But his back struck hard against the edges of the wooden stairs, and something huge and black scuttled past him, and he knew that the dog had tripped him in its urgency to pass him, and that he was lying on the stairs on his back, his arms outstretched, holding on to the railings. He was not going to fall.
"Ned?"
He saw Megan coming toward him, saw her move lightly aside so that the dog could get by her.
"I'm all right," he said, and his voice was a tight croak that had to tell both her and Rutledge how scared Ned was.
"Damn you, Pinchot!" the old man called, but the dog paid no heed. Ned heard his sharp claws crackling on the steps as he continued down. "You okay, Ned? That was a rough fall. Dog's got no sense sometimes." Rutledge was right behind Ned now. He could see him if he put his head back.
"Bruise or two, probably," Ned said, and gingerly pulled himself to a sitting position on the steps. He looked straight ahead, through the steps, past the stanchions, and out at the gray, snowing sky. "Just give me a minute," he said, "to get my breath." And my courage, he thought.
Finally Ned stood up, as slowly and carefully as he could manage. By then, Pinchot had come back up the stairs, apparently to see what was delaying his master, and he stood on the small platform below the flight of steps Ned was on. The dog's tail was wagging, his eyes were bright and happy, and Ned knew he could not blame him for the mishap. "We're coming, boy," Ned said, and began to walk.
He felt as though he were treading on eggs all the way down, but he did not slip again, and took the last few steps with a jaunty, false bravado he did not feel. As his feet sank into the snow at the bottom and Megan put her arm around his waist, he was giddy with relief. "Made it," he said to her so that Rutledge could not hear, and she smiled like a mother whose son has just come down the sliding board for the first time.
"I'd be willing to bet," Rutledge said as he joined them and led the way to the cabin, "that you won't have to be up there at all the few days you're here. You won't be able to see diddly, and the risk of forest fires is nil with all this snow. In fact," he concluded ominously, scowling up at the sky, "you might be snowed in by tomorrow morning."
"Let it snow, let it snow," Megan half-sang, then laughed. "We've got plenty of food."
"Well, even if you run out, there's lots of canned stuff in the cabin. You won't starve. Come on, I'll help you bring in your gear."
It took two trips from the Blazer to the cabin to carry in all the food, clothes, and other gear Megan had thought essential. When everything was stowed away, Hal Rutledge looked around the cabin.
"I envy you," he said. "Nothing I'd like better to do than to hole up here with a stack of wood, a couple of Kenneth Roberts novels, and, uh..." He smiled at Megan. "Well, it's a grand place to be snowed in, I'll leave it at that."
"I don't know," Ned said, "Florida sounds pretty good right now."
"Oh, I'll have fun. I go down there with a couple of friends. We're all widowers, and we have a good time."
"No wealthy widows down there?" Megan said.
Rutledge chuckled. "Not looking. Nobody could ever take the place of my Amy. Pinchot here's all the permanent companionship I want now." He cupped the dog's massive head with his hands. "And I know he'd darn well rather stay here than go to the kennel, especially since the runs are going to be snowed over, huh, boy?"
"Why not let him stay then?" Ned wasn't crazy about dogs, but he knew that Megan liked them, and her face lit up at his suggestion.
"That would be great! Why not, Mr. Rutledge? He'd sure like it here better than any old kennel, wouldn't you, Pinchot?"
"You mean it?" Rutledge said. When they both nodded, he grinned. "I know Pinchot would be delighted, and frankly I'd rather have him here where he can run and slop through the snow than locked up in a pen for two weeks. But he can be an awful nuisance..."
"Oh no," Megan said. "We'd love to have him. It'd be fun."
Rutledge looked thoughtful. "I've got two cases of dog food out in the pickup. He's a picky eater, and I was going to take them to the kennel. Would only take a half hour or so to bring them in on the snowmobile. But are you sure it's not an imposition?"
"Pinchot seems to belong here," Ned said. "And why should he miss the biggest snowstorm in years?"
