Transcription
Chapter 20. Sophie and Tom. Windy Hill Towers. Thursday evening, December 29th.
Sophie stepped into Tom's condo and looked around. "You need a maid."
"Maybe I need a raise so I can afford a maid."
"Maybe you need to worry less about a raise and more about holding on to your job."
"Maybe I need a boss who likes me." Sophie turned to look at Tom. Her intense blue eyes held him in a gaze that seemed simultaneously icy and fiery, simultaneously put offish and come hither.
"Your boss likes you just fine," she said. "Maybe a little too much, as you damn well know."
"Look, I've been trying to get a message through to you. Please, please, please climb down off your high horse and understand there are practical ramifications to the business we work in." She shed her coat and handed it to Tom. She bent and slipped off her Uggs.
"Tell you what, Tom, let's declare a ceasefire for the next 12 hours and see if we can't get through the night without any further skirmishes."
"Deal." She extended her hand.
"Sure." They shook hands, which Tom decided was about as much sexual contact as they were going to have, at least tonight. How, he wondered, could a woman be so damn infuriating and at the same time so damn alluring? It's got to be something she practices.
He pointed down the hall. "If you'd like to take a shower now, I'll see if I can't find some food that hasn't turned into a petri dish yet."
"Don't worry about it. I can whip up something for us."
"You can cook." The words came out before Tom could stop them. He could have shot himself.
She checked her wristwatch. "Well, the truce lasted all of 17 seconds. That's got to be some kind of record."
"I didn't mean it like I thought you couldn't be domestic," Tom responded, a firm determination in his voice. "It's just that I only know you as a business executive."
Sophie moved her hand to her chin and struck a thoughtful pose. "Maybe you need to get to know me in other frames of reference."
Tom studied her, absolutely stumped as to how he should take that. He thought they were operating under a sexual white flag tonight. Was it a come-on? A case of no meaning yes? He had to admit he was clueless when it came to male-female relationships, which is probably why I'm divorced.
"Look," Sophie said, "I want to earn my keep here. Why don't you grab a drink, relax, and I'll see what I can find in the kitchen. I promise I won't make any snarky comments, and I promise you I can cook."
"You might end up having to just warm up something in a Papa John's box."
"Well, I can do beer and pizza as well as the next gal."
"I'll bet you can. Have at it. I got to call my kids. I'll be in my study if you feel the need to loose a snarky comment."
She smiled, and in it, Tom could see what made her so maddeningly irresistible at times.
After dinner, such as it was, barbecue sandwiches on Kaiser rolls verging on extinction, macaroni salad, and baked beans. Sophie had somehow managed to make delicious brown sugar perhaps. She and Tom stood by the window overlooking the city. Since the snow had stopped, Atlanta's skyline gleamed vividly to the south. 17 stories below. Streamers of snow snaked along the ground, whipped by a furious wind. On the interstates, only the isolated flashing lights of plows, sanders, and emergency vehicles cut through the night.
"So," Sophie said, "The worst is yet to come."
"Maybe you should ask Al. He's..." She reached up and gently placed her fingers on Tom's lips. "Cease fire, remember?" Her touch felt almost electric, sexual, and Tom hoped Sophie hadn't sensed his reaction to it. He raised his arms in supplication.
"Sorry," he said.
"Yes. When the come ahead, the center of the upper airstorm comes over us, all hell's going to break loose."
"When?"
"Later tonight, early tomorrow."
"Well, if we get trapped here, I'm afraid the next round, as you suggested earlier, will be ramen and beer. I didn't see any more barbecue in the fridge. It probably curdled."
"I didn't know barbecue did that."
"It can in my care," Tom said. "Anyhow, if the larder is empty, we'd better plan on mushing into work tomorrow. And if the boss lady and her chief of meteorology stroll in together, tongues will wag."
She nodded. "Well, let's consider the more immediate future. What's your bar stocked with?"
"What's your pleasure?"
"A hot shower, actually."
"Tell you what, grab your shower. I'll make some Irish coffee. Decaf, of course."
"Of course. And we'll sit and watch the news on TV."
"Well, whoever said you weren't romantic." A smile, that maddeningly irresistible one, blossomed across her face again.
When she came back into the room after her shower, she strolled to the window and looked out at the city slumbering under a deep blanket of wind-knit snow. "It's ironic," she said.
