CHAPTER 26

The freezing wind, driving the snow before it, finally began to penetrate the thick

shearling coat that happened to be MaryAnne Carpenter's only protection from the blizzard.

As the cold crept through her flesh into her very bones, her mind at last began to emerge from the shell into which it had retreated. She stared down into Logan's face and had the odd sensation that she was looking into the face of a stranger.

This was not her son-it couldn't be her &on' This was someone else, some stranger who only looked like Logan.

Logan was still alive-he had to be still alive. And she would find him.

She would carry this child-this stranger she refused to recognize as her own flesh, her own blood-into the barn, and then she would go on looking for Logan.

She staggered to her feet, stumbling as she struggled to clutch the body in her arms closer to her chest, and something inside her reminded her to walk into the wind.

In A few moments she came to the fence and -paused, leaning against it for a moment as a great sob racked her body. She shuddered, her knees weakening, and for a second thought she might collapse under the load she was bearingng.

And why not?

Why not give in to the impulse to simply lie down in the deep snow, soft snow

inviting snow-which suddenly seemed as a warm blanket-and go to sleep? Not for long-just for a little while, just for a few moments, to give herself time Time for what?

Time to die!

The words galvanized her, and she knew with perfect certainty that they were true.

If she lay down, even for a moment, she would die.

And Alison would be alone, alone in the house, alone with whoever was out here, hidden somewhere in the blizzard.

But who was it? Who was out here, concealed in the blinding whiteness, striking out with the viciousness that had killed her son?

A stranger named Shane Slater? A man whose name she'd never even known until a few minutes ago?

She must be wrong! She must have simply grasped at a straw, invented a story to fit what was happening but the truth of it.

Joey!

Could it possibly be that her own godchild had done this?

She tried to imagine it, but her mind refused to entertain the thought.

And yet ...

Joey had been out the night the man in the campground had died.

He had been out the night Bill Sikes had died, too!

And he'd had reason to hate his father.

Memories awful memories-flickered in her mind, quick visions of Joey glaring at her furiously, his temper suddenly flaring, a frightening darkness coming into his eyes.

No! She wouldn't believe it-it couldn't be possible! He was only a little boy! Yet even as she tried to reject the thought, it lingered in her mind, refusing to be dismissed.

But it had to be someone else! The man in the cabin. Even if her theory about Shane Slater was completely wrong, there was still someone up in the mountains, someone Frank Peters and Tony Moleno had been tracking all day!

But what if there was no man? What if there was no one at all?

She'd heard nothing from the deputy, nothing from anybody!

What if Joey had found the cabin years ago, and only led Rick Martin up to it to protect himself ?

Was he capable of such a thing?

She didn't know. She didn't know what he was capable of, or even what he might be thinking. She didn't know him at all!

But if it was Joey, who would he strike out at next?

Alison?

Herself ?

He could be anywhere-stalking her, circling around her even as she stood by the fence, pressing herself against it as if it alone could somehow protect her. Steeling herself, she willed the rising panic away, then felt a surge of strength course through her body. No more!

Whether it was Joey or something else who was out here, she wouldn't let herself fall victim to it. She would survive.

She and Alison both would survive!

She moved quickly now, her step more sure, following the fence to the barn. Then she was there, holding Logan's body tightly as she fumbled with the door latch with fingers already gone numb from the cold.

Inside, she thought. Have to get him inside. Can't leave him out here, can't leave him to be buried in the snow! The latch finally opened, and she pulled hard on the door, forcing it open against the mounding snow just wide enough to wriggle through.

Her eyes darted around the gloomy interior of the barn, and she heard one of the horses nicker soffly. Carrying Logan's body with her, she hurried past the stalls the horses occupied and opened the latch of the fourth one. It was here that only a few nights ago she had found Joey sleeping on a bed of straw. Now she gently laid Logan's body on the floor, kneeling beside him, her hand resting on his cold cheek, her eyes fixing on his face. But for the terrible wound in his throat, she could almost imagine that he might be only asleep, might awaken at any moment.

Suddenly the horses began moving restlessly, and then Buck, in the next stall, whinnied loudly. A second later MaryAnne heard a sound behind her. Whirling, she saw the wrought-iron latch of the door that led from the stall directly into the pasture move, and realized what had spooked the horses.

