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For a moment, one of the monster’s great hands clung to the edge. And then it relaxed and the thing slid down out of sight, dropping like a stone into the void. Corrie waited, listening, but there was nothing more: no splash, no cry of ultimate pain to mark the thing’s final passing. He had disappeared, claimed by the dark bowels of the earth. The sheriff stood there, not having fired the final shot.
The first to speak was Pendergast.
“Easy does it,” he said to Corrie, his voice low and firm. “Let one hand follow the other. I can see the rest of the path from here. The handholds are good, and the top is only a few feet away.”
Corrie gasped, sobbed, her entire body shaking.
“You may cry when you reach the top, Miss Swanson. Now, you must climb.”
The businesslike tone broke the spell of terror that froze her against the rock. She swallowed, moved a hand, found another handhold, secured it, moved a foot. And when she reached up again, her hand found the lip of the precipice: she had made it to the top. In another moment, she had pulled herself up and over. She stretched out on the cold floor of the passageway, face down, and gave herself over to sobbing.She was alive.
For a minute, maybe two, she remained alone. And then Pendergast was kneeling over her, his arm around her, his voice low and reassuring. “Corrie, you’re fine. He’s gone now, and you’re safe.”
She couldn’t speak; all she could do was cry with relief.
“He’s gone now, and you’re safe,” Pendergast repeated, the cool white hand stroking her forehead—and for a moment the image of her father returned, so strong it was almost a physical presence. He had comforted her this way once, when she had been hurt on the playground . . . The memory was so vivid that she swallowed the next convulsive sob, hiccuped, and struggled to sit up.
Pendergast stepped away. “I have to go down for Sheriff Hazen. He’s badly hurt. We’ll be right back.”
“He—?” Corrie managed to say.
“Yes. He saved your life. And mine.” Pendergast nodded, then was gone.
Corrie leaned back against the stone floor. And only now the true storm of feelings flooded through her: the fear, pain, relief, horror, shock. A breeze came wafting down from out of the darkness, stirring her hair. It carried with it a familiar, horrible smell: the smell of that cauldron, in the room where the killer had first grabbed her. But along with it was the faint smell of something else, something almost forgotten: fresh air.
Perhaps she fell asleep then, or perhaps she simply shut down. But the next thing she remembered was the ring of footsteps against rock. She opened her eyes and saw Agent Pendergast looking down at her, gun once again in his hand. Beside him, leaning heavily against the FBI agent, was the sheriff: bloody, clothes ripped, nothing but a knot of gristle where one of his ears had once been. Corrie blinked, stared. He looked as tired and battered as a human being could be and still remain standing.
Pendergast spoke. “Come. We’re not far now. The sheriff needs both our help.”
Corrie staggered to her feet. She swayed a moment and Pendergast steadied her. Then they began moving slowly down the tu
Seventy-Eight
Williams toiled up the path, the bite smarting with each step. The corn in the fields along the road had been ripped to shreds, husks gone, ears scattered across the path, broken stalks rustling crazily against each other. He cursed extravagantly at the rain and the wind. He should’ve packed it in an hour ago. Now he was soakedand injured. Great combination for pneumonia.
He struggled up onto the porch, his feet crunching over broken glass from a window blown out by the wind. Now he could make out a faint glow from inside.
It was a fire in the fireplace. Nice. Rheinbeck, it seems, had been taking it easy up here while he and Shurte were down in the storm, guarding the cave entrance. Well, now it was his turn at the fire.
Williams stopped, leaning on the door and catching his breath. He tried the handle, found it locked. The firelight flickered through the leaded panes, making warm kaleidoscopic patterns in the glass.
He gave the knocker a few raps. “Rheinbeck! It’s me, Williams!”
No response.
“Rheinbeck!”
He waited one minute, then another. Still no response.
Christ, Williams thought, he was probably in the bathroom. Or the kitchen, maybe. That was it. He was in the kitchen eating—or drinking, more likely—and couldn’t hear with all the wind.
He went around the flank of the house and found another broken window panel in the side door. He put his mouth to it and shouted, “Rheinbeck!”
Very strange.
He pushed out the rest of the glass in the panel, reached inside to unlock the door, then eased it open, nosing his light ahead of him.
Inside, the entire house seemed to be alive with the creaking, groaning, and muttering of the storm. Williams looked around uneasily. It looked solid enough, but old places like this were sometimes full of dry rot. He hoped the whole structure didn’t come crashing down on him.
“Rheinbeck!”
Still no answer.
Williams limped forward. The door from the parlor to the dining room was half closed. He pushed through, looked around. All was in order, the dining table covered with a lace tablecloth, a vase of fresh flowers in the middle. He shone his light into the kitchen, but it was dark and there was no smell of cooking.
Williams returned to the parlor entrance and stood there indecisively. Looked like Rheinbeck had left with the old woman. Maybe an ambulance had finally come. But why hadn’t they notified him and Shurte? It was only a five-minute walk to the cave mouth. Typical Rheinbeck, looking after himself and to hell with everyone else.
He glanced over at the fire, at the cheery yellow glow it threw over the parlor.
Hell with it,he decided. As long as he was stuck in this creepy old place, he might as well make himself comfortable. After all, he’d been badly injured in the line of duty, hadn’t he?
He hobbled over to the sofa and eased himself down onto it. Now this was more like it: there was always something reassuring about the warm glow of a fire. He fetched a contented sigh, noticing the way the firelight reflected off the framed embroidery, the glass and porcelain knickknacks. He sighed again, more deeply, then closed his eyes, still seeing the flickering warm light through his eyelids.
He awoke suddenly, wondering for a wild moment where he was. Then it all came flooding back. He had dozed off for a moment, it seemed. He stretched, yawned.
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.