Текст книги "Still Life With Crows"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

There was a muffled thump.

He froze for a moment before figuring it must have been the wind, coming through another broken window. He sat up, listening.

Another thump.

It sounded like it was inside the house. Down below, in the basement. And then Williams suddenly understood. Naturally, Rheinbeck and the old lady were down in the cellar because of the tornado warnings. That was why the house seemed deserted.

He exhaled with irritation. He should go down there, just to report. He rose from the comfortable sofa, cast a regretful eye on the warm fire, and hobbled toward the door to the cellar stairs.

At the top he hesitated, then began to descend. The treads protested under his weight, squeaking frightfully over the fury of the storm outside. Halfway down he paused, craned his neck to see into the pool of darkness.

“Rheinbeck!”

There was that thump again, followed by a sigh. He fetched a sigh of his own. Christ, why was he bothering? He was injured, damn it.

He shone his light down and around, the banister rails throwing alternating bars of yellow and black in the cluttered space. At one end, a huge storm door had been set into the stone wall. That was where they must be.

“Rheinbeck?”

Another sigh. Now that he was closer, it didn’t really sound like wind coming in a broken window, after all. It sounded forced, sounded wetsomehow.

He took another step down, and another, and then he was at the bottom. The door was straight ahead. He hobbled over to it, and slowly—very slowly—pushed open the door.

A candle guttered on a small worktable, where tea for two had been set up with a pot: cups, cream, tea cakes, and jam all neatly arranged. Rheinbeck was sitting in a chair facing the table, slumped over, hands hanging at his sides, blood pouring into his mouth from a terrible gash in his skull. A broken porcelain statue lay in pieces on the ground around him.

Williams stared, uncomprehending. “Rheinbeck?”

No movement. A muffled boom of thunder shook the foundations of the house.

Williams could not move, could not think, could not even reach for his service piece. For some reason, all he could do was stare in disbelief. Even down here the old house seemed almost alive with the fury of the storm, groaning and swaying, and yet Williams could not pull his eyes away from the tea tray.

Another thump behind him abruptly broke the spell. Williams turned, the flashlight beam spinning across the walls as he groped for his gun, and as he did so a figure seemed to come out of nowhere, rushing toward him, boxes and packing crates falling away in a blur: a wild ghostly woman in white, her arms upraised, her tattered nightgown streaming behind her, her gray hair wild, Rheinbeck’s commando knife in one of her upraised fists. Her mouth was open, a pink, toothless hole, and from it issued a shriek:

“Devils!”

Seventy-Nine

 

The rain and wind had risen to such a furious pitch that Shurte began to worry that a new line of tornadoes might be making for Medicine Creek itself. The water was now pouring down into the cave, and he had just retreated into the cave entrance when he heard the sounds from within: footsteps, slow and shuffling, and coming his way.

Heart pounding, silently cursing Williams for leaving him alone, Shurte positioned himself to one side of the propane lantern and aimed his shotgun down the steps.

Silent, indistinct figures began materializing out of the gloom. Shurte remembered the dog and felt his skin crawl. “Who’s that?” he called out, trying to keep his voice from quavering. “Identify yourselves!”

“Special Agent Pendergast, Sheriff Hazen, and Corrie Swanson,” came the dry reply.

Shurte lowered his gun with overwhelming relief, picked up the propane lantern, and descended to meet them. At first he could hardly believe his eyes at the bloody spectacle that greeted him: Sheriff Hazen, barely distinguishable under all the blood. A young girl, bruised and mud-spattered. Shurte recognized the third figure as the FBI agent who had sucker-punched Cole, but he didn’t have time to wonder how the man had gotten himself into the cave.

“We need to get Sheriff Hazen to a hospital,” the FBI agent said. “The girl also needs medical attention.”

“All communications are down,” Shurte said. “The roads are impassable.”

“Where’s Williams?” Hazen slurred.

“He went up to the house to, ah, to relieve Rheinbeck.” Shurte paused, almost afraid to ask the question. “What about the others?”

Hazen merely shook his head.

“We’ll send down a search-and-rescue team as soon as communications are restored,” Pendergast said wearily. “Help me get these two into the house, if you please.”

“Yes, sir.”

