She started by wrenching herself back up to a sitting position. Spearpoints stabbed her from every direction, especially at the small of her back, her shoulders, and between the shoulder blades. She did her best to ignore them and reasoned out her next step.
Outside, a wolf howled. Others answered it. She wondered when Howie might come back. She wondered what that smell was.
She planted her feet firmly in front of her and raised her bottom off the floor a few inches, then leaned back against the wall. It hurt, but it worked. Slowly, her legs straining, every muscle she had complaining, she pushed up with her legs and used her hands to help make her way up the wall. Inch by agonizing inch she rose, until exhaustion overtook her. She still wasn’t entirely upright, but she was close. She waited there, panting and sweating inside her coat and sweater and flannel-lined pants, and took another look around the cabin.
Barb Johnston was lying on the bed, face-up, but she was nude, her legs spread, and she had been opened up in the middle. The bedding was soaked with blood and who knew what else, and Clara could see coils of intestine at the opening. Barb’s head was on a pillow and her eyes were open and she was looking at Clara. Her mouth was taped shut, as was Clara’s.
Clara turned away from the sight, and saw that on the floor in the kitchen area, where she hadn’t been able to see before, Marie Hackett lay. She was curled on her side but her abdomen gaped darkly as well, from between her breasts to just above her pubis, and the skin around the opening was brown with dried blood.
And then she saw that on top of the stove was a shallow pan, with something grayish-pink inside it, except it was writhing in the pan, maggots like animated grains of rice squirming everywhere, and on the counter near it was a dinner plate thickly coated with what had to be congealed blood. And she thought, don’t throw up because your mouth is taped shut and you’ll choke to death, and she thought, stay calm and you’ll figure a way to untie yourself, and she thought, pray, keep praying, dear Lord deliver me from evil, and she thought, and even if I do get untied and can get outside, the wolves…
PART FOUR
31
Althea had called from police headquarters to let Christy know about Gil Calderon’s murder. In the hours since then, half a dozen other friends had called, some of them doubtless aware—in principle if not in fact—about her relationship with the reverend. She felt like Hester Prynne, only in modern America, electronic and telephonic communication stood in for the scarlet “A” buttoned to Hester’s dress. Their crimes, after all, were the same one: adultery, and with a man of the cloth.
Morris was out, and she had spent the day weeping and pacing and sitting until she could sit no more, whereupon she resumed her pacing. The weeping was pretty much constant, with intermittent breaks during which she blew her nose and pawed her eyes dry and promised herself that she would get over it, had to, and before Morris got home (although she also made up a legitimate excuse—it wasn’t just Gil’s death she was mourning, it was everything, the last straw, the disappearances and the wolf attacks and now Gil). He would buy it, because it was largely true. And he knew that she and Gil were close. He didn’t know how close, but that was the point of an affair, wasn’t it? One of them, anyway. The attraction to the other was real, as was the white heat of forbidden love, of illicit sex acts performed in stolen moments. But part of it was the betrayal itself, the self-congratulatory certainty that she was smarter than her spouse, because she could get away with it and he—a decorated policeman, no less—was none the wiser. That made the betrayal more acceptable, somehow. If he had paid more attention to her he would have known. If he had cared enough, he would have found out.
In the hours after she learned about Gil, with snow battering at the window and a cup of tea going cold on the kitchen table and her nose chapped and sore from tissues, she knew that was all nonsense. It was about her, not about Morris at all. It was selfishness, a desire to have the stability and security of married life, a dedicated husband, a steady paycheck, standing in the community—but at the same time, to experience the visceral thrill she felt in Gil’s arms and in his bed.
Only after hours had passed and the pale circle of the sun started its descent did she wonder about the church itself. Gil was dead and Clara was missing, and most of the town seemed to know about both. If the doors were unlocked—or worse, left open, in this storm—the church was vulnerable to vandals, to animals, to snow and wet.
