CHAPTER FIFTY--ONE

THE DESCENT BECAME EXCEEDINGLY DIFFICULT. THEY MOVED IN deep shadows along the ridge that was faintly lighted by a phosphorescent glow. Ron turned abruptly and headed east, still descending. Chandal was close to panic. In the confused dimensions of night, they had lost all sense of how far they were from Mrs. Taylor’s house. There were steep drops and ridges in the side of the mountain, and as they reached each new level, they expected to see the house, but it was never there. With each disappointment, their fear increased. Kristy had begun to cry again, and Ron finally could not carry her any further.

Chandal fell exhausted to the ground and began to cry. “I can’t go on,” she shrilled. “I can’t. You go on. Take Kristy.”

“For God’s sakes,” Ron pleaded. “We have to get to the car.”

“I can’t. I can’t move.”

“Please, Del. We’re almost there.”

“No, you go... leave me.”

But Ron would not leave her. Eventually he brought her to her feet, and they ran a bit farther, to the crest of another hill. Still the house was not in sight.

“How much farther?” breathed Chandal.

“Just a little more... a little more.”

Cries rose from a dozen places on the mountain, lifting from the rocks on the opposite sides of the ridge, from the shadows of trees, echoing back and forth until the whole landscape seemed to be afire with anger.

“Del, get down.” Ron shoved Chandal onto the ground and knelt beside her, still holding Kristy in his arms. Three figures appeared above them at the top of the cliffs, halted in torchlight for a moment in quick consultation, and then disappeared over the rocks.

The searchers made no effort to be silent, hollering back and forth to each other, cutting through the underbrush with long blades. They moved in waves, leaving no stone unturned. As they combed a section of hillside, they moved on, but always one or two stayed behind to make sure no backtracking could be accomplished.

They sent jackals running into the night, flushed birds and lizards from their hiding places, drove anything alive out into the open.

Torchlight flickered here—there, almost everywhere. Now alert voices, speaking in low tones had moved closer. They were close. Damn close.

“Del, we have to move.”

He helped her to her feet. Exhausted, they pushed on. A small path lay ahead. They traveled it for a while, saw torchlight ahead, and quickly dropped over the side and into the underbrush.

A little further on, Chandal again collapsed. She was crying helplessly now, her cheeks glistening with tears.

Ron lowered Kristy to the ground beside her mother. He turned to stare into the darkness. Fragments of voices were everywhere, the shrill cries of people involved in a hunt.

After a moment he glanced down at Kristy’s ashen face resting on Chandal’s breast. She appeared to be in a coma. Chandal lifted her harrowed face to the opaque moonlight and asked mutely for forgiveness.

“We’ll be all right,” Ron murmured softly. “All right.”

He climbed quickly over the next rise of rock. Paused. A moment later, he dropped down beside Chandal. “Del, listen to me. We’re at the road leading from town. Do you understand me?”

She nodded.

“I want you and Kristy to wait here.” Chandal’s eyes widened. “No, no—don’t be frightened. Just listen to me. It’s our only chance. If I can get to the car, get back here—then we have a chance of making it. If I’m not back in an hour, take Kristy. Follow the road. Keep moving.”

“No, Ron—”

“Del, you must. Kristy can’t go any further. Neither can you. After a while, you’ll be stronger.” He glanced around. “I’ve got to hurry. They’re starting to work their way down the mountain.” He looked at her. “I love you, Del.” He kissed her quickly. “As I come up the road, I’ll blink the lights on and off three times. Be ready to leave then. But—but don’t come into the open unless you see me blink the lights. Got it? Three times.”

He kissed her again. With that, after a brief pause, he rose; his expression was composed and rigid. With trembling hand, he touched Chandal’s cheek. She leaned her face upon his hand. And as Ron lingered, she said, “Hurry. We’ll be all right.”

When he was well away from the underbrush, he began to run, paying no attention to the snapping dry branches beneath his feet.

Reaching the next ridge, he paused to catch his breath. From where he stood, he could see into the dark deserted town below.

