But who— or what— had taken the children? Killer?
He had been gone a long time, seeing to the mare. He could have gone round the back of the cottage and… but why? Because he, too, had seen that the children were an extraordinary problem, a break in the pattern? Had he faked a kidnapping?
No— Killer was livid with fury, the scar a brilliant curl above his eye. Killer had screwed up also, he had been outside and so he should have heard or seen something. Killer did not take kindly to failure. Killer never took to failure, ever, on any terms. He was speechless.
To pursue an enemy of unknown essence into a dark night was virtual suicide: anyone or anything might be waiting out there, the children nothing but bait, the Merans the targets. It was a mad risk, insanity, and Jerry was the boss, he held the wand.
“Yes! Let’s go!” he said. He saw the lightning flicker of expressions on Killer’s face— astonishment, doubt, and then a wild joy— and Killer had vaulted the sofa, bad ankle forgotten, and was out the door.
Jerry pulled the other Uzi from the cupboard by the range. “Stay here!” he shouted. “There may be shooting. Sit on the floor or lie down, but don’t go out!” Then he was down the porch steps, instantly drenched by ice water, under the purple glare of the high hissing lamp and an easy shot for a marksman anywhere. He ran for the driveway, tucking the wand in his belt like a sword to leave both hands free for the gun. Puddles shone everywhere; there would be no footprints, but the driveway was certainly the best bet. Then he saw two monstrous red eyes flash ahead of him and a faint white glare on the trees beyond— a car or a truck starting up. It was at least a quarter-mile away, he had no chance of catching it, and it was too far to shoot. With the kids in there he dared not…
Where was Killer? He ran anyway.
Outrun a car? It was hopeless.
Then Killer went by him in thundering explosions of mud and water, the mare’s eyeball and teeth showing huge and white with terror at this accursed burden stretched along her back: a half-naked man riding her with no saddle or bridle, only four centuries of practice in every sort of daredevilry imaginable. He was using the gun as a whip. Horse and rider vanished into the darkness ahead, intermittently visible as a black eclipse of the receding taillights.
Jerry ran. He was out of the yard light’s reach, stumbling and squelching along an unknown muddy track, steering by a vague shadow of himself ahead and those dwindling lights. He saw Ariadne’s canted car appear and dematerialize again as the new vehicle shot past it.
What could Killer do? Even on this mudpit of a road, the car could outrun the horse. If he dismounted she would be gone— and how could he dismount anyway with an injured ankle? He surely daren’t try to shoot from horseback Crack! He had.
The taillights vanished, trees appeared suddenly to one side and then vanished in the unmistakable and expensive noise of car crash. Then there was only silence. Jerry continued to run.
Running in cold rain was a strange sensation and probably quite efficient, but he was gasping and slowed almost to a trot by the time he came within sight of the car, sprawled across a shallow ditch, radiator wrapped around a tree. It was even larger than that monster vehicle Ariadne had been driving. The inside lights showed occupants… stupid to show oneself like that A yellow flash and a flatter Crack! and he remembered the yard light behind him. He hurtled into the ditch and rolled in icy mud.
Stupid yourself, he thought. Well, they weren’t going anywhere, so he paused to catch his breath and wonder where Killer was. The car lights had gone out, and the world was the bottom of a tarpit in a cellar.
Now what did he do? How could he get them out of there? He dared not shoot into the car for fear of hitting the children. If he tried a blast over their heads, they could shoot at his flashes.
He started to shiver.
Hooves approaching— Killer returning! After the shot, the mare would have gone from mere panic to insanity, yet somehow that incredible character had managed to turn her. But now he was heading back into ambush. He must be warned, and a shot from Jerry’s gun ought to do it… too late…
The brakelights flashed ruby over the expanse of watery road. The mare shrilled in terror, visible for a moment— riderless— and then gone. An instant later she splattered past Jerry, heading home to the barn, if she could continue to keep all four legs unbroken on such a rampage.
Someone in that car had brains, using the brakelights like that. And where was Killer? He might have fallen off the mare a mile down the road and snapped his neck. That did not sound like him, but the next move must obviously be Jerry’s. He rose and started to approach, conscious of thudding heart and cold rain and still-too-fast breathing— but also aware that he was well muddied and invisible as long as he stayed in the ditch.
Something howled in the woods, the sound dying away in a curdling chuckle.
Too damned close; his hair stirred.
If these intruders with the car were human— a reasonable but not certain assumption— then they must also be wondering what that howl was. Surely no one could believe that noise had come from a wild dog? If they were human, how had they found Ariadne? If they weren’t…
If they weren’t, then he was too late to save the kids.
Another howl, long and evil and much, much too close for comfort— and on the other side.
Then a yammering roar ripped the silence of the night. Streams of tracers blazed above the car roof and Jerry’s head, making him dive flat again. A full thirty-two-shot clip, he realized, coming from the trees on the far side. Killer had solved the problem, taken cover in the woods. Probably Jerry would have thought of that himself in a week or two.
Darkness and silence.
That had given the chorus something to think about also.
The interior light came on, then one headlight, glaring off into brown tree trunks.
Surrender!
“Who are you?” That was Killer’s voice, from the far side.
A less distinct shout, from a window. “I am Graham Gillis. These are my children.”
Aha!
“Throw out your gun.”
Jerry crossed, out of Killer’s line of fire. “I’m on this side,” he yelled. Evidently the gun— a gun— had been thrown out, because Killer’s voice shouted, “Then all of you get out on the far side.” Away from the gun, of course.
There were three of them, plus the children; all swaddled anonymously in rain clothes, one very tall and one short, probably a woman. Jerry emerged from the darkness; the whole play was being staged in a dim reflection off the trees. The big one was holding— probably— Alan, and the shapeless huddle next to the small one would be Lacey. Then Killer came hobbling up from the far side, very slowly, bent double, very lame, using his gun as a cane.
He did not wait for Jerry’s decisions this time. “Names?” he barked.
The big one replied. “I am Gillis. This is my wife, and this is my driver, Carlo.”
“Right,” Killer said. “He will carry the girl. Mrs. Gillis, you will carry the baby.”
“And I?” demanded the big man, perhaps wondering if he was to be shot out of hand.