For a brief second Ed considered opening one of the side windows to poke his head out into the maelstrom that surrounded him and try to get some glimpse of his bearings.
Suddenly the boat pitched once more, and the sliding door on the port side crashed open. Instantly the hawk abandoned its attack on the windshield and burst into the cabin itself. The second it was inside, the boat yawed and the door slammed shut.
Abandoning the wheel, Ed threw his arms over his face to try to protect himself from the bird’s fury.
It did no good.
Its beak and talons nothing more than a flashing blur, it tore at Ed’s clothes, ripping them away until it had exposed his bare skin. Now it was his flesh the hawk attacked, and Ed began screaming in agony as the sharp beak tore into him, jerking bits of skin and muscle away. The violent pitching of the boat increased, and Ed was hurled across the beam, his head smashing into the bulkhead. He crumpled to the floor for a moment, groaning, then shrieked as the bird renewed its attack. He rolled over, but once again the boat yawed, and Ed’s body slammed against a corner of the dinette. He felt a rib crack, and a searing pain slashed through his chest. Then the pain was forgotten as the bird began stripping more flesh from his exposed arms and back.
He tried to roll now, back and forth, frantically seeking escape from the virago that swarmed over him, but there was no escape.
His screams fading to whimpers, he finally could fight no more, and lay still as the bird shredded his flesh. At last the blessed relief of unconsciousness began to overtake him, but at the last instant he opened his good eye.
Just before the bird snatched his eyeball from its socket, Ed thought he recognized a face looming above him.
But it was impossible. It was all impossible.…
And then the hawk’s curved beak plunged into his eye, and the world, with a last flash of searing white-hot pain, went black.
“What the hell’s going on?” Bill Dawson asked as the runabout drew near the fishing trawler. The trawler was still rolling gently, but the violent pitching they had witnessed as they raced out from the harbor had subsided. Still, the sea around the trawler was as calm as it had been when they passed Cranberry Point, and the sun still shone warmly from a cloudless sky. And yet both of them were certain they had seen the boat being tossed around as if it had been caught in a hurricane. Now, with only five yards separating the two vessels, Vittorio slowly circled the trawler.
It was soaking wet, with water still dripping from the cabin roof and running off the gunwales.
The windshield, though still in place, was shattered, and had caved slightly inward. Scattered over its surface was a random pattern of small holes, as if someone had driven nails through it in a misguided effort to gain entry to the boat.
At last Tony picked up the hailer Dawson had brought from the forepeak and called out to the trawler.
There was no response.
Tony brought the runabout alongside the trawler, and Dawson threw a line over its cleats. When two lines had been made fast, both men climbed aboard the Big Ed. While Vittorio checked the afterdeck, Dawson moved forward, finally sliding open the port door to the main cabin. A pure white hawk burst out of the pilothouse, spiraled over the trawler for a moment, then settled on the bow pulpit, its head swiveling rapidly as it surveyed its surroundings.
When he’d recovered from the shock of the bird, Bill Dawson stepped into the cabin and yelled for the police officer.
The cabin walls were smeared with the bright crimson of blood that hadn’t yet dried, and on the floor, sprawled on its back, was what remained of Ed Cavanaugh’s corpse.
The bones of his forearms and hands were completely exposed, the flesh torn away and scattered around the cabin. His chest, punctured and lacerated to little more than a reddish pulp, was covered only by a few remaining shreds of the heavy flannel shirt he’d been wearing.
His face—what was left of it—was a grotesque mask of terror, made even more hideous by the remnants of his left eyeball, which hung from its socket by a thread of torn tissue.
“Christ,” Dawson breathed. “I never saw nothin’ like this.”
“Neither did I,” Vittorio agreed, his voice grim as he fought the nausea rising in his gorge. “Get a tow line hooked up while I call in. If the radio still works,” he added darkly.
By the time they got back to False Harbor, a small crowd had gathered on the dock. Tony Vittorio was not the only person who had heard Ed Cavanaugh’s call for help, and several people had also heard Tony’s brief report to the duty officer. As the runabout, laboring hard against the heavy load of the fishing trawler, made its slow way up the channel, a murmur of anticipation ran over the forty-odd people who had been waiting since noon.
In the runabout Tony’s expression was one of anger mixed with resignation. “Wouldn’t you think they had better things to do?” he asked.
Bill Dawson shook his head. His haunted eyes, still filled with the memory of what he’d seen in the cabin aboard the Big Ed, scanned the crowd. “With what’s been goin’ on around here, you got to expect it. They’re scared, and you can bet that after they get a look at Ed, they’re gonna be even more scared.”
“I’m not giving them a look at Ed,” Tony replied. “In fact if there were another place to put in, I’d do it. When we’re tied up, make damned sure nobody gets aboard Ed’s boat. And I mean nobody.” He pulled back the throttle, gradually slowing the runabout, then prepared to lash it alongside the trawler as inertia brought it even with the smaller boat. Once they were tied together he’d begin working both boats toward the dock.
As the trawler closed, the white hawk that had ridden silently on the bow throughout the long, slow cruise eyed Tony malevolently one more time, then rose into the air, found a thermal, and spiraled upward above the trawler. At last, with an eerie screeching that echoed over the small harbor, it wheeled and soared off in the direction of the marsh.
