She tucked the shotgun under her arm, shoved a flashlight into her back pocket, and crept back to the kitchen door, careful not to turn on any lights. She heard Teddy whining and snuffling as she left, but he made no move to follow her.
She stepped onto the back porch and eased the door shut behind her. There was a faint creaking of floorboards as she moved down the steps. Then she angled toward the wellhouse and the trail that began just beyond. Teresa was a large, heavy-boned woman, but she had the natural stealthy movements of a feline. At the wellhouse she inhaled deeply, steadied the gun, then eased down the trail in the inky blackness. She had descended the trail countless times to play with Nora when they were children, and her feet remembered the way.
Soon she was on the flat. The Kelly ranch house stood across the draw, just on the side of the rise, its low roof outlined against the night. In the faintest starlight, she could see the front door was open.
She waited for what seemed a long time, listening, but there was only the susurrus of wind in the pinon trees. The shotgun felt cold and reassuring in her hands.
She sampled the breeze: she was downwind of the house, which meant the wolves couldn’t scent her. There was a strange odor in the air that reminded her of morning glories, but nothing else. Perhaps the animals had heard her and run off. Or perhaps they were still in the house.
She snapped off the safety and gripped the flashlight tight against the Winchester’s barrel. Then she moved toward the front of the house. The building was striped in wavy starlight, looking strangely like a drowned, abandoned temple. She could use the light to freeze any animal that came into view, giving her a stationary target.
And then Teresa heard something, at the edge of audibility, that was not a wolf. She stopped to listen. It was a low, monotonous chanting drone, a hoarse, guttural cadence, dry and faint as parched leaves.
It came from inside the house.
Teresa licked her dry lips and took a deep breath. She stepped onto the front porch and waited for a minute, then two. As quietly as she could, she took two more steps forward, covered the inside of the house with her gun, and switched on the flashlight.
The house was as she remembered it from the previous week: a hurricane of ruin, dust, and old decay. The smell of flowers was stronger here. Quickly, she probed the corners and doorways with the light, seeing nothing. Through a broken rectangle of window, the night wind gently swelled the stained curtains. The chanting was louder now, and it seemed to be coming from upstairs.
She crept to the bottom of the stairs, switching off the light. These were obviously not animals. Perhaps Nora had been right after all: she’d been attacked by men wearing masks, rapists perhaps. She remembered how uncharacteristically frightened Teddy Bear had been. Perhaps it would be better for her to creep quietly home and telephone the cops.
But no—by the time the cops arrived, with their flashing lights and clomping boots, these bastards would have slipped away into the shadows. And Teresa would be left with the nagging worry about when they might show up again. Perhaps they’d try her house next time. Or perhaps they’d catch her out away from home, when she was unarmed . . .
Her grip tightened on the shotgun. The time to act was now, while she could. Her father had taught her how to hunt; she was an expert stalker. She had a weapon that she knew how to use. And she had the advantage of surprise. With infinite caution, she began to ascend the stairs. She moved instinctively, shifting her weight from foot to foot with extreme deliberation.
She paused again at the top of the stairs. The starlight filtering through the windows below was too faint here to make out anything but the vaguest of shapes, but her ears told her that the sound was coming from Nora’s old room. She took two steps, then paused to take several breaths, check her control. Whoever it was, she was taking no chances.
She braced herself, gun in both hands, the flashlight firm against the barrel. Then with one smooth, swift motion she stepped forward, kicked the door fully open, swivelled the gun into position, and snapped on the flashlight.
It took a moment for her brain to register what her eyes saw. Two figures, covered head to toe in heavy, dank pelts, crouched in the center of the room. Their red eyes turned toward the light, unblinking, feral. Between them rested a human skull, its top missing. Inside the skull was a small collection of objects—a doll’s head, some hair, a girl’s barrette—
Suddenly one of the forms leaped up, moving faster than she thought possible. It passed out of the beam of her flashlight as she jerked the trigger. The shotgun bucked in her hands and the deafening roar seemed to shake the house itself.
She blinked, straining to see through the dust and smoke. There was nothing but a ragged, smoking hole in the bedroom wall. Both figures had now vanished.
She pumped another round into the chamber and pivoted, covering the room with the yellow pool of light. Her breath rasped in and out as the noise fell away and the dust settled back into the gloom. People didn’t move like that. Here, by herself, behind the flashlight, she felt suddenly, terribly vulnerable. She had a momentary impulse to turn off the light, find shelter in the darkness. But she sensed that darkness alone would not protect her from these creatures.
Teresa had grown up a brave girl, big and strong for her age. She’d had no older brothers to keep her in line, and she had been able to beat up anybody in her class, boy or girl. Now—standing in the darkened doorway, breathing hard, eyes alert to any movement—Teresa felt an unfamiliar sense of panic threaten to envelope her.
She tore her gaze from the dark emptiness of the room, pivoted again, and scanned the hallway. The house was utterly silent except for her breathing. Other darkened bedroom doors, black on black, opened to the wrecked hall.
She had to get downstairs, she realized. There, she could switch off the light, let the starlight aid her. She glanced toward the stairs, imprinting their location in her mind. Then she switched off the light and darted forward.
A black shape lunged diagonally out from a far bedroom. With an involuntary cry, Teresa turned and jerked the trigger. Eyes blinded by the muzzle flare, she stumbled backward and half rolled, half fell down the stairs, shotgun clattering away into the darkness. She scrambled to her knees at the bottom step, a sharp pain spiking through one ankle.
At the top of the stairs a large shape crouched, staring silently down at her. Teresa whirled, searching in the faint starlight for her weapon. But instead of the shotgun, her gaze fell upon the second shape, framed in the kitchen doorway, coming toward her with a slow confidence that was somehow terrible.
Teresa stared at the figure for a moment, paralyzed with terror. Then she turned and limped toward the door, scattering glass, a low whimper escaping her throat.
16
THE NEXT MORNING, NORA AWAKENED TO A marvelous smell. She stretched luxuriously, still wrapped within a wonderful, receding dream. Then, hearing the clatter of tins and the murmur of conversation, she opened her eyes and jumped out of her bedroll. It was six-thirty, and the camp had already gathered around a pot of coffee hanging over an open fire. Only Swire and Black were missing. Bonarotti was busy at the grill, the delicious aroma wafting from his sizzling fry pan.
She quickly stowed her gear and washed up, embarrassed at oversleeping on the first morning. Up the canyon she caught a glimpse of Swire, brushing down the horses and checking their feet.
“Madame Chairman!” Smithback called out good-humoredly. “Come on over and have a sip of this ebony nectar. I swear it’s even better than the espresso at Cafe Reggio.”
Nora joined the group and gratefully accepted a tin cup from Holroyd. As she sipped, Black emerged from a
