John Saul (46 page)

So he’d come back to the ranch.

He’d come back, if for no other reason than hunger.

By now, he must be very hungry, indeed.

Michael Stiffle gazed at the deep snow burying the trail that began at the edge of his family’s pasture and wound through the woods to come out at the driveway of El Monte Ranch.

He’d been using the path all his life and knew every one of its turns so well that even on the night when he and Andrea had gone out to scare Joey Wilkenson, he’d never felt even slightly lost.

It wasn’t the snow that kept him from using the trail today. In fact, all morning long he’d been thinking about how much fun it would be to get out his snowmobile and race through the woods, then streak across the big pasture at El Monte, making figure eights in the fresh white blanket that would still be almost unmarred even by grazing deer. But every time he thought about it, he also remembered what had happened up at the ranch two nights ago, and remembered, too, the shadowy figure he and Andrea had seen up at the ranch the night before that.

Had it been Shane Slater?

Michael shivered with excitement every time he thought
about it. He could hardly wait until school started again to tell everyone what he’d seen.

And he had been the only one to see the werewolf, despite what Andrea might say. He could remember it perfectly, and she’d stayed close to the house, too scared even to go out and throw some rocks at Joey’s window! She might have seen something—maybe a shadow, or something like that—but only he had seen the monster that killed Logan—and maybe even Dr. Sherbourne, too—with his own eyes!

Of course, he’d heard that it was Joey that killed Dr. Sherbourne, but he didn’t believe that. Joey was nuts, but he just wasn’t strong enough to kill someone with his bare hands. So the fact that Shane Slater was dead should have made the trail through the woods less scary.

Yet when he was finally ready to go up to El Monte Ranch and feed the horses—and check out for himself the place behind the barn where they’d found Shane Slater and Dr. Sherbourne—he felt no temptation at all to take the trail, with or without his snowmobile. In fact, he wasn’t supposed to be going at all, since his folks had made him promise to wait until they got back from town, when his father would drive him up there and wait while he did his job.

Wait, just like he was still some ten-year-old kid who couldn’t take care of himself.

And his father, he knew, wouldn’t let him go anywhere near where they’d found the bodies. But his folks wouldn’t be back from town for at least an hour, and he had plenty of time to get up there, take a good look, feed the horses, and get back.

He set out walking, moving quickly down his driveway to the main road, then turning right to head up toward El Monte. The road was plowed, and there had been enough traffic going back and forth that the pavement was clear. In less than ten minutes he had come to the driveway.

It wasn’t until Michael was halfway up the drive, and the forest had begun to creep in on him from both sides, that he began to feel nervous. The thick snow covering the trees and ground seemed to cast an unnatural silence over the
forest, and suddenly he felt as if he was being watched. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he felt goose-flesh forming even under the heavy sweater and jacket he was wearing. Glancing around, half expecting to spot Andrea hiding behind a tree ready to jump out at him, he scanned the woods on both sides, but saw nothing. Finally, when he was certain there was no one there to see him lose his nerve, he broke into a trot, and ran the rest of the way up to the ranch, not stopping until he burst out of the mouth of the driveway into the yard.

He stopped to catch his breath, then gazed around. Over by the shed behind the barn he could see the bright yellow strips of plastic that marked the area where they’d found the two bodies. Michael immediately headed over to take a look, feeling vaguely disappointed when he found that there was nothing much to see. The snow around the shed was trampled down, and he wasn’t even sure where the bodies had been lying, except that some of the snow was stained with what he figured must be blood. He shivered as he stared at the reddish stains, but finally turned away and started toward the barn.

But as he approached the enormous, looming structure, he began to wonder if maybe, after all, he should have waited for his parents to come back from town. Though the sun was shining brightly, and the sky was clear overhead, the barn seemed somehow forbidding.

Then he remembered.

It was inside the barn that they had found Logan Carpenter’s body, his throat torn open, blood soaking his clothes.

