Paskagankee (13 page)

Frank's hands shook as he grasped the key in the ignition. He wondered whether the shaking was from the adrenaline rush or from the possibility of being stranded here for who knows how long. He wasn't a religious man, but he said a quick prayer—more like a desperate non-denominational plea just in case someone up above might be paying attention, as unlikely as that seemed—and turned the key.

The Focus's engine had stalled when the car slammed into the fallen tree, but now it started up on the first try and purred like a kitten. There was no guarantee it would continue to run, of course, what with the fact that the front grill seemed to be crumpled backward into the engine compartment, but Frank took the fact that the damned thing started at all as a very encouraging sign.

He pictured important fluids spraying out of the engine as he sat doing nothing and decided he'd better find out if the car would actually move. Frank could see a miniscule opening on the far side of the two-lane road between the downed tree and the edge of the thick forest that looked like the car might be able to squeeze through. Branches tumbled across it but they looked relatively small, and Frank thought if he got up a little bit of speed and tried to crash through that the car might actually make it. He had no idea what hazards the road held beyond the tree of course but at the moment was focused only on getting out of his current predicament. Everything else could wait.

Frank shifted into reverse and eased his foot down on the accelerator. The transmission caught with an audible THUNK, and the Focus lurched backward away from the tree trunk. Something screeched under the car's frame and then stopped. Frank realized he was sweating, although the temperature inside the car's cabin had already begun dropping.

Now that the car was moving backward, Frank was hesitant to stop in order to shift into drive. He had an irrational fear that if he changed anything he was doing at this very moment, anything at all, the damaged car would give up the ghost; it would simply sputter to a halt and go belly up right there in the middle of the road, never to move again.

He said another quick makeshift prayer to the same unknown being who had answered his first one, and then stepped on the brake. The car shuddered and ground to a halt, the brake pedal vibrating violently. Frank took aim at the opening on the far side of the road—it looked a lot smaller all of a sudden—and stomped on the gas. He knew he needed to build up enough speed to blast through the branches if he wanted to avoid getting stuck in the tangled mess.

The Focus hit the upper portion of the tree doing close to thirty, a dangerous speed on these icy roads even if he
wasn't
navigating directly into a downed hardwood tree. Frank put the odds at roughly fifty-fifty that he would spin off the road into the woods and end up even worse off than he already was but figured worrying about that was irrelevant now because he was committed.

The car rocked and squealed as branches grabbed at its front and sides like the grasping dead hands of a band of marauding zombies. A particularly large branch smashed into the windshield and cracks spider webbed in front of his eyes as Frank instinctively ducked. He kept going. The car was slowing rapidly with the tree clutching and grabbing, unwilling to give up its newfound prize.

Then he was through. The little Focus burst through the tiny opening just as Frank had hoped it would, and even though the car slewed dangerously on the ice, miracle of miracles, it was sliding into the middle of the road, not the woods. Finally, Frank had caught a break!

His stomach felt like he had eaten too much of his grandmother's chili and sweat poured down his face. He realized he had been holding his breath and he chuckled tensely, his voice sounding strangled and foreign. The road ahead appeared relatively clear, at least for the short distance he could see, and Frank allowed himself a glimmer of hope that maybe things were going to work out okay after all.

He straightened the car out, pointed the crumpled nose down the middle of the deserted road, stepped on the accelerator, and—

—And the car ran out of gas. The engine sputtered and coughed, sounding exactly like his mother's Craftsman lawn mower when he forgot to fill the tank before cutting her grass. It almost died, caught for a second, almost died again, caught again, the little car lurching comically, before finally giving up and shutting down altogether, rebuking Frank with one final angry BANG!

He guided the disabled vehicle to a stop as far on to the shoulder as possible, not sure exactly why he was doing so. It wasn't like a caravan of vehicles was likely to come charging down the road, smashing into his piece of shit little car. He tried to recall how long it had been since he had seen any other motorist and realized he couldn't. It had been hours, and the storm wasn't abating at all. If anything, its fury seemed to be intensifying.

