Wolfwraith (33 page)

Ouch! The edges of the coil fins cut into his knuckles, dozens of tiny razors. He didn’t let up, though. The wire stretched farther and farther. The cuffs, tight already, dug into his skin. His fingers were beginning to go numb. Then unexpectedly, the end popped loose and his fingers ran along the fins. It felt like a school of small piranha had minced his flesh with dagger-like teeth but the wire was loose!

Gripping the bent wire again, he pulled until the tip was well out from the coils. Then he writhed about to put his head near the wire he had pulled loose.

It took quite a bit of squirming, but he finally managed to hook the wire inside the gag. Problem—it put the wire’s tip dangerously close to his eye. Careful now, he told himself.

Tugging backwards, he managed to move the strap a fraction of an inch before it tightened on the other side of his nose and would go no farther. He repositioned the hook to the other side and moved it down a tiny bit more. Alternating sides, he slid the gag down. It was a long, laborious process. He could taste blood in the rainwater running down into his mouth. He must have scratched his cheeks. His nose came clear, he stopped and took several deep breaths.

The strap was looser now. He kept on until it finally cleared his chin and rode down around his neck like a bandana. He spat the foul-tasting wad of fabric out.

No time to celebrate though, except by sucking in some welcome air. He noticed the wind was increasing rapidly.

As soon as he’d got his breath, he turned around again and snagged his left sleeve on the same wire. A quick tug and the cuff button let loose.

Now things got tougher. His fingers wouldn’t reach the Velcro straps any more than they’d reached the sleeve cuff earlier but he could easily reach the tips of the plastic fingers of the claw. Could he manage to tug the thing off without undoing the straps?

Lying in the cold mud, ignoring the pain in his right wrist, he wrapped his fingers around the unfeeling digits of the claw, squeezing with all his might. He pulled back on his left arm. The handcuffs weren’t the problem, the Velcro was even tighter than the metal restraints. If he could pull his wrist out a little, the natural narrowing of his forearm would make it looser.

When he thought his wrist would move a little, the claw’s wet, latex surface slipped from his fingers. He grabbed the contraption and tried again. Time after time, he’d lose his grip. This wasn’t going to work. He needed a bit more force to hold the claw while he pulled free.

He decided to curl the claw’s digits around the lip of the air conditioner. That would anchor it, and he’d grip with his fingers too, to provide the necessary resistance against the force of pulling free. He turned his back to the one side of the unit with a lip, squirmed around, and eased up against it. This put his face into the wind and raindrops hit him like tiny darts. He had no way to protect his eyes except to close them. He was beginning to respect the phrase, ‘hurricane-force winds.’

It didn’t matter that he closed his eyes; everything would have to be done behind his back, by touch. The claw had no nerve endings, of course. He’d have to feel it into position with his hand—which was going numb from the cold and constricted blood flow.

Straining his back and arm muscles to position himself, he felt around until he located the lip. Using a finger to reach out and gauge the position of the claw, he moved the mechanical digits into position, then pulled the thread with the little button of flesh and bone the surgeons had fashioned for this purpose. He felt with his hand and made sure it had caught. It had.

With his right hand, he pressed the claw as tightly as he could against the metal and pulled his left wrist against the fastenings. Damn, why had he fastened the Velcro so tight? He felt a slight give but then the claw’s digits let go. No matter, he only needed get a better grip.

Dozens of tries later, with several rest periods to relax cramping muscles, he had to admit this wasn’t working either. If only he had some sort of lubricant to oil his wrist. There was nothing to be had except mud and water. Would mud work?

Lying on his left side, he slid his left forearm against the air conditioner until his sleeve went up to his elbow and lowered the limb into the cold muck. He wiggled the arm around, stretching his right arm around his back to get the claw—and its fastenings—into the mud.

He remained there for a while and, eventually, his wrist began to feel cold and wet. Mud and water were seeping into the inside of the claw’s sleeve. After that, there was nothing for it but to wait, the metal cuff biting deep into his right wrist.

