by Ron Ripley
A long, agonized scream caused her blanket to flutter.
“We’re leaving,” Shane answered.
Patience frowned, shook her head, and said, “No. You cannot. Broken Nose is too excited. The three of you may satisfy him, but I doubt it.”
“Two of us,” Shane said, nodding to Danny.
Danny started the snowmobile, its engine roaring gloriously into life.
“Three,” Patience corrected. “I have gathered another for him from Nutaq.”
“What?” Shane demanded, taking a step closer to the girl.
She drifted back, a smile dancing across her face. “Yes. The other who had fled. His name is Mark. Matthew was his brother.”
A joyous cry, sounding from the clubhouse, caused Shane to tear his attention away from the dead girl.
Five shapes stood by the van, and one of them was undeniably Broken Nose, the moon’s light oddly reflected on his mask. The four Indians around him were tall, dressed in deerskins and breastplates made of polished animal bone. They were armed with tomahawks and war clubs.
Shane looked at Danny, the younger man’s face rigid with fear.
A warm, thrilling sensation rippled through Shane, and he grinned.
“Get out of here,” Shane said, dropping his bag.
Danny nodded, shifted the snowmobile into gear and tore off, a fantail of snow arcing into the air.
“You should run,” Patience suggested. “You might make it into the cabin.”
“I don’t run,” Shane said. He walked towards the clubhouse.
“Look at him,” one of the Indians said in his own tongue. “He wants to die!”
The others laughed.
“Who are we then to not assist him?” Broken Nose asked. He gestured with a long hand, and two of the men walked towards Shane. Their legs passed through the snow, not a single flake disturbed by their long strides.
One of the men, the top half of his face painted black, let out a yell, raised his war club, and sprinted towards Shane.
Shane, who had fought more than few men, both living and dead, ducked beneath the blow, and brought the iron in an upward arc. The ghost screamed and vanished, causing his partner to hesitate.
“Will you not come forward?” Shane asked, speaking in their language.
The dead man stopped, glancing back at the others and at Broken Nose.
“Are you afraid of pain?” Shane asked, filling his words with disdain.
The ghost stiffened.
“Ah, you are,” Shane said, chuckling. “Go then, little one. Let a better man come forward to speak with me.”
Furious, the ghost screamed and dashed forward, feinting to the left and bringing his tomahawk in with an undercut. The blow nearly missed Shane as he stepped into the attack, thrusting his iron forward.
Broken Nose nodded, the bones and teeth jangling as the other two men advanced towards Shane.
Here’s hoping their bones are far enough away for me to get back to the cabin, Shane thought. Then before any other ideas could cross his mind, the dead were upon him.
His movements were fluid, muscle memory kicking in from knife training a decade earlier. The heavy, awkward piece of iron in his hand was a far cry from the K-Bar fighting blade he had trained on, but he wielded as if it were.
Shane dropped to a knee and thrust up and through the midsection of one. As the surviving attacker swung at him, Shane rolled beneath the blow and slashed out, the iron passing through the Indian’s calf.
And Shane was alone with Broken Nose.
Chapter 36: Questions Without Answers
Doreen had collapsed after Mark had vanished, and Rowan had struggled to keep from doing the same. He forced himself to focus on her, getting Doreen to her feet and bringing her towards the shore. Together they had stumbled along, numb not only from the cold, but also from the sheer horror of what they had witnessed. He had called for help on the radio, for someone from the station to meet him at Doreen’s house. Rowan had asked for the State Police, too. Anything and anyone who could help.
When they scrambled up onto the snow-covered beach, Doreen sank down to her knees. Her head hung down, and Rowan hunkered beside her.
“Doreen,” he said, hating the cold professionalism in his voice. “Doreen, hon, we need to get you inside. I have people meeting us at your place. We have to figure out what’s going on here. What happened?”
She lifted her chin up and stared at him, her eyes barren of any spark.
