The Astral (25 page)

He paused, waiting for her to say something. She could only stare at him, could scarcely grasp what he was trying to say.

“I just wanted you to know: it'd have been like that for her, too, hadn't been for your old man, that dumb shit.” He paused again, swallowed, ran a tongue over his lips.

Catherine stared. Did he really believe what he was telling her? Could anyone's thinking be that twisted?

Yes, of course, she thought: people, even horrible people, want to convince themselves that what they did was right. The reality was, people were scarcely any better at knowing themselves than they were at knowing one another. The mirror lied to one and all, and few could see the reality in the depths of the glass.

She swallowed. Her mouth was Saharan. When she finally did speak, the words surprised her, seemed to come unbidden, from someone other than herself: “I want to forgive you, Mister Paterson.”

They surprised him too. He blinked, speechless for a moment, staring at her like he hadn't heard her right.

Where had they come from, those words? She had not even imagined herself saying such a thing. They had simply spilled out of her.

Yet she meant them. Or at the least, she
meant
to mean them. She might be close to death. It was even possible, it had occurred to her before, that she had been dead all along, and everything that had happened since she had been shot was only a dream.

In either case, she was suddenly sure of one thing: she didn't want to go back into that light carrying all the hate and bitterness and anger with her. She wanted to forgive him if only for her own sake. And, perhaps, she hoped, for his as well. If she hadn't quite done that yet, if the words she had spoken were not quite yet the truth, surely that lie would do less damage to her soul than continuing to bear the bitter burden she had borne so long.

“Someone called you my dark angel,” she said.

He actually grinned. “Yeah? What does that make you? My, what, my bright angel?”

The question caught her off guard. She hadn't thought of that. What was she to him? Not his angel, surely—but something, something she herself did not understand.

His grin faded. For a crazy moment he actually thought he saw, like, a halo of light around her head. What if she was, some kind of angel? What if that was what had been drawing him to her, not to kill her but to, well, to what?
An angel?

To her surprise, he dropped to his knees in front of her, the wooden floor creaking. “Listen,” he said, eyes fastened on hers, “I wish we hadn't gotten off on the wrong foot the way we did, you and me. I'm not such a bad guy once you get to know me. And...well, shit, I guess you've heard this a lot, but you are a fine-looking piece. I could've made you happy. Still could.” He grinned. “That's what I do best. Make women happy. I'm real good at it.”

He ran a hand slowly along the inside of her thigh, fingers gently kneading her flesh. Smiled into her eyes. In the bathroom, the toilet flushed noisily.

Without even thinking, she spat in his face. His eyes flamed, nostrils flared. The malevolence of his smile told more clearly than any words could the depth of his anger. He wiped the spittle from his face and stood. Colley came out of the bathroom and gave them a curious look.

Ignoring him, Paterson went to the fire, now casting a welcome warmth into the room, and poked violently at it. Satisfied that it was okay, he threw the poker into the bin and gave Catherine a warning glance. “Don't try anything,” he said, and to Colley, “Wake me up in thirty minutes. Then you can have your turn.”

He curled up on the bed, back to them, and within minutes was snoring. Colley pulled a tattered armchair around so it was near the fire, facing Catherine. He settled himself into it, cast a resentful glance at Paterson and glowered at her.

“Ought to have killed her back then,” he mumbled, but not loud enough to disturb Paterson's sleep.

He tried to keep his eyes fixed on Catherine, but the warmth of the fire and the draining fatigue began to take their toll. His eyelids flickered. He started and gave his head a shake, and glared at her afresh.

Catherine pretended not to see his exhaustion, tried to ignore him altogether, and fought to stay awake herself. Sleep tried to creep over her, but she dared not surrender to it. This might be her only chance, and she could not be certain what would happen if she dropped off.

Something stirred in the corner, some forest creature, no doubt, a mouse or a squirrel, annoyed at having his comfortable winter lodgings intruded upon. Outside, the wind howled, and the snow blew against the window in ceaseless gusts, rattling the panes.