Raising his eyes slightly, he could see his goal. Mrs. Taylor’s house stood out clearly on its hilly perch. Seeing it encouraged him, and he dropped down the sharp embankment careful to avoid sending loose stones tumbling below. All he could hear was the wind and the occasional flutter of bird wings. Off in the distance, torches lighted the night sky.

He didn’t know how long it took him to reach the edge of town. His legs trembled from the exertion of keeping his balance along the route, and he felt an extraordinary relief on coming onto level ground. For a moment his body strained to recover its normal equilibrium.

The town was quiet. The streets were deserted and reposed in dark velvet; only the roofs of houses and stores caught the glow of the moon.

He approached Mrs. Taylor’s house from the south, taking a recently discovered path, a narrow track that wandered in back of the town. Coming this way after stopping at Alister Carroll’s house, he had noticed relatively large fences and walls and property which seemed to have been abandoned.

The path was steeper than the normal route and also safer. His legs and arms brushed stone and rotted timber on either side; the air was so dense with heat that he could hear his own labored breathing. This appeared to be the only sound.

He emerged out of the shadows in the far corner of Mrs. Taylor’s garden and his eyes moved slowly across the front wall. Three figures were hunched in the darkness by his car.

Children. They were all children. The oldest boy was standing apart from the other two, leaning against the house. His arm rested negligently against the railing, yet there was nothing relaxed in his stance.

Bending to pick up a stone, Ron realized there was a fourth boy seated behind the steering wheel of his car. He stood by the wall watching the slow and almost hypnotic movements of these figures. He knew they had been expecting his return.

Still Ron hesitated no longer. He moved over the wall, stumbling a little on the soft, uneven soil, and started for the car. No one had seen him yet. The three figures were less than twenty yards ahead of him and he had walked half the distance before the boy in the car threw on the headlights.

Ron had no plans now that the inevitable moment had arrived.

He squinted into the light and carefully tried to weigh the personalities of each of the three boys who faced him. He tried to move with an appearance of easy confidence, but he was trembling, and not with cold. He stopped a few feet away from them. No one moved.

The tableau remained unbroken for a moment.

The oldest boy smiled. He was quite relaxed, his face untroubled.

Ron said sharply, “I’ve come for my car.”

He waited for a reply. There was none. He shouted, “Get out of my car!”

And then, like a platoon of deranged dwarfs, they charged; two at his legs, one at his throat.

Things dimmed and wavered before him and twice he found himself stretched on the ground. He did not recall how he’d gotten there. The second time he staggered to his feet, his hand was covered with blood. Whose blood? He wasn’t sure.

And then suddenly he was raging out of control. He hurled himself against the nearest boy, the oldest, and drove his knee hard into his groin. He turned as something glinted before his eyes. The knife flashed.

Ron lifted the stone quickly and smashed it into the boy’s skull. The boy’s body fell forward against him. He withdrew, letting his body fall to the ground, and moved back as close as possible to the car. He tasted blood on his lips and felt it flow from the corner of his eye. His vision blurred.

A body suddenly sprang over the hood of the car, landing on his back. He felt a set of sharp teeth at his throat. He reached up, flipped the boy over his shoulder onto the ground, and brought his shoe down into the boy’s face. Then he saw the oldest boy leap at him from amid the headlights of the car.

Ron swung his arm around, jammed his elbow in the boy’s face. He fell backward, blood spewing from his mouth and nose.

The car started up. Through the violence of his own pain, he realized he was about to be run over. He looked at the boy’s face twisted in hatred behind the steering wheel.

It was then that some furious kind of terror seized him, because there was no reason to kill the boy. Yet, when he dragged him from the car, he could not stop himself.

He brought the stone down again and again and again. When he finally stood, blood was splattered over his entire body, and the boy was dead. Relief rushed hideously through his brain, flooded his body. He turned. All appeared either dead or unconscious. He closed his eyes. He wasn’t really sure he actually knew who he was. It was like wearing the skin of a stranger. And then he heard it.

The car sat still, its motor running.