Shurte put an arm around Hazen and gently guided him up the last of the steps. Pendergast came behind, helping the girl. They exited the cave mouth and bent into the fury of the elements, the rain coming horizontally down the cut, lashing and whipping against them, pelting them with broken cornstalks and husks. The Kraus mansion loomed ahead, dark and silent, just a faint light flickering in the parlor windows. Shurte wondered where Williams and Rheinbeck were. The place looked deserted.

They moved slowly up the walk and mounted the steps to the porch. He watched Pendergast try the front door, find it locked. And then Shurte heard it: a muffled crash from inside, followed by a scream and the sound of a gunshot.

In one smooth motion, Pendergast’s gun was in his hand; a second later, he had kicked in the door. Gesturing for Shurte to stay with Hazen and the girl, he darted inside.

Shurte peered around the doorframe, shotgun at the ready. He could see two figures struggling in the hall at the top of the basement stairs, Williams and somebody else: a hideous figure in a bloody white nightgown, long gray hair wild. Shurte could hardly believe it: old lady Kraus. There was another scream, this one shrill and almost incoherent: “Baby killers!”Simultaneously, there was another flash and roar of a gun.

In three leaps Pendergast had reached and tackled the woman in white. There was a brief struggle, a muffled shriek. The gun skittered across the floor. The two rolled out of Shurte’s view and Williams darted down the stairs. Perhaps thirty seconds ticked by. And then Pendergast reappeared, carrying the old woman in his arms, murmuring something in her ear. Moments later, Williams came up the basement steps, his arm around Rheinbeck, who was staggering and holding his bloodied head.

Shurte entered with Corrie and the sheriff, passing through the front hall into the parlor, where the flickering light Shurte had noticed from outside proved to be a fire. There, Pendergast arranged the old lady in a wing chair, still murmuring soothing indistinct words, cuffing her loosely. He rose and helped Shurte lay the sheriff down on the sofa in front of the fire. Williams took a seat on a sofa as far from the woman as possible, shivering. The girl had fallen in the chair on the other side of the fire.

Pendergast’s gaze darted about the room. “Officer Shurte?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get a first-aid kit from one of the cruisers and see to Sheriff Hazen. He has an aggravated excision of the left ear, what looks to be a simple fracture of the ulna, pharyngeal trauma, and multiple abrasions and contusions.”

When Shurte returned a few minutes later with the medical kit, he found that the room had been lit with candles and new logs laid on the fire. Pendergast had draped an afghan around the old woman, and she peered out at them balefully through a tangle of iron-gray hair.

Pendergast glided toward him. “Take care of Sheriff Hazen.” He went over to the girl and spoke to her softly. She nodded. Then, taking supplies from the first-aid kit, he bandaged her wrists and doctored the cuts on her arms, neck, and face. Shurte worked on Hazen, who grunted stoically.

Fifteen minutes later, all had been done that could be done. Now, Shurte realized, they just had to wait for emergency help to arrive.

The FBI agent, however, appeared to be restless. He paced the room, his silver eyes moving among its occupants. And yet again and again, as the storm shook the old house, his gaze came back to rest on the bloodied old woman who sat motionless, handcuffed to the wing chair, her head bowed.

Eighty

 

The warmth of the fire, the steam rising from the cup of chamomile tea, the numbing effect of the sedative Pendergast had administered: all conspired to create in Corrie a feeling of growing unreality. Even her bruised and battered limbs seemed far away, the pain barely noticeable. She sipped and sipped, trying to lose herself in the simple mechanical action, trying not to think about anything. It didn’t help to think, because nothing seemed to make sense: not the nightmare apparition that had chased her through the cave, not the sudden homicidal rage of Winifred Kraus, nothing. It was as senseless as a nightmare.

In a far corner of the parlor, the state troopers named Williams and Rheinbeck sat, the latter nursing a bandaged head and leg. The other trooper, Shurte, stood by the door, gazing through the glass down the darkened road. Hazen reclined on an overstuffed couch, his eyes half open, battered and bandaged almost beyond recognition. Beside him stood Pendergast, looking intently at Winifred Kraus. The old woman stared back at them all from her wing chair, looking from one to the next, malevolent eyes like two little red holes in her pale, powdered face.

At last, Pendergast broke the long silence that had settled over the parlor. His eyes remained on the old woman as he spoke: “I am sorry to tell you, Miss Kraus, that your son is dead.”

She jerked and moaned, as if the announcement was a physical blow.

“He was killed in the cave,” Pendergast went on quietly. “It was unavoidable. He didn’t understand. He attacked us. There were a number of casualties. It was a matter of self-defense.”