Every eye in the crowd on the wharf followed it, and every person who saw it recognized it.
It was Miranda’s hawk, going home to roost.
Gene Templeton and Keith Winslow approached the cabin slowly. A curl of white smoke drifted up from the chimney, dissipating quickly in the clear spring air.
The hawk perched on the roof, its head swiveling warily as it watched them come. But long before they were close enough for Templeton to get a shot at it, it lifted off, its wings beating powerfully, and sailed off across Cranberry Point and out to sea.
They came to the bottom of the rise, where Templeton paused. “You sure you want to come?” he asked.
Keith nodded. “I have to,” he said. “Whoever she is—whatever she is, she’s still my daughter. I’ve loved her since the day she was born, and no matter what she’s done, I still love her.”
Then, his lungs expanding as he drew in the fresh sea air, he started up the gentle slope, Templeton behind him.
No sound came from within the cabin. All the shutters were closed, as was the door. If it hadn’t been for the smoke drifting from the chimney, it would have looked completely deserted.
After pausing on the porch for a moment, Keith reached out and pushed on the door.
It swung slowly open.
Keith stepped inside.
They sat at the table in the center of the room, opposite each other.
Keith could see Eric’s face clearly over Cassie’s shoulder.
His skin looked pale even in the dim light of the cabin, and his blue eyes seemed to be fixed on Cassie’s face. But when Keith stepped across the threshold, Eric’s eyes moved slightly. Then he swallowed.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” he asked. “My father’s dead.”
Keith hesitated, then nodded.
“She said he was,” Eric said almost tonelessly. “When we came out here, she told me Kiska had gone to kill my father.”
“Why did you come out here?” Keith heard Templeton ask.
Eric frowned slightly, as if he were thinking. “Sumi,??
? he said at last. “He wasn’t in the house this morning.” He hesitated, then managed an abashed smile. “We knew Mr. Winslow wouldn’t let us come back here, so we sneaked out.”
“The cat,” Templeton said. “Is he here?”
Eric nodded, and glanced down at the tabletop. Keith took a step forward. Then he saw him.
In the middle of the table, his head twisted around in a grotesquely unnatural position, was the gray cat that had been Cassie’s pet.
“She killed him,” Eric said. His eyes met Keith’s and didn’t waver. “When we came out here, Sumi was in the cabin, and Cassie picked him up. She held him for a while, and then she told me what she saw.” Eric’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She saw my mother hanging herself. Sumi was there, and made her do it, and afterward—” He stopped abruptly, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the memory.
“Go on, son,” Templeton said quietly. “What else?”
“Sumi clawed my mother’s face.”
Why is Eric telling it? Keith thought. Why is Cassie just sitting there, letting Eric tell it? But even as the questions came into his mind, a cold knot of fear closed on him as he began to suspect the answer.
“She killed Sumi,” Eric went on. “She said there was no reason for my mother to die, but he killed her anyway. She said she’d lost control of him, so she killed him. She—she didn’t want him to hurt anyone else.”
Keith swallowed, trying to clear the lump out of his throat, but it did no good. Unable to speak, he slowly moved around until he could see Cassie’s face.
Her eyes were wide and clear, and though they were staring directly at him, he knew she didn’t see him.
Though the pain was finally gone from Cassie’s eyes, nothing had replaced it. All that remained was a blank, empty void.
Her mouth hung slightly open, and the muscles in her cheeks had gone slack.
At last, his hand trembling, he reached out to touch her cheek. Her skin felt cool and slightly damp, but she showed no reaction to his touch.
“She wanted to stop Kiska,” Eric said. “She wanted to, but she couldn’t.… She couldn’t.…”
“It’s all right, son,” Templeton said gently, laying his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “It’s over now. It’s all over.”
A few minutes later Keith lifted Cassie out of the chair and cradled her in his arms.
Her breathing was slow and steady, and he could even feel her heart beating in her breast.
But she herself was gone.
He carried her out of the little cabin and back through the marsh.
Templeton walked beside him, saying nothing.
Eric stayed in the cabin.
“I just want to be by myself for a little while,” he said as they left. “I’ll be all right. I just—I just have to get used to it, that’s all.”
Both Keith and the police chief had understood.
Templeton’s car was in the parking lot by the beach, and Keith gently eased his daughter into the back seat. They drove across the parking lot toward Cape Drive, but as Templeton paused before pulling out onto the street itself, Cassie suddenly moved, twisting in the seat to look back out over the marsh.
On the porch of the cabin, Eric was barely visible.
Cassie frowned, then slowly raised her hand and pointed.
For a split second nothing happened. Then Kiska spread his wings, found the wind, and rose into the sky. He hovered for a moment, as if searching for his prey, then closed his wings and dove downward.
Eric, relaxed in his moment of triumph and Cassie’s defeat, never saw him coming, never had a chance to reach out with his own mind, never had a chance to escape the bird’s slashing talons.
Now it’s over, Cassie thought silently as she let herself drift back into the cool comfort of the fog.
