Snow Shadow Page 17

  “He accused her of holding out something,” I said. “He thought she had double-crossed him.”

  “Still,” Mark said slowly, “heretofore his cover has been more important to him than any loss. There must be some reason why—”

  We were in the suburbs now, that part of town which was newly laid out to provide refuge from Washington for upper-income bureaucrats. Snow caked on the windshield in spite of the sweeps of the wipers. Twice Mark stopped to get out and push off the accumulation by hand. I looked at the clock on the dashboard—one! And the storm was not slacking. The headlights battled against the whirling snow curtain with little success. As we crawled on, I did not see how Mark could be sure of the division between road and sidewalks.

  “Irene had nothing to do with it, had she? Why was Miss Elizabeth so certain that she did?”

  “It turned out that she was only certain of the coat she saw—not the woman who wore it. I had a talk with her earlier tonight. She finally admitted that.”

  “That hideous plaid! Then perhaps Leslie—”

  “Borrowed Irene's coat, yes. We don't know if she did that intentionally for a disguise, or just because it happened to be near to hand. Irene had a habit of dropping her things around, according to Horvath.”

  Remembering the untidiness of her bedroom, I could agree.

  “And Leslie could have poisoned the ginger, too, when it was left on the hall table. They all knew Emma's sensitivity to the delphinium seed.”

  “Maybe. But we still know very little about Leslie. And what would be her motive for that?”

  “When she was quarreling, she and that man, she said something about Roderick having told Mrs. Horvath everything in exchange for a deal for himself.”

  “That fits—partly. Whew!” His exclamation was for the fury of the wind-driven snow building a white wall about the car. It was very difficult now to see. Our speed was a crawl as Mark centered all his attention on the driving. He made a slow turn to the left under a traffic light so plastered with snow that only a faint glimmer of red and green showed. Moving traffic had vanished—though cars had pulled to the curbs, some abandoned far enough out to near block our passage.

  I tried to see through the side window. The car lurched and slid while Mark fought the skid. We ended with a jar against a buried curb. For a moment I thought we were finished, but Mark maneuvered us on with a skill which earned my fullest admiration. Outwardly he showed no trace of agitation though I could guess what a strain this progress was.

  “Is it much farther?”

  “I could answer that better,” came his clipped reply, “if I knew just where we were now.”

  Ahead was another glint of light—red—and it was down low, in the center of the road. Mark pounded on the windshield with his fist, dislodging a heavy clot of snow. Now we could see it was a warning lantern.

  “Must be a smash-up.” Mark slowed to a complete stop and opened his door. I wondered if the man we followed had come to such an end.

  Mark disappeared into the whirl of snow. Flakes, shifting in through the half-opened door, blew inside my coat collar. With an effort I could just barely see figures moving ahead. I got out—unable to just sit still and wait.

  Snow worked in over the tops of my boots, melting against my shivering legs. I trudged on to where headlights of cars fought the storm and there was a cluster of men.

  “You can't make it without chains, not down the river road—” A masculine voice arose above the hiss of the falling snow. “We're turning everyone back.”

  Even at this distance I was able to identify the sound of Mark's voice, though I could not make out the words.

  “Yes, sir, we got that APB. But the road—”

  Again a murmur from Mark as I moved into the lantern light.

  “Who's that? Lord, it's a woman!”

  I disregarded the implied disapproval in that. “Mark, can't we go on? Has there been any news about the car?”

  He came closer. “As far as they know he got through before the road started to drift and they set up this block. They're going to try to send a patrol car through, one with snow tires—”

  “Can we go with them?”

  He hesitated. “I'm going. But—”

  “Mark, what about Stuart? Can any of you manage a sick baby?”

  I was sure that the man who had dealt with Leslie was not going to surrender tamely. The police might forget Stuart—or not be able to get to him in time.

  “They are not even sure they can make it.”