Someone was outside, trying to get in!

Joey!

It had to be Joey!

No! The horses had never been afraid of Joey!

As whatever was outside gave vent to a terrifying howl, MaryAnne's heart began to race. Panic once more welled up inside her, and this time she was powerless to put it down, powerless to regain control of herself.

She fled from the stall, her feet pounding on the wooden floor of the barn as she raced toward the door. Shoving it open against the wind that had blown it closed, she dashed outside, oblivious now to the wind and the snow, her only goal to reach the safety of the house.

The unearthly howl rose over the wail of the wind in the trees, then died away, choked into silence by the driving snow. Olivia Sherbourne stopped in her tracks, a violent shudder passing through her, her skin crawling as the cry faded into the blizzard.

Not human, but unlike any animal she had ever heard, either.

Even the mountain lions that could still occasionally be heard, their terrifying yowls echoing across the valley, had lacked the strange note of anguish that Olivia had heard in that one brief cry.

Anguish, and rage.

It was as if whatever being had emitted the sound were so filled with inexpressible emotions that it had finally been reduced to a single, unintelligible howl of fear, confusion, and anger.

Suddenly Olivia knew where she had heard that sound before.

It had been years ago, long before she'd moved west.

She had taken an apartment near a mental hospital, attracted by the cheap rent. It had not taken her long to discover why the rent was so low, for no more than a week after she'd moved in, she'd begun hearing the screams from the institution next door. Looking out her window, she'd seen a heavily screened porch, high up on the fourth floor.

Although it was the middle of winter, and the temperature was nearly zero, there had been a woman on that porch.

Her hair unkempt, wearing only an overcoat over her nightgown, the woman stood at the heavy metal screening like an animal in a cage, her fingers clenched around the cold metal, her lips stretched into a painful grimace as her anguished cry welled up from her lungs, exploding from her mouth with the same mixture of ten-or and fear that Olivia had just heard floating on the winds in Sugarloaf Valley.

Inhuman, and yet uttered by what was-or once had been-a human being.

Gillie Martin's frightened words of warning echoed once more in her mind: Something terrible is up there.

Something that had killed at least four people.

And something that was no longer up in the mountains, no longer hiding itself in the wilderness, but had come down into the valley.

Olivia glanced around. Though she could feel the wind finally beginning to slacken, the snow was still falling heavily, and the powder scoured up from the valley floor mixed with the new flakes dropping out of the sky to reduce her visibility to only a few yards. As the whiteout closed around her, she felt a stab of fear.

What if the tortured being that had uttered that chilling cry had already caught her scent, was already moving closer to her, searching her out?

She cast her fear @y aside. Whatever was out there could be no more aware of her than she had been of it only a few seconds ago.

Indeed, as the soul-numbing howl echoed once more in her mind, she wondered if whatever had uttered it could be aware of anything beyond the confines of its own mind, or whether it was, as it sounded, trapped in some inescapable hell from which it could never again emerge.

A gust of wind lashed out at her, and Olivia set out once more, finally coming to the stone columns that marked the entrance to El Monte Ranch.

But as she crossed the cattle guard, coming into the narrow lane that was the ranch's driveway, which wound through tall trees whose trunks were surrounded by heavy underbrush, her fear came back, for whatever being had given voice to the unearthly cry of a few minutes ago could now be only a few feet away from her.

Which meant that she would have no more than a second or two to prepare herself for any attack it might launch.

Unslinging her shotgun from her shoulder, she clicked the safety off and pumped a cartridge into the chamber.

Holding the gun in both hands, she continued her slow progress up the driveway, slogging through the blizzard, the forest seeming to close in on her.

She had taken no more than three steps when she heard something moving in the woods, somewhere off to her left.

Swinging around, she raised the shotgun, but nothing appeared in the sights.

Nothing except a thick curtain of white, swirling in front of her eyes, almost blinding her as she strained to see what might have made the sound.

When she heard it again, closer now, but still could see nothing, she fled, plunging into the woods, her resolve not to leave the driveway evaporating in the face of the unseen creature.