The contest of wills tilted in her favor. Colley's eyes were barely half open now, and they drifted shut more frequently and stayed that way longer.

A log snapped loudly in the fireplace. He jerked upright, looked quick and hard at her and around the room, and settled back into his chair. His eyes drooped again. The wind clawed at the window. Shadows danced on the wall.

His eyes closed and stayed closed. His breathing grew deeper, more regular, and he too began to snore.

Now, she thought. She closed her eyes and sent herself into the ether.

* * * *

“Yipes,” Chang cried as Catherine suddenly appeared in the seat between her and Jack. The Bronco slid briefly before she got it once more under control. She took one hand off the wheel and felt in Catherine's direction. “Oh, Lord.” Her hand went right through the apparition, “She's like a ghost. I forget.”

“She's not physical at all,” Jack said. “She's here to guide us.”

“How, if she can't talk and she can't take hold of anything?”

“She can nod.” He looked down at their directions. “Highway marker mile thirty-one?”

Catherine nodded vigorously...and disappeared.

“Jesus, that is weird,” Chang said.

“Anyway, we know for sure they're taking her to O'Dell's cabin,” he said. “And the directions are right. We just have to watch for mileage marker thirty-one.”

* * * *

Paterson was shaking her violently. “Damn you to hell, what are you doing? You're leading them here, aren't you?”

“...Sleeping,” she mumbled, trying to act as incoherent as possible. It wasn't all that difficult. The fatigue almost had put her to sleep.

“Bitch.” He slapped her hard, bringing the sting of tears to her eyes. With a muttered oath, he threw her back against the sofa and dashed to the window, yanking the curtain aside to peer out as if someone might already be pulling up outside. Over his shoulder, she could see only a white blur of snow in the faint light from the window and, beyond that, darkness.

He dropped the curtain and paced back and forth for several minutes, considering. Catherine reached out tentatively, trying to read into his thoughts, but that only served to draw his attention back to her. He stopped in his pacing and snapped his head around to glower at her, and seemed finally to reach a decision. He opened a closet and took out a shotgun, propped it against the wall. Then he grabbed her coat off the chair and flung it at her.

“Put it on.”

On the chair nearby, Colley groaned and opened his eyes. “Man, I could sleep for a week,” he said drowsily.

“You weren't supposed to be sleeping at all. You dumb jerk, I warned you what would happen.”

“I couldn't help it, Trash. That bullet wound is hurting bad. I just closed my eyes for a minute, anyway, I swear to God.” He looked at Catherine struggling into her coat. “What's happening?”

“I'm taking her out of here.” Paterson shrugged into his parka. “Hurry it up,” he told Catherine.

Colley sat up, wincing. “Where we going?”

“Not we. You can't move fast enough like that. You wait here in case they show up. If they do, use that.” He nodded his head toward the shotgun leaning against the wall.

Colley got unsteadily to his feet. “Hey, Trash, no way, you can't leave me behind, we're in this together.”

“If I get away and they don't show up here, I'll come back for you. If not, well, we're both screwed, is how I see it.”

“'Cept I'm the one's most screwed, waiting here for them to come and pick me like an apple off a tree. I'm going with you, that's how it's gonna be. Don't worry about me, I can keep up.” He limped toward where his coat dangled from a wall hook.

Paterson shot him in his other leg. Colley went down with a yelp and a crash, taking a chair with him. The fresh wound spewed blood. He swore and clutched at it. “Jesus, Trash,” he groaned, “What'd you go and do that for? I'm gonna bleed to death here, you bastard.”

Paterson shrugged his unconcern. “Bleeding, frying, you're just as dead one way or the other. Come on.” He yanked Catherine to her feet. At the door, he looked back at Colley squirming and sobbing on the floor.

“Get yourself together. Wrap something around that. It's just a flesh wound, for Christ's sake. And drag your pansy butt over to the window so you can watch for them. If I hear shots, I'll know they showed up.”

“If you hear shots it'll be me trying to nail your ass.” Colley started to crawl in the direction of the shotgun.

