He wasn’t going to die. Not like this, damn it.
Brandt stumbled on through the brush and mud. The icy rain stung his face, and his hands were so cold he couldn’t feel them anymore.
He stopped, trying to get his bearings in the dark. Where the hell was he? Was he going south or north? He couldn’t even figure that out anymore. There was no moon and no lights out here and if he didn’t figure this out soon, he was going to freeze to death.
He pulled up the soaked collar of his denim jacket and trudged on through the mud and blackness.
A sudden memory hit him: his father walking ahead of him, the crackling of his boots on ice the only sound in the gray morning light. Trees bent and broken from the ice storm the night before, barbed-wire fences dripping ice daggers. And then, there in the field, the frozen carcass of a calf that had gone lost in the storm.
I’m not going to die out here!
Not cold and wet and hungry, like some pitiful animal someone was trying to hunt down.
But that’s what he was now. A hunted animal.
Why hadn’t he had the sense to take a warmer coat? Why hadn’t he stopped to get some food? Why didn’t he take a flashlight? Why hadn’t he fucking planned this whole thing better, instead of just showing up at that cop’s apartment?
The cop was dead. At least he had done that right.
But everything else was all so fucked up now, and he couldn’t even think straight.
Margi…
He had even fucked that up.
He should have gone back right away. He should have gone back and made sure she was dead after he pushed her out of the car.
But he didn’t. And when he finally did go back and look, she was gone. He had driven along that road five times looking for her body, stopping to stare down into the ditches thinking she had crawled into one to die. He had kicked the brushes, looked in drainage pipes, and even walked out into the fields. But she was gone.
Like a fucking ghost.
Like Jean.
And then he had seen the cop car, a cruiser tearing east on Territorial Road, and he knew they were coming after him.
The cop hadn’t seen the Gremlin. But he knew they would soon. So he had headed north, driving clear up toward Unadilla, where he had found an abandoned old barn and left the Gremlin hidden inside.
Then he had started walking.
Keeping off the main roads, cutting across fields and muddy meadows in the dark. Hours of walking in the icy rain as the plan took shape in his head. He would get back to the farm. He’d come in from the north across the creek, because they’d never be looking for him like that. He would get back to the farm, find a way past the cops, pick up what food and clothes he could, and then find a place to hide until things calmed down.
They always did. Even cops got tired of looking. He had learned that in Ohio after he’d robbed the liquor store. A man just had to be smart.
He’d be even smarter this time. And when things were quiet, he’d get out. He’d get out of Hell forever. Forget about Florida. He’d run to Canada. That was a place where a man could be free. Free to do what he wanted. Free of his past and his ghosts.
Brandt stopped.
Water… he could hear rushing water somewhere in the darkness.
It had to be Lethe Creek. He pushed on, the brambles tearing at his hands. The rushing sound grew louder. He felt the ground give way, and he slipped, falling forward.
The cold water hit him like a slap. He sputtered to his feet, waist-high in the creek. It was rushing so fast he couldn’t keep his balance, and he flailed in the dark, trying to grab anything to stop from being swept away.
His hand hit a branch, and he hung on.
Slowly, he pulled himself out of the water and staggered up the muddy bank. The ground leveled, and he dropped onto the wet grass, gasping.
He lay there shivering, too cold to move. Slowly, he became aware of something cold and hard under his left hand.
He jerked up to his knees.
Fuck. He was lying on somebody’s grave.
The cemetery. He was in the cemetery. But that meant he was close now. He staggered to his feet and strained his eyes to see something, anything, in the blackness. And then he saw it in the east — the faintest gray light behind the bare black trees.
He turned to his right. South… that had to be south. And the farm was just a mile away. He was going to make it.
His feet… he couldn’t feel them at all now. And his teeth were chattering so hard his jaw ached. But he could make out the black shape of the barn ahead and the house and-
He stopped.
Blue lights.
Fuck, no! No! No!
He ducked behind a tree. Two cop cars. He could see them on the road. But he couldn’t see the cops. Where the hell were they?
His clothes were iced to his skin. The cold was affecting his brain.