  However, when we walked around the barrier I was one of the party who crowded into the patrol car. I pushed as far as I could into one corner of the rear seat, trying not to look at the ugly weapon the trooper beside me balanced across his knees. Mark was in front to direct our course.

  Did I doze? I cannot remember the rest of our journey clearly. I roused only when we came to a stop.

  “There's no getting down the lane.”

  “No, but your car can block if he decided to run.”

  Mark was interrupted by a squawking, which jerked me fully alert. Through the screech of static a disembodied voice repeated a weird jumble of words. Mark gave an exclamation of satisfaction.

  “He didn't try for the boat anyway. Now this is the only way out for him.”

  “Can't be too sure,” the driver objected. “Sure, they may have the river blocked off. But he can try crosscountry—the Lammer Road cuts through not too far north.”

  “The weather's against that. And he doesn't know we are on to this hideout—or at least he didn't at the last report. Erica.” He turned to me. “That house is a quarter of a mile in. You stay here. When we find the child, we'll send him out to you at once. In the meantime—stay here!”

  They strode away into the storm giving me no time to protest The wind had fallen and the snow began to lessen. Now a moon crept warily out to send a white glitter across the drifts. Those lay in waves with fence posts rearing out of them to mark the edge of a field. As I watched, I saw that the men did not keep to the lane. Instead, they followed devious paths, working from one clump of half-buried brush to the next. There were no lights ahead, no indication that the house Mark mentioned even existed.

  I waited until they were well gone and then got out of the car. It was impossible for me to sit still. My nerves urged me into action.

  The snow lay deep, above the tops of my boots, caking on the skirts of my coat and on the pants under it. About me, the few flakes still falling glittered. All at once, in spite of weariness, of the sickening fear and tension of the past few hours, I felt invincible.

  It was as if I knew that, like a story with melodramatic opening chapters, there would be a happy, or at least a peaceful, ending. I paused, panting with the effort the fighting of drifts cost me. Clouds were again drifting across the moon. Once more flakes of snow fluttered more thickly through the air.

  15

  I suddenly realized that I must be very noticeable here in the open. So I plowed from what must be the center of the snow-concealed lane toward a windbreak of trees. There were no lights or sounds. We might be in the deserted country. Those before me had disappeared. I pushed doggedly on. To stay behind bred fear. The line of firs I followed changed their course to become the edge of a clearing.

  There stood a one-story ranch house, the snow before it unbroken, as far as I could see, by any tracks. Might Mark have been wrong? The appearance suggested that the place was unoccupied. I kept within the screen of trees and angled around toward the side and back of the house. It was when I had approached that portion of the building that I saw the car standing in the open. All my doubts vanished. Even in this limited light, I was sure I saw the same one which had been parked by the theater.

  Stuart? Could he still be in there—perhaps undiscovered? Shifting my weight from one cold-numbed foot to the other I surveyed what lay ahead, trying to make sure I could reach the car unseen. To the right stood a clump of snow-laden bushes, beyond those the wall of wha
t must be a carport. But the car itself was in the open.

  A figure moving along the side of the house. One of the troopers—Mark? No, dead-white clothing made the newcomer near invisible, even his head was so covered. He could only be clearly seen when he moved before the car or the bulk of the house.

  Then the shadow-man went on into the carport and came out, a large can in one hand. Setting that down, he pulled a blanketed bundle out of the car.

  “Stuart!”

  I hoped that bitten-off cry had not betrayed me. But he did not turn to look in my direction. The ski mask gave him a sinister appearance, as he carried the bundle a few feet away from the car and laid it down in the snow. He might have been getting rid of some unwanted trash. Returning, he picked up the can and began to dribble the contents across the car, and then in a trail back towards the carport and the house.

  The smell of gasoline was suddenly strong. I readied myself for a dash. When the masked arsonist disappeared in the carport, I could wait no longer. Floundering through the snow, I reached that bundle. The baby made no sound as I gathered him up awkwardly. I worked a glove off one hand by using my teeth, and I touched the soft flesh of a small cheek. Warm—too warm!

