He stood up, his breathing tight in his chest. He hoped he looked more confident than he felt. "Right, let's get organized."
The lights of the settlement were a sparkling necklace of diamonds along the black oval curve of the lake. Beyond them the night rolled on into impenetrable forest darkness. Coming down the pale sandy trail, the sky ablaze with stars, Chase was struck by how vulnerable it looked. An attack by the "crazies" Jo had mentioned would leave the place desolate in a couple of hours. And if they found out that a bunch of youngsters was in charge--equally crazy in their own way--it would be an open invitation, too ripe and juicy to resist.
He and Nick had arranged to meet at the point where the trail dropped steeply through the trees, only a few hundred yards from the settlement. Nick was there, crouched with his back to a tree, the rifle balanced across his knees. He got up and without a word being exchanged they moved in single file down the last gentle slope, seeking the protection of the shadowy trees and bushes.
Chase had left the rifle with Ruth and carried the Browning. The night was warm and he was already perspiring from his three-mile hike. His stomach felt hollow with nervous anticipation.
As they approached the first lighted cabin Nick touched his arm and they skirted it, stealthily working their way around to the rear of the council hall. There was no sign of activity within; indeed, except for the cabin lights, the entire place might have been deserted.
Nick pointed out the vehicles parked in the back lot. There was a Dodge pickup that looked in reasonable shape. He leaned close and murmured in Chase's ear, "We'll check the roof first. The outhouse is at the far end."
A jumble of packing crates made it easy to climb onto the lean-to roof. Stepping like cats, they moved along the roof searching with their outspread fingers against the rough timber wall of the main building. Chase strangled an oath as he caught a splinter under his thumbnail. His throat stung. Dan was only yards away, the thickness of a timber wall separating them, and he had to fight an impulse to smash his fist through, infected with the mad idea that he could reach inside and pluck his son to freedom.
Nick's hand tightened on his shoulder, and in the almost total darkness Chase saw that his bearded mouth was split in a grin. Chase strained to see and made out a small recessed hatch, at about knee height, fastened by a bent nail through a hasp. There was no padlock.
Nick put the nail in his pocket, opened the hasp, and pushed gently. The door resisted and Chase's heart sank at the thought that it might be barred on the inside. Nick pushed harder and the door suddenly gave and flew back on its hinges. The two men held a collective breath at the expected crash, but none came. A faint creak of timber, a squeak of metal, that was all.
Crouching down, Chase followed Nick inside, feeling a bead of sweat rolling down between his buttocks. Inside it was black and stifling. He waited 011 all fours until the pencil beam of Nick's flashlight pierced the blackness and flicked across the massive crossbeams supporting the roof and settled on the floor of the loft. At once Nick found the trapdoor and he began edging his way along one of the rafters, flashlight in one hand, rifle in the other.
Waiting until he had safely made it, Chase followed, guided by the thin light. They knelt together, like fellow penitents, and listened. Chase counted the passage of time with the beats of his heart, and after several moments of absolute and unearthly silence, he took the Browning from his pocket and released the safety, then held the flashlight while Nick drew back the bolt on his rifle with infinite care.
No voices or sounds from below, so there was nothing to be gained by waiting. Nick pried his fingers around the edge of the trapdoor, and as soon as it began to move Chase switched the flashlight off.
An oblong of light appeared, the corner of a sink unit, a scuffed pine floor. The kitchen was empty.
Chase went first. Heaving himself through and hanging at arm's length, he dropped lightly to the floor, which gave a slight groan under his weight. He took the rifle while Nick climbed down. The kitchen was tiny, narrow, with a fluorescent light that buzzed like a fly trapped in a jam jar. Chase pointed to a Formica-topped table alongside the wall, and at Nick's understanding nod they lifted it together and positioned it under the trapdoor: their quick escape route. Chase was even beginning to hope that Dan's disappearance wouldn't be discovered till morning, by which time they'd be miles away--even if they had to shoot everyone in that road patrol, he thought with grim resolution.
Chase hefted the automatic and mouthed Where? to Nick, who jerked his thumb, indicating the room along the passage to the left. Pressing close to the wall, Chase eased the door open a crack, saw that it was clear, and sidled out into the passage, the gun held near his chest. As Nick followed, the floorboards creaked under their combined weight. Chase could feel his shirt clinging to him like a second skin, and when he stole a glance over his shoulder saw that Nick's face, like his own, was running with sweat.
The door of the stock room was at the end of the passage. Opposite were a pair of double doors that led presumably into the main body of the hall. Was that where Baz had posted his guards? He couldn't hear voices, music, anything; but that didn't mean there was no one there. He and Nick were going to have to be as quiet as church mice.
There was a heavy padlock on the stock room door, recently fitted judging by the film of grease still on it. That made things very awkward. They couldn't break the padlock without making enough noise to wake the dead . . . and then his eye fell on something and he grinned exultantly. Next to the door, on a nail, hung a key.
Chase fitted the key, which turned easily, and the padlock sprang open. He removed the padlock and placed it on the floor and turned the handle with a firm, steady pressure, Nick's breathing audible in his right ear as he pushed the door open and took a step into the room.
He sensed at once that something was wrong. They had made a dreadful mistake.
Even as he took in the bound-and-gagged figure in the chair, the eyes wide with fear and warning, even as he knew what those eyes were signaling--all this passing through his mind in an instant--Chase was still too late and too slow to prevent three pairs of hands clamping him simultaneously on his hand, arm, and shoulder while behind he heard the rattle of the double doors and Nick's gasp of shock as the rifle was wrenched from his grasp.
Baz stood there grinning. "Didn't I tell you?" he boasted to the others. "Had to be." It was his moment of triumph and he was luxuriating in it.
He took a long hunting knife from its sheath, went behind the chair, and sliced through the ropes. Dan sagged forward and clawed the gag from his mouth, sucking in air. He looked old. The bones of his face showed pale through his skin. His lips were bloodless and his eyes were black circles. The flesh hung wrinkled on his elbows.
"Oh, my God," Nick said. "You bloody bastards."
Chase couldn't speak. An icy paralysis held him rigid, an iciness that burned with the most intense and consuming anger he had ever known.
"It's okay, he's alive," Baz said blandly. He held the knife upright, touching the point with successive fingertips. "We could have let him die or killed him. We decided not to."
He looked at Chase, thick fair eyebrows raised as if seeking commendation for this act of mercy. His eyes were a bright dreamless blue. He might have been drugged, mad, or both; it was impossible to say.
Chase pulled himself free and knelt in front of his son. He tried to speak and couldn't. He wanted to say that it was all his fault, his stupidity, that he was to blame for what had happened to his son and Cheryl. He shook his head dumbly, holding Dan's arms like a baby's, as if afraid they might break.