The woman was now rocking and moaning, repeating over and over again, “Murderers, murderers.” But the accusatory tone seemed almost to drain from her voice: all that remained was sorrow.

Corrie stared at Pendergast, struggling to understand. “Her son?”

Pendergast turned to her. “You gave me the crucial hint yourself. How Miss Kraus, when she was young, was known for her, ah, free ways. She became pregnant, of course. Normally she would have been sent away to have the baby.” He turned back to Winifred Kraus, speaking very gently. “But your father didn’t send you away, did he? He had a different way of dealing with the problem. With the shame.”

Tears now welled out of the old woman’s eyes and she bowed her head. There was a long silence. And in that silence Sheriff Hazen exhaled loudly, as the realization hit him.

Corrie looked over at him. The sheriff’s head was swathed in bandages, which were soaked red around his missing ear. His eyes were blackened, his cheeks bruised and puffy. “Oh, my God,” he murmured.

“Yes,” Pendergast said, glancing at Hazen. “The father, with his fanatical, hypocritical piety, locked her and her sin away in the cave.”

He turned back to Winifred. “You had the baby in the cave. After a time, you were let out to rejoin the world. But not your baby. He, the sinful issue, had to remain in the cave. And that’s where you were forced to raise him.”

He stopped briefly. Winifred remained silent.

“And yet, after a time, it didn’t seem like such a bad idea, did it? Completely sheltered from the wicked world like that. In a way, it was a mother’s dream come true.” Pendergast’s voice was calm, soothing. “You would always have your little boy with you. As long as he was in the cave, he could never leave you. Never would he leave home or fall into the ways of the world; never would he leave you for another woman; never would he abandon you—as your mother once abandoned you. You were doing it to protecthim from the opprobrium of the world, weren’t you? He would always need you, depend on you, love you. He would be yours . . . forever.”

The tears were now flowing freely down the old lady’s cheeks. Her head was swaying sadly.

Hazen’s eyes were open, staring at Winifred Kraus. “How could you—?”

But Pendergast continued in the same soothing tone of voice. “May I ask what his name was, Miss Kraus?”

“Job,” she murmured.

“A biblical name. Of course. And an appropriate one, as it turned out. There, in the cave, you raised him. He grew to be a big man, a strong man, enormously strong, because the only way to move about in his world was by climbing. Job never had a chance to play with children his own age. He never went to school. He barely learned how to talk. In fact, he never even metanother human being for the first fifty-one years of his life except for you. No doubt he was a boy with above-average intelligence and strong creative impulses, but he grew up virtually unsocialized as a human being. You visited him from time to time, when it was safe. You read to him. But not enough for him to learn more than rudimentary speech. And yet, in some respects, he was a quick boy. A desperately creative boy. Look what he was able to learn by himself—lighting a fire, making clever things with his hands, tying knots, creating whole worlds out of little things he found in the cave around him.

“Perhaps at some point you realized you were doing wrong by keeping him in the cave—away from sunlight, civilization, human contact, social interaction—but by then, of course, it would have seemed too late.”

The old lady remained bowed, weeping silently.

Hazen exhaled again: a long, pent-up breath. “But he got out,” he said hoarsely. “The son of a bitch got out. And that’s when the murders began.”

“Exactly,” said Pendergast. “Sheila Swegg, digging at the Mounds, uncovered the ancient Indian entrance to the cave. The back door. Which also happened to be used by the Ghost Warriors when they ambushed the Forty-Fives. It had been blocked off from the inside, when the warriors went back into the cave and committed ritual suicide after the attack. But Swegg, digging in the Mounds, found it. To her sorrow.

“It must have been a monumental shock for Job when Swegg wandered into his cave. He had never met another human being besides his mother. He had no idea they even existed.He killed her, in fear, no doubt unintentionally. And then he found the freshly cut opening Swegg had made. And for the first time, he climbed out into a vast and wondrous new world. What a moment that must have been! Because you never told him about the world above, did you, Miss Kraus?”

She slowly shook her head.

“So Job emerged from the cave. It would have been night. He looked up and saw the stars for the first time. He looked around and saw the dark trees along the creek; heard the wind moving through the endless fields of corn; smelled the thick humid air of the Kansas summer. How different from the enclosing darkness in which he had spent half a century! And then perhaps, far away, across the dark fields, he saw the lights of Medicine Creek itself. In that moment, Miss Kraus, you lost all control of him. Just as happens to every mother. But in your case, Job was over fifty years old.He had grown into a powerful—and transcendentally warped—human being. And the genie could not be put back in the bottle. Job had to come out, again and again, and explore this new world.” Pendergast’s voice trailed off into the chill darkness.