He pounded his fists on the steering wheel in frustration. It was so unfair! He had worked his way out of a dangerous frigging situation and the moment he did he was beaten down by fate. As usual. Frank felt like it was a pretty fair representation of his whole trip. He had driven ten long hours up to Presque Isle and sold less than half of the hard drives and other computer components he needed to unload to break even, and then he had to fight the worsening storm the whole way back and now this.

Plus, Frank was getting cold. The temperature inside the car was beginning to drop noticeably, and it had only been a few minutes since he had struck the tree, setting this fiasco into motion. Frank kept a bag filled with supplies in his trunk for just this type of situation, and although he had never needed it before, he was thankful he had had the foresight to prepare for a worst-case scenario.

Getting to his bag was going to be a bitch, though, in this weather. Frank pulled on his light jacket and prepared to get drenched. His heavy winter parka, the one with the fur-lined hood that he could zip until it enclosed almost his entire face, was packed away in the trunk along with the rest of his supplies because he hated driving with such a big, bulky coat on.

Cursing fate one last time for emphasis, Frank opened the door. At least most of the major damage seemed to be limited to the right side of the car rather than the left. He wasn't sure the passenger door would even open, crunched up as it was, but the door on his side was untouched and opened smoothly.

Rain poured in, soaking his head and neck and running under his shirt, down his chest and back. It was unbelievably cold; it took his breath away. He leapt from the car and staggered back to the trunk, fighting the gusty winds every step of the way. The freezing rain appeared to be flying sideways, and Frank wondered how long it would be before another tree fell across the road, crushing him like a bug and finally putting him out of his misery. Probably not before he had suffered long and hard, he decided.

He popped the trunk and pulled out the duffel bag containing his emergency gear. He yanked it clear and began trudging back toward the driver's side door which he had foolishly left open, allowing the rain to soak the interior of the car. Frank shook his head in disgust and out of the corner of his eye saw what he would have sworn was a flash of dull red off to the right, moving rapidly through the woods.

A split second later, a sharp
crack!
echoed through the wind and freezing rain. It seemed to Frank like the noise originated in the general vicinity of that flash of red he wasn't even sure he had just seen. It was loud, almost like the sound of thunder. But of course it wasn't the sound of thunder; it couldn't be. This wasn't a thunderstorm.

Frank stopped in his tracks, a feeling of irrational dread filling his gut. Something was out there, just out of sight in the woods, and it seemed to Frank's feverish mind to be tracking him. A bear, maybe? He had heard that black bears could be vicious and this was definitely black bear territory. Whatever it was, he was making himself too easy a target standing still in the driving rain and wind like an idiot.

He turned toward the open driver's side door, and when he did he ran headlong into a gigantic figure. It appeared almost but not quite human and was monstrously large, clad in a tattered reddish-plaid wool hunting coat and soaking-wet, muddy jeans.

Frank let out a yelp of surprise and jumped back instinctively. He opened his mouth to say, “Thank God, I need some help here,” and then realized the man—if it even
was
a man—was staring at him, staring
through
him really, with eyes black and dead and devoid of any spark of life. They looked to Frank like the eyes of a shark sizing up its prey.

Panic took over and Frank turned to sprint in the opposite direction, away from the thing with the shark eyes that may or may not be a man. This would take him away from the shelter of the car, but Frank didn't care. He wasn't thinking about cars or shelter or anything else at the moment. Right now, all that mattered was getting away from that awful shambling thing behind him.

Three running steps later, the thing pulled him off the ground from behind, grabbing his jacket with two hands and lifting him high into the air. How that was even possible, Frank had no idea. He was a large man, tipping the scales at well over two hundred pounds. He couldn't believe how quickly the monstrosity moved, especially considering its massive bulk. The thing had to be close to seven feet tall if it was an inch.