"What's that?" Tom moved to her side and inhaled her fragrance. Nothing perfumed, just a vibrant soapy freshness.
"Remember a few years ago when an inch or two of snow was forecast and everybody went to work, kids went to school?"
"Yeah. And then it started snowing and everybody boogied for home at the same time."
"The city went into gridlock for over 24 hours. Couldn't handle 2 in. So now we get a biggie and everybody stays home and the plows and sanders are able to do their thing and are overwhelmed."
Tom said poor Atlanta can't win for losing. We just don't do winter storms well despite what the governor promised.
"So Irish coffee," she said.
"Yes, but I didn't have any fresh cream." He pointed at two steaming mugs atop a glass and wrought iron coffee table in front of a leather sofa.
"Why doesn't that surprise me?" she said. She walked to the couch and seated herself. Tom handed her a mug.
"Thanks," she said. "Let's see what's going on at work." Tom flipped on the television and brought up the NEV channel, then sat on the opposite end of the sofa from Sophie. An on-camera meteorologist, a bubbly blonde who looked barely out of high school, stood in front of a high-definition image giving a summary of the great Dixie Blizzard, as it had come to be known.
"Sally Bllelock," Sophie said softly, "nabbed her right out of the University of Washington when she was just a pup, sharp beyond her years."
"So, here's what's happening," Sally said. "A rapidly strengthening surface low is crawling across extreme southeastern Georgia now and is expected to continue deepening as it swirls northeastward just off the Carolina coast." She drew an electronically generated arrow showing the storm's projected track. "Northwest of the low's path, heavy snow and high winds will continue to lace the western Carolinas. But here's the real bugaboo, an upper air low lagging behind the surface system." On a different graphic, a satellite water vapor image, she pointed at a swirl of gray over Alabama. "This is the Kahad cloud, a pool of very cold aloft that's producing heavy snow and yes, even thunder and lightning. So don't be fooled because the snow is temporarily tapered off in Georgia. The worst is yet to come. Our forecasters believe there's another 10 or 12 in, yes, perhaps as much as another foot of snow, believe it or not, lurking for North Georgia, the southern Appalachian, and western portions of North and South Carolina. Couple that with 50 mph winds, and you've got something rarely experienced in the deep south."
"Love her," muttered Sophie. "Hey, switch to one of the local channels. Let's see how the city is handling this."
Tom changed channels and caught the tail end of a wrap-up on the status of the metro area. A montage of videos showed the long lines of stranded tractor trailers on the perimeter. Haggard and frustrated travelers encamped at Hartsfield Jackson. Downtown Atlanta looking like a city shuttered for the winter in the Yukon. Plows struggling to keep a single lane open each way on the interstates. The shot cut to a striking but somewhat exhausted looking, probably from too many hours on duty, black woman at the anchor desk as she read from a teleprompter.
"With blizzard warnings continuing in tomorrow, there is now talk of canceling New Year's Eve activities around the city, including the Chick-fil-A Peach Bowl and the Peach Drop at Underground. This, of course, would be unprecedented." She paused and looked down at a computer monitor on her desk. She looked back into the camera and resumed speaking. "Some breaking news just in from the state patrol. Earlier today, a Georgia state trooper was found in his cruiser shot on Interstate 85 near the South Carolina border. The officer is in critical condition, but is expected to survive. A dash camera showed he had stopped a stolen car when a brief gun battle ensued. The camera was damaged during the exchange of gunfire, so no further imagery was available. Police have mounted a manhunt for the suspect, but authorities say it will be extremely difficult and slow search due to the blizzard and the demands that it's making on their ranks." The anchor paused and again looked at her desktop monitor. She raised her head and began speaking again. "Meanwhile, in what could be a related development, a North Metro woman reported that her husband, driving a Mercedes SUV with Georgia dealer plates on I-85, may have been taken captive and forced to drive in the direction of Clayton, Georgia. Police are investigating, but at the moment are uncertain if this alleged incident is related to the shooting of the trooper." The anchor lady sighed and sat back. "Well, that's even more drama in what has already been a very dramatic day herein."
Tom, using the remote, clicked off the TV. "As though a once-in-a-millennium snowstorm wasn't enough," he said. "I thought the interstates were closed. Why do you suppose someone was out there?"
Sophie polished off her Irish coffee. "I don't know, but my gut sense tells me there's probably a good story behind it."