His heart pounding, Michael slowly moved around the barn until he came to the two huge doors.

Maybe he shouldn’t go in at all. Maybe he should just go home and come back later with his father.

Chicken
! he told himself.
You’re just being a chicken! There’s nothing in there except some horses, and maybe a few rats
!

Putting down the fear that was threatening to make him turn and flee, Michael resolutely lifted the latch and pulled the barn door open.

As the hinges creaked, the horses inside began to snort
and paw restlessly at the floors of their stalls. “It’s okay,” Michael called loudly, more to steady his own nerves than anything else. “It’s only me. I’m going to feed you!” But he made no move to go into the barn yet. He stood at the door, poised now to take off if he heard anything from inside that didn’t sound quite right.

But except for the horses, he heard nothing, and finally he slipped into the barn, leaving the door standing open.

Ten minutes.

Just ten minutes and he would be done and he could go back home. Then, at school tomorrow, he could tell everyone what he’d done and what he’d seen.

And he’d tell them he hadn’t been scared at all.

Joey moved silently through the woods, slipping from tree to tree, darting across the open places only when he was certain there were no human eyes to see him. He’d been circling slowly around the ranch for more than an hour, starting at the head of the trail that opened into the pasture directly across from the kitchen door. Even when he’d descended the trail, he’d been careful to avoid the small clearing adjoining the pasture itself, staying a few yards into the shelter of the forest, crouching low in the snow as he watched the house, unaware of the cold wetness seeping through his clothes. Finally he’d changed his position, moving to the west, finding a vantage point from which he could survey the back of the house as well as the side facing west. When he’d still seen no signs that anyone was there, he’d moved on, working his way through the forest, keeping himself concealed, patiently examining the house from every angle, satisfying himself that it was, indeed, deserted.

Now he retraced his steps until he was once more at the back of the house, screened by the large log building itself from the mouth of the driveway and the barn. He crouched at the base of a low white-barked pine, nearly invisible in the shelter of its twisting branches.

He sniffed at the air, searching for any trace of a scent that would betray the presence of someone hiding inside
the house, listened for any sound that might be made by someone waiting within.

Nothing.

His muscles tensed, and at last he made his move, darting from the shelter of the tree to sprint across the snow-covered yard, ducking into the sanctuary of the house itself. Pausing for only a moment, he slipped around to the west side and scuttled to the broken window through which his father had entered the house two days ago.

Two days.

And more than a full day since he’d left the cabin, climbing high into the mountains until at last he’d found a cave that had offered him shelter. He’d crouched inside it, watching unseen as the helicopter had flown above, searching for him, then nestled down into the bearskin he’d brought with him from the cabin, sleeping fitfully through the night.

But this morning he had woken up hungry, his stomach growling, a cold knot of pain lying sullenly in his belly. He’d eaten some snow, but while his thirst had been satisfied, his hunger had not, and as the morning wore on, he thought more and more about the food in the house.

More food than anyone needed.

And surely no one would be there.

Not after what had happened.

Leaving the still crippled wolf in the cave, he’d started down the mountain, his hunger growing with every step, but never driving him past the limits of caution.

Now, though, he was there, and, as he’d thought, the house was deserted!

Except that someone had nailed a sheet of plywood over the broken window. He reached up, working his fingers under the edge of the plywood, and tugged at it. It held fast for a moment, but then he felt one of the nails give way, and a second later the gap was wide enough for him to slip the fingers of both hands into it. He pulled again, and the corner came loose, then all four of the nails along the bottom of the plywood sheet gave way and he was able to pull the wood far enough from the window frame to slither over the sill and drop to the floor inside.

Once again, like a wary animal, he crouched where he was, listening.

The house was silent.

He rose to his feet and moved quickly into the kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator door.