She tried calling over there, just in case, but when she lifted the receiver, silence greeted her. She tried the other two house lines, with the same result. She tried a cell phone, but the church number and Gil’s office line just rang and rang. She couldn’t tell if the lines were down everywhere or if there was just no one there to answer. She pulled on an overcoat and stepped into boots and grabbed her purse and the keys to her Camry.
The snow was falling harder than ever. The roads were slick and in spots the snow was inches deep, trackless but for the dotted lines made by the occasional passing animal. Visibility was almost nothing; the wipers swatted away the snow as it blew against the windshield, but even so she could barely see past the hood. Headlights didn’t help, but she left them on in case they made her easier for others to spot.
The ten-minute trip took thirty-five.
When she arrived, she parked in front of the church, buttoned her coat, and dashed to the big door. She gripped the handle in her bare hand, wishing she had thought to bring gloves. It was icy, but the door didn’t give. She ran around to the back. Gil had given her a key to his office once, and had apparently forgotten about it, or forgotten that from the office one could access the residence and the church.
She slipped the key in the lock, turned it. The door opened and she went inside, shutting it.
He had left the heater blasting; it must have been ninety in the small office. She went to it and twisted the knob, almost burning her fingers. For safety she also went to the wall outlet and unplugged it. It’s a good thing I came, she told herself. The whole place could have burned down.
She went first into his residence, walking through quickly as if on some vital mission, until she got to his bedroom. There she stopped and inhaled, taking in the scent of him, and the fingers of her left hand traced a line on her cheek until she realized that’s what he used to do. She stopped, steeled herself. Was there anything here that could give away the affair, she wondered. Photographs, emails? A diary?
She didn’t think so. She had been careful to keep her occasional email correspondence with him focused on church and community matters, for just that reason. She’d had no reason to think that Morris spied on her email account, but knew he would be able to if he wanted. The only photos she and Gil had ever been in together had been taken at church functions, picnics and weddings and the like. He had suggested once that they take pictures of themselves making love, but she had been feeling heavy, waterlogged, and turned him down. He had never brought that up again. If he’d been with other women in town—and sometimes she felt sure that he had—she didn’t know if he would have made the same suggestion, or if they would have gone along with it. But she didn’t know where to begin looking.
Same thing went for a diary. She checked inside the nightstands flanking his double bed, but found only a Bible and a laminated eye chart. That struck her as tragic, and the tears flowed again. “Oh, Gil,” she said softly. She went into the bathroom, but the tissue box was empty so she unrolled some toilet paper and held it to her stinging nose.
Through the sound of the wind outside she heard another noise, snapping her attention back to her present situation. Though it had been out of unselfish concern, at least for the most part, she was trespassing on what was probably still considered a crime scene. No tape marked it as such, and the door hadn’t been sealed, but she knew that Gil’s death was being treated as a homicide. She was here leaving fingerprints all over the place, and DNA in the form of scraps of toilet paper. She pocketed them and listened.
The soun
d outside had been a vehicle’s engine, and now the heard the familiar staccato triple-beep of a horn. Morris’s signal. She pushed at her hair and went to the office window, shutting the door to the residence behind her, and outside, in the back lot, was a department Tahoe with Howie Honeycutt at the wheel. As she watched, Morris climbed out the passenger door. She opened the office door into a gust of wind and snow and started toward him.
“I thought that was your car out front,” he said. “We’re just on our way back into town.”
“You heard about Gil?”
“Yeah, this morning.” He shook his head. “This town, I just don’t know.”
She half-expected condolences. But if he didn’t know, he wouldn’t say anything, and if he knew he certainly wouldn’t. “It’s a frightening time. I just thought, with Gil gone and Clara missing, someone should check and make sure everything was locked up tight here.”
“Was it?”
“It will be now.”
“Let’s go, then. The Tahoe’s a little crowded, but I don’t trust that Toyota to get you home in this storm. It’s just about turned into a full-on blizzard.”
