Wolfwraith (34 page)

“This is False Cape Six from False Cape State Park in Virginia. Ranger Fletcher. We’ve had a killing and a kidnapping here. The killer is still in the park, holding an F.B.I. agent hostage. Call the Virginia Beach Police and the F.B.I. and see if they can get anyone to the park; I need help desperately.”

“Ten-four, False Cape Six. Stand by.”

Shadow waited, watching the storm rage. If they could get through, he’d wait here to transport the cops through the park. Frank would be pinned down by the hurricane, so a short delay to wait for armed assistance wouldn’t hurt, probably. He wanted Lorene for a hostage. He wouldn’t kill her, would he?

It only took a couple of minutes until the radio came to life again, but with a different voice. “Virginia Beach Police to False Cape Six.”

“False Cape Six, go ahead.”

“This is Lieutenant Wilroy, First Precinct. Please explain your situation.”

“You’re aware of the recent killings here in the park?” Shadow asked.

“I am. Continue, please.”

Shadow briefly explained the situation, finishing with, “I need to know if you can get someone down here to help me before I go after him.”

“The road to Sandbridge is impassible,” the police lieutenant answered. “We have downed trees and wires all over—we’re on emergency generator...” The next was lost to a short burst of static, then, “…only to life or death calls. You certainly fall into that category, but I’m afraid it’ll be impossible to reach you until the storm subsides—even then we’ll probably have to use a helicopter. Stay put for now; we’ll get someone to you as soon as we can.”

“I can’t wait,” Shadow said. “I’m counting on the storm pinning him down. Once it lets up, he’ll be on the move.”

“Nevertheless, you said you’re unarmed. Wait there—find shelter and hunker down—we’ll be there as...”

Shadow clicked the radio off. It was up to him. He’d be going after an armed killer with nothing more than a lug wrench he’d found in the garage.

“Son of a bitch!” he said to the world at large as he put the truck in low gear and eased off the sand hill.

Turning south, he stayed close to the dunes. Occasionally, a large wave would send a shallow sheet of water under the Terra-Gator’s wheels, but it didn’t appear to affect the big vehicle’s performance at all. Some flotsam and jetsam washed along the beach with the transient water, but no logs or anything large enough to be an obstacle.

The wind whistled so loudly he couldn’t hear the low rumble of the Terra-Gator’s engine as he shifted the transmission into third gear, the highest he dared. This put his speed at about twenty miles an hour, which should get him to the Wash Woods dune crossing in a quarter of an hour. Without thinking, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled a slippery jellybean free of a mass of soggy candy in the plastic bag. He popped it into his mouth, glancing at the clock.

Five forty now, so he should be off the beach way before the brunt of the storm hit. But the storm surge was coming in, according to the radio. Was it a wall of water like a tsunami or merely a super-strong tide? In any case, he wanted to be as far as possible from the ocean when it came.

The farther he traveled, the more he began to appreciate the Terra-Gator. When it looked like a particularly large breaker was going to send high water beneath him, he would drive on a slant up the side of the dune. The wide space between the tires gave the truck such stability that it would take an incredible lean to roll it over, he noticed.

He wondered what he was letting himself in for. Even though Frank had said he hadn’t done the earlier killings, there was no doubt who had murdered the F.B.I. man. That unfortunate agent now had an empty holster, which led Shadow to the regrettable conclusion that Frank, the crazy son of a bitch, had at least three handguns.

Soon he saw the Barbour Hill crossing on his right. That put him even with the park’s contact station, past the southern border of the wildlife refuge. The flagpole marking the crossing was bent by the wind he noticed, and the small flag had been reduced to tattered threads standing straight out in the gale. He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed the winds had picked up since he’d left the refuge headquarters.

Briefly, he considered pulling in and looking for a weapon. There were no guns stored at the contact station, but he knew Mark Wilson kept guns in his trailer home. They were in a locked cabinet, however, and Shadow didn’t have the key. It would take too long to cross over to the bay and break in. He continued on.