Hurricane Adelaide had strengthened. The whistling of the wind was the sound of banshees flying through the maelstrom. Leaves began slapping him now and then, torn from the trees by the gale and riding the storm. Once in a while, he’d hear a crack as some limb or tree broke loose.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, his wrist felt wet enough to give it a try. With numb muscles, he again positioned himself alongside the air conditioner and set himself up. Locking the claw as tightly as he could, holding it in place with his right hand, he tugged.

His wrist popped free!

Thrashing about, he brought both arms out in front on him. His left arm terminated in the little, obscene, phallic finger that allowed him to operate the claw. His right arm still wore the set of handcuffs, the claw’s harness dangling from the other loop, but he needed the claw for the ropes, so he slid his arm back in. Now both arms were cuffed again, but at least not behind his back.

Once he had the claw back on, he bent with unfeeling claw and numbed fingers to untie his ankles. The drenched cord, pulled tight by his struggles, refused to budge.

Finally, shivering, he fumbled buttons open and slid his hand under his armpit, wondering if he’d ever get free. He’d been at it for hours. A fine rescuer he’d turned out to be. Lorene might as well hope for the cavalry to come to her aid as wait for him.

The wind had grown incredibly strong. He hadn’t expected this much force even at the height of the storm. Had the storm strengthened again, or had Shadow completely underestimated the power of hurricanes? If this were only a class three storm coming, he’d hate to see a five. He was going to have to go after Frank in this! He would still need to travel about nine miles to Wash Woods. He considered his options while his hand warmed.

Finally, he pulled his hand out. Sensation had returned. He worked at the knot until the rope grudgingly parted and his feet came free. He staggered to his feet.

Clumsily, he got himself out to the ragged rain pants and shuffled on deadened legs around the corner of the refuge headquarters. A white SUV—Lorene’s car—stood alongside the curb in the glare of parking lot lights, with someone slumped in the passenger seat.

Shadow went to the windshield and looked in. The man in the passenger seat, a skinny, balding guy—in his fifties maybe—slumped against the door. Blood stained the front of his white shirt beneath his suit coat, so he’d probably been shot in the chest. There was also a puckered hole in his right temple with a trickle of blood dried beneath. Twice in the chest and once in the head to be sure? That would account for all the shots he’d heard and meant Lorene had probably not been wounded.

The front of the dead man’s coat bulged near his left shoulder, obviously a shoulder holster. Shadow noticed something else. There was a black leather case on the man’s belt, over his right hip. Since the man was a cop, could it be...?

He hesitated for an instant, knowing he was about to disturb a crime scene, but if there was a key in the cuff case, it could be the difference between getting to the cemetery before the hurricane made it impossible.

He opened the passenger side door. The dome light came on. Cursing the need to touch a human corpse so callously, he shoved the jacket aside and found the shoulder holster empty. Disheartening, but he went at the waist pouch. There! A snap. He tugged and it opened easily. Beneath the flap was a pair of handcuffs. Would this man have kept his key inside the pouch, like Shadow did?

Putting a finger into the case, he felt around. There! A tiny bit of metal. He pulled it out and saw a handcuff key.

Quickly, he put the key into the cuff on his left wrist and freed the claw. Now he was free to move, but still wore the cuffs dangling from his right wrist.

He could have left it at that, but it would have hindered the movement of the only hand he had left. He wanted to be entirely free if he had to take Frank on.

First, he tried putting the key in his teeth, but he couldn’t even get the key into the hole. So he sank to his knees, out of the worst wind and rain and set the key on the floorboard, beneath the dead man’s legs. With his hand, he positioned the thumb of the claw then picked up the key again. Carefully, he bent all four digits until the tip of the first one met the thumb, pressing the tiny handle of the handcuff key between.