Paterson laughed. “That's the way, show a little backbone for a change.”

He pulled Catherine out into the snow and shoved the door closed behind him with his foot.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

They had stepped into a world of white, of wind swirled snow. He hesitated, looking in every direction, and began to walk as swiftly as the storm allowed up the hillside to their left.

The wind fought against them, trying to push them back, as though it resented their intrusion. Catherine struggled to keep up, her knees threatening to buckle under her. When she stumbled he jerked her roughly back to her feet. In the dark, in the snow, it was impossible to see where they were going. He seemed to be obeying some inner radar. Of course, she thought, he's psychic too. She wished she could enter into his mind, but that was too dangerous, especially in his present violent mood.

“We'll never make it through this,” she told him breathlessly. His only answer was to tug again at her arm and propel her forward. Her feet and hands were numb, her nose a block of ice.

The hillside grew steeper and thicker with trees, but at least the trees provided some break in the wind, so that it was easier to see where to put their feet down. They skirted rocks and thin outcroppings of brush, climbing steadily and laboriously now. Something tore at her shin, stinging, and she looked down to see droplets of red against the blanket of white.

A trail, she thought hopefully, and immediately realized the futility of that. The blood would be obliterated in minutes by the falling snow. She would have to find some opportunity to travel.

She stopped dead in her tracks and fell back against the rough bark of a Ponderosa pine. “I've got to catch my breath,” she said.

He gave her an angry look and was about to say something, then checked himself. He let her lean there for a minute while his eyes searched the forest around them. Dawn was near, but the pale light barely penetrated the storm.

Catherine closed her eyes and tried to project herself into the car with Jack. She saw him, peering anxiously over the back of the front seat. He saw her, and relief washed over his face. She pointed at the sheet of directions he still held in his hand and shook her head frantically back and forth.

“No, you don't.” Paterson took her arm again and resumed their climb. Frustrated, Catherine stumbled alongside him. Had there been time? Had Jack seen her fleeting signal?

Her feet were numb, but she was afraid if she fell, or tried to stop again, he would shoot her and be done with it. Her job now was to stay alive and to delay them as much as possible in whatever way she could. Jack and Chang would find them, she was certain of that. They must.

“Come on,” he ordered when she slowed her pace slightly.

“I can't go any faster,” she said breathlessly. “Please, just leave me here.”

“Fat chance, you'd be waving them in my direction before I had gone twenty feet. Hot damn, here we are.”

They had crested a small knoll. Below them about thirty feet away a wisp of smoke rose from the chimney of a cabin. A blue pickup truck with enormous tires sat in a freshly cleared driveway.

They scrambled down the hillside, half running, half sliding. It was a relief to feel the solid surface of the driveway beneath her feet. He slunk to the side of the truck and peered through the window, disappointed the keys were not in it.

“I'll have to get them, then,” he said aloud. He looked toward the cabin and then, appraisingly, at her. He couldn't take her in with him. There was too much risk of her alerting them to his arrival or, in a struggle, finding some way to get away.

Choosing the lesser of two evils, he grabbed the handcuffs from the pocket of his parka and, clamping one around her wrist, fastened the other to the truck's outside mirror.

He grabbed her by the throat and lifted her nearly off her feet, choking her.

“None of your fancy crap,” he hissed at her. “So help me, if you pull anything....” He waved the gun under her nose. “We're getting out of here, the two of us. And if we don't, I promise you, they won't take either one of us alive.”

He was gone, running at a crouch. She gasped for breath, raising her free hand to her bruised throat, and watched him slide up to a lighted window and peer cautiously inside.

If only she had some idea who was inside, or how many. A single woman, unarmed? Or a pack of hunters, guns at the ready. Whoever they were, they were certainly oblivious to the evil that was about to burst upon them, as sudden and as deadly as the strike of a viper. Should she scream, try to warn them?

She had no doubt that he meant his threats. It was too much of a risk. Safer to do what she knew how to do.

