by Dinah McCall
“Are they in heaven?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m sure they are,” she answered.
There was a moment of hesitation; then he spoke again.
“Do you think they can see me?”
Molly sighed. “What do you think?” she asked.
“I think…yes.”
Molly wanted to cry for him, but her tears would do neither of them any good.
“Me, too,” she said, then gave him a gentle squeeze. “Go to sleep now.”
Within moments, she heard the rhythm of his breathing change, but her rest didn’t come as easily. Every crack of snow-laden branches outside the cave made her jump. Every howl of the wind led her to imagine they were about to be eaten. And when she closed her eyes, all she could see was that man killing his friend.
“Please, God,” she finally whispered. “Keep us safe.”
Darren ran out of daylight quickly, even though the beam from the flashlight kept him on the right trail. He didn’t know how long he walked, or how far he’d come from the crash site, when he almost fell into a ravine. One minute he’d been on solid ground, and the next thing he knew, the land had disappeared and the light was shining down into a black, bottomless void.
Reeling from the shock, he grabbed onto a nearby sapling, pulled himself back to safety, then sat down with a thud, sending snow flying.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” he muttered and pulled his knees up beneath his chin, then lowered his head onto his hands and cried. “Why?” he cried. “Why me?”
He bawled and cursed as snot froze on his cheek. He’d spent years as a senator. The reality of his situation didn’t seem possible. Important people like him didn’t just die like this—did they? Then he thought of John F. Kennedy Jr. and his plane crash, and got sick to his stomach. No one was more important politically than a Kennedy, and that hadn’t kept him alive.
The deal was, it wasn’t enough that he’d survived the crash. If that woman and kid were running because they’d witnessed what he’d done, he was still dead meat. He couldn’t afford to take the chance that they would perish in this weather. He had to find them and make sure they didn’t get a chance to talk. As badly as he wanted to go back to the plane and take his chances, he couldn’t afford the risk.
After a few desperate moments, he found what passed for shelter beneath some low overhanging limbs and settled in for the night, telling himself that morning was bound to make searching for the woman and kid easier. Once he dealt with them, he could come up with some kind of explanation for wandering away from the crash site. As for them, they would be written off as having wandered away to perish in the mountains.
Now that he’d set that plan in his mind, he rolled up in a ball and tried to sleep, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Patrick. The look in his eyes when he’d realized he was going to die. The way his tongue had pushed against the back of his front teeth, then all but exploded out of his mouth when Darren kept squeezing his throat.
Darren wiped a gloved hand over his eyes, trying to wipe away the image. He’d never killed anyone before. Then he thought of his family and the threats that had been made against them, and told himself that he’d done what he had to do.
Once he’d accepted that excuse for himself, he finally relaxed, and even though he was in pain and danger of freezing to death, exhaustion pulled him under.
Deborah Sanborn had lived her entire life in the Appalachian Mountains, thirty minutes above the little town of Carlisle, Kentucky. Her father, Gus Sanborn, had worked in the mines since the age of seventeen. He’d married her mother a year later, and less than a year after that, their only child, Deborah Jean, had been born. When she was six years old she’d been sitting at her school desk, doing a page of penmanship, when her world made a one-eighty turn and never went back.
She’d just finished writing an entire line of lowercase w’s when the lead on her pencil suddenly broke. She stared down at the hole it had put in her paper, and when it began to morph into the dark opening of the mine her daddy worked in, she started to cry.
The teacher, thinking she was crying because she’d torn her page, began to reassure her that it would be all right.
At that point Deborah Jean stood up, announced that her daddy was dead—that they were all dead—and then fainted. Before the teacher could run for help, the shriek of the whistle down at the mine cut through the air. The shrill staccato rhythm was the sound that signaled a cave-in at Lawton Mining number 4.
That day, twelve of Lawton Mining’s finest perished in a cave-in seven hundred feet below the surface. It took more than two weeks before they were found and removed. By that time, everyone in Carlisle knew that Gus Sanborn’s baby girl, Deborah, had been born with what they called “the sight.”
