countenance serene as his huge body dropped away into space. Corrie watched in sickened horror as he hit the rock wall a dozen feet below, bouncing with a great smack and a spray of blood, then turning once and landing heavily at the mouth of the fissure. He lay still for a moment, and then another shotgun blast roared out, catching him in one shoulder and turning him over violently, swinging his body partway over the abyss. A man holding a shotgun stepped forward: Sheriff Hazen. He aimed it point-blank at the man’s head.
For a moment, one of the monster’s great hands clung to the edge. And then it relaxed and the thing slid down out of sight, dropping like a stone into the void. Corrie waited, listening, but there was nothing more: no splash, no cry of ultimate pain to mark the thing’s final passing. He had disappeared, claimed by the dark bowels of the earth. The sheriff stood there, not having fired the final shot.
The first to speak was Pendergast.
“Easy does it,” he said to Corrie, his voice low and firm. “Let one hand follow the other. I can see the rest of the path from here. The handholds are good, and the top is only a few feet away.”
Corrie gasped, sobbed, her entire body shaking.
“You may cry when you reach the top, Miss Swanson. Now, you must climb.”
The businesslike tone broke the spell of terror that froze her against the rock. She swallowed, moved a hand, found another handhold, secured it, moved a foot. And when she reached up again, her hand found the lip of the precipice: she had made it to the top. In another moment, she had pulled herself up and over. She stretched out on the cold floor of the passageway, face down, and gave herself over to sobbing.
For a minute, maybe two, she remained alone. And then Pendergast was kneeling over her, his arm around her, his voice low and reassuring. “Corrie, you’re fine. He’s gone now, and you’re safe.”
She couldn’t speak; all she could do was cry with relief.
“He’s gone now, and you’re safe,” Pendergast repeated, the cool white hand stroking her forehead—and for a moment the image of her father returned, so strong it was almost a physical presence. He had comforted her this way once, when she had been hurt on the playground . . . The memory was so vivid that she swallowed the next convulsive sob, hiccuped, and struggled to sit up.
Pendergast stepped away. “I have to go down for Sheriff Hazen. He’s badly hurt. We’ll be right back.”
“He—?” Corrie managed to say.
“Yes. He saved your life. And mine.” Pendergast nodded, then was gone.
Corrie leaned back against the stone floor. And only now the true storm of feelings flooded through her: the fear, pain, relief, horror, shock. A breeze came wafting down from out of the darkness, stirring her hair. It carried with it a familiar, horrible smell: the smell of that cauldron, in the room where the killer had first grabbed her. But along with it was the faint smell of something else, something almost forgotten: fresh air.
Perhaps she fell asleep then, or perhaps she simply shut down. But the next thing she remembered was the ring of footsteps against rock. She opened her eyes and saw Agent Pendergast looking down at her, gun once again in his hand. Beside him, leaning heavily against the FBI agent, was the sheriff: bloody, clothes ripped, nothing but a knot of gristle where one of his ears had once been. Corrie blinked, stared. He looked as tired and battered as a human being could be and still remain standing.
Pendergast spoke. “Come. We’re not far now. The sheriff needs both our help.”
Corrie staggered to her feet. She swayed a moment and Pendergast steadied her. Then they began moving slowly down the tunnel. And as the smell of fresh, sweet air began growing stronger, Corrie knew for sure that they were finally on their way out.
Seventy-Eight
He struggled up onto the porch, his feet crunching over broken glass from a window blown out by the wind. Now he could make out a faint glow from inside.
It was a fire in the fireplace. Nice. Rheinbeck, it seems, had been taking it easy up here while he and Shurte were down in the storm, guarding the cave entrance. Well, now it was his turn at the fire.
Williams stopped, leaning on the door and catching his breath. He tried the handle, found it locked. The firelight flickered through the leaded panes, making warm kaleidoscopic patterns in the glass.
He gave the knocker a few raps. “Rheinbeck! It’s me, Williams!”
No response.
“Rheinbeck!”
He waited one minute, then another. Still no response.
Christ, Williams thought, he was probably in the bathroom. Or the kitchen, maybe. That was it. He was in the kitchen eating—or drinking, more likely—and couldn’t hear with all the wind.
He went around the flank of the house and found another broken window panel in the side door. He put his mouth to it and shouted, “Rheinbeck!”
Very strange.
He pushed out the rest of the glass in the panel, reached inside to unlock the door, then eased it open, nosing his light ahead of him.
Inside, the entire house seemed to be alive with the creaking, groaning, and muttering of the storm. Williams looked around uneasily. It looked solid enough, but old places like this were sometimes full of dry rot. He hoped the whole structure didn’t come crashing down on him.