“I got here okay, just a little while ago.”
He waved an arm at the sky. “Look at how it’s coming down now. The Tahoe’s got four-wheel-drive. You can come back for your car tomorrow.”
She couldn’t see any way out of it. In the back of the Tahoe she could see figures, but couldn’t make out who they were. “If you’re sure you have room.”
“We’ll make room. You can sit on my lap.” He barked a laugh. “Maybe better yet, Robbie can sit on Converse’s lap.”
She closed the office door and locked it with her key, which she quickly dropped into her purse. “What? Robbie Driscoll?”
“Seems she and Mr. Converse have a little something going.”
“Who’s Mr. Converse?”
“The movie maker.”
“A tourist? And Robbie?”
“Come on, Christy, get out of the snow and I’m sure they’d love to tell you all about it.”
She could hardly believe it. Plenty of men had gone after Robbie Driscoll, and she had dated enough of them to get a bit of a reputation around town. But never for long, never very seriously. And never, ever a visitor.
She squeezed into the front passenger seat with Morris, and as Howie steered the Tahoe toward the highway, she craned around and caught Robbie’s eye. “So introduce me to your friend,” she said.
Robbie laughed. “Christy Deeds, meet Alex Converse.”
“It’s a pleasure.”
“Pleasure’s all mine,” he said, putting out a hand. She gave it a quick shake. He was handsome enough, and his clothes looked to be expensive. She’d heard he had plenty of money and didn’t mind spending it.
“I’ll bet it is,” she said. “Robbie’s considered quite a catch around here, Mr. Converse. I imagine she would be anywhere, even Hollywood.”
“I’m not exactly from Hollywood, Mrs. Deeds. But yes, I’d have to agree with your assessment. She’d be a catch even in Hollywood.”
Robbie touched the scar on her cheek. “Because I hear they love Scarface there.”
“That old thing?” Christy said. “It’s practically invisible.”
“I don’t mind it,” Converse said. “In fact, I keep meaning to ask how you got it.”
“It’s not much of a story,” Robbie said. “It’s stupid.”
“I bet it’s a great one.”
Christy turned toward the front again, because looking back was straining her neck. But she imagined Robbie turning pink.
“If you must know,” Robbie said, “I got it hanging a picture. For my dad.”
“Really?”
“Really. He had this old rodeo poster, and he wanted it up behind a piece of glass that had been cut to size. No frame around it, just the glass, clipped at the top and bottom. It was modern, and he liked that, the contrast, I guess. Antique and modern. Anyway, I was putting it up for him, and I thought I had it hooked, but the hook was barely on. When I let go the thing fell. I caught it, but a corner sliced me open.”
“I thought it was a bear attack or something like that.”
“I told you,” Robbie said. “Maybe next time I tell you something is stupid, you’ll believe me.”
“Maybe,” Alex said. “I wouldn’t count on it, but maybe.”
Howie had been silent the whole time. He had always been a little shy in Christy’s presence, though, so that wasn’t surprising. Now, though, when the conversation lagged, he spoke up. “We all going to the same place?”
“Just go to Town Hall,” Morris said. “Christy, I’ve got at least an hour or two ahead of me, and I’ll take you home after that. Or if I can’t get away, Howie will.”
“Fair enough,” Howie said. “It’s a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Deeds. A real, true pleasure.”
“Why, thank you, Howie,” Christy said. Something about that man isn’t quite right, she thought. She often caught him staring at her, when he thought she wouldn’t notice.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “It’s been a grim day, I guess, but this is a real nice way to end it.” Then he turned his attention to the road and the ice and snow, and he didn’t say another word all the way back.
32
Charles Durbin had not given up on Clara. Could not.
He knew the odds, the situation in Silver Gap. Wolves on the prowl. Women going missing. There was no way to know if the disappearances were related, or if they had to do with the wolves, or what, at least not until the women were found.
