The Shadow Man (16 page)

Andrews gazed out the cabin window at a sharp protective angle, watching the moisture-laden snow fall to form a slick and glistening patina over the snow already on the ground. An idea had worked its way into his mind. A dangerous idea. At first he had rejected it as suicidal—and maybe it was. Then the snow had begun to fall, impairing visibility just enough so that Andrews and Pat might have a chance, and the idea became a plan.

If they were going to take advantage of the snow, Andrews decided, it should be soon. Then he wondered, would whoever was out there, calculating to kill, anticipate that the snowfall might prompt Andrews to act? If so, the odds on Andrews and Pat escaping were reduced even further, bordering on the unacceptable.

Andrews shook himself out of that rut of pessimism. The snow was a break. It provided Andrews and Pat with an opportunity that the stalker couldn’t have foreseen. They would be foolish not to attempt to use what little leverage they’d lucked into. Andrews turned to face Pat, who was still seated in the flickering reflection from the fireplace.

“Give me your car keys,” he told her. “Then I’m going to explain something to you.”

She seemed to come alert, as if suddenly reassured that Andrews was again in firm command of the situation. His request for the keys must mean that he’d figured out some way for them to leave, and she trusted him. He hoped she’d continue to trust him after hearing what he proposed.

When Andrews was finished talking, he watched Pat’s face but could see nothing of her reaction. She sat silently for a long time, her thoughts private as she pondered the likelihood of imminent death.

“It will get us killed or save us,” she said, in a voice both somber and dignified.

“At least we’re exercising an option,” Andrews told her. “Not simply sitting here on the defensive.” He made himself stop talking. He had laid out the plan for Pat to accept or reject; he didn’t want to sell her on it. He didn’t feel that strongly about their chances himself.

“We should try it,” she said at last. She gave Andrews an incredible smile that belied the circumstances. “I’ve heard for years about the element of surprise. If this works, everyone else will hear about it for years.”

And if it doesn’t work . . .
Andrews thought. But their decision had been reached. He refused even to consider the possibility of failure. Not now. There existed only two alternatives for them, and only one of those alternatives meant life.

They put on coats and boots, and then stood in silence. Only the soft, whispering patter of the falling snow, somehow urgent, penetrated the vacuum of the ominous lull.

Andrews looked at Pat. She seemed incapable of the needed speed and motion in her bulky down jacket. But Andrews knew that he appeared the same way. Ski clothing was deceptive. It was actually light and afforded plenty of freedom of movement. Pat adjusted her red and black stocking cap and nodded to Andrews.

He picked up the remote-control starter switch for the rented Jeep and walked to the kitchen window. They would gain a few steps by leaving through this window. Pat touched Andrews’ right arm. He could hear her breathing rapidly, unevenly, as slowly and quietly he raised the window in its weather-warped frame.

Surprisingly cold air carried a mild flurry of large snowflakes into the cabin. Andrews felt a few of the flakes on his face, grateful for them, and watched several large white flecks appear on his silky blue jacket sleeve and begin to melt. At least the snow hadn’t let up, but the visibility outside wasn’t as poor as it had seemed through the closed window.

For a second Andrews wondered if he would have the courage demanded by his own plan. There was, of course, only one way to know for sure. Determination, enthusiasm, patriotic and bracing euphemisms—under real, underwear-fouling duress, all of that disappeared like smoke in the wind, and courage became a thing in the very pit of the soul that either you were born with or you were not. Andrews would soon know his inheritance.

With exaggerated, slow movements, he climbed out through the open window, keeping his body tight against the outside of the cabin. He was clutching the remote-control switch in his bare right hand. The Jeep was to his right, about fifty feet away. Pat’s red sports car was parked nearer by about ten feet, its windshield coated with unmarked snow. Like the Jeep, it gave the impression that it was rooted to the icy terrain, impossible to coax into mechanical life and motion.

Andrews swiveled his body, extended an arm to help Pat out the window. The thought flashed through his mind that this was like a grotesque elopement, and all those people who in jokes compared weddings to funerals might know what they were talking about. He caught a glimpse of Pat’s pasty, rigid features framing determined eyes. A large snowflake settled on one of her dark lashes as he spoke to her.

“Be ready,” he said, the words ripping hoarse and fierce from his throat. Her face softened for a moment, then regained its solemn stiffness as she nodded. Andrews pressed the remote-control button to turn over the Jeep’s engine fifty feet away.

At first nothing happened, and despite his fear Andrews actually felt an acute embarrassment. He stared in perplexity at the Jeep through the white dance of the snow, frustrated by its betrayal.

The Jeep’s starter groaned, softly at first, then very loud, like a thing in agony. The engine coughed twice but didn’t catch.

A shot cracked the brittle mountain air and echoed in diminishing reverberations.

But Andrews and Pat were already running, not toward the Jeep but toward the sports car. Andrews continued to keep his thumb jammed on the remote starter button.

He was aware of the Jeep’s windows exploding in a shower of snow and bits of safety glass as shot after shot rolled in a continual volley along snow-crusted slopes. And he knew suddenly that there was more than one rifle firing and felt a numbing stab of fear. If he’d been wrong about
that
! ...

Pat was running beside him, keeping up. Her leg brushed his. Their booted ankles crossed, became momentarily tangled, and they almost fell. But they kept their footing and threw themselves gasping into the sports car.

The shooting had stopped. As Andrews fumbled to insert the key in the ignition switch, he knew why. Surprise no longer applied. The gunmen had realized that the Jeep was empty and were shifting their aim to the sports car.

