A lost person usually behaves in certain specific ways. Deprived of his bearings, he travels downhill or downstream under the mistaken impression that water always leads to a road (often it only leads to more water). Once he finds a trail, he will typically keep walking in one direction. A lost person moves with conviction and rarely reverses course, which is why wardens find so many of them headed 180 degrees from their intended destinations. The worst ones start bushwhacking and get themselves thoroughly turned around. Without clear visual clues, humans really do wander in circles.
To make matters worse, John Sewall was hypothermic. In addition to the normal panic one experiences upon being lost, he was freezing to death, and his behavior had likely been irrational. The worst-case scenario was that he’d never been in the Heath to begin with; perhaps his car had slid off Route 277, and maybe Kate was the name of his girlfriend back home. But my gut told me the young man really had come from the bog and that someone else was lost out here.
Snow sparkled in my headlights. It was often easier to see the outline of the road overhead than the road itself; the jagged treetops showed dark gray against the lighter gray of the sky.
Where the hell was Kendrick-or Ben Sprague, for that matter? I saw no evidence in the shapes of the drifts of a plow truck having come this way. The wind was blowing so hard that the snowbanks were moving around me like slow-motion waves. I realized Sprague might have pushed his way down this very road fifteen minutes earlier and I’d never know it.
I decided to mark a waypoint. I fumbled in my coat pocket and removed my DeLorme GPS unit. The satellite showed my location as a green arrow near the intersection of two branching tote roads. There were low hills on either side of me, steep enough to have presented a barrier to anyone traveling through deep snow on foot. Farther to the west was Bog Pond. I toggled north and south. If Sewall had come from this direction, the hills would have funneled him to this same spot. The road divided south of me. I needed to pick a direction.
East, I decided.
Out of the brute force of the blizzard, the wind wasn’t quite as loud, and I became aware of a distant sound. It was the barking of dogs.
Kendrick.
I twisted the throttle, and a noxious cloud of gasoline fumes rose up beneath my visor. Very quickly, the sound of the engine drowned out the yapping of the malamutes. I prayed my sense of direction wouldn’t fail me, or I would shoot right past them.
In a few minutes, as I moved east along the trail, my headlights found the phosphorescent eyes of a dog. It stood, legs planted far apart, barking at me with a curled lip. Behind it were others. Kendrick had lashed his team to a tree.
I cut the engine but left the lights shining, and tilted up the visor on my helmet. Moving at forty-five miles per hour, the windblown snow felt like shards of glass being driven into my face.
“Kendrick!” I shouted.
A shadow staggered out of the darkness.
Because he hadn’t bothered to put on the snowshoes he kept strapped to his dogsled, he was floundering, knee-deep, in the drifts.
“Have you seen Sprague?” I asked.
His fur-lined hood and the shoulders of his buckskin parka were crusted with snow. “I met him on the road outside his house. He said there was a car lost out here with a girl in it. I sent him north across Route Two seventy-seven to search.”
“Did you find anything?”
He smiled, cracking the ice on his mustache. “Yep.”
I jumped off the snowmobile into a deep drift. It was like trying to walk in wet cement.
The light from Kendrick’s headlamp bounced along, leading the way. A huge snowbank rose across the trail. The handle of an entrenching tool protruded from the top of it.
I watched Kendrick drop to his hands and knees and begin jabbing at the snow with the pointed shovel. I saw that he had already excavated a deep hole, exposing a black car. The door had been ajar when the storm began refilling the crater. Someone had entered or exited the buried vehicle in the past hours, and it was logical to think that person had been John Sewall.
Kendrick burrowed deeper into the car. Snow had piled up behind the steering wheel and spilled over into the passenger side. From my perspective, standing behind Kendrick, I couldn’t see any farther into the darkened interior.
I dropped to one knee and squinted into the face-lacerating wind. “Is there anyone inside?”
Kendrick stopped digging. He propped himself on his elbow and turned to face me. “Not a soul,” he said.
FEBRUARY 14
Ma shakes my shoulder in the middle of the night. Get up, Lucas! Get up! she says.
It’s pitch-black. I’m all groggy.
Prester is on his way to the hospital, she says. He got caught in the snowstorm.
Is he froze to death?
Put your clothes on, she says.
The first time I went to the hospital was when I tripped on the stairs that time. I was so tired, I fell asleep walking up to my bedroom and my bottom teeth bit straight through my lip. The tops of them got stuck on the skin. Ma had to peel them apart and there was blood everywhere.
They gave me NINE stitches. I still have this scar along my bottom lip.
That was when I was four years old.
Aunt Tam is downstairs in her chair. She has her coat in her lap. I want to go with you, she tells Ma.
Tammi, there’s a blizzard, Ma says. What if the van gets stuck? I don’t know how we would deal with your chair if we had to walk through the snow.
Tammi starts to cry.
Ma bends over her chair and gives her a hug. It’s important that you be here in case the hospital calls with news, Ma tells her. You can call me on my cell if there’s an update. I’m relying on you, Lil Sis.
Tammi smiles, but she’s still kind of crying, too. She used to be a basketball star in high school. In her room Tammi keeps a picture of her team, with her standing next to the other girls. One of them is holding a gold trophy ball.
9
“Let me have a look,” I told Kendrick.
The musher backed out of the hole on his hands and knees. I grabbed the car door and tried to force it open, but it was stuck fast in the snow. I wriggled my way through the narrow gap.
It took me a moment to realize that everything was pitched at a slight angle. The car had slid halfway off the road before the storm buried it. The halogen glow of my light turned the scene in front of me a bluish white. When I exhaled, my breath sparkled. I felt like I was deep inside the cold heart of a glacier.
Turning my head slowly from side to side, I swept the beam of my headlamp around the inside of the vehicle. A thin layer of hoarfrost, like a dusting of baker’s flour, covered the interior. The car was a Pontiac; I saw the arrowhead logo on the steering wheel. Someone had used pieces of duct tape to stitch up a gash in the seat. There was the odor of old cigarettes badly masked by a pine-shaped air freshener suspended from the rearview mirror. There were empty Budweiser cans, some crushed, scattered across the backseat. There was a handful of twelve- gauge shotgun shells in the console. But no shotgun.
I found the auto registration tucked above the driver’s sun visor. The car was a 2004 Grand Am, registered to one Randall Scott Cates.
“Holy shit,” I said aloud.
The image of a sneering, tattooed face hovered in front of my eyes. And suddenly I realized who the hypothermic, frostbitten man was back at the Sprague house and why his face had seemed vaguely familiar.