Tom recalled that Sophie had been an executive producer for NBC Nightly News before coming to any TV. He stood, wobbled a bit, the long day and after-dinner whiskey catching up with him. "I'm beat," he said. "My turn to shower, then I'm going to hit the sack. Could be another exhausting day tomorrow. The guest bedroom is down the hall, past the bathroom on the left."
Sophie rose from the couch, gazed at Tom for a fleeting moment, took a step toward him, then stopped. "I appreciate your hospitality," she said. "Sleep well."
"Good night," he responded.
"I'm not going to push a dresser in front of the door," she said as she walked away.
Tom watched her. "And I'm supposed to know what that means." He showered, laid out fresh clothes for the following day, flopped into bed, watched TV briefly, then stared at the ceiling, and thought about Sophie, his kids, his ex-wife. His divorce from Maggie had not been contentious, but it hurt that he hadn't been able to make a go of it as a husband and father. Maggie and he remained good friends, and he knew she certainly had more to offer the children time-wise than he. At least he saw Billy and Bonnie on a regular basis. Thank goodness Maggie didn't live far away. She and her new husband Rick, the bank president, had an East Cobb mansion. Sure, bank president. Regular hours, big money. Nothing I could compete with, but he wondered if he had wanted to. And Sophie, it seems strange. He couldn't think of a better word, that the only woman who ever spent a night in his condo was turning out to be someone with whom he frequently locked horns, not lips. He snorted a soft laugh and fell into a dream-riddled sleep.
He found himself on the streets of a snowbound city he didn't recognize. He slogged through hips, people he didn't know trailing him, apparently chasing him. Angry people shouting, shaking their fists. He tried to push through the deep snow even more rapidly, but the harder he struggled, the more bogged down he became, as though mired in quicksand. Then suddenly he broke free. He discovered a path, a mini canyon carved through a wasteland of snow that towered above him on either side of the passage. He sprinted along the path. At its end stood a brightly lit cabin with long icicles dangling from the eaves, something out of a Thomas Kinkade painting. A large bear wearing a straw boater and a red collar with jingling bells stood guard in front of the structure. The bear reared on its hind legs, motioned for Tom to come forward, and pushed the door open for him. Tom hesitated, then darted into the cabin, slamming the door behind him. A woman decked out in royal robes, furry boots, and a bejeweled crown pivoted from where she'd been standing in front of a wood-burning fireplace. She unrolled a scroll and read from it. "Tomas Shivicheski," she announced in a Polish accent. "A warrant has been issued for your arrest for gross negligence in your failure to warn the people of this kingdom."
"No, no, I did warn them," Tom pleaded.
"Not soon enough," she furled the scroll. "If your warning had been timelier, we could have evacuated the kingdom. Starvation would not be the great threat it has now become."
"No one is starving."
"Thousands!" the woman screamed. "The penalty for your failure is death. The people will meet out the punishment." A furious pounding sounded from the exterior of the door. Tom stared. "The people," the woman announced, and disappeared.
"A dream. I know it's a dream. A nightmare." Tom willed himself awake. He sat up, disoriented, groggy. The pounding morphed into a soft rap. It stopped. Then it came again from his bedroom door.
"Tom, it's Sophie." The words seemed coated in soft non-urgency.
"Sophie." The door cracked open. Sophie leaned in. "May I?" She paused. "I'm dressed."
"Story of my life."
"Sure." He pulled the sheet and a down comforter up over his hips. Sophie, clad in her tight jeans and clingy sweater, seated herself on the foot of the bed. Tom bunched the comforter over his groin. How in the hell do you hide a boner in bed?
Chapter 21. The Forest, Northeast Georgia. Thursday evening, December 29th.
"Come on, McCracken said. Let's get going. Quit catching damn snowflakes with your tongue. You're weirding me out."
JC closed his mouth and stared at McCracken. "I'm weirding you out."
McCracken gestured with a gun up the slope deeper into the woods. "For Christ's sake, man, we're in the middle of nowhere."
JC snapped. "Why not just do it here? Do what? Shoot me." The words, propelled by frustration, leaped from JC's mouth. "Why do we have to play [expletive] games?" His voice rose to a shout, challenging the howl of the wind.
"Don't be impatient for the end of life, my friend. Right now, I need you."
