51

MIKE SAT WITH PROFESSOR Dye on a fallen log deep in the forest and shook his head in amazement at the scene just a hundred yards in front of them. In the diffuse, failing light of the late-November afternoon, a light made even more unreliable by the ever-present fog and the thickness of the trees and vegetation, they could see a log cabin, obviously of recent construction, with a thin plume of smoke rising from the red-brick chimney on the northern side of the house.

“Is it possible someone is living here?” the professor whispered to Mike.

He shrugged. “As unlikely as that seems, I don’t know what other explanation there could be,” he answered, trying to reconcile the Currier and Ives scene with the remote location and the horrific events of the past few days. The contrast was jarring.

It had taken more than two hours of constant hiking to reach this area. Progress had been slowed by Professor Dye’s age and his inability to move quickly through the thick brush, but Mike knew he would not have been able to make much better time even if he had been alone—the terrain was simply too rugged to allow for anything more than a plodding, deliberate pace unless you were willing to risk a broken ankle or worse.

Following the trail had been easy, even for an unskilled tracker like Mike. The monster, or whatever the hell it was, had smashed its way through the woods, presumably carrying at least one body and possibly making more than one trip. It made no effort at covering its tracks. Whether the lack of stealth was intentional or not Mike had no way of knowing, but it would have been a simple matter for them to find this location even without the aerial photographs Professor Dye had obtained through his research earlier this morning.

Now, sitting in the forest under what Mike hoped was sufficient cover to prevent them from being seen, the two men studied the original village of Paskagankee spread out before them in a huge clearing. Mike and Ken could see crumbled and broken-down remains of stone and granite foundations that had supported the homes and outbuildings making up the tiny village more than four hundred years ago. Looking through high-powered binoculars, the layout of the village was clear.

The new house, the one that had taken them quite by surprise when they first glimpsed it, had been built only within the last few years; that was obvious. The cabin had been constructed on the eastern edge of what had once been the village proper, built from native timber felled almost right on the spot where the home stood. Huge slabs of granite formed the foundation, just as they had with the original buildings.

Atop the granite lay a small but apparently well-constructed single-story home, maybe fifty feet long by twenty feet wide. Mike wondered how many people were living here—probably no more than two in a home this size, but there was no way to know for sure.

The front door had been constructed precisely in the center of the home and was accessible by a short stairway leading to a farmer’s porch which spanned the length of the house. On either side of the door was a double-hung window. Ratty-looking mismatched curtains had been pulled across each window and blocked any view of the cabin’s interior. The side of the house featuring the fieldstone chimney faced Mike and Professor Dye and was windowless.

Mike could see Ken studying the building as well. The professor looked pale and wan, even more so than usual, and Mike hoped he was feeling all right. It had been a grueling hike out here after a difficult morning, and it was plain the man wasn’t used to a lot of physical activity. The trip, although probably not much more than two miles from Warren Sprague’s big open field, had taken more than two hours, thanks to the rough and unspoiled terrain.

Now, sitting in the failing light staring at an incongruously modern-looking cabin constructed in the middle of nowhere, Mike considered how to proceed. He had his service weapon and a spare, tucked into a holster above his right ankle. Professor Dye was unarmed. Mike suspected two weapons would be no match against whatever had unleashed the onslaught of death and destruction on his little town.

The temptation to retreat and return tomorrow with more personnel—bringing the entire Paskagankee Police Department along with as many State Police reinforcements as he could wheedle out of Portland—was strong. An early-morning return would allow them the luxury of time to formulate a plan, whereas anything he decided to do now would be hurried and ill-conceived, with nightfall approaching rapidly.

Working against a return tomorrow, though, were two factors. First, the professor had told him that bringing more people into the pending confrontation would only succeed in putting more people in harm’s way. The professor seemed to be one hundred percent certain he could put a stop to whatever was happening in Paskagankee, and for better or worse, he had convinced Mike he knew what he was talking about.

Secondly, and much more importantly to Mike, Sharon might be here somewhere, maybe in that log cabin just a hundred yards away, possibly alive and probably injured, most likely gravely injured. He knew that if she was now still alive, she probably would not be by tomorrow morning. He couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t take the chance that Sharon Dupont would die overnight while he developed the perfect plan and waited for the perfect conditions to attempt a rescue, especially considering he had little idea what might even constitute the perfect plan.

So waiting was out of the question. Whatever was going to happen here was going to happen tonight, within the next couple of hours. Mike wondered if he would survive to see another sunrise and found he didn’t really care. The only thing that would make tomorrow worth seeing would be finding and rescuing Sharon. He tried to convince himself he needed to rescue the rookie officer because she was his responsibility, and although he knew that to be true, he also knew he was lying to himself if he thought that was the only reason.

He was falling in love with the young woman, and he strongly suspected she felt the same way about him. Love was an emotion Mike had given up on ever feeling again after Kate packed up her things and left, and the fact that he had found a spark with this beautiful girl—who was damaged, as he was, just in a different way—made it that much harder to accept that she could be dead. If Sharon was dead, then he didn’t care whether he lived or died, either.

Mike’s mind was racing. He wondered whether the search team he called in to canvass Warren Sprague’s field had found any evidence regarding the O’Bannon and Shaw situation. He had radioed back to dispatch just before beginning the long hike into the forest, requesting as many officers as possible for a thorough search of the area surrounding the severed arm. Hopefully there were no more gruesome surprises awaiting the team.

Mike shook his head to clear his mind. Time was running out, and daydreaming about the scene at Sprague’s farm wasn’t going to get anything accomplished. He looked around and the clearing seemed noticeably darker than it had been just a couple of minutes ago. He glanced at Ken Dye and found the professor gazing back at him unblinkingly, waiting for guidance on what to do next.

“Wait for me right here,” he told the professor. “I’m going to get a closer look at that house and when I do, hopefully we’ll find out exactly what we’re up against.” Mike waited for the professor to argue, to say that he needed to approach the house as well, in order to do whatever mysterious thing he needed to do.

Instead of a protestation from the professor, though, Mike saw the man’s eyes widen in terror. A moan escaped Dye’s lips. Mike turned his attention back to the cabin and froze in utter amazement. His jaw dropped as his brain attempted to process what he was seeing. It was horrifying and exhilarating at the same time.