a crunching turn in the parking area, throwing gravel. He raced down the plowed driveway, turned on the road at the end of it, and sped on toward the next driveway that he and Carson had dug out. He was afraid they would radio the truck there to drive in all the way and wait with the engine running until further orders. And if Constance had reached Carson already, if they had reached the hotel, had found the black door to hell, had gone through it, they would be trapped inside when the running motor closed down the mechanism.
The truck had backed into the space Charlie and Carson had opened. It cleared the banks but left no room for anyone to enter the driveway. Charlie stopped in front of it and got out, taking his keys with him. The driver opened the window of the truck as Charlie scrambled over the bank to approach the side door.
“Get that thing out of there!” the driver yelled.
“They’re trying to reach you by radio,” Charlie called back, passing the door on his way to the rear of the truck.
The driver stuck his head out of the window. “What?” Who?”
“Sussman. Call him now.” Charlie waited until the head withdrew, then pulled out the agent’s gun from his pocket and shot the left rear tire at very close range. There was a scream of outrage from the truck cab, which he ignored as he took aim at the right tire and shot it, then a second time just to be sure. He started to trot through the snow, following the tracks of the Volvo. The truck driver was yelling obscenities at him.
He had to slow down when he reached the spot where Constance had got the Volvo stuck. Now there were only the tracks that Carson had left, a multitude of tracks. One trip out to scout the way, then his return, then his departure a second time. Charlie could see where he had dragged the suitcase through the snow. Now he moved carefully as his fear mounted. Where did
it
start? When would he cross the line? He knew it was there, operative; he could feel it calling him stronger than ever. He knew that if he stepped into range it would claim him.
When Constance crossed the line on her skis, she nearly panicked with the suddenness of the sharp headache that struck. She swerved momentarily, then caught herself. The headache was blinding this time; it did not double her over in pain. She blinked. Exactly as Carson had described the sensation, charged cobwebs all around her head, brushing her face, pressing against her forehead. She continued to follow Carson’s erratic trail through the woods. He had staggered here, had fallen, rested, had sat against the tree there. She found the suitcase; he had taken the suit out, abandoned the suitcase, too heavy to drag farther. And now the light was fading; if she did not find him soon, it would be too late. They would need a search party with lanterns, and that meant they would have to drive in and
it
would close the door.
After that it would be in Byron’s hands, and his colleagues’. She thought again of the minuscule Martians trying to reason with the probe that swallowed and analyzed them as fast as they neared it, thought of ants trying to reason with a descending boot, thought of a man blowing up his television because he did not like the program, thought of Charlie going rigid, listening, hearing something she could not even imagine. She stiffened; gunshots! Three shots! Silence returned and she went forward again, and the next second she spotted Carson.
“I’m all right,” he said thickly when she touched him. He tried to get to his feet, his motions very slow, as if he were drunk, or too recently roused from a deep sleep. He had the suit wrapped around his arm. The device was strapped to the front of it, accessible when the suit was on.
“Carson, get up. We’re very near the meadow. It’s not very far now. Just get up and walk, Carson.” She took the suit as she talked. The flashlight, she thought, and felt in his pocket for it. “Carson, can you hear me? I’m leaving you. You have to get up and walk to the meadow, keep moving. I’ll come back as soon as I can, but I won’t be able to find you in the woods if it gets dark. Carson!”
He nodded, and let his head nod down to his chest. She pulled on him until he managed to stand up. “Follow my tracks, Carson. Just to the meadow. You can rest at the edge of the meadow. Can you hear me?”
“Follow,” he said, and stumbled after her when she started to ski.
The meadow was very close; he had skirted it for a long time. She went straight through the woods toward it. When she looked back Carson was still moving—unsteadily, staggering, but moving in her direction. Very soon she was out of the woods, and no more then three hundred feet away from the building. There were tracks all around it.
Warily she drew closer, very watchful now, taking her time. She had come almost to the porch, and could make no sense at all out of the prints. People had stamped the snow, apparently heading toward the woods, only to double back. More than one, but she couldn’t tell how many; the snow was too trampled. The porch extended across the entire front of the building, deep and free of snow. All prints ended, with only packed snow here and there to indicate that the people had crossed it more than once. Suddenly a figure ran from the building, screaming in terror.
He ran to her, clutching at her arms, although he stood much higher than she. A boy, she realized; he was only a boy.
“Bobby’s crazy!” he sobbed, dragging her down. “Help! Help! Oh, Jesus!”
She wrenched free and released her skis, looking past him. “Get out of here,” she snapped at him. “There’s a man in the woods over there. He needs help. Follow my ski tracks and get him to the road. Get out!”
He kept grabbing her arms, her shoulders, sobbing in fear. She slapped him neatly, took his hand, and turned him in the direction she wanted him to take, all the while guarding the suit and the pull ring from his clutching hands. There was another scream, not his, and he sobbed louder, “Jesus! Jesus!” She gave him a hard push.
“Get out of here! Help that man!”
He lurched forward, men began to scramble through the snow. She did not watch him, kept her gaze instead on a crouching figure that was moving off the porch. “Dear God,” she breathed. This had to be Bobby. The trampled snow now told the story. One tried to run away, Bobby came after him, and he sought refuge in the hotel, someplace where he could try to hide. Over and over. She moved carefully, sideways, and Bobby’s head turned. She had become the target.
She knew the look of psychopathy. During her graduate years she had worked in many institutions, some for the criminally insane. They can’t be reached, her instructor had said sadly, not when they are having an episode. No reason could penetrate. Their brains sent no signals of pain or fear, hunger, cold—any of the inhibiting checks on behavior that governed others. And Bobby was criminally insane, murderously insane.
She continued to move with caution, trying to get closer to the porch without breaking into a run. That could be disastrous. He moved with complete disregard for what lay ahead. If he stumbled and fell, he would simply rise and keep coming. If she could reach the porch, get inside, she could elude him, she felt certain. The frightened boy had dodged him; she knew she could, but first she had to get inside, stay out of reach of his great hands. She feared him in a way she never feared another person. Her aikido training had always served her well, but only with rational opponents who could realize that it was pointless to keep coming against her only to get thrown down again, perhaps suffer a broken bone the next time. He could have no such realization.