"Need me?" JC stood his ground, not moving. "I'm shot. I'm hurting. I'm bleeding. I need some help getting where I'm going." JC, focused on his own fate until now, hadn't noticed his captor's posture. Hunched over in obvious pain, his right hand inside his parka, perhaps attempting to stanch the bleeding.
McCracken again motioned with a Glock. JC took a labored step through the snow and began pushing uphill.
"Wait, hold it," McCracken commanded. "The case. Get my case out of the back seat. You carry it. I'll tell you which way to go. Oh, and grab a couple of flashlights, too. I've only got one. Get it."
JC returned to the Gogen, cut off the ignition, and placed the key in the pocket of his parka. He retrieved the LED flashlight he'd purchased at Home Depot and the aluminum attaché case McCracken had tossed into the vehicle at the way station.
"Shine the light up the hill," McCracken said. JC did, moving the beam from side to side. The track they stood on appeared to narrow even more as it climbed into the snow-covered forest.
"Go," McCracken ordered. JC did, plowing through the snow like a human icebreaker, but not for long. After about 10 minutes, he pulled up, leaned over, set the case in the snow, and placed his hands on his knees. His breath came in deep, audible pants.
"You're out of shape, man," McCracken said.
"No [expletive]. Why don't you break trail some?"
"Because I'm wounded. Because I don't want you behind me. Slow down if you have to. You aren't going to do me any good if you do a permanent face plant in the snow."
"Thanks for your concern," JC gasped. "Only a few hundred yards to go. Then what?"
"Then if I can spot the marker in this friaking snow, we turn left and follow a path through the woods."
"We are following a path through the woods," JC said, his breathing slowly returning to normal. "Where in the hell are we going?"
"Onward and upward, my friend. Take it easy." McCracken pointed the way with a gun as though he were a Civil War army officer directing a charge into enemy positions. They moved on, JC carrying the attaché case in one hand, the flashlight in the other. The snow had ceased falling, but the serrated wind continued to blow and drift already covered the ground. Although he couldn't see behind them in the darkness, JC imagined that their tracks filled with snow within moments of being made. He realized he would never find a way out of here on his own. He also knew that probably was of academic concern. Once he was no longer of use to McCracken, he wasn't just going to be released with a thanks and a handshake. Not by someone who'd shot a cop, maybe even killed a cop. JC understood he knew way too much about what McCracken had done and where he had gone, and thus had become an expendable commodity. Lost in his thoughts and fears. Fears. McCracken would love that. JC continued to press forward, sometimes taking giant steps like a moose in deep snow, at other times just shoving through the stuff like a winter bison in Yellowstone. He stopped frequently to catch his breath. McCracken didn't seem to mind, for even his breathing had become labored.
After another 15 minutes, McCracken called out, "Hold it. Shine the light on that road of rhododendron up there, the one by the sweet gum." JC moved the beam. The light reflected off the snow-encrusted, curled leaves of a huge rhododendron. McCracken moved to JC's side and studied the bush. "Damn, I can't tell with all this snow. Everything's buried." Like a dog exhuming a bone, he dug at the snow surrounding the base of the bush with his foot. He hit something, bent to examine it. It looked like a large stone with a red X painted on it. He stood. "This is where we turn."
JC moved the light around. "Where? There's nothing here but trees between those two big pines." He pointed. "There's a path there."
"There's nothing but snow."
"Trust me, there's a path."
"Sure there is," JC muttered and stepped into the woods. He sank to his thighs in a drift. If the going had been difficult before, it now became virtually impossible. Every step required maximum effort. Every 10 ft of travel seemed like a total cardiovascular workout. Despite a wind chill he figured must be close to zero, JC began to sweat. After 10 or 15 lung-busting minutes, the path, such as it was, leveled slightly. The forest pressed in on either side of the track that in spots seemed no wider than a man, but if nothing else, the density of the trees cut the wind. Still, it moaned through the crown of the pines like a lost lover seeking her partner. Once JC thought he sniffed wood smoke, but knew that couldn't be. Then something else. He held up his hand, signaling McCracken to stop.
"Yeah, I could use a break," McCracken said.
"No, I heard something. Thought I did."
