Three blocks from home, he pulled over just in time to vomit everything into the gutter. He vomited so hard, and for so long, that he thought his stomach would fly out of his mouth and land with a squishy splat. When he finally lurched into the house, which reeked of Kraft macaroni and cheese, his father was too deep into his own grief to ask Tony where he’d been, and Tony saw no reason to volunteer.
For the next two weeks, he endured meaningful looks, mournful sighs, and a steady stream of people who were just so sorry. The church ladies brought over so much tuna fish casserole he kept expecting his shit to squirm with cheesy noodles.
But his mother was gone. No viewing, no open casket. He never saw her again, and he was so frigging relieved, he knew God would hate him forever.
Now, here was proof. There was a dead girl out there. His car was useless. They were stuck in the snow, far away from anyone who might help them.
And now Rima had touched him and stroked the nightmare to life.
2
NEARLY AN HOUR later, they were done. Tony was drenched in sweat, but now that he’d stopped moving, he could feel his clothes stiffening as his sweat began to freeze. “Let’s go back and crank on some heat. Then we can deal with the sled.”
“Fine with me.” Steam rose from Casey’s watch cap in curls, which the wind shredded. “What about the van?”
Tony tossed a glance over his shoulder toward the general direction of the spruce grove. Maybe fifty, sixty yards, and nothing to see, not even the suggestion of trees. Slogging through the deep snow would be a complete hassle, and he was tired, scared, and not exactly thrilled with the idea of rooting around a dead girl. Yet he had promised, and it wasn’t as if Rima didn’t have a good point about food. Tony turned the flashlight back to study the trail they’d broken through the snow and all around the Camry. Their tracks were already filling, an inch of new snow dusted the hood, and the wind had thrown two or three more inches onto the trunk. If this kept up, they might be at this all night. Wait too long and digging out the van could take hours.
“I’ll check it out. Take me fifteen minutes,” he said. “You get warm.”
With the balaclava, Casey’s face held about as much expression as Jason’s, only Jason’s hockey mask was white. “If we can’t see the van, you won’t be able to see us.”
“I’ll look every couple yards and make sure I still can, okay? If I lose you, I won’t go any further.”
“Whatever,” Casey said, already turning away. “Your funeral.”
ERIC
Devil Dog
1
SHE’D LOST HER gloves somewhere along the way, so Eric had taken Emma’s icy hands and thrust them beneath his parka. Body heat, he’d explained; keep them out of the wind. Her hands were still there, but warm now, her long fingers laced over his stomach. Her chest spooned his back. Eric liked how that felt—as if her touch was a kind of promise.
Emma’s voice fizzed through his headset, “What are you thinking?”
About how good you feel. How I like that we kind of fit together. How I think we could talk about things. “I’m thinking it’s weird,” he said, swiping a thin rime of fresh snow from his plastic visor. Thank God, he’d found the faceplate before he and Casey ventured into the valley. With this wind and cold, driving the sled without one would’ve been impossible. At bare minimum, his nose would have fallen off, and he’d be looking at some serious frostbite.
“Yeah, me too,” she said. “Something’s … off. You know?”
She was right. The turnoff Tony and Rima described was a half mile back of the wreck. There’d been tire tracks, but the storm reduced their speed to a crawl, and eventually, the tracks were no more than suggestions. They’d been about to turn back when Emma spied a slight silver smudge in the distance that grew brighter and more distinct as they approached, still using the truck’s tracks as a guide. Fifteen miles from the turnoff, those furrows took a sharp dogleg left at a mailbox nailed to a post and so lathered with snow they couldn’t make out the name. Eric didn’t care. A mailbox meant a house, and that meant people.
The driveway was long. Two miles and change, according to Eric’s odometer, which was … a little odd, but people did like to spread out in the country. Then the silver smudge suddenly resolved to an actual light—and became a farm.
But there’s something really strange about this setup. Through a slant of driving snow, Eric eyed the truck, which had been pulled right up to the house’s front stoop. The truck was 1970s-ancient: a burnt-red Dodge D200 two-door pickup with a crew cab. Someone—two guys, judging from the size of the prints—had driven up, swung out, and taken the steps, and not all that long ago. The footprints were filling in, but Eric still made out the treads. Only a thin white mantle of snow glazed the Dodge’s windows and hood.
“Wyoming plates,” Emma said. “I can tell from the bucking bronco on the left. Read it in a book somewhere.”
“Yeah?” At her tone, he craned his head over his shoulder. They were close enough that their helmets bumped. “You say that as if it means something.”
Instead of replying, she swung off the Skandic and waded against the driving snow and through thigh-high drifts to the Dodge. The wind snatched Tony’s space blanket, pulling it out behind her like a flag made of aluminum foil. “What are you doing?” he called. Dismounting, he slogged against the suck and grab of the snow at his calves. He watched as she crouched to swipe the Dodge’s front plate, which was a brighter red than the car, with raised white reflective letters and numbers.
“Sixty-seven,” she said, tracing with an index finger. “See? Stamped in the upper right-hand corner.”
Hunkering down beside her, he studied the plate a second, then shrugged. “Okay. So?”
“So … does that mean the year the plate was issued? Because that would be weird, wouldn’t it?” She looked at him, the legs of a furry blood-tarantula staining her bandage as it bunched with her frown. “We always get a renewal sticker every year, not a new plate.”
“Do you guys have a vintage car?” When she shook her head, he said, “Well, that explains it, then. They’re probably vintage plates, like the truck.”
“Maybe, but don’t vintage cars have special plates? Like blue or something, and a different numbering system? This looks like a regular license.”
“Well, maybe it’s different in Wyoming than Wisconsin.” He waited a beat. “You want to tell me what’s eating you?”
“What’s eating me?” Grunting a humorless laugh that was mainly air, she pushed to a stand. “You mean, more than everything else tonight?” She shivered and pulled Tony’s space blanket tighter around her shoulders. “I don’t know … it’s just”—she turned a look from the truck to the house—“this feels … off. I know I keep saying that, but it’s not right, Eric. I just can’t put my finger on what it is, though.”
He stood, wincing a little as his knees complained. “Everything looks weird at night. Plus, we’re in a storm, and you’re hurt.” The urge to comfort her, pull her into a hug, was very strong, and he throttled it back. “A lot’s happened, Emma. You crashed. You lost a friend. I don’t know about you, but when my day started, I sure didn’t see myself ending up here.” If anything, his day had started out even worse. As spooked and worried as he was … I actually feel better here. A crazy thought. He looked down at her face, so ghostly white and pinched with cold. I feel better here, with her, than I have with anyone anywhere else in as long as I can remember.