MAURA AWAKENED TO THE CRACKLE OF BURNING WOOD. FIRELIGHT danced across her closed eyelids, and she smelled the sweetness of molasses and bacon, the scent of pork and beans bubbling over the campfire. Although she lay perfectly still, her captor sensed that she was no longer asleep. His boots scraped closer, and his shadow blocked out the firelight as he bent over her.
“Better eat,” he grunted, and shoved a spoonful of beans in her direction.
She turned away, nauseated by the smell. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered.
“Trying to keep you alive.”
“There’s a man, in the village. He needs to be in the hospital. You have to let me help him.”
“You can’t.”
“Untie me. Please.”
“You’ll just run away.” He gave up trying to force the food on her and slipped the spoon in his own mouth instead. She looked at the face staring down at her. Backlit by the fire, his features were invisible. All she saw was the outline of his head, frighteningly enormous in the fur-lined hood. Somewhere in the shadows a dog whined and claws scratched. The animal moved closer and she smelled his hot breath, felt the lick of a tongue across her face. He was a huge dog, his silhouette shaggy and wolf-like, and although he seemed friendly, she recoiled from his attentions.
“Bear likes you. Doesn’t like most people.”
“Maybe he’s telling you I’m okay,” she said. “And you should let me go.”
“Too soon.” He turned and moved closer to the fire. Scooping up beans from the pot, he shoveled spoonfuls into his mouth with feral hunger. Veiled in smoke, he looked like some primitive creature squatting in the light of an ancient campfire.
“What do you mean, it’s too soon?” she asked.
He just kept eating, noisily slurping from the spoon, his concentration completely focused on filling his belly. He was an animal, stinking of sweat and smoke, no more civilized than the dog. Her wrists were raw from the rope bindings, and her hair was matted and infested with fleas. For days she had been wheezing and coughing in the smoke that hung thick in their shelter. She was suffocating in here, while that filthy creature sat calmly stuffing food into his mouth, not caring if she lived or died.
“Goddamn you,” she said. “Let. Me. Go.”
The dog gave a low growl and moved beside his master.
The figure squatting by the fire slowly turned to her, and in the featureless shadow that was his face, she imagined evils that were all the more frightening because she could not see them. In silence, he reached into his backpack. When she saw what he brought out, she froze. The firelight’s reflection gleamed in the blade and cast ripples of shadow along the serrations. A hunter’s knife. She had seen, at the autopsy table, what such a knife could do to human flesh. She had probed incised skin, used a ruler to measure the wounds that split apart muscle and tendon and sometimes even bone. She stared at the blade poised above her, and cringed as he brought the knife down.
With a sharp flick, he cut the rope binding her wrists, then freed her ankles. Blood rushed into her hands. She scrabbled away, retreating into a shadowy corner. There she huddled, breathing hard, her heart pounding from the unaccustomed exertion. For days she had been restrained, allowed up only when she needed to use the bucket. Now she felt light-headed and weak, and the shelter seemed to rock like a ship on the high seas.
He moved closer, until he was right in front of her and she could smell the stink of damp wool. Up till now his face had been obscured by shadow. Now she could make out thin cheeks smeared with soot, a beardless jaw. Hungry, deep-set eyes. Maura stared at that gaunt face and came to a stunning realization: He was just a boy, sixteen at the oldest. But a boy with the size and strength to cut her down with one stroke of his knife.
The dog moved close beside its master, and was rewarded with a pat on the head. Boy and dog both stared at her, contemplating the strange creature that they had captured on the road.
“You have to let me go,” said Maura. “They’ll be looking for me.”
“Not anymore.” The boy slid the knife into his belt and went back to the fire. It was dying, and already the chill had started to penetrate their shelter. He threw on another log, and the flames danced to life in the ring of stones. As the fire brightened, she could make out more details of the hovel in which she had been imprisoned. How many days have I been here? She didn’t know. There were no windows, and she could not see whether it was day or night outside. The walls were rough-hewn logs sealed with dried mud. A pallet of twigs covered with blankets served as his bed. By the fire was a single cooking pot and cans of food, stacked into a neat pyramid. She spotted a familiar-looking jar of peanut butter; it was the same jar that she had been carrying in her backpack.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “What do you want from me?”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“By dragging me here? Keeping me a prisoner?” She could not hold back a disdainful laugh. “Are you insane?”
His gaze narrowed, a look so dark, so intent, that she wondered if she had just pushed him too far. “I saved your life,” he said.
“People will look for me. And they’ll keep searching, for as long as it takes. If you don’t let me go-”
“No one’s looking for you, ma’am. Because you’re dead.”
