In the Bleak Midwinter

He passed a mom-and-pop store. Once its lights had dwindled in his rearview mirror, there was nothing except rising country and snow. His headlights tunneled through the dark, barely reaching two or three truck lengths before vanishing in the storm. The touch of light on each snowflake was as distracting as popping flashbulbs. Long habit helped him ignore the show, concentrating instead on what he could see of the road ahead.

Even so, he overshot the mountain road. The gap in the trees and the blank white roadbed registered a few seconds after he had seen it. He slowed carefully, taking his time before finally stopping and turning the truck around. Too many people forgot four-wheel-drive was meant to help acceleration, not braking. He had cleaned up too many of their accidents to make the same mistake.

His pickup ground slowly up the mountain road. He shook his head, trying to imagine Clare making it up here in her featherweight car. If she had made it. The snow had covered any traces of tire tracks that might show her route up the narrow, twisting road. He checked the trip odometer against the numbers on the directions. He ought to be getting close. If there was no sign of her at the cabin, he didn’t know what the hell he was going to do.

The unmistakable sound of a shot made him jerk reflexively, swearing. He slammed on his brakes, sending the truck into an angled skid. Twisted off the heat and killed the engine, rolling down his window clumsily. There was a bump, and the silent truck slid backwards and down slightly, its rear wheels coming to rest in the snow-covered gully at the edge of the road. Russ thrust his head through the window, straining to hear any other noise through the darkness.

CHAPTER 25

The slithery hissing of dry snow meeting snow. Everything else was an immense silence. He didn’t realize he had been holding his breath until it rushed out of his chest. He opened the glove compartment and removed his flashlight, long and heavy, a weapon in itself. Reaching into the backseat, he retrieved the box of shells and the rifle. He poured a good handful of shells into his coat pocket before tugging on his hat and gloves and stepping out of the cab.

He hesitated at the edge of the trees. He didn’t dare go more than a dozen yards from the road in the dark with no compass. He tugged his knit hat lower on his forehead. The thought of walking toward an unknown shooter shining a light and calling out made his nuts want to crawl back up inside his body. But if Clare had been—if she couldn’t see him, he could search for a week without stumbling over her. He cradled the rifle and thumbed his flashlight on. What the hell. Either the shooter wasn’t interested, or he was going to get drilled. Either way, he wasn’t walking out of here without doing everything he could to bring Clare with him.

He waded into the forest, sweeping his light around in 180 degree arcs, listening for anything that might indicate the presence of another human being. The cold pinched at his face. He thought of Clare, underdressed for the weather as usual, slogging deeper and deeper into the woods, slowly freezing to death. A hundred paces into the trees, he angled back toward the road, traveling downhill. If someone had been shooting, she must be around here. Noise traveled far in the mountains, but that shot had been close. Too damn close. He held up his arm to fend off lashing branches of bittersweet, trying not to picture her lying in a crumpled heap, her blood staining the snow red.

He angled again, away from the road, pushing through pines and hemlock. It was important to be methodical, not to give into the urge to run around yelling. A long zigzag pattern, working his way downhill because that’s the direction most lost folks take, his light shining like a beacon.

He heard nothing except his own breathing and the sweep and stretch of snow over the mountain. His throat closed over the fear rising in his gorge. Not the fear that he might get drilled by whoever else was out here with a gun. Fear that Clare was gone for good.

The flashlight beam hit him straight in the eyes, blinding him. He yelped involuntarily, so startled his mind went blank. His body knew how to think for him, though, dropping into the snow and sighting the rifle toward the other light.

“Russ?” Her voice was weak and cracking from the cold.

“Clare?” He scrambled back to his feet, swinging his flashlight in her direction. “Oh, my God. Clare.” She staggered toward him. He crossed the distance first, catching her in his arms, the rifle and flashlight clunking together as he picked her up off the ground. “Clare. Jesus, are you all right? Were you hit?”

“My feet . . . I can’t feel my feet anymore.”