Megan knelt by the dog and hugged him around his thick neck. "Why don't we ask Pinchot? What about it, boy? You want to stay here, huh?" Her voice was so cheerfully animated that the dog's tail slapped the carpet repeatedly as he gave a dopey grin. "There you have it!" Megan said. "Go get the chow, Mr. Rutledge."
It took closer to forty minutes than thirty for Rutledge to come back with the two cases of canned dog food. "Two cans a day will do him," Rutledge said as he set the cases by the door. "He'll want more, but don't give in to those sad eyes. And feed him outside—he's such a sloppy eater."
He knelt and stroked the dog's head tenderly. "You take care of yourself, boy. And take care of Megan and Ned too. Stay out of trouble." It was almost as though Rutledge were saying goodbye to a wife or a child, and even though Ned felt foolish for doing it, he looked away to give them a private moment, and found that Megan was doing the same.
Rutledge stood up and shook both their hands. "You all have a good time now, and if old stupid there runs up the tower, don't worry about him. He'll come down again. He'll probably follow me out on the snowmobile too, but he'll come back."
They followed him outside, and, with one final pat on the dog's head and a wave to Ned and Megan, Rutledge hopped on the snowmobile, gunned it into noisy life, and roared down the forest trail, Pinchot running delightedly behind him.
Ned put an arm around Megan. "Alone at last," he said, smiling.
"Except for Pinchot. You don't mind?"
"No. He'll be good company. And it won't hurt to have a watchdog around."
Megan's smile vanished. "You don't think that..."
"No, I don't. But just in case, it's not bad to have a canine early warning system." He looked up at the threatening sky. "But even if they could find out where we are, in another few hours it'd be impossible to get to us."
Megan wondered if Ned was really as confident as he sounded. She didn't expect to feel relieved until she heard those lunatics were in custody. She hadn't thought about Pinchot as a watchdog, and it alarmed her to realize that Ned had, and reminded her of why they were there in the first place. It wasn't a vacation. It was an escape from people who wanted to kill Ned, and maybe her too.
Nevertheless, they would make the most of it. She put her arm through Ned's, and they walked back into the cabin. The warmth inside felt wonderful as they unpacked, and before too long they heard a scratching on the door. Megan opened it and laughed as Pinchot leapt into the room, shaking himself so that snow flew everywhere.
"Can't he do that outside?" Ned asked with a grin. "Thank God there's a door between him and the bedroom." The dog settled down quickly, and flopped lazily in front of the wood burning stove.
"There, see?" Megan said, rubbing behind the dog's ears. "He's just a big sleepy bear, no trouble at all."
"Hey, where's the radio?" Ned said, looking around.
"I didn't bring one. Just the weather radio."
He frowned. "Well, how will we know—"
"Who's getting shot or shot at?" Megan finished. "We won't know. And I don't want to." She gestured toward the phone. "Larry knows our number, and you know his. If you're desperate for news, you can call him. But I'd rather you didn't. Let's just try to forget the past few days and let the F.B.I. take care of things. They'll find these people. And in the meantime," she said grinning, "we can find ways to alleviate our cases of cabin fever."
"May I suggest that music hath charms to soothe the savage breast," Ned said, nodding toward Megan's violin which lay in its case on the floor. "It also happens to be the food of love."
"Ah, in that case..." Megan opened her case, took out her fiddle, and tuned. "Any requests?"
"Whatever you like."
&nb
sp; She sat, began to play an old Irish ballad, slow and sweet, and watched Ned sitting in the worn recliner until his eyes closed in concentration or weariness. Then, still playing, she looked out the window. It was snowing again, and the wind was increasing. Megan felt sure they would be snowed in by the next day. She was glad. That way, even if anyone did find out where they were, no one could get in to see them.
Then the thought occurred to her that it worked both ways. They were trapped here. And if anyone did find out where they were, and were somehow able to get in, Ned and she would not be able to escape.
It was a nasty thought, and she tried to lose it in the music. It was also ridiculous. Only a few people knew where they were, and they'd never talk. Besides, if the crazies weren't caught by now, the weather had probably forced them to give up. She and Ned had nothing to worry about. They were warm and cozy and as isolated as anyone could be.
They were safe.