False Cape crossing lay a couple of miles ahead, then Wash Woods a mile beyond. He was over halfway there, without mishap.

His hand felt better now, tingling instead of burning, which was a good thing because he had to grip the wheel tightly as the incredibly high waves washed under the tires.

Soon he passed the False Cape flag, also in rags, and thought about turning in there. But he decided, since the road into Sandbridge was already blocked, the park’s interior road was probably so badly devastated not even the Terra-Gator could get through.

Suddenly he noticed a huge breaker coming in from his left. It was almost upon him! Distracted as he considered his options, he’d let his attention wander.

He raced for the safety of the side of the dune, which must have been washed out by other high waves for it was nearly a sheer wall. Would the Terra-Gator be able to climb it at such a steep angle?

He never found out.

The roller swooshed in beneath him, much of its strength spent by traveling up the shore. It was almost a gentle wash as it caressed the edge of the dune, but it quickly rose until it grew several feet high. The deepening water lifted the air-filled tires and the Terra-Gator was abruptly afloat.

Shadow had been in enough small craft to know the feeling of being caught in a strong current. The truck’s motion toward the dune was quickly canceled and replaced by a sideways drift, away from the dunes. He was going to be carried out into the surf.

Instinctively, he mashed down the accelerator. Since the Terra-Gator was an all-wheel drive vehicle, each of the four wheels spun in the seawater, throwing up plumes of water like those of a racing boat. The tires had large, protruding treads—much like a farm tractor—and were acting like four paddlewheels but the out-flowing current was too strong to overcome and Shadow could see another large breaker coming in. He was about to be tossed from one swell to the next, pulled inexorably outward. With his foot still jammed down on the gas pedal, he began tugging at the door handle, intending to jump and attempt wading to the dunes when the truck suddenly lurched violently, throwing him back in the seat. The front tires had made contact with the sand and he shot forward like a hot rod burning rubber. Then the back tires grabbed the sand too. He was on solid ground once more and the truck ran toward high ground just ahead of the next onrush of water.

The wave had carried him north, past the steep-walled dune, and he went up a gentle slope. He kept the pedal down and bounced up the hill like an out-of-control amusement park ride.

When he reached the top, he came to a halt and put in the clutch. Looking south, he could see he’d nearly driven into disaster. For some reason—maybe the beach was lower or perhaps some bottom structure offshore channeled the worst breakers into this area—the dunes below False Cape were taking a terrible beating. Wave after wave of storm driven water surged in, gobbling up the sand and taking huge chunks of the dunes back out to sea. Many of the sand hills’ seaward sides were now sheer cliffs, being undercut by the raging surf, which pummeled the land like the pounding of a massive jackhammer.

Farther south, the beach was gone.

So this was a storm surge. He glanced at the clock. Six minutes past six.

Cursing, but realizing he couldn’t get through the woods between him and the interior road, he turned back. Following the dune line, the truck swaying as gusts slammed into its square side, he drove back to False Cape and followed the crossing inland. He’d have to take his chances with the tree-lined interior road.

As soon as he turned south on the road, a fallen pine blocked the way. There was no way to reach Wash Woods, except on foot. He’d never make it in time. The only other route south was the bay and he didn’t have a boat. Or did he? Remembering how the amphibious Terra-Gator had nearly floated away, he reversed back up the road until he reached the meadow and then raced for the False Cape Dock.

The wide Terra-Gator smashed underbrush and small trees down on either side as it went down the narrow lane to the bay. When he reached the pier, the water lapped at the pilings, reaching farther up than a normal high tide. The surface was choppy and roiled.

Shadow hesitated, realizing how foolhardy his plan was, then eased the Terra-Gator into the marsh grass and turned south. The huge tires settled into the mud a foot or so, but continued to turn. Leaving two huge furrows behind, it rolled steadily southward like a great lumbering beast.