"Anyhow, there's nothing up here to hear except the wind. You aren't starting to go mental on me, are you? Come on, man. Pull it together." McCracken coughed, winced, and suddenly sat heavily in the snow. "Oh [expletive], that hurts." He slumped forward, right hand inside his parka, the left pointing the Glock into the snow. JC looked on, calculating his chances. McCracken lifted his head. "Bad idea," he said through clenched teeth. "I can get off a shot faster than you can get."
"I wasn't going to try anything."
"Maybe not, but you were thinking about it. Help me up." JC set down the case, extended his hand, and pulled McCracken to his feet. The sound drifted in again.
"Listen," JC said. "Hear that?"
"The wind whining through rocks someplace. Let's move."
"No, it wasn't the wind. Listen."
"Damn it. Don't talk." Both men stood still, their heads cocked as though that might help them filter the rush of the wind from other sounds. Then it was there, a long low howl.
"Wind," McCracken said, firmness in his voice.
A second howl, slightly different in tenor from the first, penetrated the night. JC stopped sweating. Now a chill, the sort that doesn't come from the cold, permeated his body. He stared at McCracken. McCracken at him.
"Okay, not the wind," McCracken said. "Coyotes. I've heard coyotes before. Coyotes bark and yip. They don't howl."
"So, what howls?"
"Wolves?"
"Wolves? You've gone completely batshit crazy on me, dude. There aren't any wolves a thousand miles from here. I've heard there's some in Minnesota and in the Rocky Mountains, but not around here. Might be a couple of wild dogs."
McCracken had barely finished speaking when a chorus of howls closer than those previous speared through the darkness. The pitch of the cries rose and fell smoothly, a primitive call to arms.
"More than a couple," JC said, his voice shaky. McCracken looked around. For the first time, JC thought he spotted something akin to fear in the man's eyes. But maybe it was just the way the flashlight beam angled in on his face.
"Don't mean to freak you out, but I just remembered something." JC stared. "Yeah, there's a guy around here who's been raising some wolves illegally. He's nursed maybe half a dozen sick and injured gray wolves. You know, the big ones from out west back to health. And he lets them run wild. No, of course not. He's got about 100 acres of fenced land up near the North Carolina border. A lousy 100 acres. That's got to make wolves really happy." JC laced his words with sarcasm. "So, if the wolves are fenced in, snowstorm, man, drifts up to the fence top. Something you don't plan on around here, like a tree falling on the fence. I'm guessing the buggers aren't in prison any longer. There's an eastern pack of western wolves out there."
"Are you [expletive] me? A pack of wolves and I'm standing here with a guy who's bleeding. Good god, you might as well be wearing a suicide vest made of raw hamburger."
The chorus came again, stronger, closer, then silence.
"Give me the flashlight," McCracken ordered. JC handed it over, and McCracken placed it in his left hand, brought the Glock up in his bloodied right hand, rested it on his left wrist, and swept the surrounding darkness with the gun and flashlight moving in tandem. Nothing, only the wind. Snow had begun sifting down again, perhaps a harbinger of the onslaught to follow. McCracken pointed the beam through a gap in the trees.
"That way," he said. "I'll hang on to the flashlight just in case."
JC moved off, clutching the case, tracking the bobbing beam of light. "Hey," he said. "Hold the damn thing steady. I can barely see where I'm going as it is."
"And I can barely stand up, [expletive]. So, shut up and keep trucking." McCracken behind JC sounded weak and unsteady. They hadn't gone far when the howling came again. Different now, more urgent, higher pitched. Predators on a mission.
"How far away do you think?" JC asked. He assumed his captor had more experience in the wild than he had had, but maybe not.
"Damned if I know. Stop. Kneel down." Both men knelt in the snow. McCracken swept the pistol and light from side to side again, searching. JC shivered, not quite believing his situation. Crouched in an Appalachian forest in the dark in the snow with a guy who'd popped a cop and waiting for what? A pack of wolves to materialize out of the blackness. No, that just doesn't happen. He should be at home, comforted by warmth, surrounded by those he loved. He imagined himself sitting in front of the fireplace, pure, white flames, a soft roar. Jinny nestled beside him, Coal curled up on his lap. Again, he thought he caught a whiff of wood smoke, but recognized it for what it was, an old factory hallucination.
Then in the woods, the flashlight beam reflected off a pair of yellow-green dots. A kraken fired. The gunshot echoed through the trees. The dots disappeared.
"Run!" McCracken yelled.
"Where?" JC stood, adrenaline surging through his body. McCracken swung the beam. "That way."