By the time the deer that had been disturbed by her passage jumped out onto the driveway, then bounded toward the road in a series of graceful arching leaps through the snow, Olivia had disappeared into the storm, already lost.

MaryAnne burst through the back door, slamming it behind her, her numb fingers fumbling with the lock. Her whole body shaking, she turned around and slid the chain into place, then peered out into the blinding whiteness outside.

Was there a movement out there?

Had something moved, just barely within the range of her vision, then disappeared back into the snowfall even before she could quite see it?

"What is it, Mom?" Alison asked, her voice quavering.

"Where's Logan? What was that sound?"

MaryAnne felt tears flood her eyes as Alison spoke her brother's name, but she refused to give in to them, refused right now to try to explain to Alison that her brother was dead.

"I don't know," she said, bracing herself against the back door for a moment while she marshaled her courage.

"There's something out there, Alison. I thought I saw it just now."

Suddenly she remembered the blood on her clothes, the stains that Alison would see as soon as she turned around. "It killed Storm, Alison.

He's out in the yard." Her voice cracked, and finally she turned around. Alison gazed at her for a moment, and MaryAnne realized that despite her words, despite her determination not to tell her daughter what had happened to Logan, the tragedy was clear on her face.

Alison's eyes glistened with tears and she shook her head as if to shut out the truth she could see written on her mother's features. MaryAnne went to her daughter, put her arms around her and held her close. "Don't say it," she whispered. "Not now. If you say it, I won't be able to stand it. There's nothing we can do for him, darling. Nothing at All."

"Oh, Mommy," Alison moaned, a terrible constriction forming in her throat. "What's happening? What are we going to do?"

"I don't know," MaryAnne replied.

Suddenly she sensed another flicker of motion out of the corner of her eye. When she turned to look, she caught a glimpse of something at the window over the sink.

A face But not a face not a face such as she had ever seen before.

it was gone almost before it registered on her mind, but even as she stared at the now empty window, a vision of a pair of eyes fingered in her memory.

Narrow, feral eyes, glittering outside, reflecting the light from the kitchen.

Eyes that had fixed on her, bored into her, filling her with terror.

"Help me," she said, her voice taking on a hard edge of urgency as she pushed Alison away from her. "Don't ask any questions-just do as I say!"

She began jerking the chairs away from the heavy oak kitchen table, then shoved the table itself toward the door.

"Help me!" she cried again, and her voice, cutting through the fear and grief that had paralyzed Alison, brought the girl back to life. She moved next to her mother, and together they pushed the table up against the door.

"What is it, Mom?" Alison pleaded. "What's out there?"

"I don't know," MaryAnne replied, her voice shaking. "I saw-there was something looking in the window, Alison.

I barely saw it, but-" She shuddered, once again remembering those terrible slits of eyes staring in at her. "Oh, God! It won't hold!" Her mind raced, trying to think of something-anything-that might prevent whatever was outside from getting into the house. But there were too many windows, too many doors.

The gun!

"Come on!" she yelled. Turning, she bolted out of the kitchen, raced through the dining room and the living room, into the den. She fumbled with the door to the gun cabinet then remembered it was locked!

The key!

Where was the key?

Rushing to the desk, she jerked open the center drawer with enough force to pull it all the way out. Instantly, its contents cascaded to the floor. A collection of pens, pencils, paper clips, and all the other detritus that had collected in the drawer spread around her feet. She fell to her knees, scrabbling through the mess with trembling fingers, finally finding what she was looking for.

"Open it!" she yelled to Alison, throwing her daughter the keys as she started jerking the other drawers open, searching for the box of shells she'd put away after Olivia had given her the shooting lesson.

She found the box and'opened it, her eyes widening as she saw there were only two left. Clutching them and throwing the empty box aside, she ran to Alison, jerking the gun out of the rack as soon as Alison opened the door.

"What's going to happen, Mom?" Alison asked as MaryAnne fumbled with the gun, Olivia's instructions on how to load it suddenly gone from her mind.

"It's all right," MaryAnne told her, her trembling voice belying her words. "We're going to be okay!" A moment later her mind cleared, and her fingers found the release that opened the magazine. She slid the two shells inside, closed the magazine, then pumped a shell into the firing chamber.

