Snowbound (33 page)

As soon as he was sure the immediate area was clear, Brodie climbed over a five-foot boundary fence into the north-south alley bisecting the block between Modoc and Lassen and kicked open the back door of the Valley Inn. The wind muffled the sounds of splintering wood and snapping metal, sent swirls of snow into the heavily shadowed storeroom ahead of him. Directly opposite and to one side, he could make out a narrow corridor leading into the front of the building. He ran down there, came out in the restaurant kitchen, and crossed to a swing door in the far wall. When he had pushed through, he was in the inn’s darkened dining room.

Lights burned a pale amber in the lounge area beyond the center partitions. On the wall behind the far end of the bar, Brodie could see the glass-fronted guncase he had noticed earlier—and the twin, ornately scrolled shotguns shining dully within. Spread across the bottom of the interior shelf, just as he remembered, were boxes of shells.

He ran around into the lounge and swung his body up onto the bar, over behind it. With a heavy decanter from the backbar display, he broke the glass out of the guncase door and cleared clinging shards from the opening. The shotguns were .12 gauge pumps with 26-inch barrels, three-shot Savages. Brodie pulled one of them loose from its clip fastenings, pawed open a box of cartridges, fed three into the magazine, and worked the slide to jack the first into firing position.

Despite the deadliness of the piece, it was cumbersome—and the storm would retard accurate shooting at any range over twenty yards. There were plenty of handguns in the Sport Shop, but once Brodie was certain he’d made good his escape and could think calculatingly again, he had decided against that objective. Kubion had to know that his first consideration would be to get himself a weapon and that the Sport Shop was the one sure place to pick up on guns and ammunition. Maybe Kubion would be following snow tracks, the way you’d expect, but then again, since Brodie hadn’t seen any sign of him when he’d looped around and doubled back across Placer Street, it could be he had gone to the Sport Shop instead. Christ, he could be anywhere, doing anything.

Brodie dropped a handful of extra shells into his coat pocket, went over the bar again, and ran through the dining room and kitchen. He slowed there and entered cautiously into the dark corridor, bringing the shotgun up so that the stock butted hard against his shoulder, moving to where he could see the open rear door. Snow still churned inside, blanketing a section of floor in an unbroken swath. He edged into the storeroom, circled silently around to the wall beside the door. Then, swiftly, he stepped over in front of the opening, still three paces inside, and fanned the pump across the fence. Nothing showed, nothing moved. He saw that the only tracks in the alley snow were his own, hesitated for a moment, and then ran out through the doorway to the left; pulled back to the building wall, sweeping the shotgun’s muzzle from the fence northward along the alley and back again. The narrow expanse was empty in both directions.

With the pump sighted once more on the fence, Brodie waded sideways through the snow to the south. Just prior to Modoc Street, the fence ended against a low line of shrubbery, and he could see a portion of the adjoining house’s front yard: smooth-swept whiteness. He went over there, fanned the area behind the fence, and then swung the weapon outward in an arc to Modoc. Clear. Carefully, he backed farther into the yard at an angle that allowed him to see down Modoc to Sierra in one direction, and back deeper along the fence in the other. He was completely alone.

His moves so far had been the right ones; he’d been inside the inn less than five minutes—not long enough to have trapped himself if Kubion was following his tracks, just long enough to have balanced the odds a little. There was no question what his next move had to be: the church. Loxner figured to be long gone, hiding out somewhere, but there was still an off-chance he’d remained in the car and even a mush-belly was better than no help at all. And doing the cat-and-mouse bit in the village was pure stupidity; you didn’t play games with a maniac. If he could get to the church before Kubion, and Loxner
was
gone, he could burrow in somewhere and try to pick Kubion off when he showed—and he would show all right, he could already be on his way there because he’d remember Loxner now. But that didn’t change matters. Any way you looked at it, the church was where Brodie had to go.