* * * *

She soared through darkness, reaching through space to find Jack. Where was he? He couldn't be far. She had left them nearing on the main road. She saw the ribbon of the highway winding and undulating beneath her and then she was standing alongside it, no more than five feet from the mileage marker they were watching for. A marker that now would lead them astray.

She strained to see through the snow and darkness. After a moment headlights sliced through the blinding snow and a turn signal began to blink. She caught a glimpse of red: the Bronco. An hour ago that would have been the right road for them to take, but now it would lead them only to a wounded Colley. She wasn't concerned about him. If no one showed up to find him, he almost certainly would bleed to death as he himself had predicted.

But if Jack and Chang went that way, they would never find her in time. She and Paterson would be gone before they picked up the trail again.

She stepped into the road and waved her arms desperately.

* * * *

The window gave onto a kitchen. At the stove, a man in jeans and a green flannel shirt stirred something in a pot, his back to Paterson. Oldish, so near as Paterson could tell, thin, but with an athletic look. A pair of cross country skis, still wet from a recent outing, leaned against one wall. A skier, then, no pushover.

Paterson's eyes scoured the room. A book open on the kitchen table, coffee cup. One plate. One cup. Hank Williams mourned from a countertop radio. Probably the man at the stove was alone. He would have to chance it.

He looked back toward the truck. He couldn't see her. For sure she was up to her stunts, but unless he stayed with her full time, there was no way he could prevent that. Probably he should just have killed her. Why hadn't he, just gone ahead and killed her back in L.A.? Snuff movie—he didn't need no snuff movie. For sure he should have wrung her neck when she spit in his face.
Angel my ass. Angel bitch, was more like it.

Well, it was too late to cry about that. For now, the most important thing was a getaway vehicle. He'd deal with her once that problem was solved. Anyway, he might need her if things got hairy.

The man in the green shirt got his plate from the table, carried it to the stove, and began ladling something onto it. It reminded Paterson that he was hungry. Hank Williams had given way to a woman singing, “What child is this?”

Christ, it was practically Christmas. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, wasn't it, or the next day? For the briefest of moments, he thought about the situation he was in and how he came to be in it.

It was only a little while ago that everything was going his way. Business was good; there were plenty of people willing to pay top dollar for the specialty porn he provided. Colley was stupid, but he had been a useful sidekick, willing and, in his own crude way, good at suckering unsuspecting parents.

They'd had plenty of money and plenty of sex as a side dish. In a few months they'd have moved on to another city, say Seattle, he had always liked Seattle. And it was never smart to stay in any one place too long.

It was her fault: that bitch back by the pickup. She was the one had messed it all up for him. It was people like her who made the world such a shitty place. For a moment, he almost changed his mind and went back to choke the worthless life out of her.

His better sense kicked in. He pulled his gun from his belt and crept to the back door. Through its uncurtained window he saw the green shirt still at the stove, salting something on his plate.

Paterson hit the door hard, crashing it open, and yelled, “Don't move.”

To his surprise, the damn fool threw the plate of food at him. It missed by a mile but it broke his concentration, gave the old fart a minute to wheel and run toward the kitchen counter. Reflexively, Paterson pulled the trigger of his gun, and heard a dull click instead of a blast. Christ! He was out of bullets. Talk about luck.

He snatched up a chair and flung it. It hit the old man squarely in the back of his head and he stumbled and fell against the counter but he didn't go down. He reached instead toward a wooden block sitting there with knives sticking from it.

He had one in his hand by the time Paterson was upon him. For a minute or two they wrestled. Just as Paterson had feared, he was no weakling, wiry but muscled. Desperate, Paterson struck him hard on the temple with the empty gun, stunning him. In an instant, he had grabbed the knife and, crouching back on his heels, stabbed viciously downward with it. The old man gave a moan of agony and fell on his back, blood gushing from the wound in his belly.

“Stupid bastard,” Paterson told him. “If you'd done as I said I might have left you alive.”

For good measure he stabbed him again and twisted the knife to be sure there wasn't any chance he would survive. The eyes staring up at him grew dim and a bubble of blood appeared between his lips.

