The Servants of Twilight (53 page)

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Authors: Dean Koontz

Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Thrillers

BOOK: The Servants of Twilight
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“Not them,” she said.
“Not yet.”
“Chewbacca will warn us if anyone’s coming.”
The dog was lying beside Joey, at ease.
The icy air had already leeched the stored-up warmth in the stone. Beneath the rocky overhang, the sheltered niche was growing cold again. Charlie was shivering violently.
She hurriedly dressed him, pulled up the zipper on his jacket, tugged his hood in place and tied it under his chin, then fetched the cupful of melted snow from the embers. The first-aid kit contained Tylenol, which was not nearly a strong enough pain-suppressant for his needs, but it was all they had. She gave him two tablets, hesitated, then a third. At first he had a bit of trouble swallowing, and that worried her, but he said it was just that his mouth and throat were so dry, and by the time he took the third tablet he seemed better.
He wouldn’t be able to carry his backpack; they would have to abandon it.
She shook a few items out of her own bag in order to get the first-aid kit into it, secured all the flaps. She slipped her arms through the loops, buckled the last strap across her chest.
She was frantic to get moving. She didn’t need a wristwatch to know they were running out of time.
63
 
Kyle Barlowe was
a big man but not graceless. He could move stealthily and sure-footedly when he put his mind to it. Ten minutes after Harrison killed Denny Rogers and threw his body down from the crest of the ridge, Barlowe moved cautiously from the tangle of dead brush where he had been hiding, and slipped across the face of the slope to a spot where shadows lay like frozen pools of night. From the shadows he dashed catlike to a huge fallen tree, from there to a jagged snout of rock poking up from the hillside. He neither climbed nor descended the slope, moved only laterally, away from the area over which Harrison held dominion, leaving the others pinned down but, with luck, not for long.
After another ten minutes, when he was certain that he was well out of Harrison’s sight, Barlowe became less circumspect, rushed boldly up the slope to the crest, crawled over it. He moved through a gap between two rock formations and stood up on the flat, wind-abraded top of the ridge.
He had a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum in a shoulder holster. He unzipped his jacket long enough to get the revolver.
The snow was coming down so hard that he couldn’t see more than twenty feet, sometimes not even that far. The limited visibility didn’t worry him. In fact, he figured it was a gift from God. He already knew the spot from which Harrison had been firing on them; he wouldn’t have any difficulty finding it. But in the meantime the snow would screen him from Harrison—if the detective was still on the ridge, which was doubtful.
He moved southward, directly into the raging wind. It stung and numbed his face, made him squint. His eyes watered and his nose dripped. But it couldn’t stagger him or knock him down; it would have more easily felled one of the massive trees along the ridgeline.
In fifty yards he found Morgan Pierce’s body. The staring but unseeing eyes did not look human, for they were sheathed by milky cataracts that were actually thin films of crazed ice. The eyebrows and lashes and mustache were frosted. The wind was industriously packing snow in the angles formed by the dead man’s arms, legs, and bent neck.
Barlowe was surprised to see that Harrison had not taken Pierce’s Uzi, a compact Israeli-made gun. He picked it up, hoping it hadn’t been damaged by the snow. He decided he’d better not rely on the Uzi until he had a chance to test it, so he slung it over his shoulder and kept the .357 in his right hand.
Staying close to the granite outcroppings along the eastern crest of the ridge, he crept toward the place from which Harrison had shot at them, from which he had pitched Denny Rogers down the slope. The .357 thrust out in front of him, Barlowe eased around the boulder that formed the northern wall of Harrison’s roost—and was not surprised to discover the detective was gone.
The nook between rock formations was somewhat protected from the wind; therefore, some snow had settled and remained within the niche. Brass glinted in the snow: several expended cartridges.
Barlowe also noticed blood on the rocks that formed the walls of that sheltered space: dark, frozen stains on the grayish granite.
He stooped, stared at the cartridges poking out of the white-mantled floor. He brushed away the soft, dry layer of new flakes that had fallen in the past half an hour or so, pushing the expended cartridges aside as well, and he found a lot more blood on the older layer of snow underneath. Denny Rogers’ blood? Or was some of it Harrison’s? Maybe Rogers
had
wounded the bastard.
He turned away from the eastern crest, stepped across the narrow ridgetop, and began searching for the place at which the deer path continued into the next valley. Because the Antichrist and his guardians had followed the trail this far, it was logical to assume they’d continue to follow it down the far side of the ridge. The new snow didn’t cling to the wind-blasted plateau, but it was piling up just over the edge of the crest, where the wind didn’t hit as hard and where brush and rocks gave it drift points against which it could build, and it obscured the entrance to the deer path. He almost missed the trail, had to kick through a drift, but then saw both deer tracks and human footprints in the more meager carpet of snow under the trees.
He went down the slope a few yards, until he found what he had hoped for: spots of blood. There was no way this could be Denny Rogers’ blood. No doubt about it now: Harrison was hurt.
64
 