Chapter 22. The Pack. Northeast Georgia. Thursday evening, December 29th.
His chest heaving, his inhalations coming in great gasping gulps, JC surged through the snow. McCracken, grunting and cursing, followed the baying. A mixture of howls and short, menacing barks seemed to surround them. JC burst into a clearing.
"Up the hill to the left," McCracken gasped. JC turned. Above him, on the crest of a rise, about a pitching wedge distant, sat a large two-story stone structure. A residence of some sort, apparently, as incongruous as it seemed, with large pine tar torches, their flames flattened in the wind, glowing on either side of a heavy wooden door. Smoke laying out horizontally, poured from a rock-layered chimney. It seemed like something out of medieval times. A castle on a snowy mountain in feudal Germany. Torches flickering in winter darkness. Peasants pursued by wolves.
"Go!" McCracken screamed. JC, his legs churning like a fullback's, launched himself up the hill. A gray form, head high, ears forward, moving fast, crossed through the snow in front of him. Big. Not a coyote, not a dog, not even close. A second shape followed, coming for JC. He swung at it wildly with the aluminum case and actually made contact. The animal veered off. JC jerked his head around to look for McCracken. He'd fallen, attempted to rise, but tumbled back. Two huge wolves, maybe a 100 pounds each and seemingly unafraid, stalked toward him. JC dropped the case, dashed to McCracken, yanked him erect. Somehow McCracken had maintained his grip on the Glock and the flashlight. He pointed both at the nearest wolf, squeezed off two rounds. The shots echoed through the woods, but hit nothing other than snow. The wolves retreated. JC and McCracken plunged through the drifts toward the massive wooden door of the stone house. Rumbling growls trailed them, filling the night, but the wolves held their distance. McCracken hammered on the door. Pain laced his face. He turned toward JC. "The case," he said. "Where's the [expletive] case?"
"In the snow."
"Damn it." McCracken aimed the flashlight beam in the direction from which they'd come. "Go get it."
"No, I'm not going back out there."
"Yes, you are." He pointed the gun at JC. "Remind me not to save your ass again. What's in that case is more important. Go get it. I've got you covered." McCracken moved the light over the snow. JC saw no movement, no wolves, which of course didn't mean they weren't lurking just inside the treeline on the perimeter of the clearing. JC dashed to the case, snatched it, and darted back to where McCracken stood.
Once again, McCracken beat on the door. The door had no windows, but in a small four-paned window about 3 ft to the right of the entrance, a bearded face appeared, then disappeared. The door swung open. Heavy metal rock music fled into the darkness. The bearded face belonged to a bear of a man, squat, powerful, and hairy. He wore a fur-lined vest over a sleeveless muscle shirt. All the better, JC deduced, to display arms so heavily tattooed they looked like the sleeves of a purple sweater. Jeans and motorcycle boots completed his attire.
"Where the hell you been, Cave?" the bearded man barked. "And who the hell is this?" He stared at JC.
"Had a little trouble," McCracken said, his words slurred. "JC here, help me out." With the Glock in his bloodied hand, he motioned JC into the house.
"JC, meet Grizzly." JC nodded at Grizzly. The man didn't seem the handshaking type. Grizzly stared at McCracken's hand, yanked open his parka. "[Expletive], you're shot." McCracken, pale and unsteady, mumbled something JC didn't understand.
Behind Grizzly, JC made out other people, both men and women, maybe 30 or so, in the interior of the house, an area illuminated only by flickering candles, a variety of hurricane lanterns, and a roaring blaze in a huge river rock fireplace. The music, loud and jarring, pulsed from a dimly lit corner. Grizzly called for a couple of the people to assist McCracken. JC studied the inhabitants of the strange residence. Most of the men, rough and unshaven, sported motorcycle boots and leather jackets. A few wore raggedy sweatshirts emblazoned with death heads or red devils. The women looked equally as rough. Several decked out in leather vests hadn't bothered with bras. JC didn't have a difficult time figuring out he'd stepped into some sort of biker gathering. The smell of wood smoke, cigarette fumes, and something JC remembered from his college days, the odor of pot, filled the house. At least a third of the bikers seemed in some sort of alcohol-induced stupor. Others appeared well on their way. Few, except for Grizzly, paid any attention to JC. His piggy eyes glared at JC.
