Wyatt wouldn’t be able to recall the sequence of events following the killing of the son of Horus Whiteside. They obeyed nightmare logic, causing him to question his sanity in the moment. Stress. Blood loss. Desperation. Any of these could have been responsible for his brain’s aborted attempt to sort and understand the unexplainable. He knew this much: The ambulance driver and bodyguard, Pinroth, pivoted toward him. Little more than an arm’s length away, his impassive face altered with astonishment. He started to swing the Luger pistol up at Wyatt. There would be time for one shot. One bullet exchanged between two men. Vera sprawled underneath Pinroth. Bound but not helpless, she kicked his knees. Her assault wasn’t enough to bring the large man down. Their legs entangled and he lurched backward—his gun hand flying out for balance.
Wyatt had a double advantage. He wanted to save his family more than anything on earth. And he had a better angle of fire.
He shot first.
Pinroth clasped his hands over the fountaining wound in his throat. The impassive stare slid back into place. He let his arms fall to his sides. His puppet strings were cut; he collapsed on a flailing Vera who screamed and screamed as his blood-soaked, dead weight pinned her.
Opal ignored the chaos.
Sweat beaded on her cheeks, plastered her hair wildly to her face.
If she doesn’t move, I can take him out.
Wyatt pointed the Glock.
The trigger clicked.
Empty.
What he saw then couldn’t have happened. He would never speak of it. Never admit what he had witnessed. Under the blankets, limbs bent. Too many limbs were stretching out, blindly testing their too many joints. Stiff pale hairs punctured through the sheets. Whiteside’s bony chest lifted. Inflating and deflating. His bandaged head reshaped, bulged. Gauze ripped. But it wasn’t a human face emerging. Horned spidery mouthparts chewed away the bandages.
Wyatt tore off his ski mask.
The Pitch stayed back. Frozen in awe.
Their god was being born.
Wyatt remembered what Max told him outside.
“Let him have it!” he shouted.
Opal looked at him.
With all her strength she drove the stone into Whiteside’s head.
It was her husband who dragged her away from the pile of filthy bandages. She released the stone. Her fingers sticking together. The spike of the stone nestled in what remained of a ruined skull.
“Don’t look,” he said.
And she could see him averting his gaze, his bleary eye searching the empty doorway. The Pitch fled. Their running footsteps rumbled in the hall.
The lodge suite revolved around her. Lanterns spun.
Wyatt groaned when she hugged him tighter.
She couldn’t tell which one of them needed support more. Together they limped over to their son. Adam sighed raggedly and lifted his head. Opal brushed his cheek. His skin had paled to a
milky blue, clammy and cool as if he had just surfaced after a long swim in the sea. A thick glistening clot of blood filled the gash across his chest. He hovered between states of consciousness.
But he was breathing.
“He needs a doctor. You all do.” Max was there with them. Cutting the bindings around Adam’s feet and wrists. He helped Vera to stand; freed her so she could assist him in walking the other three out of the Totem Lodge.
“Get them into the ambulance,” Max said.
He went back inside the lodge.
Here and there, through the flickering snow, the slowest followers of Horus Whiteside scattered. The fastest were already blending into the blue twilight of dawn. They wouldn’t get far.
In the middle distance, rifles boomed. Hunters preferred first light.
Vera pulled the ambulance doors shut.
Max climbed into the driver’s seat. Stuffing something into the hollow under the dashboard. He had his dog at his side. He started the motor.
“Hold tight,” he said.
He found the clinic with Opal’s directions. The windows were dark. No electricity. Unlit strands of holiday lights trimmed the roof edge. Tinsel fluttered. A plastic tree darkened a corner. But people were milling in the waiting room. Victims of the night’s attack. A doctor. Nurses.
She heard Max talking with them. He pointed at the ambulance.
“They’re in shock,” he said.
Familiar faces appeared, framed in the ambulance windows. Gentle hands led them to the exam offices. Opal pushed Adam in a foldable wheelchair.
Max tapped her shoulder.
“Please take care of Annie. I tied her leash to a fence near the entrance.”
She asked where he was going.
He was out through the doors.
He didn’t hear her question, or he’d chosen not to answer. She saw the ambulance leaving the clinic lot.
Max ditched the ambulance in front of a pizza parlor. He left his Ruger under the driver’s seat and locked the doors. He drew the zipper on his parka tight under his chin, and covered his head with the hood. He walked three blocks, following tire ruts in the highway. Splats of snow obscured the sign posted on his right. He already knew what it said. He crossed the border on foot. His steps rang out on the steel bridge. The powerful spotlights transformed the landscape into a bed of embers. Molten river waters flowed under him. At the guard station, he was terse. They were watching him. Their scrutiny made his skin itch. He slid them his passport. “I’m taking a vacation,” he said. “Visiting friends to ring in the New Year.” No tobacco. No liquor. No firearms.
“When will you be returning?”
“One week,” he lied.
A guard scooted back his office chair. He approached the inspection window. He was fat, fifty, mustached.
“What’s going on over there?”
He didn’t need to ask where. American Rapids was burning in the semidarkness two miles out. Max’s parka carried a patina of soot.
“I was only passing through,” he said.
“You must’ve seen something.”
“A gas station blew up. I think a truck hit the pumps.”
The guard nodded. He handed back his documents.
“Enjoy your trip.”
“Which way is the bus station?”
The guard pointed to a streetlight.
“Turn there. You’ll see the building on your left.”
Max thanked him. He didn’t feel safe until he bought his
ticket, climbed aboard the idling bus, and sank into his seat. A handful of other passengers. No one looked up as he went down the aisle.
Nobody asked about the satchel slung over Max’s shoulder.
Nobody asked to see what was inside.
When the appointed time came, the driver took the wheel, closed the doors, and drove off. The coach cabin was warm. To the riders sealed within, the only detectable sounds were the hum of the engine, whirring tires, and the timed thump of the wipers as they cleared away a little snow. The sunlit air glittered.
Arms around the satchel, Max was already asleep.