DECEMBER 3, 10:00 P.M.
COLDING BRAKED TO a stop on a rise that gave him a view of both Sven’s house and the trail behind him. Ten minutes had passed since that crazy flight for life. His heart still pounded so hard he wondered if his end might not come from a bullet, or a monster, but from cardiac arrest.
He turned to look back, the barrel of his Beretta leading his vision. Nothing right behind him, but how could he be sure? He peered deeper into the dark, shadow-soaked woods on either side, watching for movement or a strange-looking patch of black and white.
Muscles stayed clenched. The barrel wiggled in time with his shaking hand. His stomach was bound up so tight he couldn’t draw a deep breath. He saw hundreds of the creatures in the darkness, behind every log, lurking under the snow-laden branches of every tree. Waiting to spring, waiting for him to turn away so they could rush him and tear him apart.
Colding held his breath, then forced a long, slow exhale. He had to get control of himself. There was nothing out there. Emotions raged through him—fear of the creatures, frustration from not knowing Sara’s fate, humiliation at having begged for his life. He had to calm down. Calm down and think. Sara might still be alive, might be with Rhumkorrf, hiding out in Sven’s house. Colding had to start there.
He switched the pistol to his right hand, then reached back with his left and checked the right-shoulder wound for the first time. Felt like a burning poker had been permanently fixed to his screaming skin. His fingers came away wet with blood, but not a lot. He slowly rotated his arm. Pain, sure, but full range of motion. Andy’s bullet had missed the bone.
Colding had never been shot before, but he didn’t think the wound was all that bad. He wiped the blood on the leg of his snowsuit.
He switched the Beretta back to his left hand and drove with his right, down the ridge toward the lights of Sven’s barn. He had to get out of sight, and not just because of the monsters—he had no way of knowing if Andy was still out there, hunting, maybe even looking at Colding this very second, lining up a shot.
The gun snapped up when he saw the small man in the black parka standing in the open barn door. Andy? No, this man was even smaller than Andy.
Rhumkorrf.
Colding kept the gun trained on him anyway, then pointed it off. What the hell was he doing? Think, man, have to think. He slid the snowmobile to a halt in front of Rhumkorrf but didn’t shut off the engine. It idled as he looked the man over.
Claus Rhumkorrf looked like a torture victim. Oozing burn blisters covered most of his face. He wore no hat. The left side of his scalp flaked black where it wasn’t raw and red. Tufts of blackened down hung precariously in spots where his parka was nothing more than torn and melted nylon, providing no warmth, no protection. His lips were swollen, cracked and white. His eyes looked vacant and ghostly—soulless.
“My God, Doc, are you okay? Where’s Sara and the crew?”
Rhumkorrf didn’t answer. He held out his left hand. No gloves. Fingers swollen to twice their normal size, blue from burst blood vessels brought on by frostbite. Second-degree frostbite, probably only a few hours away from the third degree that would demand amputation of those fingers. Colding had to get the man inside. How gone was Rhumkorrf that he wasn’t waiting inside Sven’s house?
And for that matter, where was Sven?
In the palm of his ravaged hand, Rhumkorrf held something brown with white flecks that gleamed in the barn’s light.
“My fault,” Rhumkorrf said in a tiny voice. “All my fault.”
“Doc, did Sara hide out with you here?”
Rhumkorrf shook his head.
“Did she make it? Where’s the plane?”
Rhumkorrf spoke with a far-off, distant voice. “I made it out just before the explosion. The blast knocked me through the air. I … I burned a little. I didn’t see anyone else—they’re all dead.”
Pain. Not the physical kind, far worse … the same crippling pain he’d felt watching Clarissa die. No. No way. Not Sara. “Did you see Sara die? See her body? What about the crew, Alonzo and the Twins?”
“I woke up in the snow,” Rhumkorrf said. “I told you I didn’t see anyone else. I walked here and hid in the shed. Then the fetuses … they, they came out. I saw them chase down cows, tear them to pieces. Such noises. The ancestors are out there, P. J., you have to believe me.”
“Preachin’ to the choir. Check out the back of the fucking sled.”
