John Saul (17 page)

Zipping up his fly, Glen paused to listen to the sounds of the forest once more.

He heard nothing except the squalling of a raccoon and the rustling of some small creature foraging in the brush by the stream. Satisfied, he returned to the tent, zipped the netting closed, and began stripping off his clothes in the darkness.

Naked, he slid into the double sleeping bag, feeling the soft warmth of Tamara’s skin rubbing against his own. As his hand slid down her belly to the mound between her thighs, he pressed his mouth against hers, his tongue slipping easily between her teeth.

He groaned with pleasure as her fingers began to explore him, and held her closer, his excitement growing.

* * *

Outside the tent, as Glen and Tamara wrapped themselves around each other, aware of nothing beyond the confines of the sleeping bag, the dark figure slipped out of the forest, moving close, waiting, listening.

The figure crept closer, twitching now with anticipation of what was to come.

It sniffed at the wind eagerly, nostrils flaring, gathering not only the acrid scent of the smoldering fire, but the scent of the enemy, as well.

The enemy that was hidden from its sight within the tent, but not hidden from its other senses.

The figure could hear them, as well as smell them, and now the mutterings and moans they made combined with the intoxicating odor to drive the shadowy being mad.

Crouching low to the ground, it tensed, every fiber of its being quivering with anticipation.

At last, giving in to the instinctive urges of its nature, it sprang.

The nylon above Glen Foster’s head split with a quick ripping sound—no more than a tiny rent in the quiet of the night—and the brute was upon them, making no sound at all, slashing.

By the time Glen realized what had happened, it was far too late.

Something had leaped on him, its weight pressing down hard, and even as he started to struggle, the sleeping bag had been ripped apart and he felt claws digging at his flesh.

“Tammy!” he tried to call out, but before the word could even escape his lips, something sharp and vicious slashed at his throat and he felt a gush of hot liquid begin to flow across his chest. He gasped, trying to catch his breath, but only gagged on the blood that was choking him. Soundlessly, he thrashed against his attacker, but as more and more blood gushed from the torn artery in his neck, a terrible weakness overcame him, and he suddenly understood what was happening.

He was dying.

He tried to reach out, tried once more to push the attacker away, but it was too late.

His hands fell to his sides and he lay still.

By the time the attack was over, and the campsite deserted by the intruder, Glen Foster was already dead.

Tamara Reynolds, her skin torn by unseen teeth, her flesh cut deeply by invisible talons, lay moaning softly against pain so searing she could not move, could not even cry for help.

M
aryAnne was back in New Jersey, in her own house. Outside, she could hear sirens. At first she ignored them, going on with the endless task of packing up Alan’s things. They seemed to be everywhere, his clothes heaped in suitcases that lay open and overflowed onto the bed, his books in cartons stacked against the wall. Other boxes held his back issues of
Architectural Digest
, still more his collection of old LPs. But the job seemed endless, and her closet still appeared to be filled with his things.

The sirens grew closer, and suddenly she knew what they meant.

They were coming here!

Coming for Audrey’s body, which for some reason was lying in the far corner of the room.

How had it gotten there?

MaryAnne didn’t know.

But as the sirens approached, panic seized her.

Her! They were coming for her!

They thought she’d killed Audrey!

But she hadn’t! Surely she hadn’t!

Suddenly the door flew open and she turned to see Joey, his hands covered with blood, an empty look in his eyes, a cold smile on his face.

He stepped toward her, his mouth opening, but no words coming out. His bloodied hands reached out to her, coming closer and closer as the din of the sirens grew louder in her ears.

She backed away from him, groping to steady herself against the wall, but instead of hard plaster, her hand brushed against something soft.

Soft, and cold.

Spinning away from Joey, she stared up into the dead eyes of Ted Wilkenson.

A scream rose in her throat, a scream cut short as she jerked awake, sitting straight up in her bed, her whole body trembling from the shock of what she’d just seen.

A dream, she told herself.

It was just a dream
.

Except that she could still hear the sound of sirens.

Disoriented, she looked around her. Could she really still be at home in New Jersey? But she wasn’t—she was in Idaho, on El Monte Ranch.

Shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, MaryAnne got out of bed and hurried to the window. Up on the hillside, a hundred feet above the valley floor, she could see a pale, silvery glow moving slowly through the forest, and every few seconds she could catch a glimpse of red and blue lights flickering among the trees.

“What is it, Mommy?” Logan’s voice asked from the doorway. MaryAnne turned to see her son, rubbing his eyes, silhouetted against the lights in the hall.

“I don’t know,” MaryAnne replied.

“It’s police cars,” Alison said, joining her brother. “I saw them coming up the road, then turning off to go up that dirt road that leads to the campground.”

The sirens died away, leaving an eerie silence. Up in the woods the glow of headlights had stopped moving. Turning from the window, MaryAnne pulled on her bathrobe and turned on the light on her night table, glancing at the clock. She frowned as she realized that it was one o’clock in the morning. What would have made the police go up to the campground at this hour?

“Let’s go downstairs and make a cup of cocoa,” she told the children, knowing they wouldn’t go back to bed until they had an explanation for the disturbance in the night. “Go put on your bathrobes, and I’ll get Joey, too. But you’re going to be back in bed in half an hour. All right?”

As Alison and Logan, momentarily diverted from the police cars in the forest, ran back to their rooms, MaryAnne tapped at Joey’s door. When there was no answer, she
turned the knob, pushed the door open, and switched on the light, already certain that it was going to be a repeat of what had happened the night after his parents’ funeral.

A knot of fear forming in her stomach as her mind instantly connected the police cars on the mountainside to Joey’s absence, she hurried downstairs, quickly checking the rooms on the lower floor in the faint hope that Joey might be there.

He wasn’t.

By the time she reached the kitchen, her children were already there, Alison getting mugs out of the cupboard above the counter, while Logan searched the pantry for cocoa mix. The smile on Alison’s face faded as she saw her mother’s expression of fear.

“Do you know where Joey is?” MaryAnne asked. “Did you hear him going outside?”

Puzzled, Alison shook her head. “Isn’t he in his room?”

“He’s not in the house at all,” MaryAnne told her, her fear starting to rise into panic. What could have happened? Surely he wouldn’t have gone up into the mountains in the middle of the night? And even if he had, how could the police cars be connected to him? How would anyone have even known he was there?

It couldn’t have anything to do with Joey—it
couldn’t
! But even as she tried to reassure herself, she remembered the dream from which she had just awakened, saw once again the blood dripping from Joey’s outstretched hands, the cold emptiness in Joey’s eyes. The same coldness she’d seen that morning
—No!
Whatever had happened on the mountainside had nothing to do with Joey! He had to be somewhere close by.

The stream! That’s where he said he’d gone the other night.

Taking the Spotlighter off the charger mounted on the wall next to the back door, she snapped it on as she stepped out into the darkness. She swept the brilliant beam of light across the yard on the slight chance that Joey might be there, already on his way back to the house.

Her heart skipped as she saw a sudden flicker of movement
in the beam, and she quickly brought it back, searching the darkness for whatever might have been there.

Two glowing eyes flashed green in the blackness, and MaryAnne gasped, then relaxed as she recognized the creature that darted away into the night.

“What was it?” Logan demanded from behind her. “What did you see?”

“A baby raccoon,” MaryAnne told him.

Logan crowded out the door. “Where is it? Can we catch it?”

“Not
now
, Logan!” MaryAnne snapped, her nerves fraying. “Go back into the house! I have to go look for Joey!”

“I want to come, too!” Logan demanded, excited at the prospect of an adventure into the darkness in the middle of the night.

“Logan, I’m not going to argue with you! Go back in the house, and stay there!”

Logan’s eyes widened in shock at the harshness in his mother’s voice, and he backed away.

“Please?” MaryAnne asked, her voice gentling as she saw the hurt in her son’s eyes.

His feelings soothed, Logan turned and scurried back inside, slamming the door shut behind him.

MaryAnne started toward the front of the house, staying close to the wall as she hurried through the darkness. Reaching the corner, she swept the parking area with the light, then played it over the stand of trees that stood between the house and the stream.

