Coldwater Revenge James Ross (best fantasy books to read TXT) 📖

and the heavy slat curtains. Outside, oblivious to halogen light and klaxon horn, two visitors stood tearing rows of plants from the wooden boxes on top of the waist-high railings. One snorted blasts of frosty air through dripping nostrils. The other stepped noisily along the row of wilted plants. One had antlers, both had hooves.

Releasing a blast of compressed breath, he pulled the louvered curtains from the window and peering cautiously outside. The visitors did not look up. The first snow of the year was falling.

He punched the security code into the wall pad and slid the glass doors open. The klaxons stopped and halogen lights dimmed. Stepping onto the snow-covered deck he inhaled deeply. The two intruders eyed him petulantly before bounding onto the lawn, their heart-shaped hooves pressing a scattering of Valentines into the new snow.

After the horn and light show, the sound of compacting snow was almost, but not quite, inaudible. He turned his head. The sound was heavy, not delicate… Big Foot, not Bambi. As the crunch came nearer, he squinted through a curtain of snowflakes. A figure in a hooded parka strode through it, one snow-flaked fist gripping a silver cell phone and the other a large black handgun.

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan,” said the voice inside the hood. “I was beginning to get chilled out here.”

* * *

Hassad backed Tom into the cabin, drew the curtains and sat him on the couch next to the table phone. He had no small talk.

“Listen carefully,” he ordered. “I want you to call Miss Pearce and arrange for her to meet you on Pocket Island. Communicate the rendezvous in a way that will not be understood by anyone who might be listening.”

Tom didn’t move.

Hassad pointed the gun at Tom’s chest. “Don’t make me persuade you.”

“What if she’s not home?” The sound of his voice seemed unnaturally high and hollow.

“Then you are of no use to me.”

“What about after the call?” It came out almost a whisper.

“I need a boat to take me to Pocket Island and to help with certain tasks once I get there. Understand that I have no reason to keep you alive if you refuse.”

Tom picked up the phone. Though he had known the number by heart since he was a teenager, he fat-fingered it twice and had to hang up and start over again. Hassad held the gun impatiently at the level of Tom’s chest. The sound of the phone’s ringing reminded him of a dentist’s drill.

“Pick up, Susan,” Tom murmured.

“Pray that she answers, Mr. Morgan.”

The ringing stopped, followed by an audible click.

‘Hi. You’ve reached 628-4952. No one is able to come to the phone right now….’

“Susan, it’s me.”

‘… but if you’ll leave your name, number…. ’

“Susan! Pick up!”

‘… and a brief message, someone will get back to you as soon as possible.’

“Susan! I have to talk to you. Now!”

Click.

Hassad raised the gun to Tom’s forehead. “Bad luck for you, Mr. Morgan.”

Tom lifted his hand and lowered his voice to an intimate whisper. “Hey, sweetie, it’s me. Can’t sleep. Just me and the sheep. Remember our Rubaiyat readings? Wish you could join us there now. Lady might have a ride if you need one.”

He waited. Hassad motioned him to replace the phone. “Explain,” he ordered.

The answer came in breathless gulps. “‘Lady’ is Our Lady of The Lake church. There’s a rowboat at the church dock. And a runabout in the boathouse. Susan used to borrow them sometimes to sneak out to Pocket Island at night. There’ll be watchers at her house. She’ll need another way to get to the island.”

“And the other reference?” Hassad demanded.

“‘Sheep? ’ That’s you. Line in a nursery rhyme. She’ll get it.”

“How clever.” He sounded more peeved than impressed. “But if Miss Pearce doesn’t play that message within the hour, it’s of no use to me. Or to you.”

“She’s already heard it.”

“Explain.”

“I could hear her,” he lied. “She picked up the phone as soon as the message tape ended. She just didn’t say anything. Maybe there was someone there.”

Hassad pointed the gun at Tom’s face. Tom watched Hassad’s eyes. Each held tight to the whirligig of his own suspicions.

* * *

From the passenger seat, Joe watched Bonnie’s headlights making bas-relief of the tire tracks that patterned the long, snow-covered driveway. At first he assumed the tracks had been left by Tom, and he braced himself for what had to come next. But he abandoned the idea when he saw that the tracks ended beneath a rusty, blue sedan parked out of sight of the cabin. The car was a stranger. Tommy of the hamburger hands and knees would not have parked so far away.

“Bonnie, stop.” Joe reached into the glove compartment and retrieved a pair of binoculars, training them on the front of the cabin. There were footprints in the snow leading around back. “It’s probably nothing. But I want you to take the kids to Mary’s and wait for my call.”

“Joe, please call for help.”

“I will.” He did not look at her face.

When the car disappeared down the driveway, Joe climbed into the woods above the cabin, feeling as jelly-limbed as he had after the first weekend he’d spent in bed with a girl. The temperature had dropped sharply since they’d left the hospital. Snow fell heavily and the wind gathered strength. Part way up the hill, he leaned against a dry patch of tree trunk and trained the binoculars on the landscape below. Maybe Tom was inside with a visitor. But there were no lights. And where is my truck?

Joe turned the glasses on the security pad beside the front door. A small green light would be lit if the system were armed—a red one if it had been tripped. He could not see a light. But then he remembered then that he had shown Tom how to turn the system off, but not how to re-arm it.

Crossing the face of the hill, he had a clear line of sight to the back of the cabin. The wind