Snowblind (14 page)

Erin skied as fast as she could, dashing across the virgin snow. The wolves stopped yapping, but she could hear their hollow breathing on the wind. With long, reaching strides, she glided onward, the trees towering closer and closer. Finally, she gained the shore and skied up into the darkness of the forest.

The wolves were at her heels. Erin kicked off her skis and turned to face them. She raised one of her poles like a spear and threw it at the ash-faced lead wolf. The pointed tip caught his jaw and sent him jumping, yapping into the air. The flowing swarm of dark bodies poured on past him, racing toward her through the snow. Erin stood her ground, both her hands gripping her other pole like a lance.

The first wolf leaped up at her, snout drawn back baring long white teeth. Erin rammed the pole upward with a pitch-fork swing, puncturing the animal's throat. The wolf tumbled over her shoulder with a gurgling wail, crashing into the giant spruce that rose like a wall behind her. A snarling, brazen wolf grabbed her ankle in its sharp fangs. Erin jabbed its furry back with the bloody metal tip, until the creature released its grip and stumbled away. Another wolf leapt at her throat. She battered it away with a sharp jab of her elbow. Then she turned and tried to climb the tree.

She gripped a branch and raised her foot on the bark. The wolves attacked her legs. Fangs tore at the back of her thighs, gripped her ankles, ripped the muscle from her calves. She held the branch with both hands, struggled to pull herself up. They tore at her like a side of beef. She twisted around, screaming, kicking into the foaming sea of teeth.

A harpoon pierced her belly, pinning her to the tree.

Erin gagged, numb with shock. Her hands grasped the wooden rod, running red with blood.

The woods shook with a bellowing roar. The wolves scattered. Silence fell.

Erin raised her head.

The dark form was staring at her out of the twilight. All she could see of his charred face were the gleaming white orbs of his eyes.

The eyes moved toward her.

Erin choked with terror. Her throbbing heart pumped warm blood out over her hands. She willed to force her life out with the blood, tried to spill it out into the melting snow. But she had no more control over her death than she had over her life. Pinned to the tree like an insect, she watched the eyes move closer, swelling out of the darkness like glowing stones of light.

Blood welled up her throat, filled her mouth, trickled from her lips. She fell into a darkness, the light of his eyes fading to black. Out of the void came the rumble of his voice:

"I have made a covenant with my eyes."

He grasped her hair and pulled back her head. Erin looked at him.

Raw skin peeling into ashes. A patch of hide sewn to his neck. An ear like a shriveled apricot. Nostril skull holes. Bulging eyes white with heat.

The curving blade was stained with blood. A trapper's blade, for stripping hides.

He opened her coat.

The black scarf snaked from her neck. Cold air kissed her throat, warm blood froze in the palms of her hands.

The blade sheared her cotton sweater.

Her breasts spilled out.

His hand pulled tighter on the strands of her hair, bending her head back against the bark of the spruce. She stared up into the black branches, laced with falling snow. Cold steel brushed the nipple of her breast. The nipple stiffened, hard and numb.  Erin choked on the blood in her mouth.

"Who can bring a clean thing out of an unclean?"

The blade began to move through her throat.

He whispered in her ear.
"No one can."

The stove had grown cold in the cabin. The wind had stopped and all was still. Kris huddled in her sleeping bag, shivering with cold and fear, the nylon headflap soaked in tears.

She could not stop crying.

She had heard the terrifying wail of the wolves. Heard the shuddering howl of the madman. She knew he was out there. She knew something had happened to Erin. She could feel it in the stillness of the wind, and in the silence that had fallen like the falling of the snow.

How long had it been since she'd locked the door? An hour? Two? Who would come for her now?

She thought of her mother. Did she know what had happened? Was she worried about her?

Oh Mom, please help me...

Kris sobbed, sliding deeper into her bag, retreating from the terror that seemed to seep in around her. If she heard a knock, should she answer? Should she open the door? Did anyone know she was here?

Did
he
know?

He might come for her next. He had killed Andrea. Maybe Erin, too. Had he killed the ranger? The driver of the plow? Had he killed the trapper, in whose cabin she now lay hiding?