“He was taken, Rowan,” she said, the words flat and without inflection. “He’s gone. There’s no getting him back. You know the stories.”
“It’s why they’re stories,” Rowan responded, forcing her up. “It could have been anything.”
She remained silent as they trudged through the snow.
Then she stiffened and refused to move.
“Doreen,” Rowan started.
She silenced him with a gesture, her face turning towards the lake.
And Rowan heard it, too.
The sound of an engine. A snowmobile.
Rowan twisted around and caught sight of a headlight. It raced along Nutaq.
With fumbling hands, Rowan pulled his flashlight free from his belt. He managed to twist it on, the beam bursting into life. He waved it back and forth until the snowmobile changed its course towards them.
“It could be Matt,” Doreen whispered.
“It’s probably another rider,” Rowan said, “but they might have seen Matt. Come on.”
They followed their tracks back to the shore as the snowmobile roared. In the moonlight, Rowan could see it was an Arctic Cat, a brand new orange Snow Pro.
But the rider was neither Matt nor Mark Rushford.
It was Danny Nordman, crouched low over the controls.
He’s not going to stop, Rowan realized, and he yanked Doreen back and to the left before Danny smashed into a small rise in the shore. The young man was thrown over the top of the snowmobile, smashing through the windshield.
Rowan left Doreen, sprinting for Danny. The young man was bleeding from a dozen cuts and slashes, his face a bloody mess. Half of his scalp hung off to the right. His face was bright red, and Rowan saw, for the first time, the thin clothes Danny wore. He didn’t have a helmet or gloves. No jacket or hat.
Danny’s eyelids fluttered, his lips parted and revealed a mouthful of shattered teeth.
“Rowan,” Danny mumbled.
“Yeah,” Rowan said, nodding. “It’s me, Danny. You’re going to be okay.”
Danny let out a hoarse croak, and it took Rowan a moment to realize it was a laugh. The young man’s mangled lips spread into a grin, blood oozing out of wide splits in the flesh.
“I am,” Danny hissed. “I know I am. I’m not there. I’m here. Here!”
The young man’s eyes rolled back in his head as he passed out.
Rowan turned to Doreen, but she had curled herself into a fetal position.
“God dammit,” Rowan swore. He took his coat off and put it over Danny’s still form. Shivering, Rowan took the radio off his belt, keyed it, and called for a pair of ambulances. When he received confirmation of the dispatch, he concentrated on Doreen again.
“Doreen,” he said, crouching down beside her.
She stared out at the lake, refusing to respond.
Rowan sighed, sat down beside her, and gently gathered her into his arms. As he held onto her, she began to sob. Deep, wracking sounds, and each one pierced his own heart until he too wept.
Chapter 37: Outside of Preston Road
Frank sat in his car, the engine idling and the hazards flashing. He had his hands resting on the steering wheel while leaning against it, staring down the faint outline of Preston Road. A State plow had built an impressive wall of snow across the entrance of the road.
Not that it matters, Frank thought. The storm had dropped two feet of snow on most of New Hampshire, and Preston Road was included. There were faint signs of a plow’s passage, but not enough of t
he road had been cleared for Frank to risk a drive. Plus there was a chain across the entrance, and Frank didn’t carry bolt cutters with him.
Probably should, he told himself. Should probably keep a whole kit in the trunk if I’m going to make a habit out of this.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, then sat back. Frank reached into his coat pocket and retrieved the gold button Jack was bound to.
Here goes nothing, Frank thought, and he put it down on the passenger seat.
“Jack,” Frank said.
Nothing happened.
“Jack,” Frank repeated.
Still, Jack didn’t appear.
Frank groaned, let out a long breath and said again, “Jack!”
“What?” came Jack’s voice from behind him.
Frank jumped in his seat, the quick jerk of his body causing the seatbelt to snap tight.
Looking into his rearview mirror, Frank saw Jack. The dead man wore an expression of innocence. “You’re a pain.”