  I fled back into the shadow of the bushes, reaching my flimsy cover not a moment too soon. There was a stir in the carport. Stuart held against me tightly. I pushed back as far as I could among the bushes. That other came up to the car. There was a spurt of flame as small as might be made by a lighter.

  “Hold it!”

  Stuart whimpered. I must have tightened my grip still more in reaction to that sharp order.

  With the speed of a hunting cat, the man hurled from him that spark of light he was holding. A brilliant flash followed and flames roared up, creating in an instant a wall of fire with the car at its core.

  I screamed and struggled to retreat as the tongues of flame billowed out. More fire was engulfing the house.

  There followed the crack of a shot. I stumbled and went down on my knees in the snow. Stuart cried and squirmed, but I pulled around until I could see the scene, now well lighted by the fire.

  Mark, two of the troopers, were charging towards the fire itself. There were shouts, more shots. Rigid with such terror as I had never known, I saw the men driven back by the heat of that fire.

  I could not get to my feet. I was too weak with fear. One of the troopers jerked, then staggered forward into the very edge of the fire. Mark darted in as the flames sent out a lashing red tongue. He grabbed at the wavering man, dragged him back. Not a moment too soon.

  For there was an explosion from the interior of the house, blinding me, deafening me, too, with its roar. Debris spun through the air. I choked in the wave of fumes carried outward from that source.

  I blinked. Stuart was wailing now, but I could hear his cries only as if they came from a long distance away. Dimly I saw Mark being helped to his feet, other men bending over the fallen trooper.

  Shots again—very faint, though. Was my hearing so impaired that it reduced them so? Mark shook off the hands of those who had aided him up. Now he made straight for the bushes where I sheltered.

  “Come on—” The harshness of his voice had no power to hurt me. As long as he was standing there, apparently unhurt—not dead, not injured—nothing else mattered.

  “I can't.” I had to admit the humilating truth. “I don't think my legs will hold me.”

  He stopped and took the struggling baby out of my arms, passing the child to one of the troopers who had followed him. Then he pulled me up in turn.

  “There goes the house!” the trooper cried.

  I discovered I could move, even if I tottered, for Mark jerked me back, pulling me along at an unsteady run. There followed a second explosion.

  “Lord, he must have tapped an oil well for a blaze like that!” The trooper panted. “Or else he had explosives planted. By way—”

  “Of a cover,” Mark finished.

  I looked back over my shoulder. The house was a mass of seething flame, which the wind, once more driving snow before it, sent out in ragged banners behind us. There was a snapping crackle. One of the firs had caught.

  “Keep going!” the trooper urged. Over his shoulder, eyes wide in his pinched face, Stuart was staring at the fire. He had stopped crying; perhaps he was shocked beyond it now.

  “Nothing more we can do here.” One of the other officers joined us. “As far as we can tell, nothing—or no one—got out of that!”

  “Don't be too sure,” Mark snapped. “That fire was meant to be a cover—perhaps for escape. The man we're after is not the kind to see going out in a funeral pyre would advance his plans any.”

  “Don't worry, we have patrols out. And I'll call in for more help on the car radio.”

  I stumbled continually, but Mark was always there. There was a third and final explosion, sending me closer to my companion in flight.

  “You—you aren't hurt—getting that trooper out?” I found breath enough to ask at last.

  “Just singed a little. But what were you doing there? I told you to stay in the car.”

  Something in his voice raised a shadow of my old antagonism—which I had so long cultivated for a shield.

  “He—he just laid Stuart in the snow. If I hadn't gotten him away when I did, the fire would have reached him.”

  For perhaps the length of three strides Mark had no answer. When he did I was not alert enough to analyze the alteration in his tone.

  “Cold-blooded. Yes, that would be part of it. It won't be long now—there's the car.”