Half the population was suddenly afraid of her, and the other half wanted her mother to let little Deborah “see” the future for them. It didn’t take Deborah’s mother long to realize that her baby girl’s gift was what was going to keep food on their table. She set Deborah up in her father’s easy chair in the corner of the living room, and from noon to dark on Saturday, Deborah Jean held court.
That she put food on their table was secondary to the fact that her “gift” had forever set her apart from her friends. Their parents no longer welcomed her into their homes for fear she would jinx their futures. Gus’s death left her lonely and ostracized, and the ensuing years had not changed her fate. At forty, she was still unmarried and still lonely, living in the old family home high on the mountain above Carlisle, still having visions that broke her heart.
It had been snowing off and on for a couple of days now, enough so that it made doing outside chores difficult. Still, after the vision she’d had a few days ago of Destry Poindexter beating up on his wife again, her days were ordinary and for that she was grateful.
She had milked the cow, and fed the dog and barn cats, a good hour before dark. Once she’d strained the milk and poured it into a crock, she left it on the screened-in back porch to separate overnight. In the morning the layer of thick, ivory-colored cream would be crusted with frost, but it wouldn’t be enough to hamper her from skimming the cream into a pitcher, then pouring the milk into jugs.
Her neighbor Farley Comstock would come over to get most of the milk and some of the cream. Farley had nine kids to feed, with another on the way, and there was no way Deborah could use everything the cow produced. In return for milk, Farley kept her in firewood, saving her from having to cut and split what she needed to stay warm.
After her supper, she’d tried to watch some television but had given it up for a good book in bed, and had fallen asleep in the middle of chapter seven.
She had been asleep for hours, dreaming of the days when her Granny had still been alive—of bread-baking day and eating the crust off of the first loaf out of the oven, slathered in home-churned butter. In her mind, she was watching Granny spread grape jelly onto the bread and butter, and could almost taste the results. Then everything changed.
The part of herself that remained cognizant knew when her mind went from dream to something else—something far more sinister than a sweet childhood memory.
She saw the boy child first. Tears were frozen on his face, and for a moment she thought he was dead. Then she saw the gentle flare of his nostrils as he breathed, and a part of her rejoiced, for she knew that he still lived. The woman who held him was young and pretty, but there was frost on her dark hair, as well as on the blankets beneath which they slept. Deborah felt a quick sense of panic. Time would not be kind to them.
Suddenly her vision jumped backward like a movie on rewind as she watched them trudging through the woods. She saw broken trees and the debris that only man could produce, and realized she was looking at the site of a plane crash. She heard screams, smelled smoke, then saw the plane coming down.
Her mind jumped forward again from impact to the near silence that ensued. When she followed the vision into the smoke-filled cabin, she sensed danger. Oddly en
ough, it seemed disconnected from the crash itself. When she witnessed the young woman rise from the rubble and go to the child, the vision ended.
The moment it stopped, she woke.
It was just after five in the morning—too late to go back to sleep, too early to begin the day’s work. There was only one thing left for her to do.
Make coffee.
She would begin the day with a cup of coffee the sweet consistency of syrup and hope the weather report announced that the snow was moving out of the region.
Deborah washed her face and brushed her teeth quickly before climbing into a pair of her oldest, softest blue jeans. She chose one of her daddy’s old flannel shirts, pulled on a new pair of wool socks, then stepped back into her house shoes and headed for the kitchen, tying her long ash-blond hair into a ponytail at the nape of her neck as she went.
She turned on the light in the kitchen and headed straight for the coffeepot. Only after the coffee was brewing did she think back to her vision. She would have to call the sheriff. Her conscience wouldn’t let her ignore what she saw, even though she often wished she could. Rarely did the visions ever come to any good, but she couldn’t let that matter. Somewhere a woman and a child were in need of rescuing. It was up to her to let the authorities know they were alive.