The police and various community members had turned the town upside-down looking for Marie Hackett. A similar party had been organized when Barb Johnston went missing. By the time of Clara’s vanishing, the townsfolk had been weary of the whole thing, and already dealing with tragedy piled upon tragedy. Enthusiasm for yet another search was hard to muster, and between the folks who had died in the wolf attack and those who had gone out looking for them, the pool of potential searchers had shrunk.
Nevertheless, he had pulled together a few hardy souls. They had searched in town yesterday, not knocking on every door there was but hitting every street, every block. No sign of her anywhere. Given that the other women had not been found, that was to be expected. Finding them wouldn’t be easy.
Today they had tried a different approach, checking some of the outlying homes and properties flanking the town. Although they were harder to reach, it made more sense to him that whoever took the women—if indeed it was humans, and not animals—would hide them someplace away from town, someplace isolated, where screaming wouldn’t be heard.
Thinking that way made Charles’s stomach clench, and he had spent most of the night awake, praying and pacing and vomiting. He believed that he would know if Clara had died, that somehow the world would become a different place in a way he would understand. That had not happened, so he still tried, and he dragged everybody he could convince to go out with him, to cover more ground than he could on his own.
As the weather worsened, people peeled off. Some had legitimate excuses, others were simply tired, or had quit believing. Late in the day, the snow had grown deep out in the country, and it was still coming, heavier than before. They were several miles east of town, where they had hit a few farm properties. Buster Glenn had convinced Charles to head back before they were trapped by drifting snow, and Charles had only reluctantly agreed. He was driving a borrowed Jeep Cherokee with four-wheel-drive. He knew it could deal with weather, but he wasn’t confident enough in its capabilities to overrule Buster and the other guys with them, Harry Howell and Brad Cox.
Driving toward town, Charles spotted a dirt road he had noticed on the way out. “Anybody know where that goes?” he asked.
“I’ve seen it forever,” Buster said. “Don’t think I’ve ever taken it, though.”
“If it’s the one I think it is,” Brad said, “there’s a couple of old hunting cabins up there.”
Ch
arles decided and spoke in the same instant. “We’re checking it out.”
Buster objected, but Charles had the wheel. He slowed, skidding a little on the snowy road, but made the left onto the narrow dirt lane. It weaved up between stands of trees, cutting through hillsides that left steep, rocky embankments. The snow was thicker here, with less traffic to push it to the sides, and it made seeing the roadway difficult. “How far up, Brad?”
“I don’t know. Half mile, maybe.”
“Look, Charles,” Buster said. “Even if we see a cabin, it’s thick enough out here that we’ll need snowshoes to get to it.”
“It’s not that bad, Buster,” Harry said.
“And if we get stuck here, there won’t be any cars passing to flag down. It could be days before we get out.”
“I can drop you by the road,” Charles suggested.
“Dude, you know that’s not what I’m saying. I’m with you on this. But I don’t want us to get lost looking for her.”
Charles couldn’t face going back yet. If they gave up, he was convinced—even in the face of a daunting storm—he would never be able to get anybody to go out looking with him again. He wasn’t even sure he would have the energy, though he didn’t think he could stop, either. He might just wander the roads of Silver Gap until he collapsed from exhaustion. “We’ll just go a little farther. If we don’t see anything, we’ll turn around.”
“Okay, cool. Whatever.”
Buster was almost fifty, and he had a wife at home waiting for his return. She had called four times today, while they were out. Each time, Charles had wished she would stop. It hurt to know that she could call, when Clara couldn’t.
He pushed everybody’s patience longer than he should have, driving deeper into the backcountry. Buster grumbled, and Brad and Harry stopped coming to his defense. When they finally spotted the first cabin, even Charles knew he had gone too far. The cabin was on the far side of a deep hollow, and the road was completely obscured by snow. With no way to tell how high it might have drifted, he wasn’t about to drive the Jeep into it.
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