"Who the [expletive] are you?" The words came out wrapped in a growl.
"Your buds, prisoner."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
"Well, he looks a little worse for wear than you do. You bust a cap on him."
"A cop shot him."
"What happened to the cop?"
"Caveman shot him." Grizzly shrugged. "Good." He turned to check on McCracken, then brought his attention back to JC. "So, how do you fit into this picture?"
"I showed up after the fact in a way station on I-85. McCracken caveman flagged me down. I thought he was a state trooper."
Grizzly grunted, belched a truncated laugh. "What's in the case?"
"It's caveman's."
"I didn't ask that. I ask what's in it."
"Caveman thinks it's something important."
"I'll bet." Grizzly extended his hand toward it. JC handed it to him. He decided whatever it contained it was something he didn't wish to be associated with. He looked for McCracken, spotted him sitting on the floor, his back against a paneled wall, stripped to his waist with several bikers attending to him. A remarkably good-looking redhead, dressed much more sensibly and warmly than most of the other women, stood apart from the group watching the proceedings. Concern etched her face. Grizzly, carrying the case, went to McCracken and in front of him. They exchanged words, but JC couldn't hear them. Grizzly stood and returned to JC.
"Sit at the table over there." He pointed. "Don't do anything. Just sit." JC noticed he had McCracken's Glock stuffed in the front of his jeans. JC seated himself on a long bench at a table hewn from pine. At the far end of the table, a group of bikers, their arms draped over each other's shoulders, swayed and sang an off-color and out-of-tune drinking song. One of them, a blonde kid with long, stringy hair and hollow eyes, flashed JC a boozy, semi-toothless grin. He started to get up, but one of his buddies popped him on the back of his head and told him to stay put. JC turned away, his stomach churning, from fear, from hunger, from defeat. If anything, his situation had gone from bad to worse. At least when he'd been alone with McCracken, it had been one against one. But now he closed his eyes and thought of Cole, of Jinny. Images of the three of them together flashed through his memory and speared him in the heart. Playing in the white sand on a sunny, humid afternoon on the Gulf Coast. Hiking a winding trail through mountain laurel and Frasier firs on a brisk autumn day high in the Smokies. Chasing butterflies on a warm spring morning in Callaway Gardens. Once upon a time, when all was right with the world, a wave of nausea surged through him. He knew with increasing certainty that those memories, those days were likely gone. It would be a miracle if he got out of this mess alive. The people in this room weren't just a bunch of weekend warriors out riding motorcycles for the fun of it and socializing over a beer or two. These were real deal badasses who were into things in which someone's life, especially an outsider's, didn't rank high on their priority list. "Don't," he urged himself. "Don't think like that. I can still beat these bozos."
A tap on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and turned. The redhead stood next to him.
"I'm Lyn," she said. She smelled of obsession and beer and salami. An odd combination.
"You're a friend of caveman's?" JC asked, recalling her concerned look earlier. She seemed confused, but quickly answered, "No." She shook her head, "No."
McCracken, his midsection swabbed in a dressing that looked as though it had been professionally applied, arose from where he'd been sitting and strode toward the table. Lynn's eyes narrowed. She bent close to JC. "What's your name?" she asked in a hurried whisper.
"JC."
"Funny name." She wheeled and moved away as McCracken approached. McCracken seated himself beside JC. He inclined his head toward Lynn. "Trouble," he said. A statement and a warning.
"Is she?"
"She's a [expletive]. Meaner than a mama hound with a stick up her ass. Watch yourself."
JC nodded at McCracken's bandage. "Looks like a good job."
"Psycho fixed me up. He was a medic in the army, Afghanistan. Said the bullet passed through cleanly. Didn't hit anything vital, just sprung a leak in me." McCracken studied JC for a moment, then spoke again. "So out there in the snow when I fell, you stopped, pulled me up, got me away from those things, the wolves."
"Yes."
"Where's McCracken going with this? Why?" JC looked away.
"Good question. Why?" He'd wondered himself. Why rescue someone who'd threatened to turn your brains into Glock Goulash?
"I don't know," JC said. McCracken sat down beside JC. "Love a fellow man?"
"Hardly." He studied McCracken's Neanderthal countenance. "I'll bet you're going to tell me I was driven by fear."