His words, spoken so calmly, chilled her to the marrow. You’re dead. For one wild, disorienting moment she thought that maybe it was true, that she was dead. That this was her hell, her punishment, trapped forever in a dark and frigid wilderness of her own creation with this strange companion who was half boy, half man. He watched her confusion with an eerie stillness, saying nothing.
“What do you mean?” she whispered.
“They found your body.”
“But I’m right here. I’m alive.”
“That’s not what the radio said.” He threw another log on the fire and the flames leaped up, filling the shelter with smoke that made her eyes water, her throat burn. Then he went to the corner where he crouched over a dark jumble of clothes and backpacks. Rummaging through the pile, he produced a small radio. He clicked it on and tinny music played, shot through with static. A country-western song, sung by a woman wailing about love and betrayal. He held out the radio to her. “Wait for the news.”
But her gaze was focused instead on the pile of belongings in the corner. She saw her own backpack, the one she’d been wearing on her last hike out of the valley. And she spotted something else that startled her.
“You took Elaine’s purse,” she said. “You’re a thief.”
“Wanted to know who was in the valley.”
“Those were your snowshoe tracks. You were watching us.”
“Been waiting for someone to come back. I saw your fire.”
“Why didn’t you just come talk to us? Why sneak around?”
“I didn’t know if you were one of his people. One of them.”
“Who?”
“The Gathering,” he said softly.
She remembered the words that had been stamped in gold on the leather-bound Bible. Words of Our Prophet. The Wisdom of The Gathering. And she remembered, too, the portrait that hung in every house. One of his people, the boy had said. The prophet.
The country-western song faded. They both turned to the radio as the DJ’s voice came on.
“More details are coming out about that fiery crash up on Skyview Road. Four tourists were killed last week when their rented Suburban veered over the edge and plummeted fifty feet into a ravine. The names of the victims have now been identified, and they were Arlo Zielinski and Dr. Douglas Comley of San Diego, as well as Dr. Comley’s thirteen-year-old daughter, Grace. The fourth victim was Dr. Maura Isles from Boston. Drs. Isles and Comley were both in town to attend a medical conference. Icy roads and poor visibility during last Saturday’s snowstorm may have been a factor.”
The boy shut off the radio. “That’s you, isn’t it? You’re the doctor from Boston.” He reached into her backpack and took out her wallet. “I found your driver’s license.”
“I don’t understand,” she murmured. “There’s been a terrible mistake. They aren’t dead. They were alive when I left them. Grace and Elaine and Arlo, they were alive.”
“They think she’s you.” He pointed to Elaine’s purse.
“There was never any crash! And Doug skied out days ago!”
“He never made it.”
“How do you know?”
“You heard what the radio said. They caught him before he got down the mountain. No one made it out alive, except for you. And that’s only because you weren’t there when they came.”
“But they were coming to rescue us! There was a snowplow. I heard it, coming up the road. Just before you…” Suddenly dizzy, she dropped her head between her knees. This is wrong, all wrong. The boy was lying to her. Confusing her, scaring her, so that she would stay with him. But how could the radio be wrong, too? A crashed Suburban with four people dead, the news report had said.
One of the victims was Dr. Maura Isles from Boston.
Her head was throbbing, an aftermath of the blow the boy had landed on her skull to silence her. The last memory she had before that blow was his hand clamped over her mouth as she’d flailed and kicked, as he’d hauled her away from the road, away from the brightness of sunlight and into the gloom of the trees.
There, in the woods, the memory abruptly ended.
She pressed her hands to her temples, trying to think through the ache, trying to understand everything she had heard. I must be hallucinating, she thought. Maybe he hit me hard enough to rupture a vessel. Maybe my brain is slowly being crushed by hemorrhaging blood. That’s why none of this makes sense. I have to concentrate. I have to focus on what I do know, what I’m absolutely certain is true. I know that I’m alive. I know that Elaine and Grace did not die in a car crash. The radio is wrong. The boy is lying.
Slowly she struggled to stand. The boy and dog watched as she rose to her feet, wobbly as a newborn calf. It was only a few paces to the rough-hewn door, but after days of confinement, her legs felt weak and unsteady. If she tried to flee, she knew she could not outrun them.
“You don’t really want to leave,” he said.
“You can’t keep me a prisoner.”
“If you go, they’ll find you.”
“But you’re not going to stop me?”
He sighed. “I can’t, ma’am. If you don’t want to be saved.” He looked down at the dog, as though seeking his comfort. Sensing his owner’s distress, the dog whined and licked the boy’s hand.