On the bottom shelf, still on the plate where MaryAnne had left them, were the five steaks, wrapped in plastic. Ripping the plastic off one of them, Joey began tearing the raw meat into small chunks, shoving them into his mouth, swallowing them almost without chewing them.

The knot of pain in his stomach eased, then disappeared entirely as he finished the first steak and started on a second.

His hunger sated, he turned away from the refrigerator, leaving it open, and moved into the dining room, then to the bottom of the stairs. He started slowly upward, his nose filling with familiar odors, scents that stirred emotions within him.

He came to the door of his own room but passed it by, moving on to another door.

The door stood ajar.

Inside the room, the odor of its occupant was still strong, and he breathed deeply of it, an odd warmth spreading through him as he inhaled the scent.

Alison.

Alison, who had always been kind to him, even after he’d attacked her.

He went to the closet door and pulled it open.

The closet was empty—all her clothes were gone. His eyes darted around the room, finally coming to rest on a scarf that hung over the footboard of the bed.

The scarf that he’d chosen for her himself.

He snatched it up, holding it to his nose, breathing in the smell that clung to it. Finally he wrapped the plaid cashmere around his neck, comforted by the scent of the girl who had been the one friend he’d ever had.

A minute later he was back downstairs, throwing as much food as he could into a large plastic bag. When he’d filled the bag, he slipped out through the back door, and was about to head back toward the creek and the safety of
the mountains when he saw the barn door standing partway open.

He hesitated, almost turned away again, then sniffed at the air.

A breeze was wafting up from the direction of the barn, and Joey could smell the scent of the horses, their familiar odor triggering memories of days that now seemed a lifetime ago, when he’d spent endless hours with them, feeding them and grooming them, training them and riding them.

Days that were gone forever.

He breathed deeply of the comforting smell, wanting to capture it in his memory, but then his muscles tensed. There was another odor coming from the barn as well.

An odor he’d never truly been aware of before, but which now filled him with sudden rage.

Michael Stiffle.

Michael Stiffle was in the barn, and his scent, unfamiliar as it was, still triggered memories in Joey.

Memories of Michael taunting him, telling him he was crazy, whispering about him when he didn’t think he was listening.

More memories welled up out of his subconscious, and suddenly Michael Stiffle seemed to personify every slight and insult he’d suffered at the hands of his classmates for as long as he could remember. His fury building, Joey dropped the bag of food to the ground and started toward the open barn door.

Michael Stiffle was pouring feed into the trough in Sheika’s stall when the big mare snorted, tossed her head, and began backing away from the door, her hooves drumming on the wooden floor, her eyes wide.

“What is it?” Michael asked, looking up from the trough to gaze quizzically at the horse. Only a moment ago the mare had been nuzzling at his neck, trying to nose him aside in her efforts to get to the fresh food in her trough. Now, though, the horse looked terrified, and when Michael reached up to pat her neck, she shied away with a loud whinny. She backed farther, her rump finally coming to a stop as it hit the stall’s far corner. She started, then reared
up, her forehooves striking out, forcing Michael to duck out of the way.

“Jesus Christ!” the boy burst out, scrambling toward the stall door. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Keeping his eyes on the still-rearing horse, Michael groped behind him for the latch to the stall door, finally found it and twisted it. As the door swung open, he slipped out into the wide aisle that ran in front of the stall and slammed the lower half of the door shut, even though Sheika—still in the far corner of her stall—made no move to try to bolt.

Now Michael realized that it wasn’t only Sheika who had spooked, for Buck and Fritz were also pawing nervously, and suddenly Fritz reared up, his hooves striking out to crash against the planks that walled his stall. A moment later Buck followed suit, and then Sheika, too, joined in the melee. “What the hell’s going on?” Michael asked out loud.

Then he knew, for suddenly he had the same feeling of being watched that he’d felt in the woods a few minutes before.

Except this time it was stronger.

Much stronger.

His whole body broke out in goose bumps, and a terrible chill seized him as he felt the presence in the barn.