The Servants of Twilight (43 page)
“We’ll come back for it,” Charlie said, shouting to be heard above the roaring wind.
“It’s almost dark,” she protested, having realized how easily you could become lost at night, in a blinding snowstorm.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll come back tomorrow.”
She nodded, and he locked the Jeep, although the foul weather was surely a sufficient deterrent to thieves. No selfrespecting criminal, in the habit of living an easy life off the labors of others, would be out on a night like this.
They headed back toward the cabin, moving with considerably less speed than they had on the way down, slowed by the weight of what they carried, by the wind that hammered at them, and by the fact that they were now climbing instead of descending. Walking in snowshoes had been surprisingly easy—until now. As they made their way up the first meadow, the muscles in Christine’s thighs began to pull, then those in her calves, and she knew that she would be stiff and sore in the morning.
The wind whipped up the snow that was already on the ground, dressed itself in crystalline cloaks and robes that flapped and swirled, formed whirling funnels that danced through the twilight. In the swiftly dying light, the snow devils seemed like spirits, cold ghosts roaming the lonely reaches of the top of the world.
The hills felt steeper than when she and Charlie had first made this trip with Joey and the dog. Her snowshoes were certainly twice as large as they had been then . . . and ten times heavier.
Darkness fell when they were in the woods, before they even reached the upper meadow. They were in no danger of getting lost because the snow-covered ground had a vague natural luminosity, and the clear swath of the road provided an unmistakable route through the otherwise densely packed trees.
However, by the time they reached the upper meadow, the storm’s fury eliminated the advantage of the snow’s slight phosphorescence. New snow was falling so heavily, and the wind was kicking up such thick clouds of old snow that, had there not been lights on at the cabin, they would without doubt have become disoriented and would have been in serious risk of wandering aimlessly, back and forth, around in circles, until they collapsed and died, less than four hundred yards from safety. The dim, diffuse, amber glow at the cabin windows was a welcome beacon. On those occasions when the gale-driven snow temporarily blocked that beacon, Christine had to resist panic, stop and wait until she glimpsed her target again, for when she kept on without being able to see the lights, she always headed off in the wrong direction within a few steps. Although she stayed close to Charlie, she frequently could not see him, either; visibility sometimes declined to no more than two or three feet.
The aching in her leg muscles grew worse, and the throbbing in her shoulders and back became unbearable, and the night’s chill somehow found its way through all her layers of clothes, but though she cursed the storm she also welcomed it. For the first time in days, she was beginning to feel safe. This wasn’t just a storm; it was a damned
blizzard
! They were shut off from the world now. Isolated. By morning they would be snowbound. The storm was the best security they could have. At least for the next day or so, Grace Spivey would not be able to reach them even if, by some miracle, she learned their whereabouts.
blizzard
! They were shut off from the world now. Isolated. By morning they would be snowbound. The storm was the best security they could have. At least for the next day or so, Grace Spivey would not be able to reach them even if, by some miracle, she learned their whereabouts.
When they finally reached the cabin, they found Joey in a better mood than when they’d left. There was color in his face again. He was energetic and talkative for the first time in a couple of days. He even smiled. The change in him was startling and, for a moment, mysterious, but then it became clear that he took the same comfort from the storm as Christine did. He said, “We’ll be okay now, huh, Mom? A witch can’t fly a broom in a blizzard, can she, huh?”
“Nope,” Christine assured him as she took off the backpack she’d been carrying. “All the witches are grounded tonight.”
“FWA rules,” Charlie said.
Joey looked at him quizzically. “What’s . . . FWA?”
“Federal Witch Administration,” Charlie said, pulling off his boots. “That’s the government agency that licenses witches.”
“You gotta have a license to be a witch?” the boy asked.
Charlie feigned surprise. “Oh, sure, what’d you think—just anybody can be a witch? First, when a girl wants to be a witch, she’s got to prove she has a mean streak in her. For instance, your mom would never qualify. Then a would-be witch has got to be ugly because witches are always ugly, and if a pretty lady like your mom wants to be a witch she’s got to go have plastic surgery to
make
herself ugly.”
make
herself ugly.”
“Wow,” Joey said softly, wide-eyed. “Really?”
“But that’s not the worst of it,” Charlie said. “The hardest thing if you want to be a witch is finding those tall, pointy black hats.”