"I'll have you outta there in two shakes," Kyle Kendig told the two shivering people standing by the side of the road. "You wanta warm up in the cab, go ahead."
The woman took him up on the offer. He was glad. She seemed like a bitch on wheels, he thought, and then chuckled to himself. If she were, he'd soon have her back on her wheels.
"Guess we shoulda had chains trying to make this hill, huh?" said the big man who stood watching Kyle as he attached the t-bar.
"Guess you shoulda," Kyle agreed. The big guy seemed decent enough, almost cheery. Hell, Kyle wouldn't have blamed him if he'd spat nails. Most people he pulled out of ditches or snow banks were like the woman in the wrecker cab, tense and pissed.
"Once you get us out," the man said, "can you put some chains on for us?"
"Sure. Gotta come back into St. Mary's though."
"Might's well. Won't get anywhere like this."
"Where you headed?"
The man didn't answer right away, then said, "Williamsport."
That made Kyle look up. "Williamsport? On 120? Man, with this stuff it'd take forever. You'd better head south and pick up 80 west." He shook his head and turned back to his work. "Man, 120 in this shit..."
Kyle finished making the attachments and headed for the cab. "Climb in if you want," he said. "Extra weight won't hurt."
Kyle got in the driver's side, and the big man opened the passenger door. "What?" the woman asked the man in a tone that Kyle was glad wasn't directed at him.
"Shove over," the man said, pushing himself in so that the woman had to move into the middle of the seat. Kyle felt her down-filled jacket pressing against him, and turned partly sideways to give her more room. Then he gunned the engine, threw it into gear, and easily pulled the jeep out of the snow bank.
"There you go," Kyle said. "Now you wanta try and drive back to St. Mary's to get those chains on, or you want me to tow you in?"
"Tow us," the woman said coldly.
"Okay, that'd be another thirty bucks—"
"Fuck the money, let's just go."
Whoo, thought Kyle, that woman had a mouth on her all right. "Sure thing," he said, and started driving back toward town. "You up here hunting?" he said after a few uncomfortable minutes of silence.
"That's right," the big man said. "I'm Ted, and this is Mary Jo." The woman turned sharply away from Kyle and looked at Ted. Kyle wondered why she was so mad. Maybe she didn't want Kyle to know her name. The names sounded familiar, but Kyle couldn't place them.
"My name's Kyle," Kyle said.
"You a hunter, Kyle?" Ted said.
"Oh, you bet. Can hardly live around here and not be."
"Did you kill a deer this season?" the woman called Mary Jo asked flatly.
"Yes, I did," Kyle answered. "On Monday. Just a spike, but I always thought the meat's tenderer on the young ones than the bigger bucks."
"Some people," Mary Jo said, "would call that rationalization."
Kyle shook his head. "Sorry?"
"That because you didn't get a deer with lots of points, you're saying the meat's more tender when it really isn't."
"Well now, that's true, some of my friends say I'm just making it up, but I really think that's the way it is. It makes sense, you know?"
"Guess the only way to find out," Ted said, "would be to take an old one and a young one and eat them at the same time."
"I guess so," Kyle said.
"According to your theory," Mary Jo said, "fawn would be the most tender of all. Do you think we should be allowed to hunt fawn, Kyle?"
Kyle thought for a moment. There was something funny going on here. He didn't know what this woman's problem was, whether she was bent out of shape because she got her jeep stuck or what, but he figured the best thing to do was to let the conversation slide. The less talk was the best talk. And with the killings that had been happening out in the woods, the last thing Kyle wanted to do was to piss off creepy strangers. "Don't think so," he said.
"Why not?" she went on. "Why should fawn be any different from adult deer?"
He half-smiled and shrugged, but didn't say anything. Ted answered for him. "That wouldn't be sportin', Mary Jo. Those little babies aren't old enough to carry guns to protect themselves."
Kyle laughed, just a little. Then, to his relief, Mary Jo laughed too, although it sounded kind of forced. But soon they were all laughing, heading down the long hill from Goetz's Summit. Finally they stopped, and they didn't talk much at all after that.