Rhumkorrf looked at the ripped seat. Chunks of white foam stuck out from the shredded vinyl. Colding saw Rhumkorrf’s eyes moving from cut to parallel cut, could almost hear the calculations clicking away in the man’s brain.
“How big?”
“Big,” Colding said. “Way over four hundred pounds, maybe four fifty.”
“Impossible. They would need … tens of thousands of pounds of food to reach that size.”
Colding looked back to the barn. “Would fifty cows at about fifteen hundred pounds each do the trick?”
Rhumkorrf stared at the barn, seemingly dumbfounded by the question. “Yes. Yes, that would do it. And if they get the other cows, at the Harveys’, they could get even bigger.”
The Harveys. Shit.
“Get on,” Colding said. Rhumkorrf let out a yelp of pain as he sat on the claw-shredded seat. Who knew which of his many injuries had zinged him? Maybe it was all of them.
Colding drove the sled the fifty yards to the house, then stopped on the far side so it wouldn’t be visible from the road. He ran inside, feeling the house’s warmth on his face even as he scanned for and found the phone.
Rhumkorrf followed him in. “Who are you calling? I already called the mansion and talked to Andy.”
“I’m kind of aware of that,” Colding said. “I’m calling the Harveys.”
The phone rang. And rang. And rang.
“Call the mansion,” Rhumkorrf said. “Have them bring that zebra tank-thing, please, get us out of here.”
Colding hung up. “Can’t do that. I came out here with Andy, under Magnus’s orders. Andy tried to kill me.”
“Is Andy dead?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the ancestors got him, or maybe he’s coming after us right now.”
Rhumkorrf sagged. He still held the brown rock in his hand. “So Magnus really does want me dead.”
“They don’t call you a fucking genius for nothing. Come on, we gotta go.”
“Go where? Magnus will kill us.”
“We have to get to the Harveys’. They didn’t answer.”
“Then they’re dead,” Rhumkorrf said, shaking his head. “We can’t go out there.”
“Doc, we have to. And I’m not leaving you here, so let’s go.”
Rhumkorrf shook his head harder, eyes wide, a little drool dripping out of the right corner of his open mouth. “Nein! Nein! I watched through the shed window. They caught the cows and killed them, ate them. They eat everything, Colding, bones and all.”
He held out his frostbitten hand, again offering up the white-speckled rock. But … it wasn’t a rock. It was a chunk of dark brown speckled with tiny white ice crystals.
“Doc, what is that?”
“Stool.”
“What?”
“Feces. Scheisse. From the ancestors.”
Colding finally recognized one of the white things—a human tooth, a molar. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”
“They ate Sven,” Rhumkorrf said. “They ate Sven and all the cows, Colding. Bones and all. Do you understand? Bones and all.”
The ancestors were out there, hunting. Could be anywhere on the island. Anywhere. Colding forced his hands to stop shaking. He didn’t know where Sara was, if she was even alive at all. But the Harveys? He knew exactly where they were. And Magnus knew where Rhumkorrf was, whether Andy had lived or not. They had to get away from Sven’s house, and fast.
“Doc, we’re going to the Harveys’ house. You can either get on the snowmobile with me, or I will make you get on it. I really don’t want to put my
hands on you again, okay?”
The little man looked at him, shook his head one more time, then he dropped the frozen ancestor shit on the kitchen floor. “You’ll get us killed,” he said. “Let’s go.”
DECEMBER 3, 10:45 P.M.
MAGNUS FINISHED WRAPPING the duct tape around Clayton’s ankles, firmly securing him to the folding chair. He’d already taped Clayton’s hands behind him. The security room’s harsh fluorescent lighting played off the old man’s swelling left eye. Clayton’s head hung down, wobbling each time he was bumped.
The head lifted a bit. Clayton blinked rapidly, seemed to snap out of it. “Someone help me! Get this crazy fucker off me!” No confusion. He knew where he was, he knew what had happened.
Magnus slapped him, rocking the old man’s head back and drawing blood from his lower lip.
“No one is here, Clayton. Gunther is in the fire tower. Colding is dead by now. The only person coming back here is Andy, and we know how much he loves you.”
