Something was wrong. Max didn’t want to alarm the young woman any more than necessary. She already seemed to be on edge. He turned from the window and let the curtain fall-back into place.
Two men running into a blizzard.
He’d watched them go.
The second man slipped, fell. The first man never broke stride. Never looked back. Zigzagging. Then the fallen man launched himself off again from a three-point stance. Something elongated in his hand. A gun? Or a knife? All Max saw was a clawing blur. The men crossed the highway. A truck waited. A dirty purple plume of exhaust reared upward and the wind obliterated it. A scarlet, dragon-eyed flash of brake lights. Max’s hearing wasn’t so acute, but it sounded like an engine growling south.
Wyatt hadn’t come to check on the electrical peculiarities. He hadn’t called back, either. Max rang the office twice and received no answer.
Definitely not good.
Max’s inquisitiveness was getting the better of him, too. He wanted to search the woman’s luggage. He wanted to see if the stone was there, to feel its presence. The possibility he might actually encounter it after all these years . . .
“I could go take a look inside your room,” he said.
She stared at him. Silent.
“Maybe I could figure out what’s awry”
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“You’d be surprised. I’m fairly handy. That’s a by-product of traveling as much as I do. You learn how to fix things. Minor glitches.”
“I have a feeling it’s not minor.”
I’ll bet you do, Max thought. When he’d seen her exit her room in a rush—the puzzled frown, her jacket left behind—he hid his revolver under the mattress and hurried out. Lighting a cigar on his way through the door, he’d have a plausible excuse for being there on the sidewalk during this icebox of a day.
“Annie likes you,” he said.
The Irish setter had cornered their visitor and now she flopped on her back and exposed a taut pink belly for scratching. The woman, who told him her name was Vera, squatted down and obliged. The rub of skin through silky hair crackled with the winter static and seemed to comfort them both.
“She sure is a happy dog,” Vera said.
“We take care of each other. I think I have the easier part of the job.” Max unpacked a box of liver treats and passed them to Vera for doling out.
The setter executed what appeared to be an impossible physical move, flipping over and spinning around in a swirl of russet fur. She gobbled the snacks and licked Vera’s hands clean of crumbs.
“Good to have a companion on a road trip,” Vera said.
“You aren’t going it alone this Christmas Eve?”
“Yes ... well, no, not actually. I have a friend stopping by later.”
“What brings you up north?”
“I’m visiting an aunt in Winnipeg.”
“But not in time for the holiday?”
“No, I hadn’t planned on any storms. This one slowed me down. I’m not going to make it.”
“Ah, that’s a shame.”
“How about you?”
“This is my whole family, Ann-Margret and me. We bop around the country. Stay as long as we care to, leave when we like. Vagabonds. We make it a habit to spend every Christmas week in American Rapids. For sentimental reasons. I’ll be working, too.”
“What do you do?”
“I write horror stories.”
Vera laughed. “Remind me to tell you my horror story sometime.”
“I’d love to hear it.” Max meant those words. He wondered if he could get her talking. He’d temporarily lost contact with the stone’s whereabouts after the coven left Corvallis. He wavered when it came to approaching the women. He thought it might be best to watch them for a while. Frankly, he didn’t even know for certain if they had the stone. There was no rush. He had time. Wrong, of course, on both counts. He’d been stuck in the Good Samaritan Regional Medical Center when they decamped. The pain in his gut attacked relentlessly. It started in his lower back, below the ribs, igniting like a fuse along his spine then blazing outward at his shoulders. Crucified on an invisible cross of fire, he’d stumbled into the emergency room, holding tight to Annie’s leash as he collapsed across a row of waiting-room chairs. By the time he got out, the women were gone.