As soon as the coffeepot dinged, signaling the cycle was complete, she poured herself a cup, added sugar, then more sugar, stirring with each heaping teaspoon until it was the desired consistency, then lifted the cup to her lips. It was thick and sweet, just as she liked it.
As soon as the first sip had gone down and her nerves had settled, she took the portable phone to the kitchen table and dialed the number of Wally Hacker’s office.
“County Sheriff’s office.”
“Frances, it’s Deborah. Is the sheriff in?”
“Lord, woman, don’t you ever sleep?” the dispatcher asked.
Deborah sighed. “I try. Is he in?”
“He’s in the back, asleep. I’ll holler at him.”
“Thanks,” Deborah said, well aware that Sheriff Wally Hacker would not thank her for waking him up, or for giving him another wild goose to chase down.
She waited, listening as Frances’s footsteps faded away, then waited some more as she heard her coming back.
“He said give him a minute and he’ll be right here.”
“All right. Thanks,” Deborah said.
Curious, Frances couldn’t wait to hear the news secondhand.
“What did you see, girl?”
“I’ll tell Wally. He can tell you, that way I won’t have to repeat myself so many times.”
“All right,” Frances said, obviously disappointed, then couldn’t help but add, “How do you do it?” she asked.
Deborah sighed. “You ask me that every time.”
Frances laughed. “Sorry, I guess I do, don’t I? Oh, well, it never hurts to ask. Maybe one of these days you’ll give me an answer.”
“Only if someone explains it to me first,” Deborah said.
“Really?” Frances said, surprised. “You mean you…wait! Here comes the sheriff.”
Deborah braced herself for Wally Hacker’s gravel-tinged drawl of disdain.
“What the hell’s wrong now?” he asked.
“Good morning to you, too,” Deborah countered.
Hacker sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t get to sleep until after midnight. What’s up?”
“Was there a plane crash in the area?”
Hacker’s heart skipped a beat. As long as he’d known Deborah, it still floored him that she could do this.
“Is it already on the news?” he asked.
Deborah felt the air sliding out of her lungs as surely as if she’d been punched in the stomach.
“Nothing is on television but an old Audie Murphy movie and a rerun of the Food Network’s 2001 dessert battle. So there was a crash?”
“Yeah, but it hasn’t been located yet. They know it went off the radar. They keep picking up an intermittent beep from the locator, but the snowfall is screwing up a pinpoint on the location. They’re having to wait until daylight to start the search. That’s what I know. What’s your story?”
“A young woman and a small boy were on that plane. They lived through the crash and are somewhere in the mountains.”
Hacker cursed. “Why the hell would they leave the plane?”
“I don’t know, Wally. I just know that they did.”
“You’re sure?”
She sighed.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Wally muttered. “You wouldn’t have called unless you were.”
“Do you need some help?”
“No.”
“I’m here if you do,” she added.
“I know that, too,” Hacker said. “Thanks for the call. I’ll pass on the message to the searchers.”
“All right,” Deborah said, hating to break the connection between herself and the man she knew would be in charge. He wasn’t taking this seriously enough, but she didn’t know any other way to impress upon him the intensity of the survivors’ need.
The sheriff saved her the decision of whether or not to hang up and did it for her, leaving her with the buzz of a dial tone in her ear. She hung up reluctantly, took another sip of her coffee, then set it down and went out onto the back porch, where she lifted the cotton cloth from a large crock and peeked inside. The cream from last night’s milking had come to the top. It was time to skim it off and pour up the milk for Farley.
She carried the large crock into the kitchen, skimmed off the cream and poured a pitcher of milk for herself, then set it aside. Then she poured the remaining milk into a couple of jugs, knowing Farley would be by later to pick them up.