Think! Think!
He had to get warm and dry. Then he could figure out what to do. He had the cop’s gun. He could shoot the other cops if he had to. But he had to get warm and dry first. Maybe if he could get into the barn and hide…
He crept forward, his eyes on the blue lights. No other choice. He had to chance going into the barn.
Then he saw the bobbing beams of flashlights. And a second later, he heard the men’s voices. They were searching the barn.
The beam was coming toward him now. Or was his brain playing tricks on him?
He began to back up slowly, hands outstretched, eyes on the flashlights, heart hammering.
He was almost to the edge of the cornfield when his foot caught, and he went down hard in a thicket of thorns. He lay there for a moment, panting and bleeding. Then he carefully reached out for something to pull himself from the thorns. Hard, cold stone, then… rough wood.
Slowly, he eased from the thicket and tried to see what he had fallen against. He carefully pushed the briars away.
A door. An old wooden door, hanging by one rusted hinge in a crumbling stone-framed archway.
But there was no building attached that he could see. Just a low hill of wild weeds and overgrown trees.
What the fuck was this?
The wind brought the sound of the cop’s voices to him again.
He had to find a place to hide.
He pulled on the door. It gave easily, and he stared into the black hole. Feeling his way, he went in. He stumbled again and caught himself. Steps… stone steps! It was like the cellar back at the house but smaller. What was this place?
Slowly, he went down. Four steps. He couldn’t see a thing, but the air was cool and dry, smelling only of dirt. He reached out, and his fingers found cold, rough stone.
Suddenly, he remembered the lighter in his pocket. If it still worked…
With fumbling, cold fingers, he pulled it out. It took four strikes but then flared.
Stone walls. A cave of some kind. Maybe four feet across, but he couldn’t tell how deep, and he sure as hell didn’t want to venture back there.
What the hell is this place?
Then he saw the corn cobs hanging from the wood rafters. And on the dirt floor… clumps that looked like dried potatoes.
A memory flashed into his brain. Crazy Verna standing at the broken icebox bitching about what it was going to cost to get a new one and how in the old days her grandmother just put fruits and vegetables in the root cellar to keep from rotting. That’s what this had to be, a damn root cellar. No wonder he had never seen it before. It was carved out of a small hill maybe a hundred feet from the barn entrance and covered with sod, dirt, and weeds. No one had used this place for maybe a hundred years.
He realized he was feeling warmer. It was still cold in here but not as bad as outside, and at least it was dry.
Brandt stared at the shriveled potatoes. Maybe he could even eat some of this shit if he had to.
The voices…
He pocketed the lighter and scrambled up the steps. Through the tangle of thorn bushes, he could see the faint beams of the cops’ flashlights. But they were moving toward the house. Away from him.
Brandt carefully arranged the thorn bushes to block the entrance, then pulled the broken door shut. If he didn’t know this place was here, then maybe no one else would, either.
He backed down the stairs and stood in the pitch-blackness, holding his breath.
No voices. And then the sound of a car pulling away.
Feeling his way to the wall, he slid down onto the ground, his back against the stone. The gun was digging into his waist, so he pulled it out.
This would be okay… at least, until he could get warm and get his brain working right again.
Tomorrow, maybe he would get on the road.
He laid the gun down on the dirt near his foot, brought up his hands, and blew on them for warmth. He sat there, the darkness so black he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.
No sounds now. Just the wind whistling through the old boards of the door.
He was alone.
Except…
He turned and peered into the blackness.
A shiver snaked up his wet neck.
He fumbled in his pocket for the lighter, flicked it with his thumb, but it jumped out of his trembling hand.
Frantic, he patted the dirt around him. His fingers touched plastic, and he snatched it up.
His other hand paused on the dirt, then closed around a clump. He brought it up to his nose.
This place. This farm…
This was the reason he had come back here.
It was his. He hated it. But it was all he had.
Could he leave this place?
Could he leave Jean?
She was here. She was close now. He could feel it.
He let the dirt fall through his fingers.
He couldn’t go. He couldn’t leave this place yet.
There was one more thing to do. Then he would be free.