Paterson got up and gave him an angry kick. Some days nothing wanted to go right. No wonder he got so pissed at everything. He wiped the knife off on a kitchen towel, thrust it into his belt, and shoved the gun there too. Even an empty gun could come in handy. He looked around quickly and saw keys on the counter near the open kitchen door. Yes, house keys, obviously, and there were the recognizable truck keys as well.

He snatched them up and was out the door in a second.

* * * *

“Damn you!” Paterson was slapping her awake again. He yanked her violently to her feet and drew back his hand to strike her again. She cringed away from him, but instead of hitting her, he snorted in exasperation and fumbled for the key to remove the handcuffs.

He threw open the door of the truck. “Get in,” he ordered, brandishing the butcher knife under her nose, “And no funny business.”

There was a sudden crashing and thumping to their left. Paterson's head snapped around as a dark gray muzzle appeared out of the trees. Burros. As he watched, the rest of them trailed out of the bushes behind their leader. One or two of them cast wide-eyed glances sideways.

“Dumb fucks,” Paterson said, laughing at his own skittishness. “Shoo, git.”

He let go of her wrist just for a second. In that same instant, there was a flash of light, like lightning only brighter still. It glared off the curtain of snow, blinding both of them.

“What the hell...?” He blinked, and thought for a moment he saw another woman standing there in that fierce radiance. Startled, he took a step back.
Where did she come from?

The sudden bolt of light startled the pack of burros into flight. They stampeded in his direction, passing him so closely that one or two of them jostled against him, throwing him off balance. He fell heavily against the truck.

Run.
The voice echoed inside her head. Catherine hesitated no more than a split second before she whirled away from Paterson and dashed down the driveway in the wake of the burros, in the direction of the road.

* * * *

“We'll never find her in this mess,” Chang said. In the dark, in the snow, she could barely make out the pine trees that lined the road.

Jack looked frantically out his window. She had to be this way. That had certainly been her in the road a mile or two back, signaling them not to take the planned turnoff.

Chang glanced in the rear view mirror, thought she saw a pair of headlights in the distance. Conners was gaining on them, was only a couple of miles behind the last she'd talked to him. She'd be glad for the reinforcements, but what good would that do if they couldn't find Catherine?

“There!” Jack shouted suddenly, pointing.

Chang saw her then too, trailing a pack of stampeding burros down a driveway they had just passed—and Paterson running after her, and gaining.

She hit the brakes, hard, felt the Bronco slide.

* * * *

“Get back here, you cunt,” he shouted behind her, but she only drove herself harder. She heard his footsteps pounding after her. Twenty yards away, she saw a flash of red on the roadway. The Bronco. Jack and Chang. She was saved.

It passed the driveway. She gave a hoarse shout, and was rewarded with the flare of brake lights. The Bronco slid in the snow and began to back up rapidly.

Her elation turned to agony. Her feet were too numb. She was too weary. She stumbled, almost falling, and Paterson grabbed her arm, jerking her around so violently she thought her arm had been pulled from its socket. She fell against him, out of breath, too weak to struggle any further. Behind her, a car door slammed and Jack shouted, “Catherine!”

* * * *

Chang was out of the Bronco while it was still rolling, dropping into a crouch. Behind her, she heard a pickup truck sliding to a stop. Conners. Man, that boy was something! She held the Glock in both hands, couldn't shoot because Paterson was holding Catherine in front of him.

“Don't,” she said when Jack would have dashed past her. “He's got a knife. He'll kill her.”

* * * *

Paterson grabbed her throat and forced her head back, forced her to look directly into his face, twisted with fury. “I told you,” he hissed, “I told you, they wouldn't never take neither of us alive.”

They were face to face, his eyes boring into hers, eyes filled with hatred...and with something larger than that, something she could not define.

Her dark angel, Gabronski, had called him. Yes, she could see it now: they had been tied together all along, since that moment when he had shot her. Still, even here, even now, something like a magical bond linked them.