She wasn’t going to stay there and die. No way. Vera had come this far and she had the stone, it was hers, not Max’s or the Larkins’. It was her bargaining chip. She’d decide what to do with it. If half of what Max said about the stone was true, then the thing was money. She had to leave ... she needed breathing room, sleep, space to think ... she’d figure out a way to peddle the stone. Maybe she’d return to Chicago? Find Chan and hash out a deal. She wasn’t getting back together with him. She wasn’t that stupid. But she might persuade him to sell the relic to somebody other than the Pitch. They’d do business and go their separate ways.
First, she had to get out of Dodge.
She pressed the gas pedal. Watched the speedometer needle creep. Twenty. Twenty-five. At thirty, the rear end started to fishtail. She eased off.
Twenty-five.
Twenty.
The highway was empty. Traffic wasn’t going to be the problem; snow was. But if she took her time, she’d put miles between her and whatever the hell it was that exploded across from the Rendezvous. And whoever Max shot dead in the parking lot. She’d seen the two bodies lying there, blood staining the ice under them like dirty oil. The Pitch, she was sure. If she sat tight, they’d
come for the stone and kill everyone in the room like they did in Chicago. She needed to take the offensive and go it alone. The Larkins seemed like good people. She didn’t want them getting murdered. No expert in occult affairs, she’d heard and seen enough. She was leaving while she still had a chance.
Thunk.
Something hit the passenger door.
She turned to the sound. Outside the frosty side window, the last glow of the Totem Lodge’s yellowy lights was vanishing. A dingy field came next. She checked her mirrors. Snow-blotched gusts; the totem pole leaned into the wind.
Thunk.
This time the sound of impact came from behind.
It was sharp and dull.
What could do that?
A thin dark shape flew over the roof of the Camaro. It landed a short distance ahead of her in the oncoming lane. It wasn’t very big, because it disappeared completely under the layer of fallen snow on the pavement. Hoping to see what it was, she rolled down her window and sat up higher as she drove by.
A slit in the snow—that’s all. Strange.
She closed the window and kept going. The ride was getting rough. Where the fuck were the snowplows? The Camaro bumped along as if she were following a rutted country road. But this was a county highway. She’d driven the other direction into American Rapids a few hours ago. Road conditions weren’t this piss-poor.
She saw the shattered stumps along the roadside.
Toppled telephone poles.
Power lines writhed and spit sparks in the ditch. The frozen turf had been ripped apart, the ground scarred.
What the fuck happened?
She looked around in disbelief.
“Oh shit!”
She slammed her brakes.
Ahead, the road ended. A giant mound, higher than the roof of
her car, blocked the way. For a second, she thought it was a snowdrift. But there were logs sticking out of it...
The car skidded, slowing down. She still had control.
Only something else was wrong.
It felt like she was driving into a series of deep potholes. The chassis rocked so hard she thought the doors might fly off. And that wall of timber and ice was getting closer. She clenched her teeth. Eyes shut tight.
The car stopped.
Engine running. Her front bumper kissed the roadblock. Over the Camaro’s hood, the round top of a telephone pole pointed straight at her face. She could count the tree rings.
Jesus.
She was shaking.
She opened her door and climbed out. Her legs were like water. She hung onto the car for balance. She walked around the back to check for damage.
And saw an arrow sticking out of her trunk.
It was buried in the metal.
She touched the colorful vanes at the back. Neon orange and lime.
Circling the car, she gasped.
Her rear tire—most of it was gone. Shredded.
The wheel rim was damaged, too.
They’d shot her tire out with an arrow.
Another arrow had punched through the passenger door. Bright tail colors, the same as the trunk. She opened the door. Felt it sticking. She yanked and it came loose. A hole in the bucket seat spilled foam. She couldn’t tug the arrow out of the door. Four razor blades joined at the point. A hunting tip ...
In the distance, a motor growled.
She whirled around.
Her eyes searched in the veils of snow.
She raced around the car and got back inside. She reversed. Aimed the Camaro back toward town. She couldn’t change a tire
out here. She had to drive the way it was. Drive back to the motel before ...
She saw a dark blot in the distance. '
Moving low to the ground, getting bigger, but too small to be a car.
A snowmobile. One rider.
About twenty yards from the Camaro, the rider turned the snowmobile ninety degrees and stopped. He jumped off and ducked behind the machine. She watched him unsling something from over his shoulder: a form half-rifle, half-crucifix. A crossbow.
Before Vera could tap the gas pedal, an arrow was flying.
It penetrated between her headlights. The bladed tip clanged under the hood. She jerked involuntarily against her seatback.
She floored the gas. Tires spun. The damaged wheel shrieked. But she didn’t go anywhere.
The windshield cracked. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the deflected arrow bounce off into the fields.
“Oh my God, oh my God .. .”
She dropped into first gear. She forced herself to press the gas pedal slowly. The Camaro lurched, started rolling forward. She could feel the rear of the car hanging down over the missing tire. The steering wheel vibrated so much it hurt her hands. She shifted into second, heading straight for the snowmobile.
The rider’s head popped up, surprised.
Vera shifted again, giving the engine more gas.
The rider scrambled onto his machine. His masked head swiveled to gauge her approach. She wasn’t going very fast. She couldn’t make much speed riding on a bent wheel. He hunkered low, his glove twisting the throttle and—
She hit him.