"Could be. Fear of me being eaten alive and you being left alone. Dessert for the pack." A gust of wind punched down the chimney. Sparks and embers flew from the fireplace in a mini pyrotechnics display. A billow of smoke followed, crawling over the exposed wooden beams of the ceiling like an inverted layer of ground fog.
"It wasn't fear. It wasn't love. I didn't think about it. There wasn't time. I just reacted. A fellow human in trouble. Help him. Our innate goodness."
McCracken snorted. A sardonic chortle. "Well, one thing," he continued. "With a bunch of wolves prowling the perimeter out there, I don't have to worry about you bugging out tonight."
"Yeah, maybe. But at least I wouldn't be oozing blood like chum in a shark tank." He looked again at McCracken's bandage. A faint dark stain had appeared. JC decided not to disabuse his captor of the notion the wolves were really going to attack. He'd had time to think about it. Wolves, especially ones raised in captivity, don't hunt humans. If anything, they may have caught the scent of McCracken's blood and assumed the two men were bearing food for them, something they would have learned in captivity. No, JC thought. Wolves are the least of my worries. The pack in here in this house presented a much bigger threat. They were the real wolves, the predators, the killers. But his greatest concern was even if he could escape. He had virtually no hope of finding his way back to the Jagen, especially if what Jenny had told him about the storm proved to be correct, that the worst still loomed. The music continued to throb, and the dim lantern light alternately dimmed and brightened through the diaphanous waves of smoke that drifted through the house. In a shadowy corner of the room, a couple, likely stoned and drunk, copulated in front of a small but enthusiastic cheering section, both men and women. JC sensed he had stepped back in time to something not just gothic in setting, but to a morality out of the dark ages.
McCracken, seemingly bored with their conversation, stood. "I'll see if I can find you a beer. Maybe something to eat, too. Do I look like a [expletive] waiter?" McCracken marched away. JC rested his arms on the table and lowered his head into them. Slight pressure against his hip brought him upright. Lynn. She seated herself beside JC and moved her head close to his.
"I don't know who you are," she said, a syrupy Southern lilt coating her words. "But you're in a bad situation."
"You think I don't know that?"
"No, really, Mr. JC?" She bit her words off and looked around the room, a furtive glance. "These people, these animals, aren't going to let you leave here alive. And worse, no one will ever find out what happened to you."
Chapter 23. Closed Doors. Windy Hill Towers. Thursday night, December 29th.
Sophie, sitting at the end of Tom's bed, rested her hand on his foot, covered as it was by a sheet and thick comforter. It seemed an oddly familiar, if not intimate, gesture. In the muted light leaking through the now open bedroom door, Sophie appeared relaxed and Tom hated to admit it, desirable. On the other hand, if Sophie hadn't struck him that way as being desirable, he probably would have worried that he was traveling rapidly down Al's "a good dump is better than..." path. He knew he wasn't heading down that path as he struggled to keep his maleness under wraps.
"I come in peace," Sophie said. "Non-aggression pact."
"Do I need to worry?"
"Well, it's not often that a lady other than my ex creeps into my bedroom at night."
"I didn't creep. I knocked. Oh, and so your ex is still in the picture?" Sophie removed her hand from Tom's foot.
"I meant before she was my ex. But there have been others." Tom switched on his nightstand lamp, careful to keep the camouflaging covers in place. Attempting to figure out Sophie seemed an exercise in futility. Was her questioning some sort of effort to delve into his character, or was she attempting to get the lay of the land to discover if she might face any competition?
"Why are you grilling me?"
Sophie drew a deep breath. "I didn't mean to. I overstepped my bounds. Once was enough. I'm sorry. It's none of my business." She sounded genuinely apologetic.
"But you came in here for a reason. Probably not the one I'm fantasizing over, but I am curious."
A flurry of sleet ticked against the bedroom window. "Sounds like it's starting up again," Sophie said, avoiding the question implicit in Tom's statement.
"It is." He waited. Sophie shifted slightly, looked at the ceiling. "At work, I've been a little hard on you. I guess that bothers me more than I thought it might. I know you've got certain standards that you believe in that frame your attitudes, and I probably haven't been as accommodating as I might to those viewpoints, but God knows you are hard-headed about them."
"Do you think I'm wrong?"
"Of course not. What I think is we need to find some sort of middle ground. And yes, I know that means I'll have to surrender some territory, too. Look, we're on the same team. Although I get a bit bellicose at times about..."