Charlie was impressed
but not surprised by how quickly and surely Christine took charge. She got them out on the trail and moving down toward the valley again.
Joey and Chewbacca followed them. The boy said nothing, shuffled along as if he felt they were wasting their time trying to escape. But he didn’t stop, didn’t fall back, stayed close. The dog took his cue from his master, padding along in silence, his head drooping, his eyes downcast.
Charlie expected to hear shouting on the trail behind them. Minute by minute, he was increasingly sure that gunfire would break out.
But the snow fell, the wind whooped, the trees creaked and rustled, and Spivey’s people did not appear. He must have put a damned good scare into them with that last ambush. They must have stayed where he’d left them for at least half an hour, afraid to crawl out of hiding, and when they
had
begun to move, they must have proceeded to the ridgetop with extreme caution.
It was too much to hope they had given up and turned back. They would never give up. He had learned that much about them, anyway. Denton Boothe, his fat psychologist friend, had been right: Only death would stop this breed of fanatic.
As it wound down the lower half of the valley wall, the deer trail took a more wandering route than before. They were not going to reach the bottom as fast as they had anticipated.
During the first twenty minutes, Charlie didn’t need much help. For the most part the path was gentle and undemanding. A few times he had to grab a tree or put one hand against a pillar of rock to keep his balance, and twice, when the land sloped too steeply, he leaned on Christine, but he didn’t hang on her constantly. In fact he got along considerably better than he had thought possible when they’d started out.
Although the Tylenol and the antibiotic powder had taken the edge off the pain in his shoulder and arm, it was still bad. In fact, even softened by the drugs, it was so intense that he would have expected to be incapacitated by it, but he discovered he had more tolerance for pain than he had thought; he was adapting to it, grinding his teeth into calcium sand and cutting permanent lines of agony in his face, but adapting.
After twenty minutes, however, his strength began to ebb, and he needed Christine’s help more often. They reached the valley floor in twenty-five minutes, by which time he was beginning to get slightly dizzy again. Five minutes later, when they came to the edge of a broad meadow, where twin hammers of snow and wind pounded the land, he had to stop and rest while still in the shelter of the woods. He sat under a pine and leaned against the trunk.
Joey sat beside him but said nothing, didn’t even acknowledge his presence. Charlie was too weary to attempt to elicit a word or a smile from the boy.
Chewbacca licked his paws. They were bleeding a little.
Christine sat, too, and took out the map that Charlie had spread on the table at the cabin, yesterday, when he’d insisted on showing her how they would get out of the mountains if Spivey’s people arrived and tried to corner them. Christ, how unlikely such a situation had seemed then, and how terribly inevitable it seemed now!
 
 
Christine had to
fold and refold the map, keeping it small while she studied it, because the wind occasionally broke out of the meadow and lashed between the trees, reaching some distance into the dense forest to slap and poke and grab at everything in its path.
Beyond the perimeter of the woods, a fierce blizzard raged across the valley floor. The wind was from the southwest, roaring like an express train from one end of the valley to the other, harrying sheets of snow in front of it. The snow was so thick that, most of the time, you could see only about a third of the way across the meadow, where the world appeared to end in a blank white wall. But occasionally the wind subsided for a few seconds or briefly changed directions, and the hundreds of opaque curtains of snow fluttered and parted at the same instant, and in the distance you could see more trees crowding the other side of the meadow, and then the far wall of the somewhat narrow valley, and beyond that another faraway ridge crest where ice and rock shone like chrome even in the sunless gloom.
According to the map, a little creek cut through the middle of the meadow and ran the length of the valley. She looked up, squinted at the white maelstrom beyond the forest, but she couldn’t see the creek out there, not even when the snow parted. She figured it was frozen over and covered with snow. If they followed the creek (instead of crossing the meadow into the next arm of the woods), they would eventually come to the upper end of a narrow draw that sloped down toward the lake, for this was a high valley that funneled southwest, and they were still far above Tahoe. Yesterday, when he had first brought out the map, Charlie had said they would follow this route if they had to leave the cabin and take to the wilds, but that had been before he was shot. It was a three- or four-mile hike to civilization from here, not a discouragingly long way—
if
you were in good physical condition. However, now that he was wounded and weak, and with a full-scale blizzard moving in, there was absolutely no hope of getting down to the lake by that route. In their circumstances, three or four miles was a journey every bit as epic as a trek across China.
She desperately searched the map for some other way out or for some indication of shelter, and after consulting the key several times to interpret the cartographer’s symbols, she discovered the caves. They were along this same side of the valley, half a mile northeast of here. Judging by the map, the caves were a point of interest for those hardy hikers who were curious about ancient Indian wall paintings and who had a mania for collecting arrowheads. Christine could not determine whether it was just one or two small caves or an extensive network of them, but she figured they would be at least large enough to serve as a place to hide from both Spivey’s fanatics and the murderous weather.
She moved closer to Charlie, put her head to his in order to be heard above the cacophonous wind, and told him what she had in mind. He was in complete agreement, and his confidence in her plan gave her more faith in it. She stopped worrying about whether going to the caves was a wise decision, and she
started
worrying about whether they would be able to make it there through the storm.
“We could walk northeast through the woods, following the base of the valley wall,” she told Charlie, “but that would leave a trail.”
“Whereas, if we went out into the meadow before heading up the valley, if we traveled out there in the open, the storm would obliterate our tracks in no time.”
“Yes.”
“Spivey’s people would lose us right here,” he said.
“Exactly. Of course, to reach the caves, we’d have to reenter the woods farther north, but there’s not a chance in a million that they’d pick up our trail again. For one thing, they’ll be expecting us to head
down
the valley, southwest, toward the lake, ’cause civilization is that direction.”
“Right.” He licked his cracked lips. “There’s nothing at all northeast of us but . . . more wilderness.”
“They won’t look for us in that neighborhood—will they?” Christine asked.
“I doubt it,” he said. “Let’s get moving.”
“Walking out there in the open, in the wind and snow . . . isn’t going to be easy,” she said.
“I’m all right. I can make it.”
He didn’t
look
as if he could make it. He didn’t look as if he could even get up. His eyes were watery and bloodshot. His face was gaunt and shockingly pale, and his lips were bloodless.

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