She inched toward the door, half expecting the boy to yank her back. The boy remained motionless as she swung open the door, as she stepped outside into a pitch-black night. She stumbled into thigh-deep snow. Staggering back to her feet, she found herself facing the utter blackness of woods. Behind her, the fire glowed invitingly through the open doorway. Glancing back, she saw the boy standing there watching her, the firelight silhouetting his shoulders. She looked ahead again, at the trees, took two steps forward, and stopped. I don’t know where I am or where I’m going. I don’t know what waits for me in those woods. She saw no road, no vehicle, nothing but the claustrophobic trees surrounding that miserable little hovel. Surely Kingdom Come must be within walking distance. How far could one malnourished boy have dragged her unconscious body?
“It’s thirty miles to the nearest town,” he said.
“I’m going back to the valley. That’s where they’ll look for me.”
“You’ll get lost before you get there.”
“I have to find my friends.”
“In the dark?”
She glanced around at trees and darkness. “Where the hell am I?” she blurted in frustration.
“Safe, ma’am.”
She faced him. Steadier now, she moved toward him, reminding herself that this was just a boy, not a man. It made him seem less threatening. “Who are you?” she asked.
The boy was silent.
“You won’t even tell me your name.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“What are you doing out here by yourself? Don’t you have a family?”
He took in a breath and it came out in a heavy sigh. “I wish I knew where they were.”
Maura blinked as wind swirled snow into her eyes. She looked up as flakes began to fall, as fine as dust. The snow landed on her face like cold needlepricks. The dog emerged from the hovel and waded across to lick Maura’s bare hand. His tongue left slick trails that cooled and chilled her skin. He seemed to be asking to be petted, and she laid her hand on his thick fur.
“If you want to freeze to death out here,” the boy said, “I can’t stop you. But I’m going in.” He looked at the dog. “Come on, Bear.”
The dog went stock-still. Maura felt the fur on the back of his neck suddenly bristle as every muscle in his body seemed to tense. Turning toward the trees, Bear gave a low growl that sent a chill whispering up Maura’s back.
“Bear?” the boy said.
“What is it?” she asked. “Why’s he doing that?”
“I don’t know.”
They both stared into the night, trying to see what had alarmed the animal. They heard the wind, the rustle of the trees, but nothing else.
The boy began to strap on a pair of snowshoes. “Go inside,” he said. Then he and the dog walked off into the woods.
Maura hesitated only a few heartbeats. Much longer, and she would have been left too far behind to locate them in the dark. Heart thumping, she followed.
At first she could not see them, but she could hear the creak of the snowshoes and the thrashing of the dog through the underbrush. As she moved deeper into the woods, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she began to make out more details. The looming trunks of pines. And the two figures moving ahead, the boy striding purposefully, the dog leaping to clear deep snow. Through the trees ahead, she saw something else: a faint glow that was gauzy orange through the falling snowflakes.
She smelled smoke.
Her legs were wobbly from the effort to keep up, but she kept struggling ahead, afraid to be left behind, wandering and lost. The boy and dog seemed tireless and they kept moving, covering what seemed like endless ground as she fell farther behind. But she would not lose them now, because she saw where they were headed. They were all being drawn to that ever-brightening glow.
When at last she caught up, the boy was standing very still, his back turned to her, his gaze focused down on the valley.
Far below them, the village of Kingdom Come was ablaze in flames.
“Oh my God,” whispered Maura. “What happened?”
“They came back. I knew they would.”
She stared down at the twin rows of flames, as orderly and regular as military campfires. This was no accident, she thought. Those flames did not spread from rooftop to rooftop. Someone had deliberately set the houses on fire.
The boy moved to the edge of the cliff, so close to the drop-off that for a panicked moment she thought he was about to leap off. He stared down, hypnotized by the destruction of Kingdom Come. The seductive power of fire trapped her gaze as well. She imagined the flames licking at the walls of the house where she had sheltered, turning all to ash. Snowflakes fell, melting on her cheeks to mingle with her tears. Tears for Doug and Arlo, for Elaine and Grace. Only now, as she watched the fires burn, did she truly believe they were dead.
“Why kill them?” she whispered. “Grace was only thirteen-just a girl. Why?”
“They do whatever he wants.”
“Whatever who wants?”
“Jeremiah. The Prophet.” On the boy’s lips, the name sounded more like a curse than a name.
“The man in the painting,” she said.
“And he shall gather the righteous. And lead them all to hell.” He shoved the fur-trimmed hood off his head, and she could see his profile in the gloom, his jaw squared in anger.
“Whose houses were those?” she asked. “Who lived in Kingdom Come?”
“My mother. My sister.” His voice broke and he lowered his head in mourning for a village that was now engulfed in flames. “The chosen ones.”