CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

ALL HE COULD SEE WAS ONE DEEP BLOOD-RED HUE OF FIRE, which lighted up the whole mountain far and wide; but below, the nether part of the mountain was dark and shrouded.

Once more recovering himself, he nosed the car slowly onto the main street of Brackston. He kept the headlights off. It was late, near midnight as he inched the car through the deserted square. He felt completely alone.

At the edge of town the spired blackness of trees stood in monumental silence, and on either side dwellings watched over the empty street. A gray haze dusted the trees, shimmered between branches and splashed shadows across the hood of the car.

Ron had just turned the corner when he heard the low rumble of thunder. He sucked in his breath. He was suddenly aware that the sound increased in volume. Drew nearer. Overhead, thick clouds had begun to gather over the valley. He felt the first stirrings of curious panic, a fear that if he relaxed his attention for so much as a moment he’d be swallowed alive. At the same time the possibility of rain seemed immensely attractive. Alister Carroll had said, “If it rains—you may have a chance.”

It was this thought that held in check his feeling of desolation and doom. It was too still. Too damn quiet all of a sudden. Were Chandal and Kristy all right? Would he find them safe, waiting for him?

A brief flash of lightning shot through the hills, followed by a low roll of thunder. The sound, the light engulfed him, bearing him with it beyond the ridges into the empty spaces of the revolving universe.

He hit the gas pedal and started to climb. He had to remember to flash the headlights three times. But not too soon. No, not too soon.

With one knee jammed against the door, he fixed his eyes on the fire, now no more than a rosy glow under a veil of sparks and ash. It glowed like a jewel at the bottom of the ocean. High above rose the stone; and the death image seemed a glowing plane of faces made of bizarre cubistic compositions; shadows flickered wildly in the changing light.

At that moment, as the stone dissolved in total darkness, Ron could see the path up ahead and the underbrush where he’d left his wife and daughter. He was unutterably tired, chilled by the wind and vaguely disturbed by the inexplicable stillness of the entire area. His gaze wandered the hills. Where were the torches? He was both hunted and hunter. He positioned his hand by the light switch on the dashboard. He checked in the rearview mirror. A gaping black void fell away behind him.

Reluctantly he flashed the lights. Once, twice, three times. He eased the car over to the side of the road and stopped.

Unexpectedly he panicked when he saw a discarded torch, set upright in the ground, to which had been tied a pelt. At its base lay two masks, and on a bush several feet away, a piece of material from Chandal’s dress.

Oh, dear God—no, no...

Leaving the motor running, he stepped quickly from the car. “Chandal?” he whispered. “Kristy?”

He turned with a start as lightning flashed in the sky behind him. In the seconds that he hung there, straining to see through the muted underbrush, a thunder rumbled through the hills, stirring the leaves and echoing dully in the canyon and somber valley. When it passed, there came a silence so complete that a faint snapping of twigs fifty feet ahead was clearly audible.

The sound came quite suddenly, with startling and dramatic effect, followed by the sound of a child’s voice. “Daddy, help me. Help me.”

Almost at once there was again a general drop in the level of noise around him, a hush that seemed to foreshadow something yet to come.

“Kristy?”

“Help me, Daddy. Help me.”

An almost complete silence had descended on the area. And then Ron saw her. Kristy stood immobile under the trees, her pale complexion glowing white against the night, her eyes piercing and huge. But where was Chandal?

Once or twice more Kristy’s voice pleaded for help, the mournfulness of her tone seeming to screen an impatient readiness for action.

Get back into the car, Ron warned himself. This is a trap. Get away now before it’s too late. He hesitated.

“Please, Daddy. Help me. Mommy is hurt.”

The struggle within Ron only lasted a few seconds, but during that period of intensity, he realized he had no choice. He had to go to his daughter’s side no matter what the consequences. Like a disease spread by panic, the violence of the emotions in the struggling swept over him, drawing him into the darkness toward his daughter.