in the Pacific Northwest had been Crater Lake, and there was a lodge on the rim of that caldera that bore a striking resemblance to what stood a half mile in the distance, on the shore of this unnamed Alaskan lake.
It was a sprawling five-story tower with projecting four-story north and south wings, some of the windows glowing with what appeared to be candlelight.
She took shelter under a massive spruce tree, weighing her options. She didn’t remember for sure, but she thought the pilot was flying back to pick them up sometime tomorrow afternoon. In the face of wolves and the blizzard and the cold, her choice was easy.
She didn’t like leaving the cover of the forest, but with the snow coming down so hard and all visibility shot, she figured it hardly made a difference.
She was wading through the snow now, up to her thighs, and she was as close to the inner lake as she’d yet come.
Two floatplanes were tethered to a nearby pier, so blanketed in snow, the only parts showing were slivers of their amphibious floats just above the surface of the water.
The facade of the lodge loomed ahead—an ornate porch of fir pillars, a huge wooden door, those eerie candlelit windows, behind which she thought she saw shapes moving.
A howl rose up from the other end of the lake, and in light of her recent encounter, it was the most horrifying thing she’d ever heard.
Devlin worked her way through the snow toward the lodge, but instead of heading directly for the porch, she made for the south wing, close enough now to see the construction. The first floor had been built of stone, and the top three stories shingled, a handful of which had peeled away. Long, steep eaves sagged down from the roof, occasionally sloughing off enormous blocks of snow.
She smelled wood smoke as she worked her way around the chimney to the back side of the south wing. There were few windows cut into the stone of the first floor, and she ran her hand along the rock as she moved toward the veranda that extended from the back of the central building.
The steps leading up were buried, and she didn’t want to climb them.
Another howl split the silence, much closer now. She glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting to see the wolves emerge from the storm.
She saw an opening beneath the veranda. Struggling thirty more feet through drifts, she finally stepped under the veranda, out of the snow. On bare ground again, she took a moment to brush the powder from her parka and pants and to shake it out of her hair.
She approached the opening.
A set of stone steps descended underground to a wooden door, and she followed them down, put her gloved hand on the door handle, turned it slowly, but not slowly enough to prevent the horrendous squeaking from the accumulation of rust. She pushed and the door swung open, creaking on hinges that should have been replaced decades ago.
The smell of stale air overwhelmed her. She had no flashlight, so she opened the door as far as it would go, now smelling other things, including the acrid, sharp stench of urine. What light fell through the open doorway did little to illuminate the cellar. There were old tools hanging on one of the walls—scythes and machetes, a pitchfork —and cracked leather saddles, grinning bear traps with giant metal teeth. A wrought-iron staircase spiraled up out of the center, disappearing into the darkness above. Glancing at the far left corner, Devlin spotted something that gave her pause—large metal cages, their doors thrown open, water bowls inside, and pieces of bone lying on the moldy straw.
Devlin proceeded into the cellar, still trembling with cold as she stopped at the foot of the spiral staircase, put her hands on the railing, and gave it a little shake. Seemed sturdy enough.
She took the steps one at a time, ascending out of the cold, rank filth of the cellar. Soon she was climbing in total darkness, enveloped in a silence beyond anything she’d known, the humming in her head like transformers in the middle of nowhere.
The stairs spiraled up and up, farther than she’d anticipated. Then she walked into something, reached out, ran her hands along the rough surface of a door. She groped around, finally got her hands on the doorknob.
That it wasn’t locked surprised her.
FORTY-THREE
Devlin stepped into a study, let the cellar door close softly behind her. The room was gloriously warm, a fire burning in the hearth. The ceiling must’ve been fifteen feet high, and there were bookshelves built into the walls and filled with leather-bound volumes, the spines lettered in small gold calligraphy. Leather chairs and ottomans stood grouped around the fireplace. An Elie Bleu Medaille humidor occupied an end table.
The fire was low, only a few logs remaining. Devlin sat on the hearth, removed her gloves, and held her hands to the heat. Her heartbeat had finally slowed.
She glanced around the room. A door led out of the study, presumably into the rest of the lodge. French doors lined the back wall, and looking through the glass, she glimpsed the veranda, its surface buried in snow.
Her snow pants and parka made too much noise, so she stood up and took them off, left them in a pile beside the cellar door. She was finally warm, and the urge to cough seemed to have dissipated.
Devlin walked to the door leading out of the study, stood for a moment with her ear against it, listening. There was only silence, and the occasional snap as sap boiled off in the fire. She put her hand on the doorknob, turned it quietly, pulled the door open.
The room she stepped into was an enormous lobby, fifty feet high from floor to ceiling, with a freestanding fireplace rising up the middle of it. Its floor was made of polished stone, and open staircases ascended on either side, giving access to the north and south wings.
Her footsteps echoed as she crossed to the other end and stood gazing up the staircase, then down the first-floor corridor of the north wing, which glowed with points of candlelight. Something echoed above and behind her on the third or fourth level of the south wing—footfalls perhaps.
She walked around to the stairs and started to climb, the creak of the steps reverberating through the cavernous lobby.
The fourth-floor corridor was empty and quiet as death, two dozen globes of firelight dancing through the tops of iron sconces. She walked into the corridor, its floor plushly carpeted, passed closed doors with brass numbers.
Halfway down the corridor, she noticed a peephole below the number designation on each door, and one in particular drew her attention, because she could see light coming through it. She stopped walking, crept up to the door of 413, and put her ear to the wood. She could hear something coming from inside, but it was soft, indiscernible. She was at the level of the peephole, and when she looked through it, she gasped.
It was installed backward, the room all shadowy blue save for the orange coils of a kerosene heater and the candle sitting on the windowsill, its flame restless, flickering. Shapes and details came into focus—a bed and dresser, a desk by the window. As her eyes adjusted to the low light, she realized there was someone lying under the bedcovers. The body was turned away from her, but she could see the person’s breath pluming in the cold.
Something crackled above Devlin’s head, and the entire lodge seemed to rumble.
Up and down the corridor, recessed ceiling lights flickered to life, one after another, and the warm breath of central heating pushed up into her face through a large vent in the floor.
She proceeded to the end of the corridor, just an empty alcove with a big window and a doorway leading to a set of stairs.
Starting down the stairs, she heard a noise coming from the lobby. It sounded like footsteps creaking on wood. She continued down, emerged from the stairwell into the third-floor alcove, and peered around the corner.
Something was moving toward her down the corridor, and as it passed under the illumination of a ceiling light, she saw it was a man in a black jumpsuit. He had a red bandanna tied around his left bicep and held a pump- action shotgun, its strap dangling from his shoulder. He was tall and blade-thin, wore a Stetson, and had long hair flowing down over his shoulders.
She ducked back into the stairwell, went down to the first floor, and ran up the corridor and back into the