He hurried through the facing yards of two houses, watching his flank as well as what lay ahead. Then he cut across Modoc and went into another yard and along the side of a dark frame house. There was no fence separating that property from the one which fronted on Shasta; he passed beneath a row of bare-branched fruit trees, paralleled a second dark house, and came to a stop beside a wooden pony cart the owners had put in for landscaping decoration.

He squatted there to catch his breath, to momentarily relieve the sharp ache of fatigued muscles. The shotgun seemed to have grown heavier, more unwieldy. Opening the bottom two buttons of his coat, he used the lining on one of the flaps to wipe his wind-and snow-stung eyes.

As far as he could see, then, Shasta Street was clear both east and west. He levered up again and ran at an angle across the roadway, plowed through thick drifts to a fir tree at the edge of the church acreage. Kubion’s car was discernible from there; like all the others on the lot, it was draped in white, windshield and windows ice-veiled. It looked as if Loxner were gone, all right, but he was still going to have to make sure.

Brodie slogged forward through the surface pack with his body humped over and the pump gun up against his shoulder, covering both front and rear corners. When he had reached the near wall, he went to the corner and stared out into the lot. The snow everywhere was unmarred. If Kubion had managed to get there before him, he hadn’t come across the lot and he wasn’t in the lot.

Stepping out, Brodie moved to the front stairs and sat on his haunches next to them, fanning the shotgun from south to east to north. Then he looked down at Kubion’s car again, came up, and scurried crablike across the walk to the nearest vehicle; went around behind it, half turned back toward the church. Once he got to the car, he raised his left hand and rapped hard against the cold metal of the door. No response from within. He knew that the dome light in the car didn’t work, and he reached up and caught the handle and jerked outward. Ice seals crackled, breaking away from the metal; the door opened wide.

Brodie said “Jesus!” between suddenly clenched teeth, because Loxner hadn’t gone anywhere, because Loxner was still sitting there behind the wheel—with his mouth hanging open and both hands wrapped around the blood-coated haft of Kubion’s pocketknife embedded just under his breastbone.

Cain was not startled when he put his head out to look around the church’s southern front corner and the looter was less than twenty yards away, armed with a shotgun, moving across the front walk and into the parking lot.

He had been expecting one or more of them for several minutes, ever since he’d stood at the cottage’s far end and waited for Tribucci to appear out of the trees. There was only one possible explanation for Tribucci’s continued absence: something had gone wrong, he had been seen and then killed or wounded and pinned down somewhere. And that meant the psycho was now aware at least one man had gotten out of the church, that he would want to find out as quickly as possible if there were others, that the element of surprise had at best been neutralized and at worst been transferred in part to the opposition.

He had forced down the stirring of a strong mixture of emotions, forced himself to remain calm and to think strategically. Deliberation had been brief. The only thing he could do was to situate himself at the south church wall, alternating between front and rear corners; that way he could cover all immediate approaches without leaving any more telltale tracks than he already had. He’d spent the past ten minutes moving back and forth along the wall, watching and waiting for something to happen, and now the waiting was over—part of it, or all of it.

The man in the parking lot was not the psycho; Cain was able, through the flurries, to determine that by size, coloring, and clothing before pulling back rigidly against the boarding. His fingers tightened convulsively around the butt of the Walther, and he brought it up against his chest, thinking: Why the parking lot, why not around on this side? He can’t think I’m out there, there isn’t any spoor. . . . All right, it doesn’t matter; what matters is what he does not, where he goes—what I do and where I go. One mistake and it’s all over: remember that, don’t forget that for a second.

Cain inched his head out again. The looter had reached the vehicle parked by itself at the forward end of the lot. was pulling open the driver’s door. He reacted to something inside the car; but the dome light did not go on, and because of distance and angle and the storm, Cain couldn’t tell what it was. With taut movements, the man straightened and backed off two steps; swept the shotgun south to north across the front of the church, not seeing Cain—not yet.