It took several tries, dropped keys, and whole a lot of cursing but finally Shadow’s remaining restraint came free. Now he had to get after Frank and Lorene. He looked at the ignition, but saw no keys. He’d have to hoof it for a while.

He rose, and out of respect for the dead, closed the passenger door. He staggered over the curb, around the corner of the Refuge Headquarters and splashed along through puddles, leaning into the wind like a drunkard, south toward False Cape State Park. He couldn’t see a thing in the darkness and driving rain, so he felt for gravel beneath his feet and hoped he wouldn’t fall into the large ditch beside the road and drown.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

What is the nature of your emergency?

A bit of light had begun to infuse the maelstrom when he tottered up to the small side door of the Terra-Gator’s hangar, hoping it might be unlocked. The knob turned easily. A warm draft, smelling of gasoline and oil, came from inside. He stumbled in.

The boxy shape of the Terra-Gator loomed above him on its massive, balloon-like tires.

Minutes later, he steered it through the large door and out into the storm. He’d had no problem raising the roll-up door and began to think his luck was changing. His hand felt like a meaty stub, and his left wrist ached from the cold and damp.

Shadow normally had no problem changing gears with the Terra-Gator’s manual transmission, but now it was torture to use the shift lever. Even steering was difficult. It took him a moment to find the switch for the windshield wipers since he’d never driven the vehicle in the rain.

He considered going south along the interior road for a mile or two, since there were no trees to go through along that stretch, and then cut across the swamps and finally the dunes. But he was afraid the big truck might become mired in mud, muck or sand if he went off-road. He’d take the safe route to be sure.

Turning back the way he had just come on foot, he drove in the direction of the refuge headquarters, toward the same dune crossing he’d used the night before. There was a clock display, showing five twelve on the cab’s AM/FM radio.

Awkwardly, he turned the radio on. It was tuned to a local FM station. He heard only music so he changed to AM and searched. He found a talk station where an announcer was reciting a list of shelters available for those who could or would not evacuate. Then another man came on.

“Okay,” he said, “for those of you who may not have heard, as if you can’t look out the window and know we’re in for a blow, the main force of the storm is predicted to come ashore between nine fifteen and nine thirty this morning just above Corolla, North Carolina, but the storm surge is cresting now. All people in low-lying areas—remember, the storm is gaining strength again—are urged to evacuate immediately.”

Oh shit, Shadow thought. Gaining strength.

The report continued, “We can expect winds of up to one-hundred-and-forty miles per hour, so it’s back up to a force four. Everyone unable to evacuate is urged to get to a shelter as soon as...”

Shadow shut the radio off in disbelief. It was going to get worse? The Terra-Gator was rocking like a ship in heavy seas. “Just above Corolla,” meant the storm would be coming ashore right on top of him.

He passed the refuge headquarters and drove up the gentle slope of the dune crossing. When he reached the crest, he looked out at an ocean much angrier than the one he had observed the night before. He stopped and took the truck out of gear. The cab bounced on its stiff suspension in the gusting winds, but the huge wheels sat firmly on the sand.

Everything in front of him appeared in different shades of gray. The ocean writhed, wave seeming to fight wave as the liquid behemoths crashed together, only to disappear while other crests took their place. Close in, the surf was not the usual orderly progression of breakers; each roll of water now vied with others of its kind to be the first to wreak havoc on the beach. Worse yet, the sea had swallowed much of the shoreline already and the strongest of the inrushing rollers reached nearly to the foot of the dunes.

He turned on the two-way radio and switched to a general frequency. It was unlikely anyone could get to the park to help him, but he had to try.

“Mayday, Mayday,” he transmitted. “This is False Cape Six to any unit. Mayday.”

The radio crackled and garbled voices mingled as though several people had responded at once. Then a voice came through clearly.

“Unit calling Mayday, this is Coast Guard Rescue, Elizabeth City. Identify yourself again. What is the nature of your emergency?”