cabin came a long low howl that was not the wind but was wrapped within it. And buried somewhere within the howling was the name of Sandy Parrant.
“The Windigo’s calling you, Sandy. Do you know what that means?”
Parrant eyed the window angrily. “It means there’s a joker out there who’s going to die with you.”
“Can’t kill the Windigo with that gun,” Cork told him. “The Windigo called the names of Russell Blackwater and Harlan Lytton, too. Blackwater knew it and carried a gun and it didn’t matter.”
“I don’t believe that crap.”
“Sam Winter Moon once told me there’s more in these woods than a man can ever see. More than he can ever hope to understand.”
“Shut up!”
Parrant pointed the revolver at Jo’s heart as if to fire, to finally end it all. But the light in the kitchen went out suddenly. Cork pushed Jo to the side and threw himself in the other direction. Parrant fired wildly. In the blindness after the loss of the light, Cork spread his arms wide and charged the place where Parrant had been standing. He caught the man in his arms and they tumbled down. Cork heard the scrape of the. 38 as it slid loose across the floorboards.
Parrant squirmed from Cork’s grasp and was back on his feet instantly, kicking hard at Cork’s ribs. Cork rolled away and brought himself up. Parrant was at him, throwing punches out of the dark, landing blow after blow to his torso. Cork stumbled back, retreating across the kitchen until he was pinned against the sink. Hunched and grunting, he tried vainly to protect himself as Parrant hammered at his sides and head.
A shattering of crockery and Parrant stopped abruptly. Moonlight streamed through the window over the sink. Parrant, in milky white, staggered back, holding his head. Cork tried to move, to attack, but the pain in his ribs paralyzed him.
Jo’s hand was on his arm and her voice urged him, “Cork, quick!” She pushed him through the kitchen door and into the cold night. Tugging, she pulled him toward the sanctuary of the woods.
They’d barely reached the first of the trees when the crack of Cork’s revolver came from the cabin. Jo ran hard, weaving among the trees and thickets, fighting her way desperately through the deep snow and drifts. She ran until she was nearly breathless, then she risked a glance back. Cork was nowhere to be seen. She stopped and turned, frantically searching among the trees for any sign of him. A black form separated itself from a nearby tree trunk and stepped toward her. Jo almost screamed. Then she recognized the old man Henry Meloux.
“Here,” Meloux whispered, and pointed toward a cedar with its branches bent low under the weight of snow.
“Cork-” Jo tried to explain.
The old man ignored her. “In there quick,” and he held aside a cedar bough showing a hollow in the snow, a little sanctuary. He urged her in, surprising her with his strength. “The man is almost here,” he whispered.
In less than a minute, Sandy approached through the trees, the beam of a flashlight scanning the snow in front of him as he came. Jo realized he was following her tracks. In a few more seconds he would be at the place where Meloux had met her and the tracks would lead him to their hiding place. Meloux’s face showed no fear, only an intense concentration.
Cork’s cry from the direction of the cabin brought Parrant to a sharp stop. He turned and began a hard run back.
“Cork!” she whispered, afraid.
“I will find him,” Meloux said. “Stay here.”
“Like hell I will.”
The old man’s strong hand restrained her. “You have children. Think of them.”
Meloux was gone in an instant, leaving Jo alone in the safe hollow under the cedar boughs.
48
A dozen yards into the woods, Cork knew he couldn’t keep up with Jo. Adrenaline couldn’t mask all his pain, couldn’t undo the shortness of breath that was the legacy of tobacco. As Jo had moved farther ahead, Cork looked for a place to hide. He spotted a humping of snow-covered vines, and with all the strength he could muster, he’d leaped the thicket. The deep snow on the far side cushioned his landing and he crawled to cover only seconds before Parrant rushed by pursuing Jo.
He had no idea how far ahead Jo had been able to run, but he wanted to give her the best chance he could to make it safely away. He crawled from the safety of the thicket. When the beam of the flashlight was forty or fifty yards beyond him, he let out a cry. He’d meant it to be a cry of challenge, but the stabbing in his ribs turned it to a howl of pain. Still, it did the trick. Parrant turned for him and Cork ran for his life.
He skirted the cabin, not even trying to make it inside to find the rifle. It would be too great a gamble fumbling around, hoping to find the Winchester before Parrant reached him. He made instead for the vast, unbroken wilderness of the Superior National Forest a mile northeast.
He ran numbly through drifts above his knees. Awkwardly he vaulted a fallen log and came down in a snag of branches on the other side. His foot became entangled. While he worked himself free, he checked the woods behind him. Nothing. No movement. Only sound. Above him the wind raced through the tops of the pines, its passage marked by the scrape and groan of branches. From farther east came a deeper sound, a throaty grumble that Cork recognized as the tumble of fast water in a stream. Half Mile Spring. The flow gushed out of high ground and rushed down a deep ravine to the lake. As its name implied, the spring didn’t have a long run from its source to its ending, and even in the coldest winter the water never froze.
He became aware of something else, the smell of wood smoke in the wind. Meloux’s cabin! The place wasn’t far beyond the spring. Cork tried to think if Meloux owned a firearm. The old man had been a hunter once, a great one it was said, but did he own a working firearm?
Cork knew he should be moving again. Two things held him there at the log. He wanted to be certain Parrant was still following him. If Parrant was after him, it meant that Jo had a good chance of getting away. The other thing was the simple fact that he couldn’t move. The adrenaline had washed out of him, and what had seeped in to take its place was searing pain. The beating his ribs had sustained was too much. He couldn’t straighten up, could barely take a breath. Even the slightest movement drove a spike of pain right through his chest.
He’d left his gloves on Molly’s kitchen table. His hands, vulnerable to the bitter, single-digit temperature of the night, ached from the cold. He tried to blow on them for warmth, but the stabbing of his ribs gave him almost no breath for it.
The flashlight beam shot like an arrow through the trees. Cork tried to rise but grabbed at his ribs and doubled over with a moan. The flashlight swung his way. He crouched behind the log as the light played past him. He thought about the ravine at his back. Even if he could escape Parrant somehow, the deep, rugged walls of the ravine and the rush of Half Mile Spring would stop him. His best hope would be to turn to the lake, cut across the ice, and make for Meloux’s cabin. But first he would have to elude Parrant, a possibility that became less likely with each step Parrant took.
The. 38 fired unexpectedly. Cork jerked although nothing hit near him. Parrant shot another round. Cork risked a glance over the log. The light swung back and forth, scanning the woods to the left. What had he fired at? Jo? Christ, no! Cork braced himself to rise, to call out, to draw Parrant’s fire, but a hand on his shoulder restrained him.
Meloux crouched beside him. He beckoned to Cork and began to crawl on all fours toward the ravine. Cork followed his example, snow up to his chin. After a short distance, the old man rose and loped ahead, graceful despite his age. Cork did the same, although much less gracefully and a good deal slower.
He glanced back once. The beam of the flashlight had vanished.
Jo cursed the old man. Cursed him because he’d made her afraid.
In Molly Nurmi’s kitchen, she had been angry. She’d been trapped in something she didn’t see any way out of and she’d been blind with rage. Rage at Sandy for what he was, what he’d been able to hide from her so well, and rage at herself for her stupidity and blindness. The sanctuary the old man offered her had changed things. She wasn’t backed into a corner anymore. She had hope. But something unexpected had accompanied the hope. Fear.