“Joey?” she called out. “Joey, where are you?”

When there was no answer, she stepped away from the shelter of the house, crossing the yard, moving toward the woods. Then she stopped, hearing a sound from the barn.

A scraping, as if something inside were trying to get out.

Her blood ran cold and her hands began to tremble as she remembered the last time she had been out here in the dead of night and something had been in the barn.

Should she go back into the house and call for help?

Call whom?

The deputies must be up at the campground.

Bill Sikes?

She remembered his ominous words that morning, about the animals coming down out of the woods:
Somethin’s out there, an’ it’s startin’ to make me pretty nervous
.

Maybe she should get into the Rover and go up to his cabin. But she’d have to take Alison and Logan with her—she wasn’t about to leave them alone in the house. “Joey,” she called out again, her growing fear cracking her voice now. “Can you hear me?”

Again the scratching sound came from the barn, this time followed by what sounded like a growl.

MaryAnne turned, poised to take flight back to the house, but she didn’t. Something was different tonight, she realized. But what?

Then she knew. The horses were quiet!

The last time, they had been whinnying nervously and stamping in their stalls.

Tonight there was only silence from the barn, a silence so complete it was as though no living creature breathed. As though …

Suddenly terrified, she ran, nearly stumbling, back to the kitchen, picked up the phone with one hand and opened the local phone book with the other, rifling the pages till she found the number. As the phone at the other end began to ring, she paced nervously. To her surprise, it was answered almost immediately, and she spoke in a rush of relief. “Oh, thank God you’re there! It’s MaryAnne Carpenter, Olivia, and I know it’s late, but Joey’s missing, and something’s in the barn, and I’m frightened out of my wits, and I know I sound like the world’s biggest—”

“I’ll be right there,” Olivia told her. “Stay in the house. Something’s going on. I’ll tell you about it when I get there.”

Not more than five minutes later the glare of headlights swept through the yard as Olivia pulled up in her truck. When MaryAnne opened the door to let her in, the veterinarian was cradling a shotgun in her arms. “Let’s take a look,” Olivia said, starting toward the barn. Telling her children once more to stay in the house, MaryAnne fell in beside the other woman, her flashlight fixed on the barn door.

“You said something was going on,” MaryAnne said. “Did you mean the police cars up in the forest?”

Olivia nodded. “Something attacked the campground again. I talked to the dispatcher, but she didn’t know much. Just that some fellow came down a while ago, claiming someone was dead—maybe two people.”

“My God,” MaryAnne breathed. They were at the barn door now, and she hesitated, no longer certain she wanted to know what was inside. But Olivia, flipping the safety off the gun and pumping a shell into the chamber, nodded to her.

“Okay, I’m ready. Open the door.”

Her heart pounding, MaryAnne lifted the latch on the heavy doors, and immediately heard a familiar whimpering sound from inside. “Oh, Lord,” she groaned as she swung the door wide. “I feel like such an idiot! It’s Storm!”

The big dog hurled himself out the door, rearing up to put his forepaws on MaryAnne’s chest as he licked at her face. Olivia, removing the cartridge from the chamber and resetting the safety, lowered the gun to her side. “What are you doing out here, boy?” she asked. “Scaring us half to death like that! What’s going on?”

As the dog shifted its affections to the veterinarian, MaryAnne stepped into the barn and flashed the light around. The three horses were lined up as usual, their heads hanging over their stall doors, blinking in the glare of the flashlight’s beam. MaryAnne strode down the wide aisle in front of the stalls, found the light switch and turned on the big lamps suspended from the roof beams. As the darkness washed away, she snapped off the flashlight, then began searching the barn.

She found Joey, wrapped in a horse blanket in the empty stall at the far end of the aisle, sound asleep. Stepping into the stall, she stood still for a moment, gazing at him as he slept. What had brought him out here? And how long had he been here? She knelt down, gently touching his shoulder. He came awake instantly, rolling away from her, then sitting up, blinking in the light. Only when he recognized her did he relax, losing his startled, hunted expression. Then, as
he realized where he was, a look of defensiveness—almost furtiveness—came into his eyes.