With that chore finished, she glanced out toward the barn. It wasn’t light enough to see to start other chores, so she went back into the kitchen, welcoming the warmth. At the same time, she was struck by a sense of urgency. She frowned. This wasn’t normal. Usually, once she’d given up her vision, it no longer bothered her, but this time something didn’t feel right.
She carried the cream to the refrigerator and set it on a shelf. As she closed the door, the ever-familiar sensation of losing focus came over her. Even though she knew she was still standing in her kitchen with her hand on the refrigerator door, she saw something entirely different.
She saw footsteps in the snow, leading away from the plane. That would be the woman and child. She didn’t understand why she was seeing this again. Then she realized she was looking at a third set of tracks. She saw a man’s feet, then his legs, but she couldn’t see his face. Someone was following them! Her heart rate accelerated when she realized she felt danger. Something was wrong. The man intended harm, but that didn’t make sense. Why would someone want to kill the survivors of a plane crash?
Suddenly the vision was gone as quickly as it had come. Deborah gasped, then tightened her grip on the refrigerator door until the room had quit spinning. The old house was silent, except for the usual squeaks and creaks it sometimes made in protest of the winter winds. She glanced down at her house shoes and sighed. The last thing she wanted to do was be outside in this weather, but fate gave her no choice. She didn’t, as yet, know why, but she had to go to the crash site. Someone still needed her help.
She wrote a note for Farley, asking him to milk the cow and feed the animals until she got home, and, as always, telling him to take the cream and the milk, and tell Karen hello.
She glanced around the kitchen, making sure that she’d turned off all the appliances, turned down, but not off, the propane heating stoves throughout the house, and went to get dressed. Whether she liked it or not, she had to find the crash site. Sheriff Hacker had to be made to understand that not only did the two missing passengers need to be found, but they also needed to be protected. Someone wanted them dead.
Evan got to Carlisle by noon. It was the most exhausting thing he’d done since coming home. He’d tossed his bag into the motel room he’d rented without l
ooking at the beds. He would like nothing better than to lie down and sleep the day through, but he couldn’t afford to be weak. His little boy needed him in the most desperate way. He’d already sorted out the things he needed to pack for the search. Food and water, dry socks and gloves, a change of clothes, matches, a small hatchet and a large knife, a lightweight sleeping bag designed for extreme cold, some basic first aid, some packets of trail mix—and Elmo, Johnny’s favorite character.
The stuffed toy had little to do with survival, but Evan had to take his own physical appearance into consideration. His son might need a reminder as to what home and Daddy were all about.
He was in the act of zipping up his backpack when there was a knock on the door of the motel. Frowning, he turned toward the door as a second knock sounded.
“Yeah? Who is it?” he called out.
“It’s us, Evan. Open up!”
Evan’s heart skipped a beat. That sounded like his dad, which was impossible. Mike O’Ryan lived in Arizona.
He crossed the room and opened the door.
“Dad!” Then he looked past his father’s shoulder to the men coming up behind him. “Granddad? Grandpop? Where…? How?”
Once the patriarch of the O’Ryan family had called, the other men had not been able to pack fast enough.
Thorn had known that, at eighty-five, he wouldn’t be a lot of help, but he couldn’t bear to stay behind.
His son, James, Evan’s grandfather, was almost as fit at sixty-four as he’d been when he’d come home from Vietnam.
Mike, Evan’s dad, was relieved to be looking at his son face-to-face—even under these conditions. A veteran of the Gulf War, he’d been a young father, and now, at the age of forty-five, he was a young grandfather, as well. Knowing that Evan was still recuperating from his injuries and that his only grandson was in danger, his impatience was the greatest. The moment he saw his son’s face with the scars and the black leather eye patch, he wrapped his arms around him, thumped him on the back a couple of times and then just held him.
All the fear and frustration that Evan had been feeling seemed to lessen. He knew the old saying about safety in numbers, and in this case, there was a lot of truth in it. Four generations of soldiers were joined in a common purpose. That they were all men of the same family just made it better, because they all had the same thing at stake.