Frank looked down at the thing and decided it definitely resembled a gigantic beast now more than an actual human being, although its features seemed semi-human. Its hair was greasy and stringy and unwashed and its beard was the same. Clumps of straw and dead grass protruded at odd angles out of that shaggy hair, nestled securely into the tangled mess despite the high winds and driving rain.

The dark, red, wool coat hung unbuttoned, flapping loosely off the giant's frame in the shrieking wind, and its jeans were torn and filthy. The thing hefted a terrified Frank Cheslo onto its shoulder, letting go of him momentarily but only to adjust its grip. It then lifted Frank high above its head and slammed him down onto the pavement.

Frank's head bounced off the hard surface with a sickening wet SMACK! Bright lights flashed and danced in his vision, and he had a vague notion of blood splattering and mixing with the icy wetness in the road. It was an impressive amount of blood, and Frank realized it was all
his
blood. The pain was immense and the computer parts salesman kicked once, violently, and then his own internal hard drive failed and he was still.

18

MIKE MCMAHON WAVED WILDLY at a mosquito flying around his ear. He missed and it continued circling, over and over, buzzing relentlessly. He swatted again at the pesky insect, smacking himself in the head and raising a bruise just above his right ear, waking himself enough to realize that the annoying mosquito was actually Sharon Dupont's alarm clock.

The offending clock sat on the nightstand next to his head, buzzing patiently, determined to torment him until switched off which, unfortunately, Mike had no idea how to do. He slapped at buttons and twisted knobs and succeeded only in turning on the radio, adding to the frustrating cacophony.

Finally, in a crushing admission of defeat, he nudged Sharon awake. She crawled over the top of him to turn the clock-radio off before falling back to sleep with her head resting on his chest. Mike tried to decide which sensation he preferred, the blessed silence from that damned alarm stopping or the feeling of Shari's warm body lying on his and decided it was a no-brainer.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” he said, shaking her slim shoulders until she reluctantly reopened her eyes. “How do you ever make it to work on time when there's nobody here to wake you up? There
is
usually no one here to wake you up, right?”

She smiled, her sleepy eyes brightening. “No, there's not usually anyone here to wake me up. When I'm by myself I have to move the clock to the top of the dresser across the room. That forces me to get up to turn it off or else I'd never get to work before noon.” She slid out of bed, Mike enjoying the view as her silk nightdress caught on the covers and pulled up to her hips before slipping back into place, then wandered across the room and into the master bathroom, stifling a yawn. Seconds later he heard the water running in the shower.

After the incredible electricity that had passed between them when they touched hands last night, they had left a trail of clothing from the kitchen to the bedroom. He understood that putting himself in the potentially damaging position of sleeping with a subordinate was not the way to start his career as police chief in Paskagankee, but both he and Shari had desperately needed to make a connection with another human being last night. It had felt right then, and it still felt right this morning.

There was no awkwardness, no sense of regret on Shari's part, at least none that he could detect. There certainly wasn't any on his part. Mike hadn't been with a woman since Kate divorced him nearly a year ago, and the only emotion he felt right now was happiness—happiness that this beautiful young woman found him attractive, happiness that he had found someone he could talk to and happiness that he was finally able to enjoy intimacy again, even if it was only temporary.

Sharon had confided her deepest secrets and darkest fears to him last night but rather than driving him away as she had clearly feared they would, they served to make her all the more attractive to him. And that only made sense. After all, he was damaged goods himself; he knew from bitter experience with Kate that it took a special woman to fight her way past the burden of guilt he carried around like a ball and chain. The way Mike saw it, Sharon's battle with alcoholism was a direct result of her unfortunate upbringing and thus not really her fault at all. He, on the other hand, had made a conscious decision to take the disastrous shot back in Revere. He wondered how she could even stand to be around him without judging him as harshly as he judged himself.