  I felt like a sleepwalker, in one of those agonizing dreams where one has to run before menaces while also entrapped in some substance like thick syrup. Once at the car I pulled myself into the corner of the back seat and held out my arms for Stuart. With a sniffling cry he clung to me, and I pulled the blankets as tightly as I could about him, hoping he might go off to sleep. Mark settled beside me and I was grateful for his company. They had trouble turning the patrol car—but they finally managed to fight a path through the drifts. Only the driver was with us—the others lingered on guard. I found my head was resting on Mark's shoulder and I only raised it when we came once more to the signal lantern at the barricade.

  “Mark—did he—did he—” I ventured.

  “I don't know.” He answered my unfinished question. “There's always a chance. That's why I've got to make sure—” His voice trailed off as he drew away from me to get out. My arms felt numb under Stuart's weight, and my protest against Mark's going came seconds too late. I heard only a few words from outside.

  “—yes, sir. We'll drive her straight there. You needn't worry.”

  “Mark!” But he was gone. My head flopped back and the red lantern light blurred. I was left in a cold loneliness which made me want to cry, save that I was too tired to raise a single tear.

  Stuart began to fuss. I roused enough to pat him in what was, I hoped, a comforting fashion. We must be nearing town. I could see houses in the dim light of early morning. And I summoned voice enough to ask:

  “Where are we going?”

  “Feeling better, miss? The colonel said to take you straight home.”

  Home? To New Hampshire? For a crazy moment or two I thought longingly of that safe, warm, tidy place which had been my stronghold after I had sold Aunt Otilda's old house. Then I remembered—"home” now meant the Abbey. And that was no home for me.

  “And Colonel Rohmer?”

  “He stayed to see to things, miss. He'll have to have a doc look at his face, too—”

  “His face!” I jerked upright, fully awake. “What's wrong with his face?”

  “He got scorched when he dragged Hodgens out. Not too bad, miss. Don't you worry about it. There's an ambulance going out. They were sure lucky. Got away before the big explosion hit. A couple of minutes more and they both might have bought it, but good. Hey, they got a road crew out—that's going to help things a lot.”

  The trooper stopped the car
. Now he leaned forward to exchange greetings through a hastily lowered window with another policeman. There was a snowplow nearby.

  It was fully day by the time we reached the Austin house. Our car pulled to a stop under the portico and the trooper got out to ring the bell before he came to open the car door for me.

  “Want me to take the baby, miss?”

  I laughed shakily. “You'd better. I'm not sure I can even manage for myself.”

  Someone brushed past the trooper. Irene Frimsbee, her face white and haunted, her hair in crazy witchlocks about her face, seized the baby.

  “Stuart!” Her voice was hoarse, as if she had used it too much for a long time. “Stuart!” With him in her arms, she turned and ran back inside.

  “That the kid's mother?”

  “Yes. She must have been nearly crazy. Thank you for the ride back.” It sounded as if I were thanking a stranger for a lift. But it was hard to think straight. All I wanted was to reach my own room.

  “No trouble, miss.” He sketched a salute.

  I made it to the door. There I saw Lieutenant Daniels—or did I only imagine that? But I kept putting one foot before another until I reached the stairs.

  “Can I help you?” I did not turn my head to see who had asked that. Any unnecessary movement, I felt, might upset my balance and I would collapse altogether.

  “I am going to bed,” I said distinctly, “and perhaps I shall stay there forever.”

  My hand on the banister helped to pull me up. I locked the door of my room behind me, and for the first time in my disciplined life I shed my clothing, to leave it in a wet tangle on the floor. Too tired to pull on a nightgown, I dragged my robe about me and burrowed into the bed, to fall into exhausted slumber.

  I sat up groggily in a gray, shadowed room and gave a cry as the walls appeared to ripple and the bed sway under me. While holding tight to fistfuls of covers in a fight against the vertigo, I heard a pounding on my door, the sound which must have roused me.