“Me?” Jack asked, and then he grinned. “Aye, Frank, I am indeed. We’re here, then, my boy?”
“We are,” Frank said, reaching up and adjusting the seatbelt.
Jack looked around, sniffed in disdain, and then gave a predatory smile. “This is a wild place.”
“Is it?” Frank asked.
“Oh aye,” Jack said, his voice dropping low. “Can you not feel it, Frank?”
Frank shook his head.
“Oh, there are red men here. Savages. Foul beasts that wear the cloaks of men, but have not our hearts,” Jack said. He eased forward, through the seat to smile at Frank. “Terrible deeds have been committed here. Tortures and murders. Rapes and pillaging. And not on the savages’ part alone. No, my kin have done their share here. This place stinks with it. It would be best to put it all to the match and let the good God purge the land.”
“That’s all well and good, Jack,” Frank said, eyeing the dead man warily. “And you’re welcome to put it to the torch, once we get my friend out of there.”
“And here is why I like your company so much, my boy,” Jack chortled. “Willing to destroy the world for a friend. Aye, I’ve had a few like that in my day. Bound by the King’s shilling we were. Brotherhood of the coin. Course we would have fought for a Hessian lord just as well, but the King, well, he paid better now, didn’t he.”
“If you say so, Jack,” Frank said.
“So I do, so I do,” Jack murmured. He turned his attention to Preston Road. “Your friend is down there, in the thick of it?”
“He usually is,” Frank answered.
Jack chuckled. “Then old Jack Whyte will find him, so I will. You’ll be seeing me shortly.”
And with those words, Jack vanished.
“I hope so,” Frank said, picking the button up and pocketing it once more. He stared at the entrance to Preston Road, and he waited.
Chapter 38: A Game He Doesn’t Want to Play
They stood facing each other, less than twenty feet separating them.
Shane knew in his gut that it was only because Broken Nose wished it to be so.
“You speak our tongue,” Broken Nose said into the silence between them.
“I do,” Shane responded.
“How?”
“Fate,” Shane said.
Broken Nose nodded, and the frozen, twisted smile on the mask disturbed Shane in a way he hadn’t felt before. It was a sickening sensation, primal and instinctual. A raw, rank taste burned in the back of his throat and fear choked his thoughts.
“You are here for me?” Broken Nose asked.
“No,” Shane answered. “I don’t care about you at all.”
“Do you not?” Broken Nose’s voice carried a hint of surprise.
Shane shook his head. “I would have been gone if Patience hadn’t told me about the boy.”
“Ah,” Broken Nose said, satisfaction filling the word. “You wish to help him.”
“Yes,” Shane replied.
“What will you do to retrieve him?” Broken Nose asked.
“Whatever I have to,” Shane said.
“Even your death?” Broken Nose questioned.
“I’d prefer yours,” Shane said.
Broken Nose laughed, his wide shoulders shaking, the bearskin cloak jumping. From behind the man, Patience appeared.
“I wish she had taken you,” Broken Nose said, the mirth gone from his voice. “Your heart I would have liked to eat. But I will feast upon your spirit instead. If it be so.”
Shane resisted the urge to look around, to make certain the dead he had disrupted hadn’t come back.
“I will allow you to try and save the boy,” Broken Nose said after a moment.
Shane hid his surprise. “And how do I do that?”
“Here,” Broken Nose said, gesturing with his hand at the cabins and the wood, “my bones have been tucked away. He is with them. Find my bones, find the boy. We will hunt you, of course.”
“Of course,” Shane said. “And I’ll hunt you.”
Broken Nose chuckled. “I would ask for nothing less. I have not been so entertained since we shaped Patience.”
Shane glanced at the dead girl and saw her smile up at Broken Nose. He watched as the dead man put a hand on her small shoulder.
“She helped us, you know,” Broken Nose said, looking down at her. “When we came for her people, it was Patience who finally let us in through the back. It was she who helped us take them all and to kill the weakest. And when it was her turn for the trial, she was the strongest one by far.”