Clayton spit blood onto the security room’s floor.
Magnus had arrived first, then just sat in the dark security room and waited. Clayton had come alone, turned on the lights, then Magnus hit him and it was lights-out. Couldn’t have been easier.
Magnus walked to the weapons rack and grabbed one of the compact MP5 submachine guns. He clipped on a gun strap, loaded the weapon, then set it on the ground.
The time for civility had ended. Now it was time to add a new knife to his collection.
Magnus grabbed one of the white Ka-Bar boxes. He opened it and looked at the round handle made of stacked leather washers, looked at the leather sheath. New knives had that smell. He dropped the box, then ran his belt through the sheath’s loop. It hung nicely on his left side. Only when it was securely in place did he grip the handle and pull.
The seven-inch, flat-black blade seemed to smile at him. The knife reflected no light save for the thin, razor-sharp edge.
“I know you,” Magnus said to the knife.
He held the knife with his right hand. With his left, he picked up the MP5. The weapons felt solid in his hands. Balanced. Real. A lot of variables were flying around, for certain, maybe too many things to process all at once. But he always knew what to do with the knife. The knife made decisions easy. He walked in front of Clayton and set the knife on the floor.
The old man stared at it. He was very afraid, clearly, but that angry, defiant attitude still exuded from his every fiber.
“Clayton, I don’t have a lot of time. I’ve done this before. Many times. I know exactly how to get what I want. It’s better for you if you just cooperate. Do you understand?”
Clayton said nothing.
“Where did you hide Sara Purinam?”
“Did you look up your asshole? Oh wait, your head is already there, so you’d have seen her by now.”
Insolent old bastard. Magnus had something special for him. He slung the MP5 over his shoulder and walked back to the weapons rack. There he screwed a torch tip onto a can of propane. He opened the valve, took a lighter off the shelf and walked in front of Clayton again.
Clayton saw the propane can, heard the hiss of gas, and shook his head. He understood. “Don’t you fucking do it, you sick fuck.”
Magnus flicked the lighter. The torch’s pointy blue flame snapped into existence. He put the lighter in his pocket. Magnus had a philosophy when it came to torture: Seeing is believing, but feeling is faith.
He picked up the knife and held the blade in front of the flame. Usually, he did this part in the dark, letting the blowtorch flame be the only illumination up until the blade glowed red. It was a great psychological motivator before the cutting began, but he simply didn’t have time for the extras.
“Last chance,” Magnus said as he gently moved the flame up and down the seven-inch Ka-Bar blade. “You’re going to tell me what I want to know. The only question is how badly you’ll be burned when you finally talk.”
“Just do it,” Clayton hissed, his eyes squeezed wrinkle-tight in anticipation of agony. “Cowards die many times before their deaths, da valiant never taste of death but once, eh?”
The quote came out of nowhere, so random it made Magnus lower the torch. “I’m shocked. You know Julius Caesar?”
“Never met him,” Clayton said, his eyes still scrunched tight. “Kerouac said that shit to me once when we were nailing some whores down in Copper Harbor.”
Typical American. So crude. But crude or not, this old man was tougher than Magnus had suspected. Talking would just waste time unless parameters were established.
Magnus closed the torch valve and set the propane canister on the ground. He walked behind Clayton. He grabbed the old man’s right pinkie and slid the hot blade into the skin. Blood poured out, hissing against the blade. Clayton screamed as the blade dug down to the bone. Blood spurted. The smell of burned flesh filled the air. Clayton thrashed in his chair and kept screaming, but Magnus didn’t stop—he bent and twisted the pinkie as he cut, pulling it against the base knuckle. Just like bending a hot wing in half. Blood splattered to the floor as something snapped and a piece of gristle popped out.
Two more knife strokes through the last bits of flesh … the pinkie came right off.
Magnus walked in front of Clayton, tossing the bloody finger up and down in his palm. Tears covered Clayton’s cheeks. Blood streamed from a deep cut in his lower lip where he’d bitten through it. He didn’t look hateful or insolent or tough anymore.
He just looked old.
“You’ve got nine left,” Magnus said. “Ready to talk?”
