Snowbound

Nineteen

Cain was not startled when he put his head out to look around the church’s southern front corner and the looter was less than twenty yards away, armed with a shotgun, moving across the front walk and into the parking lot.

He had been expecting one or more of them for several minutes, ever since he’d stood at the cottage’s far end and waited for Tribucci to appear out of the trees. There was only one possible explanation for Tribucci’s continued absence: something had gone wrong, he had been seen and then killed or wounded and pinned down somewhere. And that meant the psycho was now aware at least one man had gotten out of the church, that he would want to find out as quickly as possible if there were others, that the element of surprise had at best been neutralized and at worst been transferred in part to the opposition.

He had forced down the stirring of a strong mixture of emotions, forced himself to remain calm and to think strategically. Deliberation had been brief. The only thing he could do was to situate himself at the south church wall, alternating between front and rear corners; that way he could cover all immediate approaches without leaving any more telltale tracks than he already had. He’d spent the past ten minutes moving back and forth along the wall, watching and waiting for something to happen, and now the waiting was over-part of it, or all of it.

The man in the parking lot was not the psycho; Cain was able, through the flurries, to determine that by size, coloring, and clothing before pulling back rigidly against the boarding. His fingers tightened convulsively around the butt of the Walther, and he brought it up against his chest, thinking: Why the parking lot, why not around on this side? He can’t think I’m out there, there isn’t any spoor…. All right, it doesn’t matter; what matters is what he does not, where he goes-what I do and where I go. One mistake and it’s all over: remember that, don’t forget that for a second.

Cain inched his head out again. The looter had reached the vehicle parked by itself at the forward end of the lot. was pulling open the driver’s door. He reacted to something inside the car; but the dome light did not go on, and because of distance and angle and the storm, Cain couldn’t tell what it was. With taut movements, the man straightened and backed off two steps; swept the shotgun south to north across the front of the church, not seeing Cain-not yet.

But he’s going to come back here now, Cain thought, and when he does it’ll be in this direction; he came from the north, and he can’t know what there is on this side. Retreat to the back? No-retreating won’t accomplish anything positive, there isn’t going to be any more retreating. Too late to go after him, and that would be a fool’s move anyway with that shotgun he’s got and across open ground. Stay here, then, right here. Don’t take eyes off him, don’t make any unnecessary moves because movement is the thing that’ll give me away; he’s not going to be able to penetrate stationary shadows until he gets closer-believe that. Wait, wait until the last possible second, play for one shot at dead aim and don’t even think about missing…

The looter was moving now, shuffle-stepping toward the church and diagonally to the south. He held the shotgun centered on the building, ready to swing either way, but his head turned in a slow, intent ambit, coming out of profile. He seemed to be facing Cain squarely then, to hesitate-don’t move, don’t breathe

— and finally he swiveled his gaze slowly to the north again.

Sweat trickled down from Cain’s armpits, froze along his sides; the brassiness was back in his mouth, sharp and raw. When the looter’s attention was focused fully away from him, he lifted his left arm cautiously to eye level and anchored it against the corner edge of the church; brought the Walther up in the same motion and rested the barrel on his forearm. He released the held breath into his left coat sleeve, drew another. Squinting, he peered along the iron muzzle sight.

The looter took another step, and another.

Aim for the head or body? What did the Army tell you about something like this? Can’t remember, can’t think — make a decision! Body then, larger target, center on the chest, the heart.

Another step.

All right, steady now, steady. Slow, even pressure on the trigger. Squeeze it, don’t pull it, when the time comes.

The looter came to a standstill.

Not yet! He doesn’t see me, he’s not looking here. Wait. Last possible moment, one shot. Come on, you, come on, come on.

Moving again-one step, two.

Steady.

Twenty yards now, any second now.

Steady steady steady.

And the looter stopped again, jerkily this time. His body started to dip into a crouch, the pump gun swinging hard across in front of him.

He’s seen me, Cain thought-and let his finger compress the trigger.

The recoil jumped the automatic’s barrel off his forearm, the roar seemed to hammer deafeningly in his ears. He snapped the muzzle down again, trying to rebrace it-but the man was falling, Cain realized this with a kind of fascination and watched him fall as though in cinematic slow motion, one foot coming up, leg bending, body turning and then arching backward, falling with the shotgun still held in his hands, striking the yielding snow on his back, the pump jarring loose finally and rolling up over his head and away; the body settling, becoming still, lying there in twisted repose.

Cain leaned heavily against his left arm, weakness in his legs, weakness in the pit of his stomach. The illusion of slow motion vanished, and he thought: My God, my God, dully. He did not move from his position, staring at the sprawled figure in the snow beyond. Breath shuddered and rattled in his throat. The chill of it, the numbing wind against his face, sharpened his thoughts again: you did it, okay you did it, and now you’ve got to do it again. His eyes probed the parking lot, the church’s facade, the area behind him to the west. Empty darkness.

He rubbed harshly at his face, stepped out bent-bodied, and went quickly, gun extended, toward the motionless body. The looter lay on his back, and when Cain came up to him he could see the sightlessly open eyes, the grimaced mouth, blood on the mouth, blood on the coat front. Dead-yes. Heart-shot. He backed around the body, swallowing a faint ascendance of nausea, and approached the car at which the looter had crouched.

The door still stood partially open. Nausea surged again when Cain squatted and looked inside and saw what the looter had reacted to: the body of the third man behind the wheel, the blood, the haft of the pocketknife-dead in there all this time. The psycho had done it, no doubt of that, and that was all the explanation he needed; details were meaningless. All that had meaning now was not one but two of the terrorists were dead, and in all probability Tribucci as well, and it was only the psycho and himself who were left. Just the two of them, one against one.

Sure-one against one.

Well suppose he sought help, suppose with the way things were now he went up to the church doors and tried to break them open or shouted for some of the men inside to break them open, told them what the situation was… No, that was foolish thinking. He didn’t know where the psycho was, and he would make a fine target up there on the steps. And the threat of a stampede was a real one, you couldn’t predict the actions of each and every one of seventy-five trapped people once the doors to freedom were open to them.

He’d have to do it alone, then; nothing had changed, nothing could change. Remain here at the church, guard the entrance, and begin the waiting all over again. Back around the south corner? Or right here in the lot? The lot-behind the car nearest the front doors. The surface snow was full of tracks now, and without that problem to worry about, the lot was the more tactical location. From here he could see both front corners, and Sierra Street, and most of the village to the north, and all of the lot, and the open incline leading up into the trees beyond the lake roads’ fork.

Rising up, Cain ran in a low stiff crouch to that nearest car, an old finned Mercury. The flurries were less heavy now, and the force of the wind seemed to have abated somewhat; the darkness harbored nothing that he could see. He knelt in the snow at the right rear fin-and almost immediately he could feel the chill penetrating his trousers and the heavy skirt of his overcoat. He could feel, too, the aching cold-tightness of muscles and joints throughout his body and the beginnings of enervation in his limbs. It was as if the freezing night were sucking strength out of him like sweat through the pores of his skin.

Make it soon, damn you, he thought. Make it soon.