SNOWBOUND
BLAKE CROUCH
Minotaur Books 
New York
For Jordan Crouch
I love you, brother
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In September of 2007, my great friend and uncle, Greg “Zig” Crouch, took me to Redoubt Mountain Lodge on Crescent Lake in the heart of Alaska’s Chigmit Mountains. It was one of the best times I’ve ever had, and I am profoundly grateful for that invitation. If there is a more spectacularly scenic place on earth, I haven’t seen it. The isolation and beauty of Redoubt became a huge inspiration for this book.
John Grove also made that trip possible, and Ryan and Heather Richards, who run Redoubt Mountain Lodge, were superb hosts and guides. Neither of them, nor any of the staff or guests who were at Redoubt when I was there are characters in this book. Except for Zig.
A heartfelt thanks to Linda Allen, who went so far above and beyond to get this one off the ground.
Michael Homler, my editor, made this book better in a thousand ways.
Anna Cottle and Mary Alice Kier, as always, provided wise counsel and tireless support.
Anne Gardner at St. Martin’s Press is the best publicist I’ve ever had, and these words are totally insufficient acknowledgment of the hard and brilliant work she has done to spread the word about my books.
And finally, back at base camp, hugs, kisses, and lots of love to Rebecca, Aidan, and my new daughter, Annslee Gray Crouch. I love you.
The Wrong Stars
ONE
In the evening of the last good day either of them would know for years to come, the girl pushed open the sliding glass door and stepped through onto the back porch.
“Daddy?”
Will Innis set the legal pad aside and made room for Devlin to climb into his lap. His daughter was small for eleven, felt like the shell of a child in his arms.
“What are you doing out here?” she asked, and in her scratchy voice he could hear the remnants of her last respiratory infection like gravel in her lungs.
“Working up a close for my trial in the morning.”
“Is your client the bad guy again?”
Will smiled. “You and your mother. I’m not really supposed to think of it that way, sweetheart.”
“What’d he do?” His little girl’s face had turned ruddy in the sunset and the fading light brought out lighter strands in her otherwise-midnight-dark hair.
“He allegedly—”
“What’s that mean?”
“Allegedly?”
“Yeah.”
“Means it’s not been proven. He’s accused of selling drugs.”
“Like what I take?”
“No, your drugs are good. They help you. He was selling, allegedly selling, bad drugs to people.”
“Why are they bad?”
“Because they make you lose control.”
“Why do people take them?”
“They like how it makes them feel.”
“How does it make them feel?”
He kissed her forehead and looked at his watch. “It’s after eight, Devi. Let’s go bang on those lungs.”
She sighed but didn’t argue. She never tried to get out of it.
He stood up, cradling his daughter, and walked over to the redwood railing.
They stared into the wilderness that bordered Oasis Hills, their subdivision. The houses on No-Water Lane had the Sonoran Desert for a backyard.
“Look,” he said. “See them?” A half mile away, specks filed out of an arroyo and trotted across the desert toward a shadeless forest of giant saguaro cacti that looked vaguely sinister profiled against the horizon.
“What are they?” she asked.
“Coyotes. What do you bet they start yapping after the sun goes down?”
When Devlin had gotten into bed, he read to her from
He closed the book, set it on the carpet, and turned out the light. Cool desert air flowed in through an open window. A sprinkler whispered in the next-door neighbor’s yard. Devlin yawned, made a cooing sound that reminded him of rocking her to sleep as a newborn. Her eyes fluttered and she said softly, “Mom?”
“She’s working late at the clinic, sweetheart.”
“When’s she coming back?”
“Few hours.”
“Tell her to come in and kiss me?”
“I will.”
He was nowhere near ready for court in the morning, but he stayed, running his fingers through Devlin’s hair until she’d fallen back to sleep. Finally, he slid carefully off the bed and walked out onto the deck to gather up his books and legal pads. He had a late night ahead of him. A pot of strong coffee would help.
Next door, the sprinklers had gone quiet.
A lone cricket chirped in the desert.
Thunderless lightning sparked somewhere over Mexico, and the coyotes began to scream.
TWO
The thunderstorm caught up with Rachael Innis thirty miles north of the Mexican border. It was 9:30 P.M., and it had been a long day at the free clinic in Sonoyta, where she volunteered her time and services once a week as a bilingual psychologist. The windshield wipers whipped back and forth. High beams lighted the steam rising off the pavement, and glancing in the rearview mirror, Rachael saw the pair of headlights a quarter of a mile back that had been with her for the last ten minutes.
Glowing beads suddenly appeared on the shoulder just ahead. She jammed her foot into the brake pedal, the Grand Cherokee fishtailing into the oncoming lane before skidding to a stop. A doe and her fawn ventured into the middle of the road, mesmerized by the headlights. Rachael let her forehead fall onto the steering wheel, closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath.
The deer moved on. She accelerated the Cherokee, another dark mile passing as pellets of hail hammered the hood.