“It is?”
“Well, just think about it once. You’ve gone shopping with your mom when she was buying clothes. You ever see any of those tall, pointy black hats in any stores you were ever in?”
The boy frowned, thinking about it.
“No, you haven’t,” Charlie said as he carried one of the heavy backpacks into the kitchen. “Nobody sells those hats because nobody wants witches coming in their stores all the time. Witches smell like the wings of bats and tails of newts and salamander tongue and all those other weird things they’re always cooking in their cauldrons. Nothing will chase off a storekeeper’s customers faster than a witch who reeks of boiled pig’s snout.”
“Yuck,” Joey said.
“Exactly,” Charlie said.
Christine was so happy and relieved to see Joey acting like a six-year-old again that she had trouble holding back tears. She wanted to put her arms around Charlie, squeeze him tight, and thank him for his strength, for his way with children, for just being the man he was.
Outside, the wind howled and huffed and wailed and whistled.
Night hugged the cabin. Snow dressed it.
In the living room fireplace, the big logs sputtered and crackled.
They worked together to make dinner. Afterward, they sat on the floor in the living room, where they played Old Maid and Tic-Tac-Toe, and Charlie told knock-knock jokes that Joey found highly amusing.
Christine felt snug. Secure.
53
In South Lake
Tahoe, the snowmobile shop was about to close when Grace Spivey, Barlowe, and the eight others arrived. They had come from just down the street, where they had all purchased ski suits and other insulated winter clothing. They had changed into their new gear and now looked as if they belonged in Tahoe. To the surprise and delight of the owner of Mountain Country Sportmobile—a portly man whose name was Orley Treat and who said his friends called him “Skip”—they purchased four Ski-Doos and two custom-designed flatbed trailers to haul them.
Tahoe, the snowmobile shop was about to close when Grace Spivey, Barlowe, and the eight others arrived. They had come from just down the street, where they had all purchased ski suits and other insulated winter clothing. They had changed into their new gear and now looked as if they belonged in Tahoe. To the surprise and delight of the owner of Mountain Country Sportmobile—a portly man whose name was Orley Treat and who said his friends called him “Skip”—they purchased four Ski-Doos and two custom-designed flatbed trailers to haul them.
Kyle Barlowe and a churchman named George Westvec did most of the talking because Westvec knew a lot about snowmobiles, and Barlowe had a knack for getting the best price possible on anything he bought. His great size, forbidding appearance, and air of barely controlled violence gave him an advantage in any bargaining session, of course, but his negotiating skills were not limited to intimidation. He had a first-rate businessman’s knack of sensing an adversary’s strengths, weaknesses, limits, and intentions. This was something he had learned about himself only after Grace had converted him from a life of self-hatred and sociopathic behavior, and it was a discovery that was as gratifying as it was surprising. He was in Mother Grace’s everlasting debt not only because she had saved his soul but because she had provided him the opportunity to discover and explore the talents which, without her, he would never have known were there, within himself.
Orley Treat, who was too beefy to have such a boyish nickname as “Skip,” kept trying to figure out who they were. He kept asking questions of Grace and Barlowe and the others, such as whether they belonged to a club of some kind or whether they were all related.
Keeping in mind that the police were still interested in talking to Grace about certain recent events in Orange County, worried that one of the disciples would inadvertently say too much to Treat, Barlowe sent everyone but George Westvec to scout the nearby motels along the main road and find one with sufficient vacancies to accommodate them.
When they paid for the snowmobiles with stacks of cash, Treat gaped at their money in disbelief. Barlowe saw greed in the man’s eyes, and figured Treat had already thought of a way to doctor his books and hide this cash from the IRS. Even though his curiosity had an almost physically painful grip on him, Treat stopped prying into their business because he was afraid of queering the deal.
The white Ford vans weren’t equipped with trailer hitches, but Treat said he could arrange to have the welding done overnight. “They’ll be ready first thing in the morning . . . say . . . ten o’clock.”
“Earlier,” Grace said. “Much earlier than that. We want to haul these up to the north shore come first light.”
Treat smiled and pointed to the showroom windows, beyond which wind-driven snow was falling heavily in the sodium glow of the parking lot lights. “Weatherman’s calling for maybe eighteen inches. Stormfront won’t pass until four or five o’clock tomorrow morning, so the road crews won’t have the highway open around to the north shore until ten, even eleven o’clock. No point you folks starting out earlier.”
