“Claire had it coming. If it wasn’t for her …” Lomax bared his teeth like a feral dog, smacked the flashlight hard into the palm of his other hand. The knobs of muscle along the sides of his jaw were the size of walnuts. Crazy, all right. Those bulging eyes … some sort of psychotic break? “I’ve got to find her before it’s too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“If she shows up here, you tell her she better go home and stay there if she knows what’s good for her. You understand?”
No use arguing with him. You couldn’t reason with a man like Lomax when he was half drunk and worked up like this. Be a mistake to go on trying.
“Yeah, I understand.”
Lomax spun on his heel, stalked across the room, vanished as quickly as he’d appeared.
But he didn’t pull the door tight shut behind him. The wind hurled it open, set it banging against the closet door behind it. Candle flames guttered, blew out in the swirls of moist air.
Son of a bitch!
Macklin had no choice; he had to get up, walk over there, shut that door before the cold ate up all the room’s heat.
He threw the comforter down and swung both legs off the couch, planted his slippered feet flat on the floor. Slow, deep breath. Both hands on the couch arm, turn his body, shove up … slow … that’s it, up, all the way up … and standing, half turned, leaning on his hands.
A little weak in the knees, but not too bad. Another deep breath. No pain or dizziness, his breathing under control. Okay. Weight off his hands and arms … straighten, slow. Experimental step to make sure of his balance, holding the blanket tight around him with both hands. Okay.
Walk.
Left foot, right foot, fighting the urge to hurry. Straight ahead into the wet and cold, teeth gritted, the blanket and the tails of his robe flapping against his legs. Half expecting the squeezing to start again, but it didn’t happen. Still breathing without difficulty. And surprisingly steady on his pins, despite the still-sharp prod of the wind, the icy drops blowing into his face.
Three more steps, two, one … there. He caught hold of the door, tried to throw it shut; the wind threw it back at him. Come on, Macklin. Get a grip on the knob, lean your shoulder against the door and shove it closed. Even with a bad heart you’re stronger than the goddamn wind—
He was turning his body, starting to push on the door, when the face appeared out of the roiling darkness outside.
Witch’s face: slick-sheened and pasty white, one cheekbone bruised, lips split and cracked, tangled strands of hair stuck down or streaming in all directions, eyes like black holes. Startling him—his heart thumped and skipped a beat, his breath caught in the back of his throat.
A dripping hand clawed a hold on the edge of the door, the face loomed closer. Not a witch’s face—the face of terror. And a voice to match: “Let me in … please, please, before he comes back.”
First Lomax and now his wife.
T W E N T Y
SHELBY DROVE DOWN TO where the fallen tree blocked the lane, even though the distance was only fifty yards or so. The need for urgency was a constant prod. Jay’s condition didn’t seem to be as bad as she’d feared initially, but there was no way to tell for sure without a battery of hospital tests. All too often heart attacks came in pairs or bunches, spaced minutes as well as hours apart. He could have another at any time, go into cardiac arrest. And even if that didn’t happen tonight, the damage that had already been done might be severe enough to be life-threatening at some point in the future.
Mad as hell at him for withholding Dr. Prebble’s diagnosis from her. Didn’t want to spoil the holidays for either of them. Jesus! If he’d only told her as soon as he found out, none of this coastal horror show would have happened. Right now her love for him was tempered with a thinly diluted hostility. I’ve been a burden on you so long, it can only get worse … Yes, it probably would get worse before it got better, if it ever could.
Shelby Hunter Macklin: wife, caregiver, angel of mercy, her husband’s keeper.
The fallen tree was bigger than she’d expected, thick-boled, its jutting limbs and branches like fragmented bones in the rain. She eased the Prius to a stop close to the vine-choked trunk. Switched on the flash before she shut off the engine and headlights and got out into the squall.
She tracked the beam to the upper end of the tree. There was a spot near the collapsed section of the estate fence where she thought she could climb over, but too many snags and splintered edges forced her back. Damn! She took the light down to the snapped-off end, found a way to get around it there by plowing through some sodden undergrowth.
On the far side, the pavement and what bordered it on both sides were indistinguishable beyond the light’s reach. Shelby aimed her gaze and the shaft downward a few feet in front of her, focusing on the moving circle of radiance as she followed it along the lane.
When she’d gone a hundred yards or so, around a jog in the lane, a tracery of lightning showed her a dark shape on the side of the road ahead. She lifted the flash, hurrying now, not quite believing her eyes until the beam reached far enough to reflect off streaming metal and glass surfaces.
Car.
Better than that, a county sheriff’s cruiser.
Finally, a piece of good luck!
She half ran to the cruiser. Its flasher bar was unlighted, the interior also dark. At the driver’s window she laid the lens close to the glass, cleared it with her palm and squinted to peer inside. The front seat was empty, the barrel of a Remington shotgun jutting up like a phallus from its vertical mount. She moved back to shine the light through the rear window. The area behind the separating mesh partition was as empty as the front.
Where was the deputy?
Why would he leave his cruiser parked here like this?
She swung the torch around in a slow circle. Vague shapes jumped out, vanished again. Rain-heavy tree branches bobbing and weaving in the wind. The verge-flooded lane. The estate fence and closed entrance gates. All of it storm-tossed, barren, like pieces of nowhere.
Maybe there was something wrong with the cruiser and the deputy had pulled it in here and then gone on foot to the highway— No, that couldn’t be it. The highway was several hundred yards from here. He wouldn’t have driven in this far; he’d have radioed for help and waited out there in the cruiser, dry.
Radio, she thought.
She pivoted back to the driver’s door and tried the handle, expecting to find it locked. It wasn’t. She let out a stuttery breath and stopped thinking about the missing deputy; pulled the door open and slid quickly inside, closing it after her.
The dome light showed her the position of the radio and its microphone. She’d used communications of this kind for ten years, the codes up here wouldn’t be much different from those she was used to; all she had to do was contact the dispatcher and report the abandoned cruiser, request immediate assistance and a medical response unit. She set her purse down on the passenger seat, caught up the microphone, flipped a toggle—
The driver’s door was suddenly yanked open from outside.
A hand reached in and snatched the microphone from her, a wind-bent voice said, “No, you don’t,” and before she could turn her head all the way around, a pair of powerful arms had encircled her body and were dragging her backward out of the cruiser.
T W E N T Y - O N E
MACKLIN LET CLAIRE LOMAX inside, shouldered the door shut behind her. And this time reached down to throw the bolt lock.
“Oh God, thank you.”
She stood trembling with her arms crossed over her breasts. She was wet through to the skin; the clothing she wore—a down jacket over some kind of shirt, a pair of Levi’s, and sneakers—were all drenched and streaming. The injuries to her face were worse than Shelby had described, probably the result of a second or even a third beating over the past two days. Her terror was as naked as any Macklin had ever witnessed.