Quinn didn’t look away. She didn’t lower the slingshot.
Milo peeked around her side. “Go to hell!”
“Language, Small Fry,” she said.
“He deserves it!”
“Can’t argue with you there.”
With exaggerated movements, Desoto clicked on the safety and affixed the rifle to its sling. With a last parting glare, he turned his back on them and stomped across the yard to the waiting snowmobiles, stepping over the bodies like they were no more than trash.
“You just killed two people!” Wiggins cried.
Quinn had almost forgotten he was there.
Desoto sneered at him. “And?”
Wiggins visibly swallowed. He reached up and prodded the purple shiner swelling his right eye nearly shut. His face was swollen and bloodied. His clothes were torn and stained with blood splatters. He cradled one arm to his chest. Maybe it was sprained or broken.
“You should be thanking us,” Desoto said hoarsely. “We just saved your life. And your house.” He said “your” like it was in air quotes, with an edge of mockery.
Wiggins heard it loud and clear. “Thank you,” he stammered.
“You’re welcome,” Luther said quietly. He was staring at Mr. Blair’s body, at the red soaked into the man’s wool coat like paint.
Wiggins grasped the porch railing to steady himself. “What am I supposed to do with the bodies? How am I supposed to get this blood off the porch?”
“Leave ‘em there to scare of the next wannabe thieves. What do we care?” Desoto took a seat on the first snowmobile. He shook his head in disgust. “Are we supposed to do everything for you? You want us to wipe your lazy butt next?”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No…sir?”
Desoto’s expression didn’t change, his face like a slab of granite. He massaged his throat. “That’s more like it.”
Luther took the second snowmobile. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and picked up his helmet. “Desoto, shut your trap already. Talking can’t be good for your throat. Let’s go see that nurse at the shelter, get you fixed up.”
“This town isn’t worth it,” Desoto rasped. “I don’t even know why we’re doing this.”
Luther didn’t answer. He glanced back at Quinn. There was something in his face—remorse, regret maybe. The same as that day at Gran’s house. It just made her more furious.
“What are you waiting for?” she said. “You heard Milo. Get out of here! And while you’re at it, get the hell out of our town, too!”
“Make no mistake,” Desoto said, his lip curling in contempt, hatred flashing in his eyes. “This town isn’t yours. Fall Creek belongs to us.”
Pike
Day Twenty
Gavin Pike stopped in his tracks. After seven long days, he’d finally found what he was searching for.
The cold brittle air seared his cheeks and nose. Each inhalation burned his throat and lungs. The sky was a dreary slate gray, heavy with clouds. The bright sun reflecting off the massive snowbanks hurt his eyes.
At least it wasn’t snowing. At least he was out of that stuffy, suffocating house and away from that insufferable family.
They had taken him into their home; that didn’t mean he had to like them for it.
Hourly, he fantasized about breaking their fingers, one by one. Snap, snap, snap.
In an incredible display of self-control, he’d restrained himself. He prided himself on his discipline.
After all, the hungrier you are, the more satisfying the meal.
The single clove cigarette he allowed himself per day was the only thing that kept him sane. That and the goal he always kept fixed in his mind: find Hannah, end the soldier and the dog, take the baby.
Three days ago, the blizzard had finally ceased. Snow drifts piled higher than windows and buried stalled cars. From sunup to sundown, Pike had spent each day searching the town.
He visited every house with smoke swirling from a chimney. Ten houses. Twenty.
His camouflage was excellent. It was beyond excellent. He was polite. He flashed his reserve officer badge. The townspeople opened their doors to him. They were happy to help.
He knew his quarry was close by. Even though no more than twenty miles separated Watervliet from the outskirts of Fall Creek, they wouldn’t have gone far.
In this cold, Hannah and her soldier wouldn’t have survived without a fireplace. In this snow, no vehicle would make it out of here.
They were still here. He felt it. He knew it.
Hannah was meant for him. Her child was meant for him.
He’d finally come to a decision on the matter of his progeny. After he killed the girl, he would return to Fall Creek with the child. He would bestow it upon his mother. When the time was right, he would teach it the ways of the world. How to hunt. Who to kill.
It was ironic, fitting. He liked the poetry of it.
Door after door, he was met with helpful but confused glances, regretful head shakes.
He did not give up. He did not move on to greener pastures. He returned to the stodgy family each evening and allowed them to serve him food and provide him with shelter.
They wanted him to leave, he felt it, but they were too polite to ask.
He didn’t care what they wanted. He would rely on their generosity until it ran out, and then he would take what they had left via gunpoint.
Break a few bones in that little boy’s hand, and their attitudes would transform with fantastic swiftness.
He acted sicker than he was. The injury from the damned dog bite he’d sustained in the Branch library had nearly healed. The aches and bruises from the accident and the fall to the ice were fading fast, and the hypothermia had lost its grip on him.
He woke up each morning healthier than the day before. Angrier. More determined.
He kept looking. Thirty houses. Fifty.
He did not give up. He would never give up.
Yesterday evening, as night fell and the shadows stretched across the snow like claws, his perseverance had finally been rewarded. A neighbor several blocks west had caught sight of a big white dog frolicking in the snow across the street.
That night, it had been too dark to follow the tracks.
Today was a fresh day. A beautiful, brilliant day.
Now, Pike had again found what he’d been looking for. He smiled.
There in the snow was a perfect set of paw prints. Too large to be any other dog but the one he sought.
The one who would lead him straight to Hannah Sheridan.
Hannah
Day Twenty
Hannah Sheridan felt like a different person.
She had changed so much in the last three weeks that she barely recognized herself. Her skin felt tight and ill-fitting. Like her bones were the wrong shape.
Or maybe they were the correct shape, and she just had to grow into her new self, to adjust like she was learning to adjust to everything else.
She stood in front of the mirror in the upstairs bathroom of the house she’d given birth in nine days ago. A flashlight provided enough light to see by. The house was on a septic system, so a bucket filled with water next to the tub allowed them to flush the toilet.