The cold metal about the keyhole deflected the key. Andrews dropped it, caught it.

Miraculously, it slipped into its slot easily on the next try. After two quick turnovers, the car’s engine snarled to eager life.

Pat reached over and flipped the wiper switch so Andrews could see as the car reversed, then skidded in a wild U-turn and headed for the road. Andrews hadn’t been aware of more shots, but he saw snow flick off the center of the hood and heard the blunt hammer blow of metal penetrating metal. As he wrenched the wheel to the left, feeling the car lose traction, then the gradual bite of the tires once more, something snapped loudly past his right ear and the windshield cracked into a star pattern before his startled eyes. Even as he was blindly taking the first turn down the harrowing slick mountain road, he was smashing out with his fist, feeling the rush of stinging cold air as the shards of glass fell away and he could see. Vaguely, he was aware that his hand was bleeding.

“Just drive!” Pat screamed in his ear, and she began to strike at the rest of the glass with her gloved fist, eyes squinted for protection against the snow and windshield splinters.

Andrews’ heart seemed to stop as the car fishtailed and he saw only space and swirling snow. He played the wheel to the left and then the right with a skill that some detached part of his mind observed in surprise and admiration. He glanced at Pat. She seemed all right. He seemed all right. With a sudden elation Andrews believed they could make it. They
would
make it!

He tapped the small brake pedal in short butterfly strokes before the next icy turn, guided the car through with a new confidence and hope. Beside him Pat was laughing crazily, tearfully, in a wild release of tension.

The mountain leveled off somewhat and the road straightened. The land was flatter now, and there were fewer drops. Instead of curving about the mountain face like an abstract corkscrew, the narrow, slippery road ran a straighter though still difficult course toward the base of the mountain. They were below the timberline, and the sparse woods flashing past on the right were becoming denser as the car dropped lower toward the valley. The road was more manageable but still unpredictable, demanding as much driving skill as Andrews possessed. He built his speed on the straightaways and came to near-stops to slide around the hairpin curves.

Even the biting, snow-flecked wind in his face felt good to Andrews. It meant he was alive—would continue to live! He noticed a slender glass splinter protruding from the web of flesh between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand but didn’t bother to remove it. It didn’t hurt. The hand was numb from the rush of cold air.

Then Andrews became aware of Pat’s hand clutching his shoulder with a desperate strength to gain his attention. Andrews turned his head briefly toward her. She pointed. And he saw.

Through the trees Andrews could make out a shadowy crouched figure, now visible in flashes, now gone, trailing the car like a ghost. A skier, plunging down the slope almost parallel to the road.

The slope described a straighter line to the base of the mountain than did the twisting road, enabling the swift and skillful skier to keep pace. Andrews knew that if the skier reached the base of the mountain before the car, he would have time to set up and be waiting with his rifle. They were in a race now, and Andrews had to win it.

His right foot went to the accelerator, and he held his left poised over the brake pedal to butterfly the brakes before curves. The low red car picked up speed, momentarily dropped a wheel off the road shoulder. The branches of a large fir tree slapped and scraped at the hood and fender as Andrews jerked the steering wheel to the left and headed them for the next icy dip and curve. Pat was sitting motionless beside him, her arms straight out in front of her, hands spread and braced against the dashboard. As Andrews skidded the car wide and turned to the right, he leaned in that direction as if his weight might influence centrifugal force. Breath and heartbeat returned as the car came out of the curve and sped downhill through the whirling maze of snowflakes. Andrews thought he caught a glimpse of the indistinct figure of the skier flashing smoothly alongside beyond the trees, back bent, head lowered and arms tucked in at the sides, ski poles horizontal and trailing like twin dark comet tails. Then another curve appeared ahead, rushed toward them, as Andrews hunched his body over the wheel and played brake and accelerator.

This time the car did leave the road. Branches ticked the metal fenders. Pat screamed and was tossed sideways into Andrews, for a second causing his hands to leave the wheel. In that instant the car began violently rocking. Snow from overhead branches cascaded down through the broken windshield like cold water dashed on Andrews and Pat. There was a jolt and a loud rending sound as the right fender scraped a large outcropping of black rock.

The car veered left but remained upright. Andrews suddenly realized inanely that neither he nor Pat had fastened their safety belts. Pat was slumped forward, her head between her knees, her hands laced in her dark hair beneath her knit stocking cap. As Andrews watched, the cap slipped from her head and dropped to the floor. The wind caught her hair.

Andrews’ gaze flicked upward just in time to see an onrushing huge tree. He spun the steering wheel to the left in panic, losing traction. The tree flashed past inches from the car’s right side, like a telephone pole glimpsed from a roaring train. Branches snagged on the rear bumper, ripping it off. Another branch tore away most of the canvas convertible top.

But it was the tree that saved them. The impact of its branches had slowed the small car just enough to enable Andrews to regain control. Back on the road, he tapped the brake lightly, gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands and peered through the smashed windshield with eyes glazed by equal parts of fright and resolve. He was familiar with the terrain and knew they were more than halfway down the mountain.

A guarded quick look to the right informed Andrews that the shadowy pursuer was still with them, almost as if, as Pat had once denied, projected by their fear.

The road flattened out for a relatively long stretch after the next S-curve. Andrews could pull away from the skier there, even though the slope beyond the trees was clear and fast. He negotiated the tricky double curve almost automatically, bent forward over the steering wheel and mashed down with his right foot on the accelerator.