He will kill us all, she thought. I will be the last to die.

She pulled up her knees, bent down her head, buried her face in her arms. She cried, and waited. Waited for the images to come, the ones that always came, the ghosts that rose out of the dark to comfort her. She stared inward into the void.

She saw nothing.

Where are you, Daddy?

Still nothing, only blackness. She began to weep uncontrollably.

Daddy... please...

His face appeared abruptly, bruised and bloodied, drowning in the murky abyss.

Kris cried out, a wail of despair.

Her brother clawed at her side.

She screamed, fought her way out of the sleeping bag, pushing away the silky folds. She scurried from the bag across the cold floor. Her hands touched fur — the grizzly bear rug. She stopped, turned, listened.

The patter of tiny feet scuttled away along the wall. She realized the rat must have climbed into her bag seeking the warmth of her body. The room was freezing cold.

Kris could taste the tears on her lips. The haunting vision of her father's bloody face flitted through her mind. No longer could she hide with the ghosts of the past. No longer could she take refuge in the dark, without the risk of being swallowed by the dark.

Kris rose slowly to her feet, pulled the hood of Erin's jacket over her head. She had found the parka on the moose-hide bed after Erin had left. It was no longer enough to keep her warm. She'd have to find something to burn in the stove.

She remembered the broom leaning against the wall. She had bumped it while looking for the coat; it had fallen to the floor with a loud smack, frightening her. She found it again near the cabin door, and carried it to the stove. The metal door opened with a squeak. The broom wickers caught fire in the dying embers, and a blaze filled the stove. Kris lowered the broom handle to the floor, and warmed her hands by the oven door.

She had stopped crying. The crackle of the flames comforted her. I must stay inside, she thought. I must not go out, like Erin. I must hide in here where I'm safe. In time, someone will come for me. Someone will have to come.

She sat back on her heels, basking in the reassuring heat of the fire. A trace of smoking wicker wafted through the air. Kris imagined the white smoke, climbing up through the metal chimney, spilling out into the sky.

A chill went through her.

He'll smell the smoke. He'll see it and know I'm here.

Kris sat motionless. Without the fire, she would freeze. With it, she gave herself away.

She rose to her feet, her heart pounding.
He'll come for me
.

He could be coming now.

Monty Harper's index fingers hunted over the radar screen keyboard, pecking at the coffee-stained keys. Josh tried to block out the sound as he studied the wall above the pilot, where a giant aerial map detailed the landforms and the multitudinous elevations of central Alaska. He had a good memory for geography; he figured a strong familiarity with the terrain around Caribou Mountain might prove crucial if he were forced to land because of the storm.

Harper paused in his pecking, looked at Josh. "You've been staring at that goddamn map for half an hour," he said. "Why don't you make yourself useful, play some cards with those 'gutless cowards' in the other room."

Josh looked at him a moment. "Why don't you, Monty. I think you'd fit right in."

Harper's eyes remained fixed on his friend. "I don't gamble. Not with my money... and not with my life."

"You flew in Vietnam, Monty. They gave you the Flying Cross, for Chrissake."

"That was a war. I didn't have a choice."

"You always have a choice."

Harper didn't answer him. Josh grabbed his red headband off the table and walked out of the office.

The men around the makeshift card table stopped talking, glanced up at him as he walked by through the cavernous room.

T-Bird White called after him. "Where're you goin', Josh?"

Josh pulled his headband over his ears, opened the door. "See if I can find a flyer with some balls," he said.

He stepped out into the storm.

*  *  *

Her blood runs dark with ice, turbid with melting snow. Light is given to her in misery, and life to her bitter soul. She longs for death but it does not come, and digs for it more than for hidden gold. She will rejoice, she will be glad when she finds her place in the grave of my belly.

Why is light given to one who cannot see the way? Why was she brought forth from the womb? Would that she had died before any eye had seen her, as though she had been carried from the womb to the grave.

I uncover the deeps out of darkness, and bring deep darkness to light. I know the Worm will be fed but never filled.

Your fire comes on the wings of the wind. Your eyes shine in the blade of the flame. You have seized a house you did not build. I will fill your skin with harpoons and your head with fishing spears. I will let my mouth sin by asking for your life with a curse.