A small sob escaped from the old lady. The room fell silent. Outside, the wind was slowly dying. A distant rumble of thunder sounded, like an afterthought. Finally, she spoke: “When the first lady was killed, I had no idea it was my Job. But then . . . Then he toldme. He was so excited, so happy. He toldme about the world he’d found—as if he didn’t know I already knew of it. Oh, Mr. Pendergast, he didn’t mean to kill anyone, he really didn’t. He was just trying to play. I tried to explain to him, but he just didn’t understand—” She choked on a sob.

Pendergast waited a moment and then continued. “As he grew, you didn’t need to visit him as often. You brought him his food and supplies in bulk once or twice a week, I imagine, which would explain where he got the butter and sugar. By that time he was almost self-sufficient. The cave system was his home. He had taught himself a great deal over the years, skills that he needed to survive in the cave. But where he was most damaged was in the area of human morals. He didn’t know right from wrong.”

“I tried, oh, how I triedto explain those things to him!” Winifred Kraus burst out, rocking back and forth.

“There are some things that cannot be explained, Miss Kraus,” Pendergast said. “They must be observed. They must be lived.”

The storm shook and rattled the house.

“How did his back become deformed?” Pendergast finally asked. “Was it just his cave existence? Or did he have a bad fall as a child, perhaps? Broken bones that healed badly?”

Winifred Kraus swallowed, recovered. “He fell when he was ten. I thought he would die. I wanted to get him to a doctor, but . . .”

Hazen suddenly spoke, his voice harsh with disgust, anger, disbelief, pain. “But why the scenes in the cornfields? What was that all about?”

Winifred only shook her head wonderingly. “I don’t know.”

Pendergast spoke again. “We may never know what was in his mind when he fashioned those tableaux. It was a form of self-expression, a strange and perhaps unfathomable notion of creative play. You saw the scratched wall-etchings in the cave; the arrangements of sticks and string, bones and crystals. This was why he never fit the pattern of a serial killer. Because he wasn’ta serial killer. He had no concept of killing. He was completely amoral, the purest sociopath imaginable.”

The old lady, her head bowed, said nothing. Corrie felt sorry for her. She remembered the stories she had heard of how strict the woman’s father was; how he used to beat her for the merest infraction of his byzantine and self-contradictory rules; how the girl had been locked in the top floor of her house for days on end, crying. They were old stories, and people always ended them with a wondering shake of the head and the comment, “And yet she’s such a niceold lady. Maybe it never really happened that way.”

Pendergast was still pacing the room, looking from time to time at Winifred Kraus. “The few examples we have of children raised in this way—the Wolf Child of Aveyron, for example, or the case of Jane D., locked in a basement for the first fourteen years of her life by her schizophrenic mother—show that massive and irreversible neurological and psychological damage takes place, simply by being deprived of the normal process of socialization and language development. With Job it was taken one step further: he was deprived of the world itself.”

Winifred abruptly put her face in her hands and rocked. “Oh, my poor little boy,” she cried. “My poor little Jobie . . .”

The room fell silent except for Winifred’s murmuring, over and over again: “My poor little boy, my little Jobie.”

Corrie heard a siren sound in the distance. And then, through the broken front windows, the lights of a fire truck striped their way across the walls and floor. There was a squealing of brakes as an ambulance and a squad car pulled up alongside. Then came the slamming of vehicle doors, heavy footsteps on the porch. The door opened and a burly fireman walked in.

“You folks all right here?” he asked in a hearty voice. “We finally got the roads cleared, and—” He fell silent as he saw Hazen covered with blood, the weeping old woman handcuffed to the chair, the others in shell-shocked stupor.

“No,” said Pendergast, speaking quietly. “No, we are not all right.”

Epilogue

 

The setting sun lay over Medicine Creek, Kansas, like a benediction. The storm had broken the heat wave; the sky was fresh, with the faintest hint of autumn in the air. The cornfields that had survived the storm had been cut, and the town felt freed of its claustrophobic burden. Migrating crows by the hundreds were passing over town, landing in the fields, gleaning the last kernels from among the stubble. On the edge of town, the spire of the Lutheran church rose, a slender arrow of white against the backdrop of green and blue. Its doors were thrown wide and the sound of evening vespers drifted out.

