Freeze

13

Before he’d gotten as far as the truck, Warren began to wonder if he was going to make it. The storm seemed to be getting worse by the minute. Despite the layers of clothing, he felt every gust of wind. His scarf was moist over his mouth and nose, and his eyelashes were already collecting snow and ice. He had tried using the flashlight, but it was worthless. The reflected light disoriented him. He could see more clearly without it. It was night, but not completely dark; ambient light reflected off the ground, the falling snow, and the white sky. He still couldn’t see much more than a few yards ahead of himself, but he wasn’t totally blind. If he could stay close enough to it, he thought he’d be able to follow their fence down the long private drive to the road beyond, but once he reached that, he wondered how he’d ever be able to find the Young place.

You won’t. This is suicide. When this is all over, they’ll find you frozen to death less than half a mile from the house. Count on it.

No. He wouldn’t give in to that kind of thinking. The Youngs had a big metal mailbox at the head of their driveway; he’d passed it plenty of times driving into town. If he followed the tree line down the side of the road, he’d find the mailbox and go from there. He might not see the thing until he was a few feet away, but he would find it. Probably.

Maybe.

From a distance, the snow-covered fence was barely distinguishable from the rest of the landscape, but once Warren found it, it was easy enough to follow. He took a few shuffling steps through the snow, looked up to be sure he hadn’t wandered off in the wrong direction, and then took a few more steps. Repeat and repeat again. It was slow going, but the wind was blowing at his back, which was lucky. He wasn’t sure he’d have had the energy to walk through the snow drifts and into the storm.

How long would it take him to get to the end of the drive? He wasn’t sure. It was about a mile long. On a nice day, he might have been able to walk the distance in fifteen or twenty minutes. Tonight, he guessed he’d be lucky to make it there in an hour. He considered counting his steps, but he wasn’t sure how many steps there were in a mile, and trying to count would only discourage him. Not to mention that, in this case, a step was more of a shuffling, irregular lurch. Instead, he decided to lower his head and just keep on keeping on.

What about frostbite? You think you’re going to make it through this without having to sacrifice a few fingers or toes?

He wasn’t so worried about his fingers—his gloves were keeping his hands surprisingly toasty—but he guessed his toes probably were in some danger. His boots weren’t lined or waterproof. Maybe he should have worn a few extra pairs of socks, but even that might not have been good enough. He had to admit there was a chance he’d lose some toes, but if that was the price for keeping his wife alive, he’d pay it. Gladly.

His back twinged, and he stopped for a second to try to massage it through his layers of clothing. Throwing his back out earlier might have been inconvenient, but now it would be deadly. He didn’t want to stop any longer than he had to, but he promised himself he wouldn’t push his back to the breaking point. He twisted from side to side; his muscles burned and throbbed. He stretched forward and backward and then sideways again. Although his back was still sore (and likely would be for the next few days or weeks), it no longer felt like it was going to go out on him.

He shuffled forward a few more steps and looked up at the mound of snow that was the fence.

Something sped through the snow beyond.

What the hell was that?

He stopped and squinted. It had looked like something biggish, almost human sized, but that couldn’t be, could it? He was sure he’d just imagined it; or maybe he’d seen a clump of ice on one of his eyelashes and thought it was something farther in the distance. Whatever the case, the movement didn’t come again. He stared at the empty space beyond the fence for another second, then lowered his head and moved on.

You’re not even out of pissing distance of the house and this storm is already driving you crazy.

He staggered on, one step, two, trying to ignore everything except the movement of his legs and the ground just ahead.

When he looked up the next time, he saw movement again. This time, he was sure of it. The shape was just a blur hurrying across the road ahead, but it was definitely there. Not ice on his lashes. Not his imagination.

What then?

He stopped again and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hello?”

He waited to see if the shape would move again. When it didn’t, he called out a second time: “Hello? Is someone there?”

Although he was screaming with the wind, his voice didn’t seem to carry. The falling snow muffled it, dampened it. It was like trying to scream through a pillow.

“If there’s someone there,” he said, “show yourself.”

Nothing. No movement, no return call. Warren considered turning around and going back to the house. But that was stupid. There was nothing out there. He was imagining it. He’d seen a swirl of drifting snow and nothing else. Besides, what would he tell Tess? Sorry, I couldn’t go for help because I got scared of the snow? That was crazy. Cowardly.

He glanced back at the fence, made sure he was still heading the right way, and shuffled on.

He didn’t see any more movement, but he got the distinct feeling there was something out there. Watching him.

Crazy? Of course. But he couldn’t shake the sensation.

He remembered what Tess had said earlier, that she thought she’d seen someone’s hand breaking the glass. He’d told her she probably hadn’t seen what she thought she’d seen, and most of him still believed it, but what if there had been someone? What if he was wrong? What if there was someone out there right now, watching him, stalking him, hiding in the blizzard?

That’s insane. No one’s out here but you, and you know it. You’re trying to trick yourself into going back, getting out of the cold. It’s a survival mechanism. Nothing else.

Warren guessed it didn’t matter either way. He wasn’t going back. Freezing cold or not. Crazy blizzard stalker or not. Turning back wasn’t an option.

He tucked his head even lower and tried to move a little faster.