At one point near the bottom of the hill, a snow squall whipped down upon them, and blowing snow made it nearly impossible to see more than a few yards ahead. It was slow going for ten minutes, and for a moment Kyle thought he saw flashing lights pass him in the opposite lane, heading up the hill. Either a police car or an ambulance, he figured. He thought about flicking on his scanner, but thought maybe Mary Jo wouldn't like it, so he left it off.
By the time they got back to the garage, the snow had eased off again, and Kyle installed chains on the jeep's tires. The whole bill came to $148.50, and Mary Jo gave him four fifty dollar bills and told him to keep the change. He continued to remain agreeable, and took the money, waving as they drove away, their tire chains rattling, biting into the snow.
Maybe they were a little weird, but anybody who tipped fifty bucks for a tow could afford to be weird.
Michael Brewster felt caged in a prison of snow. Every time he heard the sound of an engine, he raced to the window of his motel room and gingerly drew back the curtain, expecting to see a phalanx of policemen armed with grenade launchers advancing to his door. But it always turned out to be a pickup truck with chains, or a van or car he didn't recognize.
He didn't feel right about Jean and Chuck going out after Ned Craig the way they did. Neither one of them could keep their cool. He and Tim Weems had been the more rational, stabilizing influences on the group, but with Chuck Marriner accompanying Jean, Michael wouldn't have been surprised to hear on the news that every fire tower and hunting cabin in the surrounding five counties had been blown to bits.
The news held nothing of that nature, though Michael heard plenty about yesterday's slaughter at the cabin. There were no gruesome details, but newscasters called the murders brutal and barbaric. As if those reports weren't enough to chase people out of the woods, there were also warnings that the two feet of snow already on the ground would be joined by an extra thirty to thirty-six more inches during the next day and a half, and many hunters could be stranded.
It was ironic, Michael thought, that the weather had been so cooperative, though he didn't believe in signs. If some being greater than himself had been blessing their cause, he would have started the snowstorm on Sunday night.
The most alarming thing that the TV news had done was show what looked like a new mug shot of Timothy Weems. Timothy was still sticking to his amnesia story, but was being held in police custody in a hospital in Coudersport. He didn't really look like himself in the photo, in which a hospital gown covered his chest, and Michael thought Tim was screwing up his face so that he wou
ld be less recognizable. The newscaster said that anyone recognizing the man should call the police immediately. Michael hoped that Samantha Rogers wasn't watching. She might just be dumb enough to call.
The rattling of tire chains outside drew his attention away from the TV screen. When he looked out, he was relieved to see the jeep in which Jean and Chuck had left earlier that morning. Michael threw on his jacket and opened his door just as Jean and Chuck climbed out of the jeep. "Any luck?" he asked.
"All bad," Jean said with a snarl.
"I wouldn't say that," Chuck said. "After all, we got to travel through the snow with a really charming guy who pulled our ass out of the snow—"
"Where you got us stuck in the first place!"
"But I wouldn't've if you hadn't kept screaming at me to go faster up a goddam ice-covered hill!"
Suddenly rock music filled the cold air, and they all turned and looked at the open door through which Sam Rogers's head and shoulders protruded. "Hey hey, look who's here!" she cried jovially. "Bag a fuck?"
Jean gave Sam a withering glare, then turned and rammed her key into the lock of her room door.
"Guess not," Sam said with a shrug.
"Get in here," Jean said. "Everybody. We're going to find him. We've got chains and we'll get goddamned snowmobiles if we have to, but we'll find him."
"How will we know where to look?" said Michael, following her into her room. Chuck and Sam trailed behind, and Sam pushed the door closed with her foot.
"Somebody knows where he is."
"Yeah, Jeannie, but we don't." Chuck threw himself onto the bed with such force that it bounced.
"Jean, I think we should give it up," Michael said, "get back to L.A. They're going to find out who Timothy is, and they'll identify Andrew eventually."
"We're not going back until Ned Craig is executed."
"But the F.B.I. is coming in. The TV said—"
She whirled on him like a fury about to feed. "I don't care what the TV said! I don't care if Elliot Ness and J. Edgar Hoover in a goddamned dress are on their way!"
Michael felt his cheeks growing red. "We did what we came to do..."
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