He discovered they’d relocated to the Midwest. Tracked them as far as Chicago. But then, nothing. He bribed a real estate agent for the listings the group had been looking at—family dwellings on the South and West sides. When Max drove to those first addresses, he was surprised. The houses were large enough that the whole coven could live together, as they had on the commune in Oregon. But the neighbors would certainly notice their presence: a clan of women, mostly white, wearing long handmade dresses, up all hours of the night, living together with no men and no children. Work wouldn’t bring them into contact with anyone in the community, either. They ran an online Wiccan store. Sold candles, herbal spell.mixes, oils, and Druidic jewelry. The whole operation could be moved at a day’s notice with a U-Haul. After reading
about the murders, he realized he had their final address in his pocket. Second to the last on his list, but by then the Pitch had gotten to them.
“What are those drawings?” Vera asked.
“Sorry?”
Vera pointed over his shoulder.
He’d forgotten to erase his symbols on the door. The damned curtain, too. He felt the chalk residue on his fingertips. Saw a smear of white powder on his sleeve. The pulse in his neck hammered. A ripple of nausea passed through him.
“I must have neglected to ...”
He fumbled with the buttons of his sweater. One pulled loose and he closed it in his sweating palm. “At my age, a man sometimes finds himself doing strange things.” He offered a weak, unconvincing smile. “Inexplicable acts.”
Vera reassessed him. He could almost see the calculations floating in the air above her head. She’d had her guard up, dropped it, and now she was chastising herself for making that mistake. Old men can be liars, too. They can be crafty, dangerous, and above all else, patient. Weren’t old men the most diabolical on earth? This young woman needed to look no further than her current predicament for an example. A well-ripened Horus Whiteside pursued her with a vengeance. He was more ancient even than Max. But she couldn’t possibly know that. Could she?
If she did know more than she was letting on, then the signs on the door would have sent her warning sirens screaming. She wouldn’t be wasting time posing questions to him. What he saw looked like innocent confusion. Maybe with a touch of paranoia added. She couldn’t be that good of an actress. No, she still stumbled blessedly in the dark. At least, he hoped that was the case.
“I’m going back to my room,” she said.
The labyrinth he’d slashed in ivory chalk under the peephole— she stood up and marched straight for it.
“Allow me to apologize for my ... artwork. It’s a kind of therapy,” he said.
“Thanks for letting me use your phone. I need to get moving”
He stepped in front of her. “I have an obsessive compulsive disorder, you see. These harmless drawings make me feel safe in unfamiliar places.”
Her voice cut to a whisper. “Please let me go.”
How could he stop her? He wouldn’t dare lay a hand on her. And she was young, strong, a fraction of his age and about the same weight. He could see her muscular thighs through her jeans. He wasn’t so decrepit he didn’t notice a handsome athletic woman. Color flamed in her cheeks. His mouth opened and closed. He could think of no verbal way of making her stay. He moved aside.
She left.
Ann-Margret whimpered.
“Easy, girl, it’s okay. You wouldn’t think a writer would be at a loss for words. What was I going to do? Pull a gun on her?”
Through the walls he heard the dull thump of a door closing. He went to the window. With two fingers he opened a slit in the curtain.
Vera, jacket on, hands thrust into the pockets, shoulders hunched. She walked quickly past. She rounded the corner. Heading for the office. Would she tell Wyatt and Opal about his chalk symbols?
Max lifted the edge of the mattress with his knee. He slid out the Ruger, tucked it into his waistband. He went into the bathroom and wet the end of a towel. He wiped the door and curtains. He was drying them when someone knocked. Rapid, loud knocks. The sound made him jump. Ann-Margret barked sharply and backpedaled between the beds.
Max rested his palm on the Ruger’s grip.
A voice, Vera’s, called out, “Max, open up. It’s Vera. Max?”
He tugged his sweater forward to conceal the revolver.
Turned the deadbolt.
The cold wind hardly had a chance to invade the room. Only a few granular snowflakes were able to sneak past the jamb before
Vera rushed in and slammed the door behind her. She rested her back against it, closed her eyes, and sighed.
“What is it?” he asked.
“You’re not going to believe this.”
“Tell me.”
“I was going to the office. When I got about ten steps away, I saw a tall man coming out . . .”
“Did he say something?”
She shook her head.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand why—”
“He was carrying an ax.”