Gary nodded. “Should I call the cops?”
Clayton scratched his beard. “Not yet. Do it when you get them two back. If da local cops show up, even if da fuckin’ army shows up, Magnus could do anything.”
Gary took a deep breath, then let it out slow. “Okay, here’s the deal. I can’t come tonight; that’s just plain suicide. Storms are tearing the lake up. We’re talking ‘Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald’ weather out there. It’s supposed to die down a little tomorrow, not much, but I’ll risk it. I’ll time it to arrive just after dark. Can you wait that long?”
Gary knew boating, knew the weather. There was a limit to how much risk Clayton expected out of his son. “Yeah, that’ll have to do. Be careful. Magnus has da jammer on full-time, so you won’t be able to radio in, and I won’t be able to warn you if someone is waiting for you. It could be dangerous.”
“Dangerous? You really think so?”
“I think you’re a smart-ass.”
“Your face is a smart-ass.”
The kid was making jokes, jokes for Clayton’s sake. Gary was the one acting like a parent, trying to ease a child’s fear.
“It’s okay, Gary. I’ve been through worse. When you get to da church, give two flashes with a flashlight. I love you, son.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
Clayton broke the connection and logged out. Seconds later he was mopping away. He had the floor half done by the time Gunther walked back into the room, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand.
DECEMBER 3, 6:05 A.M.
A SHADOWY FIGURE slipped out of the shed behind Sven Ballantine’s barn. The shed’s heat had saved his life, but he couldn’t stay there forever. He walked toward the house, limping, every step painful from the burns, the bruises and the frostbite.
He hadn’t eaten in days. His wounds needed proper care. They’d be infected soon, if they weren’t already.
And those… things. He’d seen them bring down a cow, tear it to pieces.
Besides, surely Magnus didn’t want him dead. That made no sense, so it simply could not be true. He had to get back to the mansion, where they had all those guns.
He passed the front of the barn. It gaped open. He saw no movement. Carefully, quietly, he looked inside. Filled with snowdrifts, but other than that, nothing.
Well, almost nothing. No cows, no people, nothing but scattered hay, broken stalls… and piles of feces everywhere he looked. He picked up one of the frozen piles and examined the stool.
What he saw almost made him cry.
He left the barn and limped toward the house, looking everywhere for any sign of movement.
DECEMBER 3, 6:34 A.M.
“REMEMBER, GARY WILL give two flashes,” Clayton told Sara. “You answer with two. Anything else, and you lay low. It will be cold, but you need to stay in da bell tower and watch for him.”
She nodded. So much sadness in that girl’s eyes. Clayton wondered what it felt like to lose all your friends in one shot. He’d lost most of his, and two wives, and a daughter, but gradually over many years. Sven was his only friend left alive.
Sara put her hand on his shoulder. “We can’t thank you enough.”
Clayton started to say don’t worry about it, but she grabbed his face and gave him a fast kiss, then threw her arms around him and squeezed. Clayton stood dumb for a moment, then returned her hug. She let go and wiped away a tear.
He locked the church door behind himself. No one would miss the heater, kerosene or supplies he’d stolen for Sara. Still, this was all crazy risky. He’d left footprints in the snow, but that couldn’t be avoided. He could only hope that anyone shooting by on a snowmobile wouldn’t stop to look around.
Clayton breathed a sigh of relief when he finally climbed into Ted Nugent’s heated cab. He put the motor in gear and moved down the trail. He’d finish grooming the road and trails, just to keep up appearances. He passed James and Stephanie’s place. Had they been up and on their porch, Clayton could have waved. But he saw no motion at the Harveys’ house. Apparently, early morning on this freezing island was a time only for old fools.
The Bv’s heavy sled dragged across the six inches of fresh snow, compacting it into a perfectly groomed surface. Clayton turned on the CD player. Some old Bob Seger would be just the thing.
He turned northeast, which would take him within sight of Rapleje Bay. Just southwest of Rapleje Bay, the Harveys’ phone line connected to the main line. Clayton checked the latest repair map and drove to the break.
A fallen tree leaned against one of the phone poles. Both ends of the line were still connected, which meant a crack in the line—an easy, quick fix.
Clayton got out of the Bv and pulled a chain saw out of the back section. Poulan, the only kind he’d buy and use. He expertly cut the tree so it fell off the phone line. He climbed into the aerial lift bucket and raised himself to the break. The vantage gave him a clear view of Rapleje Bay. At first he didn’t notice anything. Then his eyes caught a few strange, snow-covered bumps out on the ice, some marked with high, curling drifts. Wreckage. Had he just been sightseeing, however, he might have missed the bumps entirely, or at least dismissed them as chunks of ice. Even if Magnus did drive by he probably wouldn’t notice. Just a few more hours, hopefully, and Gary would get Sara and Tim off the island.
Clayton turned his attention to fixing the landline, unaware of the hungry eyes that followed his every move.
THREE ANCESTORS REACHED the edge of the trail. Their bellies were full. They felt sleepy. But the food was almost gone—they had to find more.
A noisy thing had drawn them, pulling them through the woods with the promise of new prey. They stared at it, a new shape that made a steady sound much like a low, angry growl. It smelled like the stick that killed. But it also smelled like food.
Two of them started to move forward, but Baby McButter flicked her sail fin up and down fast, telling them to stop. This thing smelled too much like the stick. Her two brothers backed up and lowered themselves into the snow so that only their eyes peeked out above the white surface.
Movement, up high, on top of a skinny tree. That was prey, that was food. The skinny tree bent in on itself, lowering the prey back down to the noisy thing. Then the prey climbed inside the noisy thing. The noisy thing started running away.
Baby McButter flipped her dorsal fin high and held it there, signaling them all to move in.
Thick arms plowed through deep snow as they closed the distance. The noisy thing started out slow, but then picked up speed. Baby McButter roared in anger and ran faster, but the noisy thing had heard them and was escaping.
She slowed to a trot, then stopped. Her belly was too full. She couldn’t run fast enough. As she watched the noisy thing fade away, she understood why it could move so quickly. No trees here, just a long, wide-open space that led deeper into the woods. The noisy thing liked the wide-open space.
To Baby McButter’s right, one of her brothers let out a low, mournful moan. No food. Soon they would be hungry, and hunger was the worst sensation any of them had ever experienced.
They sat down and waited. Prey had come this way. Prey would come again.
DECEMBER 3, 8:15 A.M.
SARA CARRIED A blanket. She stayed behind Tim, letting him take his time going up the narrow stairs. The crutch helped him walk, but his knee was still pretty messed up.