But he’s going to come back here now, Cain thought, and when he does it’ll be in this direction; he came from the north, and he can’t know what there is on this side. Retreat to the back? No—retreating won’t accomplish anything positive, there isn’t going to be any more retreating. Too late to go after him, and that would be a fool’s move anyway with that shotgun he’s got and across open ground. Stay here, then, right here. Don’t take eyes off him, don’t make any unnecessary moves because movement is the thing that’ll give me away; he’s not going to be able to penetrate stationary shadows until he gets closer—believe that. Wait, wait until the last possible second, play for one shot at dead aim and don’t even think about missing. . . .

The looter was moving now, shuffle-stepping toward the church and diagonally to the south. He held the shotgun centered on the building, ready to swing either way, but his head turned in a slow, intent ambit, coming out of profile. He seemed to be facing Cain squarely then, to hesitate—don’t move, don’t breathe

—and finally he swiveled his gaze slowly to the north again.

Sweat trickled down from Cain’s armpits, froze along his sides; the brassiness was back in his mouth, sharp and raw. When the looter’s attention was focused fully away from him, he lifted his left arm cautiously to eye level and anchored it against the corner edge of the church; brought the Walther up in the same motion and rested the barrel on his forearm. He released the held breath into his left coat sleeve, drew another. Squinting, he peered along the iron muzzle sight.

The looter took another step, and another.

Aim for the head or body? What did the Army tell you about something like this? Can’t remember, can’t think —make a decision! Body then, larger target, center on the chest, the heart.

Another step.

All right, steady now, steady. Slow, even pressure on the trigger. Squeeze it, don’t pull it, when the time comes.

The looter came to a standstill.

Not yet! He doesn’t see me, he’s not looking here. Wait. Last possible moment, one shot. Come on, you, come on, come on.

Moving again—one step, two.

Steady.

Twenty yards now, any second now.

Steady steady steady.

And the looter stopped again, jerkily this time. His body started to dip into a crouch, the pump gun swinging hard across in front of him.

He’s seen me, Cain thought—and let his finger compress the trigger.

The recoil jumped the automatic’s barrel off his forearm, the roar seemed to hammer deafeningly in his ears. He snapped the muzzle down again, trying to rebrace it—but the man was falling, Cain realized this with a kind of fascination and watched him fall as though in cinematic slow motion, one foot coming up, leg bending, body turning and then arching backward, falling with the shotgun still held in his hands, striking the yielding snow on his back, the pump jarring loose finally and rolling up over his head and away; the body settling, becoming still, lying there in twisted repose.

Cain leaned heavily against his left arm, weakness in his legs, weakness in the pit of his stomach. The illusion of slow motion vanished, and he thought:
My God, my God
, dully. He did not move from his position, staring at the sprawled figure in the snow beyond. Breath shuddered and rattled in his throat. The chill of it, the numbing wind against his face, sharpened his thoughts again: you did it, okay you did it, and now you’ve got to do it again. His eyes probed the parking lot, the church’s façade, the area behind him to the west. Empty darkness.

He rubbed harshly at his face, stepped out bent-bodied, and went quickly, gun extended, toward the motionless body. The looter lay on his back, and when Cain came up to him he could see the sightlessly open eyes, the grimaced mouth, blood on the mouth, blood on the coat front. Dead—yes. Heart-shot. He backed around the body, swallowing a faint ascendance of nausea, and approached the car at which the looter had crouched.

The door still stood partially open. Nausea surged again when Cain squatted and looked inside and saw what the looter had reacted to: the body of the third man behind the wheel, the blood, the haft of the pocketknife—dead in there all this time. The psycho had done it, no doubt of that, and that was all the explanation he needed; details were meaningless. All that had meaning now was not one but
two
of the terrorists were dead, and in all probability Tribucci as well, and it was only the psycho and himself who were left. Just the two of them, one against one.