Mark stood in the doorway of the train station, dismayed. The lights of the ambulance faded as it made its way back through the deep tracks that had led it here.
He barely stirred. All he heard was the ghostly whisper of the wind. It seemed to possess a life all its own, rising and falling until it grew tired of the game, and the blustery afternoon stilled to that disquieting calm.
“Will he be all right?” a tiny voice asked.
Mark jumped. He didn’t even notice Simon Kovacs coming up the platform. He raised a hand. “Stay back, son.”
“But—”
“Stay back.”
Mark motioned to the Explorer. Simon turned away. The snowboard dragged behind him.
Mark turned about and shone the light on the dead woman. Although an official identification would follow, he held no doubt who it was.
Again those dead fingers touched him. They scurried up his back, chilling him.
Eyes. Eyes everywhere.
Mark started to go, looking every bit as haggard, every bit as frightened, as he was. He peered up and down the platform, when a sudden gust swept past him. He thought he heard something in that strange wind, thought he heard his name.
He turned to the boy in the vehicle. Maybe he had heard it, too.
Mark Pedersen listened.
Heard the wind … and then nothing.