Now it’s truly over.
ENTER THE TERRIFYING WORLD OF JOHN SAUL
A scream shatters the peaceful night of a sleepy town, a mysterious stranger awakens to seek vengeance.… Once again, with expert, chillingly demonic skill, John Saul draws the reader into his world of utter fear. The author of nineteen novels of psychological and supernatural suspense—all million copy New York Times bestsellers—John Saul is unequaled in his power to weave the haunted past and the troubled present into a web of pure, cold terror.
THE GOD PROJECT
Something is happening to the children of Eastbury, Massachusetts … something that strikes at the heart of every parent’s darkest fears. For Sally Montgomery, the grief over the sudden death of her infant daughter is only the beginning. For Lucy Corliss, her son Randy is her life. Then one day, Randy doesn’t come home. And the terror begins …
A horn honked, pulling Randy out of his reverie, and he realized he was alone on the block. He looked at the watch his father had given him for his ninth birthday. It was nearly eight thirty. If he didn’t hurry, he was going to be late for school. Then he heard a voice calling to him.
“Randy! Randy Corliss!”
A blue car, a car he didn’t recognize, was standing by the curb. A woman was smiling at him from the driver’s seat. He approached the car hesitantly, clutching his lunch box.
“Hi, Randy,” the woman said.
“Who are you?” Randy stood back from the car, remembering his mother’s warnings about never talking to strangers.
“My name’s Miss Bowen. Louise Bowen. I came to get you.”
“Get me?” Randy asked. “Why?”
“For your father,” the woman said. Randy’s heart beat faster. His father? His father had sent this woman? Was it really going to happen, finally? “He wanted me to pick you up at home,” he heard the woman say, “but I was late. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right,” Randy said. He moved closer to the car. “Are you taking me to Daddy’s house?”
The woman reached across and pushed the passenger door open. “In a little while,” she promised. “Get in.”
Randy knew he shouldn’t get in the car, knew he should turn around and run to the nearest house, looking for help. It was things like this—strangers offering to give you a ride—that his mother had talked to him about ever since he was a little boy.
But this was different. This was a friend of his father’s. Her brown eyes were twinkling at him, and her smile made him feel like she was sharing an adventure with him. He made up his mind and got into the car, pulling the door closed behind him. The car moved away from the curb.
“Where are we going?” Randy asked.
Louise Bowen glanced over at the boy sitting expectantly on the seat beside her. He was every bit as attractive as the pictures she had been shown, his eyes almost green, with dark, wavy hair framing his pugnacious, snub-nosed face. His body was sturdy, and though she was a stranger to him, he didn’t seem to be the least bit frightened of her. Instinctively, Louise liked Randy Corliss.
“We’re going to your new school.”
Randy frowned. New school? If he was going to a new school, why wasn’t his father taking him? The woman seemed to hear him, even though he hadn’t spoken out loud.
“You’ll see your father very soon. But for a few days, until he gets everything worked out with your mother, you’ll be staying at the school. You’ll like it there,” she promised. “It’s a special school, just for little boys like you, and you’ll have lots of new friends. Doesn’t that sound exciting?”
Randy nodded uncertainly, no longer sure he should have gotten in the car. Still, when he thought about it, it made sense. His father had told him there would be lots of problems when the time came for him to move away from his mother’s. And his father had told him he would be going to a new school. And today was the day.
Randy settled down in the seat and glanced out the window. They were heading out of Eastbury on the road toward Langston. That was where his father lived, so everything was all right.
Except that it didn’t quite feel all right. Deep inside, Randy had a strange sense of something being very wrong.
&
nbsp; For two very different families haunted by very similar fears, THE GOD PROJECT has only just begun to work its lethal conspiracy of silence and fear. And for the reader, John Saul has produced a mind-numbing tale of evil unchecked.
NATHANIEL
Prairie Bend: brilliant summers amid golden fields, killing winters of razorlike cold. A peaceful, neighborly village, darkened by legends of death … legends of Nathaniel. Some residents say he is simply a folk tale, others swear he is a terrifying spirit. And soon—very soon—some will come to believe that Nathaniel lives …
Shivering, Michael set himself a destination now and began walking along the edges of the pastures, the woods on his right, climbing each fence as he came to it. Sooner than he would have expected, the woods curved away to the right, following the course of the river as it deviated from its southeastern flow to curl around the village. Ahead of him he could see the scattered twinkling lights of Prairie Bend. For a moment, he considered going into the village, but then, as he looked off to the southeast, he changed his mind, for there, seeming almost to glow in the moonlight, was the hulking shape of Findley’s barn.
That, Michael knew, was where he was going.
He cut diagonally across the field, then darted across the deserted highway and into another field. He moved quickly now, feeling exposed in the emptiness with the full moon shining down on him. Ten minutes later he had crossed the field and come once more to the highway, this time as it emerged from the village. Across the street, he could see Ben Findley’s driveway and, at its end, the little house, and the barn.
He considered trying to go down the driveway and around the house, but quickly abandoned the idea. A light showed dimly from behind a curtained window, and he had a sudden vision of old man Findley, his gun cradled in his arms, standing in silhouette at the front door.