As the vehicle kept on, Shadow decided his earlier dislike of the Terra-Gator had been unfounded. The engineers who designed this behemoth had created a true mechanical amphibian. If he survived this, he was going to send them a letter—letter, hell, a case of champagne.

Gaining confidence as time passed, he pushed on faster, following the shoreline around every point and cove. It was adding miles and miles to his journey, but he knew crossing even a small stretch of open water was out of the question, even though the Gator floated. If the wind should take it, it would be like sailing a cardboard box. He’d be at the mercy of the wind and waves, driven to the far shore if he didn’t capsize first.

The force of the hurricane didn’t seem as strong here, behind the trees, but it gusted in every direction. Many trees were leaning and every now and then one toppled into the water. The crosswinds forced to him to fight the wheel furiously to stay in shallow water. A couple of times the Terra-Gator lifted free of the muck, but luckily encountered shallower water within a few seconds and regained traction.

Looking to his left, he saw the woods now stood in water, except for a few hummocks. Apparently the sea had gotten past the dunes and was washing over the cape. The water was rising. If he didn’t make it to the higher ground of Wash Woods soon, he might not make it at all. If the water came up too high, he’d simply float away.

Then he saw his house, looking like Noah’s Ark on the waters. Floodwaters had submerged it to the bottom of the window frames.

Turning inland, he followed the road, guided by the trees on either side. He passed his own house, then Jenny’s, amazed that her cottage had floated from the foundation with the rising sea. It was drifting off, toward the Taj Mahal, which was tied down with hurricane straps, installed decades ago.

Passing the E.E.C., Shadow saw his own truck parked near the dock, where Frank had abandoned it. He must have left it here and walked. It only reinforced Shadow’s belief the killer would be found at the steeple; Frank would not have parked the vehicle near where he’d be hiding out.

Once again, Shadow turned south, this time taking the abandoned road leading toward North Carolina. The clock showed six-fifty-two.

The water became shallower as he approached the grove of live oaks surrounding the cemetery, for the original church had stood on a small knoll. This was the end of the line for the Terra-Gator; the trees were too close together for it to pass.

Turning off the ignition, he flexed his fingers. They were still stiff and unfeeling, but the pain of renewed blood flow had finally worn off. Although he was still thoroughly soaked, the warmth of the truck’s cab had seeped into him, reinvigorating the muscles he had stretched and abused over the long night. Amazingly, other than his hand, he felt fine despite having had no sleep and nothing to eat since the sandwiches nearly a day ago. He’d have killed for a cup of coffee, though.

He opened the Terra-Gator’s door with both hands, but it got away anyway, slamming into the side of the cab. He didn’t bother trying to close it. Grabbing the lug wrench he’d gotten from the garage, he climbed down, careful not to slip on the wet metal ladder. The big tires protected him from the wind, somewhat.

When he stepped away, however, he could barely remain upright against the ferocious wind, which pushed him from behind. Although he was near the highest ground in the area, the water stood above his ankles. He crouched to avoid the worst blows of the gale and slogged into the trees.

The high winds had stripped the oaks of their leaves and branches whipped around as though the trees were dancing to a deliriously fast melody. A loud crack sounded above the wind as a nearby tree branch snapped off.

Shadow didn’t try to hide his approach; he figured Frank would be holed up, sure of his isolation because of the storm. Who in his right mind would be out in the full force of a hurricane?

He was counting on Frank being in the steeple, the highest ground in the park, not counting the dunes, if they still existed. Since the park was deserted, the man could as easily have ridden out the storm in the E.E.C. building, the boathouse, or any of the buildings. But Shadow knew humans—like all animals—to be creatures of habit and so Frank would feel secure in the steeple. He was probably safe enough too, for there was no way for the wind to get beneath the steeple to lift it and the cone shape would allow the storm to whip around without blowing the structure over. The trees also protected it from the worst winds.