Not far away, Corrie lay on her rumpled bed, trying to finish Beyond the Ice Limit.It was peaceful in the double-wide trailer, and her windows were open, letting in a pleasant flow of air. Puffy cumulus clouds passed overhead, dragging their shadows across the shaved fields. She turned a page, then another. From the direction of the church came the sound of an organ playing the opening notes of “Beautiful Savior,” followed by the faint sound of singing, Klick Rasmussen’s warble, as usual, trumping all.

As Corrie listened, a faint smile came to her lips. This would be the first service by that young new minister, Pastor Tredwell, whom the town was so proud of already. Her smile widened as she recalled the story, as it had been described to her when she was still in the hospital: how Smit Ludwig, shoeless, bruised, and battered, had come shambling out of the corn—where he had lain, unconscious and concussed, for almost two days—and right into the church where his own memorial service was being held. Ludwig’s daughter, who had flown in for the service, had fainted. But nobody had been more surprised than Pastor Wilbur himself, who stopped dead in the midst of reciting Swinburne and collapsed in an apoplectic fit, certain he was seeing a ghost. Now Wilbur was convalescing somewhere far away and Ludwig was healing up nicely, typing from his hospital bed the first chapters of a book about his encounter with the Medicine Creek murderer, who had taken nothing but his shoes and left him for dead in the corn.

She set her novel aside and lay on her back, staring out the window, watching the clouds go by. The town was doing its best to return to normal. The football tryouts were beginning and school would be starting in two weeks. There was a rumor that KSU had decided to site the experimental field somewhere in Iowa, but that was no loss. Good riddance, in fact: Pendergast seemed to feel Dale Estrem and the Farmer’s Co-op had a point about the perils of genetic modification. Anyway, people could hardly care less, now that the town was alive with National Park people, cave experts, a team of National Geographicphotographers, and hard-core groups of spelunkers, all of whom were anxious to get a glimpse of what was being called the greatest cave system to be discovered in America since Carlsbad Caverns. It seemed the town was standing at the edge of a new dawn that would bring wealth, or at least prosperity, to all. Time would tell.

Corrie sighed. None of it would make the slightest difference to her. One more year and then, for better or worse, Medicine Creek would become ancient history for her.

She lay in bed, thinking, while the sun set and night fell. Then she got up and went to her bureau. She slid open the drawer, felt along the bottom, and carefully peeled off the bills. One thousand five hundred dollars. Her mother still hadn’t found the money, and after what had happened she’d stopped harping about it. She had even been nice to Corrie for the first day after she’d come back from the hospital. But Corrie knew that would not last long. Her mother was now back at work and Corrie had little doubt she’d return with her purse rattling with its usual quota of vodka minis. Give it a day or two and she’d bring up the money and everything would start all over again.

She turned the bills over thoughtfully in her hands. Pendergast had stayed in town the last week, working with Hazen and the state police to wrap up the evidentiary phase of the case. He had called to say he was leaving tomorrow, early, and said he wanted to say goodbye before he left—and collect his cell phone. That was what he really wanted, she knew, the cell phone.

He’d already been by the hospital several times to see her. He had been very solicitous and kind; and yet, somehow, she’d hoped for more. She shook her head. What did she expect—that he’d take her with him, make her his permanent assistant? Ridiculous. Besides, he seemed increasingly eager to leave, citing some pressing matter waiting for him back in New York. He’d taken several calls on his cell phone from a man named Wren, but then he’d always left the room and she’d never caught what was said. Anyway, it didn’t really matter. He was going away, and in two more weeks high school would begin again. Senior year, her last in Medicine Creek. One last year of hell.

At least there wouldn’t be any more trouble from Sheriff Hazen. Funny, he’d saved her life and now he seemed to have taken some kind of almost paternal interest in her. She had to admit he had been pretty cool when she’d visited him that day she left the hospital. He’d even apologized—not in so many words, of course, but still it just about floored her. She had thanked him for saving her life. He’d shed a few tears at that, said he hadn’t done nearly enough, that he’d done nothing. The poor man. He was still really broken up about Tad.

She looked down at the money. Tomorrow, on her way out, she’d tell Pendergast what she planned to do with it.