The fire you feed awakens my hunger.

A fire fanned by no one will devour you.

*  *  *

Kris needed a weapon.

The maniac would come for her, she was sure of it. She had let the fire die out, hoping to avoid drawing his attention, but Curly's cabin was the only one around for miles. No one could survive in the arctic cold for long. Fire or no fire, he'd be back. And Kris would have to be ready for him.

The kitchen cupboards were filled with cans and jars, food stocks for the long winter. Her hands groped through the cluttered shelves. A bottle fell, shattering across the floor. She crouched down, felt broken glass and a seeping pool of oil. She opened a drawer, found a can-opener, a nutcracker, a wooden spoon, a two-pronged fork, a spatula, a butter knife, a dinner fork — suddenly she whipped her hand from the drawer. She sucked the bead of blood welling up on her index finger. Then she carefully reached back in, found the feather-edged blade, and gingerly lifted it out of the jumble of utensils. A meat-carving knife with a nine-inch blade, its handle made of bone or antler.

She set the knife on the wood plank table.

Continuing her search of the kitchen, she found a bottle of ammonia, several boxes of wooden matches, and a cardboard shoebox filled with jars of spices. One jar tasted like chili powder. Another burned her tongue — red pepper. She set the ammonia, matches, and spices out on the table beside the carving knife.

She searched through the rest of the cabin. Furs, hides, skis, boots, mukluks, the wooden chair with the soft wolf pelt. On the wall were the shelves with the tusk and bone carvings. Next to them, higher up, she found the iron bear trap.

Kris knew about animal traps. Her father used to search them out in the mountains of Denali, where trappers often set them illegally. He had shown her how they worked: pole-sets, snares, spring traps, jump traps, single and double long-springs, Conibears, cubbies. She found them abhorrent — and fascinating. They had their place, her father had said, but not within the confines of a national park.

Kris pushed the bear trap up off its hook; it slipped from her hands and crashed to the floor with a loud clatter. Pulling the iron jaws apart, she quickly realized it was a useless antique — the coil spring was missing and the hinge was broken. She pushed it aside and continued searching the wall. A few feet away she found the harpoon rack.

Two were left. She lifted the lower one out — seven or eight feet long, the weight of an oar, with a sharp, metal point set in bone and secured with twine. This was an antique, too, she thought, but a weapon nonetheless. She carried the long lance across the room, banging the tail end on the arm of the wooden chair. She laid the harpoon gently down on a seam of the long plank table.

Her arsenal was growing. But was it enough?

A gun, she thought. A gun would be the strongest defense. Surely the trapper had kept a rifle or two in the cabin. They had to be around somewhere.

Kris continued searching. Her father had owned two guns: a high-powered rifle and a shotgun with slug-loaded shells. When Kris was twelve years old, he had taught her how to shoot. He felt it was necessary. Rifles were common in Alaska; most people believed that venturing into bear country without one was worse than foolish — it was suicidal. Kris was sure that Curly, out here alone in the middle of nowhere, would have to have a gun.

She was right. She found the gun rack on the wall in the corner behind the moose-hide bed. But the rack was empty.

Had the trapper taken the guns when he'd left? If he did, why did he take more than one?

Maybe he didn't take the guns at all. Maybe the killer took them. Yet Erin's mother had been killed without a shot. One, two, maybe three people had been murdered, and Kris hadn't heard the sound of gunfire once.

What had happened to the rifles?

The cellar.

Maybe Curly had moved them downstairs. Maybe there were other guns down there. Or other potential weapons. If Curly was a trapper, where were the traps?

Kris felt her way through the cabin to the trapdoor cut in the wood floor. She groped for the handle and pulled the heavy door up and open, laying it to rest at an angle against the wall. A sickening odor of death and decay wafted up out of the hole. Kris covered her nose and mouth with her hands. Freezing air flowed out over the floor, gripping her ankles.

She hesitated. Her heart seemed to beat more slowly, she felt suddenly shivery and tense. She swallowed hard, slowly lowered her hands from her face. Then she stepped down into the cold.