At that moment, Kevin Byrne saw something incredible.
Vincent Balzano ran across the room, leapt over the counter, and grabbed the blond man by the throat, slamming him back into a display rack. Oil filters, air filters, and spark plugs flew.
All of this seemed to take place in under a second. Vincent was a blur.
In one smooth move, with his left hand wrapped tightly around Kyle's throat, Vincent drew his weapon and aimed it at a dirt-streaked curtain hanging in the doorway to what was probably a back room. The fabric looked as if it had at one time been a shower curtain, although Byrne doubted that Kyle was too familiar with that concept. The point was, someone was standing behind the curtain. Byrne had seen him too.
"Step out here," Vincent yelled.
Nothing. No movement. Vincent pointed his weapon at the ceiling. He fired a round. The blast was ear-shattering. He pointed the gun back at the curtain.
"Now!"
A few seconds later a man stepped out of the back room, hands out to his sides. He was Kyle's identical twin. His nametag read KEITH.
"Detective?" Vincent asked.
"I'm on him," Byrne replied. He looked at Keith, which was enough. The man was petrified. There was no need for Byrne to draw his weapon. Yet.
Vincent turned his attention fully to Kyle. "Now, you've got about two fuckin' seconds to start talking, Jethro." He put his weapon to Kyle's forehead. "No. Make that one second."
"I don't know what you're-"
"Look into my eyes and tell me I'm not crazy." Vincent tightened his grip on Kyle's throat. The man was turning olive green. "Go ahead."
All things considered, choking a man while expecting him to talk was probably not the best interrogation technique. But right about now Vincent Balzano was not considering all things. Just one.
Vincent shifted his weight and brought Kyle down to the concrete, slamming the air from his lungs. He put a knee into the man's groin.
"I see your lips moving, but I'm not hearing anything." Vincent eased off on the man's throat. Slightly. "Talk. Now."
"They… they were here," Kyle said.
"When?"
"About noon."
"Where did they go?"
"I… I don't know."
Vincent pressed the barrel of his weapon into Kyle's left eye.
"Wait! I really don't know I don't know I don't know!"
Vincent took a deep calming breath. It didn't seem to help. "When they left, which way did they go?"
"South," Kyle managed.
"What's down there?"
"Doug's. Maybe they went there."
"What the fuck is Doug's?"
"Duh-diner."
Vincent withdrew his weapon. "Thuh-thanks, Kyle."
Five minutes later the two detectives drove south. But not before they had searched every square inch of Double K Auto. There were no other signs that Jessica and Nicci had spent time there.
82
Roland could wait no longer. He pulled on his gloves, his knit cap. He did not look forward to walking blindly through the woods in a snowstorm, but he had no choice. He glanced at the fuel gauge. The van had been running, heater on, since they had stopped. They were down to less than one-eighth of a tank.
"Wait here," Roland said. "I'm going to look for Sean. I won't be long."
Charles studied him with deep fear in his eyes. Roland had seen it many times before. He took his hand.
"I will be back," he said. "I promise."
Roland stepped out of the van, shut the door. A sheet of snow slid from the top of the vehicle, dusting his shoulders. He brushed himself off, glanced through the window, waved to Charles. Charles waved back.
Roland made his way down the lane.
The trees seemed to close ranks. Roland had been walking for nearly five minutes. He did not find the bridge Sean had spoken of, or much else. He turned around a few times, adrift in the miasma of snow. He'd lost his bearings.
"Sean?" he said.
Silence. Just the empty white forest.
"Sean!"
There was no reply. The sound was muffled by the falling snow, deadened by the trees, swallowed by the dusk. Roland decided to head back. He was not dressed properly for this, and this was not his world. He would return to the van, and wait there for Sean. He glanced down. The blowing snow had all but obscured his own footprints. He turned, walked as quickly as he could in the direction from which he had come. Or so he believed.
As he trudged back, the wind suddenly picked up. Roland turned his back to the gust, covered his face with his scarf, waited out the blast. When it ebbed, he looked up and saw through a narrow clearing in the trees. There was a stone farmhouse, and in the distance, perhaps a quarter mile beyond, a large trellis and what looked like a tableau of amusement-park displays.
My eyes must be playing tricks, he thought.
Roland turned toward the house and suddenly sensed noise and movement to his left-a snapping sound, soft, unlike branches underfoot, more like fabric rippling in the wind. Roland wheeled around. He saw nothing. Then he heard another sound, this time closer. He shone his light through the trees and caught a dark silhouette shifting side to side in the illumination, something partially obscured by the pines twenty yards ahead. In the falling snow it was impossible to tell what it was.
Was it an animal? A sign of some sort?
A person?
As Roland slowly approached, the object came into focus. It was not a person, or a sign. It was Sean's coat. Sean's coat was hanging from a tree, powdered with fresh snow. His scarf and gloves lay at the base.
Sean was nowhere to be seen.
"Oh my," Roland said. "Oh Lord, no."
Roland hesitated for a few moments, then picked up Sean's coat, shook off the snow. At first he thought the coat had been hanging from a broken branch. It had not. Roland looked more closely. The coat was hanging from a small pocketknife stabbed into the bark of the tree. Beneath the coat, there was something carved-something round, about six inches in diameter. Roland trained his flashlight on the carving.
It was the face of the moon. It was freshly cut.
Roland began to shiver. And it had nothing to do with the frigid weather.
"It is so delightfully cold," a voice whispered, riding on the wind.
A shadow moved in the near dark, then it was gone, dissolved into the insistent flurry. "Who's there?" Roland asked.
"I am Moon," came the whisper, now behind him.
"Who?" Roland's voice sounded thin and scared. It shamed him.
"And you are the Snow Man."
Roland heard the rush of footsteps. It was too late. He began to pray.
In a blizzard of white, Roland Hannah's world went black.
83
Jessica hugged the wall, her weapon held out in front of her. She was in a short hallway between the kitchen and living room of the farmhouse. Adrenaline raced through her system.
She had cleared the kitchen in short order. The room had a single wooden table, two chairs. Stained floral wallpaper over white chair rails. The cabinets were empty. There was an old cast-iron stove, probably idle for years. A thick layer of dust covered everything. It was like being in a museum that time had forgotten.
As she moved down the hall toward the front room, Jessica listened for any indication of another human presence. All she heard was the thud of her own pulse in her ears. She wished she had worn a Kevlar vest, wished she had backup. She had neither. Someone had deliberately trapped her in the basement. She had to assume that Nicci was hurt, or being held against her will.
Jessica sidled up to the corner, silently counted to three, then peered into the front room.