Clayton nodded.
“Good. Who is with Sara?”
“Just … Tim Feely. Da rest are dead.”
“What about Rhumkorrf? Is he with them?”
Clayton shook his head.
“Are you sure, Clayton?”
The old man nodded. “He’s dead. Sara said he … blew up … like da others.”
Was the old man lying? It was possible that Rhumkorrf and Purinam were separated in the crash. “Tell me how the C-5 got back here.”
“They crashed on Rapleje Bay. Thick ice. A … bomb. They got out and the whole thing blew up, melted through da ice.”
That fit. If Sara had brought it down right before the bomb went off, there would be panic as everyone tried to escape. Rhumkorrf could have gotten separated. Sara had put the C-5 on the ice, then let it sink away. That filthy whore had ruined all of his careful plans, all of his meticulous work.
“Tell me where they are,” Magnus said.
Clayton did.
Magnus reached inside Clayton’s snowsuit, down to his belt, and pulled out the man’s thick ring of keys.
“You don’t mind if I borrow your ride, do you, Pops?” The Bv206 was enclosed and fairly well armored. A snowmobile was faster, but unprotected, and Sara had a Beretta.
Magnus grabbed a duffel bag and quickly stuffed it with MP5 magazines, a backup Beretta and a first-aid kit. Plastique and timers went in the bag as well, just in case Sara had created a defensible position. And what if he needed info from her? He threw in the propane torch and slung the duffel over his shoulder.
Then his eyes fell to the black canvas bag on the bottom shelf of the weapons rack. Fischer might come early, never knew … it helped to be prepared for any contingency. He took that bag as well.
Magnus walked to the door, then turned, taking one more look at the beaten old man. It was always best to leave subjects alive until you were sure you had correct intel, leave them in the darkness and silence so they could focus on nothing but the pain. Someone might be tough enough to resist questioning the first few minutes after losing a finger, but after two or three hours of feeling that agony and fearing what would come next? They always told the truth.
“I’m going to leave you here,” Magnus said. “I’ll come back if you forgot anything.” He reached up and flicked off the lights.
Magnus shut the door on the dark security room. He didn’t know what w
as keeping Andy, or if the man was even alive, but Sara Purinam and Tim Feely were just a short snowmobile ride away.
DECEMBER 3, 11:07 P.M.
GARY DETWEILER HAD never seen conditions like this. A hard wind kicked up ten-foot swells. Chunks of ice floated everywhere. Although there probably wasn’t a chunk large enough to hurt the Otto II, he sure as hell didn’t want to find out while doing twenty knots.
Once he had the island in sight he turned off his running lights, navigating with GPS and a pair of night-vision goggles. Thick clouds hid the stars and kept the moon to a faint glow, but it was enough illumination for the goggles to show his way in varying shades of neon green.
The closer he got to the harbor, the thicker the ice became. Baseball-sized chunks collected like tightly packed flotsam, making the water look like an undulating solid, rising with each wave, dipping with each trough. The Otto II cut through the surface, leaving behind it a path of clear water that lasted only seconds before the churning ice chunks closed in again.
Chunky waves splashed against the pylons at the harbor’s entrance. Actually, they splashed against twenty feet of lumpy, solid ice that spread out from the pylons. Gary shook his head in amazement. If this cold continued, the harbor entrance might very well freeze shut in a day or so. After that, the whole harbor would ice over in a matter of hours. That very thing had happened back in the winter of ’68, or so his father told him.
Gary pulled back on the throttle, reducing speed and—more important—reducing noise. The wind was loud enough to hide the engine gurgle, unless someone was waiting for him on the dock. The Otto II slid through the icy harbor entrance. Beyond the walls, the waves dropped to three feet. He could barely believe his eyes—like the pylons, the shore and dock had extended with a good thirty feet of rough ice. Waves constantly tossed water and fresh chunks onto this frozen, growing shoreline.
And beyond it? A psycho with a gun. Correction, guns, and a lot of them. But that didn’t matter. Gary’s father needed him. Those people needed him. All he had to do was get on the island, make it to the church, then bring them back. Once in the boat and away from the island, they’d be safe.