Grace said, “If you can’t have the hitches on our trucks and the Ski-Doos ready to go by four-thirty in the morning, the deal’s off.”
Barlowe knew she was bluffing because this was the only place they could get the machines they needed. But judging from the tortured expression on Treat’s face, he took her threat seriously.
Barlowe said, “Listen, Skip, it’s only a couple of hours’ worth of welding. We’re willing to pay extra to have it done tonight.”
“But I’ve got to prep the Ski-Doos and—”
“Then prep them.”
“But I was just closing for the day when you—”
“Stay open a couple more hours,” Barlowe said. “I know it’s inconvenient. I appreciate that. I really do. But, Skip, how often do you sell four snowmobiles and two trailers in one clip?”
Treat sighed. “Okay, it’ll be ready for pickup at four-thirty in the morning. But you’ll never get up to the north shore at that hour.”
Grace, George Westvec, and Barlowe went outside, where the others were waiting.
Edna Vanoff stepped forward and said, “We’ve found a motel with enough spare rooms to take us, Mother Grace. It’s just a quarter of a mile up the road here. We can walk it easy.”
Grace looked up into the early-night sky, squinting as the snow struck her face and frosted her eyebrows. Long tangled strands of wet frizzy gray hair escaped the edges of her knitted hat, which she had pulled down over her ears. “Satan brought this storm. He’s trying to delay us. Trying to keep us from reaching the boy until it’s too late. But God will get us through.”
54
By nine-thirty Joey
was asleep. They put him to bed between clean sheets, under a heavy blue and green quilt. Christine wanted to stay in the bedroom with him, even though she wasn’t ready for bed, but Charlie wanted to talk to her and plan for certain contingencies.
was asleep. They put him to bed between clean sheets, under a heavy blue and green quilt. Christine wanted to stay in the bedroom with him, even though she wasn’t ready for bed, but Charlie wanted to talk to her and plan for certain contingencies.
He said, “You’ll be all right by yourself, won’t you, Joey?”
“I guess so,” the boy said. He looked tiny, elfin, under the huge quilt and with his head propped on an enormous feather pillow.
“I don’t want to leave him alone,” Christine said.
Charlie said, “No one can get him here unless they come up from downstairs, and we’ll be downstairs to stop them.”
“The window—”
“It’s a second-story window. They’d have to put a ladder up against the house to reach it, and I doubt they’d be carrying a ladder.”
She frowned at the window, undecided.
Charlie said, “We’re socked in here, Christine. Listen to that wind. Even if they knew we were in these mountains, even if they knew about this particular cabin—which they don’t—they wouldn’t be able to make it up here tonight.”
“I’ll be okay, Mom,” Joey said. “I got Chewbacca. And like Charlie said, it’s against FWA rules for witches to fly in a storm.”
She sighed, tucked the covers in around her son, and kissed him goodnight. Joey wanted to give Charlie a goodnight kiss, too, which was a new experience for Charlie, and as he felt the boy’s lips smack his cheek, a flood of emotions washed through him: a poignant sense of the child’s profound vulnerability; a fierce desire to protect him; an awareness of the purity of the kid’s affection; a heart-wrenching impression of innocence and sweet simplicity; a touching and yet quite frightening realization of the complete trust the boy had in him. The moment was so warm, so disarming and satisfying, that Charlie couldn’t understand how he could have come to be thirty-six without having started a family of his own.
Maybe it had been his destiny to be here, waiting for Christine and Joey, when they needed him. If he’d had his own family, he wouldn’t have been able to go to the wall for the Scavellos as he had done; these recent deeds, all beyond the call of duty, would have fallen to one of his men—who might not have been as clever or as committed as Charlie was. When Christine had walked into his office, he had been rocked by her beauty and by a feeling that they were meant to meet, one way or another, that they would have found each other in a different fashion if Grace Spivey hadn’t acted to bring them together now. Their relationship seemed . . . inevitable. And now it seemed equally inevitable and right that he should be Joey’s protector, that he should one day soon become the child’s legal father, that each night he should hear this small boy say, “Goodnight, Daddy,” instead of “Goodnight, Charlie.”
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