"Put some more wood on the fire, Alison," she said, though she knew the chattering of her teeth and her shivering body came more from fear than cold.

Alison started toward the fireplace, then froze, the color draining from her face as she stared at the window.

MaryAnne's gaze followed her daughter's, and she gasped.

Peering in through the window were those same eyes she'd seen only a few moments ago in the kitchen. Now, though, the rest of the face was visible as well.

The heavy features, the eyes sunken deeply and glittering almost as if electricity was surging from within them.

The tangle of matted hair, caked now with snow.

The man was bare-chested, and MaryAnne could see the corded muscles of his arms, his powerful shoulders.

Suddenly she knew.

It wasn't Storm who had killed Logan at all.

It was the evil creature that stood outside the window, impervious to the storm, glaring at her with eyes filled with an insane fury that chilled her soul.

She raised the gun, pressing the stock firmly against her shoulder, then squeezed the forefinger of her right hand on the button that would turn on the laser sight.

An instant before the red light flashed on, its brilliant beam slashing through the storm outside, the face disappeared from the window.

"Who is it?" Alison wailed, backing up to cower against the wall opposite the window. "What does he want?"

MaryAnne said nothing, holding the gun steady, the barrel pointing toward the window, but when the face did not reappear, she finally lowered it. "I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know."

Wearily, she went to the fireplace, pulled a log from the wood box and threw it onto the pile of glowing coals.

The flames leaped upward, curling around the fresh log, which began to crackle as its sap ignited.

Then, a second later, there was a pounding on the front door. Alison's eyes widened, and she came over to stand by her mother, pressing close to her.

The pounding at the door was repeated, followed by a long silence.

MaryAnne felt her pulse racing and imagined she could hear the thudding of her heart. She was about to take a step toward the door to the living room, when there was a crash, followed by the tinkling of glass.

"He broke in!" Alison screamed. "He's inside the house!"

"Don't move," MaryAnne told her. "Just don't move at all." Once again she raised the gun, training it on the doorway to the living room, her finger already pressing the button on the laser sight.

A brilliant red dot appeared on the far wall of the living room, its edge crystal clear, despite the light in the room.

She heard a scuffling sound, then a grunt.

A shadow appeared on the living room floor.

MaryAnne's eyes fixed on it, watching it change shape as the man who cast it moved slowly toward the door to the den.

As her eyes caught a movement just beyond the door, she jerked the gun to the right, instinctively squeezing the trigger.

The gun roared, and a hole appeared in the wall that separated the den from the living room, instantly followed by a howl of pain. A split second later the man appeared in the doorway.

His chest was covered with blood and his left hand clutched the wound in his side where the buckshot had penetrated the wall and slashed through his skin to lodge in the muscles of his belly. He started toward them, staggering into the room, his right hand reaching out toward them, its clawlike nails slashing at the air.

Despite the panic rising in her, MaryAnne pumped the second cartridge into the chamber, raised the gun, and once more pressed her finger on the laser switch. The red light flashed on, centered on the man's stomach.

Holding her breath, she once more squeezed the trigger.

Again the roar of the gun filled the room, and MaryAnne felt the impact of its kick wrench her shoulder, but she held her balance.

His eyes opened wide as the buckshot, unhindered by the wall of the den, tore into his stomach, knocking him backward. Blood began spewing from the wound, but he seemed unaware of it. He leaned against the door frame, his

eyes flicking around the room as if he were searching for something, and then he began to sink down to the floor.

His legs gave way, and suddenly he dropped, rolling over on his back.

His right hand, which only a second ago had been reaching out toward MaryAnne, now went to the wound in his belly, moving spasmodically, as if he were trying to pack his ruined intestines back inside his shredded skin.

Then, his eyes closing, his whole great frame shuddered and he lay still.

MaryAnne and Alison Carpenter stared in shock at the body, still oozing blood, that now blocked the door to the living room. Neither of them moved, neither of them even breathed.

Time seemed to stand still.

Outside, the howling wind of the blizzard, finally spent, died away.

Silence-a terrible silence-filled the house.