Shane repressed a shudder of revulsion, and his face burned with anger.
“She helped you?” Shane asked, each word short and clipped.
“Yes,” Patience answered. “We had met before when I was tending the sheep with my brothers. They were afraid of him. But not me. He whispered to me, told me what I could become. How strong I would be, if I could be. How none of my family would ever be bigger or stronger. And the minister, he would fear me.”
Broken Nose looked at Shane. “Are you ready?”
Shane gave a curt nod.
“Then I shall see you in the darkness, stranger,” Broken Nose said, and turned to walk back into the clubhouse.
Patience advanced towards him, giving him a smile tinged with madness.
“He likes you, Shane,” she said, coming to a stop only a foot away. “Can you not see? Why worry about this boy? Let Broken Nose break him. If he is strong, the boy will be with us. I know he wishes to add you to me as well. We can serve him together. He might even let you out, to range through the snow, to hunt those who are too weak. Would that not be a glorious time, Shane?”
Her eyes gleamed as the moonlight passed through them, her thin face more the visage of death than that of a little girl.
“Come, Shane,” she whispered, snaking a small hand out from her blanket and extending it to him. “Take my hand, and we shall go to him together, you will tell him you wish to pass the test, and he will embrace you.”
Shane smiled.
“Of course he will,” Shane whispered, and he thrust the iron blade through her.
Chapter 39: Humored and Ignored
Few things in life irritated Rowan more than being ignored. One of those was being humored.
In less than half an hour, he had suffered through both, and he knew that it was only the beginning.
Emergency personnel had arrived at Doreen’s, and she and Danny had been taken away by ambulance. Which had left Rowan in the company of his colleagues. Men and women he had known for years. People he had worked with and helped through hard times.
And they had looked at him with mixed expressions of surprise and pity as he described what had happened to Mark Rushford on the ice.
It was with little surprise that he saw Captain Allen Higgins enter the State Police mobile command center, where Rowan was seated. Rowan suppressed a groan and stood up.
The captain motioned for Rowan to sit down, and he did so. Hi
ggins took the chair opposite him and smiled, an expression that was meant to show care and consideration.
Rowan took it for what he knew it was; a paternal gesture for a wayward son.
"How are you, Rowan?" Higgins asked, taking his hat off and scratching at the thick, silver hair. Higgins' face was red from the cold, the lines around his mouth and eyes looking as if they had been etched by the harsh New England sun over centuries instead of decades. His eyes were a sharp, bitter blue and could cut through to the quick of a question, like the man's mind.
Too many people had mistaken Higgins for a country bumpkin over the years, and more than a few were up in Concord, still at the prison.
“Upset.” Rowan answered.
“Why?” Higgins asked, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back.
“I should be out on the ice, looking for whatever took Mark Rushford and finding out what happened to Matt and Danny,” Rowan snapped.
Higgins raised an eyebrow.
“Sorry, Cap,” Rowan muttered.
Higgins nodded. He looked at Rowan and said, “I don’t think you should be.”
Rowan was too surprised to respond to the statement.
Higgins seemed to have expected Rowan’s reaction because he followed the statement up quickly.
"I know you were sweet on Doreen's kids," Higgins continued. "Word gets ‘round. You know that. And you always did right by the boys after their father ran out. Not to mention, I've heard from reliable sources, that Rushford senior may have lost a couple of teeth in a Manchester bar because of you."
Rowan felt his face redden.
"Now, putting all of those little facts together," Higgins said, "I don't think you're in much shape to go rushing off looking for the boys. I think the risks you'd take would be unacceptable. You might put yourself in danger, which is bad enough, but you could put your brothers and sisters, here, at risk, too. That would be inexcusable."
Rowan remained silent.
“Now what they’ve told me so far,” Higgins said, “sounds unbelievable. But they’re young, the officers out there. Nutaq’s just stories to them. Campfire tales to scare each other with. But you and I, we know better, don’t we?”