The idea had formed slowly, over those days she’d spent in the hospital. In a way, she was surprised she hadn’t thought of it before. She had two weeks before school, she had money, and she was free: the sheriff had dropped all charges. Nothing was keeping her here: she had no friends to speak of, no job, and if she stuck around, her mother would wheedle the money out of her sooner or later.

Not that she had any illusions, not even when the idea first came to her. She knew that when she found him he’d probably turn out to be one of those guys who couldn’t seem to get it together: a loser. After all, he’d married her mother and then split, leaving both of them in the lurch. He’d never paid child support, never visited, never written—at least, that she could be sure of. He wouldn’t exactly be a Fred MacMurray.

It didn’t matter. He was her father. In her gut, this seemed like the right thing to do. And now she had the money and the time to do it.

It wouldn’t be hard to find him. Her mother’s endless complaints had the unintentional side effect of keeping her informed of his progress. After bouncing around the Midwest he had settled in Allentown, Pennsylvania, where he worked doing brake jobs for Pep Boys. How many Jesse Swansons could there be in Allentown? She could drive there in a couple of days. The money Pendergast had paid her would cover gas, tolls, motels, with a nice cushion in the very likely event that some unexpected car repairs came up.

Even if he turned out to be a loser, her memories of him were good memories. He wasn’t a jerk, at least. When he was there he’d been a good father, taking her out to the movies and miniature golf, always laughing, always having fun. What did it mean, anyway, to be a loser? The kids at school thought she was a loser, too. He hadloved her, she felt sure . . . even if he did leave her alone with a horrible drunken witch.

Don’t get your hopes up, Corrie,she reminded herself.

She folded the bills, stuffed them into her pants pocket. From beneath her bed she pulled out her plastic suitcase, plopped it on the bed, opened it up, and began throwing clothes in. She’d leave first thing in the morning, before her mother woke up, say goodbye to Pendergast, and be on her way.

The suitcase was soon packed. Corrie shoved it back under her bed, lay down, and in an instant was asleep.

She awoke in the stillness of night. All was dark. She sat up, looking around groggily. Something had awakened her. It couldn’t be her mother, she was working the night shift at the club, and—

From directly outside her window came a gurgle, a chattering noise, a soft thump. Instantly, the grogginess went away, replaced by terror.

And then there was a splutter and a hiss, and a patter of drops began falling lightly against the side of the trailer.

She glanced at the clock: 2A.M. She sank back on the bed, almost laughing out loud with relief. This time, it really wasMr. Dade’s sprinkler system.

She rose to shut the window. She paused for a moment, drinking in the cool flow of air, the fresh smell of wet grass. Then she went to slide the window shut.

A hand suddenly reached in from the darkness and caught the window’s edge, stopping it from closing. It was bloody, with broken nails.

Corrie dropped her hands from the window and backed away wordlessly.

A white, moonlike face now appeared in the window: bruised, cut, streaked with filth and blood, with a wispy beard and a strange, childlike puffiness. Slowly the terrible hand pulled the window open until it would go no more. A terrible stench—all the more terrible for the memories that it stirred—flowed in and filled her nostrils.

Corrie backed toward the door, numb fingers feeling in her pocket for the cell phone. She found it, hit the send button twice, directing the phone to call the most recently dialed number. Pendergast’s number.

With a jerk the huge hand ripped out the cheap aluminum window frame, shattering the glass.

Corrie turned and ran from her room, tearing down the hall in her bare feet, racing across the living room toward—

With a crash, the front door was flung open. And there stood Job: Job, still alive, one eye ruptured and weeping yellow liquid, his oversized child’s clothing torn and filthy, crusted with blood, hair matted, skin sallow. One arm hung, useless and broken, but the other was reaching toward her.

Muuuh!

The arm was reaching out, clawing at her, and hetook a step forward, his face distorted with rage, filling the room with his stink.

“No!” she screamed. “No, no, get away—!”

He advanced, slashing and roaring incoherently.

She turned and raced back down the hall to her room. He was after her, blundering down the hall. She slammed the door and shot the bolt home, but he came through with a shuddering crash that flattened the flimsy plywood against the wall. Without pausing to think, she dove out the window headfirst, rolled over the broken glass and wet grass, stood up, and began sprinting toward town. Behind came a crash; a roar of frustration; another crash. Lights were going on in the trailers around her. She glanced back to see Job roaring, literally clawing his way out the window, smashing and tearing.