Chapter 9
Arthur’s breath hitchhiked in his chest. "B-but he’ll ask why the barricade—"
"You tell him the wind was blowing the door open, so you shoved the bench against it to stop the draft!" Marcus ground the steel barrel harder into Arthur’s flesh, hard enough to bruise the bone beneath. "If you stutter, I shoot. If you try to run out that door, I put a slug through your spine before your boots hit the porch. You’ll spend the rest of your life shitting in a bag in a wheelchair—assuming you don't bleed out in the snow first. Do you understand me?"
"Yes! Yes, please, don't shoot! I’ll do it, I swear!" Arthur pleaded, his voice breaking into wet, shuddering sobs.
Outside, the cruiser’s engine dropped to an idle. The heavy four-wheel-drive chassis rocked gently as it came to a halt twenty feet from the front porch. The headlights washed across the lobby interior, throwing the long, distorted shadows of the armchairs, the counter, and the two men against the rear wood paneling.
Then, with a mechanical click, the cruiser’s driver-side spotlight flared to life.
A blinding, brilliant shaft of white quartz light punched through the frosted glass, illuminating the swirling vortex of snowflakes dancing in the porch air before landing squarely on the reception desk.
Marcus crouched low behind the high partition wall, keeping Arthur pinned against his shoulder. His right arm was wrapped around Arthur’s lower back, the snub-nose buried deep against the clerk’s spine, hidden entirely beneath the folds of the oversized mustard knit.
"Stand up," Marcus commanded in an icy rasp. "Step into the light. Now."
Arthur moved.
To Marcus, every step the boy took was a miracle of terror. Arthur’s shoulders were hunched nearly to his ears; his knees were visibly knocking together inside his faded corduroy pants. He shuffled forward into the glare of the spotlight, squinting painfully against the brilliance, holding his slender hands up to shield his eyes.
Through the ice-crusted glass, the silhouette of Deputy Miller was barely visible behind the cruiser’s steering wheel. The deputy was wearing his heavy fur-collared winter parka and a tan Stetson wrapped in a clear plastic rain cover. He sat high in the cab, the green glow of his dashboard computer illuminating his weathered, square jaw.
The spotlight shifted slightly, tracking Arthur as he stepped closer to the window.
Marcus remained coiled in the shadow behind the counter, three feet away, his finger sweating on the serrated steel of the trigger. His heart hammered in his ears like a war drum. One word, he thought. One wrong gesture, kid, and you die, and I take my chances in the woods.
Arthur reached the window.
He didn't make a desperate lunge for the glass. He didn't try to mouth the words help me. He didn't blink Morse code or cast terrified glances toward the dark corner where Marcus was lurking.
Instead, Arthur played his role to absolute perfection.
He raised his right hand—swallowed almost to the tips of his fingers by the yellow cuff—and offered a timid, awkward little flutter of a wave. His mouth twisted into the strained, polite, exhausted smile of a minimum-wage night clerk who had been awake for eighteen hours and was profoundly annoyed by the intrusion.
He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his left palm, squinted through his round spectacles at the cruiser, and gave a slow, exaggerated nod of his head, as if saying: I’m here, the roof is intact, and I’m freezing my ass off.
Inside the patrol car, Deputy Miller stared through his swept windshield for four long, agonizing seconds.
Marcus held his breath. The agony in his ribs was roaring now, a white-hot spike driving into his lungs with every micro-second that passed. Move on, Marcus prayed savagely. Keep driving, you pig. Keep driving.
Deputy Miller reached up, adjusted the rearview mirror, and picked up his radio mic, speaking a few brief words to the county dispatcher. Then, he lifted a gloved hand from the steering wheel and touched two fingers to the brim of his plastic-wrapped Stetson in a lazy salute.
The spotlight snapped off.
The blinding white glare vanished, plunging the lobby back into the dim, amber gloom of the overhead lamps.
Outside, the cruiser’s transmission clunked into reverse. The tires spun briefly, spitting a plume of slush against the snowbanks, before finding traction. The heavy vehicle backed out of the driveway apron, swung its nose toward the southern grade, and slowly disappeared into the howling white curtain of the blizzard, its red taillights bleeding away into the darkness until there was nothing left but the wind.
Silence rushed back into the room like cold water into a sunken hull.
Marcus stayed frozen for another ten seconds, waiting for the sound of the engine to die completely away down the pass. When the last faint thrum of the V8 was swallowed by the storm, Marcus let out a long, ragged, wheezing exhale that sounded like air escaping a punctured tire.
He slumped against the wooden counter, the revolver in his trembling hand dipping toward the floor.
"Jesus," Marcus gasped, dragging the back of his dirty sleeve across his forehead. He was dripping with cold, feverish sweat. His ribs felt as though someone had poured battery acid into the open flesh. "Sweet Jesus Christ."
Arthur remained standing by the window, his back to Marcus. His slender frame was perfectly motionless against the backdrop of the frosted glass.
"He’s gone, sir," Arthur said softly. The trembling had left his voice entirely, though Marcus was too dizzy with relief to notice the shift in timbre. "He won't be back until morning. Once they clear the summit loop, they stay down at the depot until shift change."
Marcus threw his head back against the wood paneling, letting out a sharp, breathless bark of laughter.
It was the triumphant, hysterical laugh of a man who had stared into the mouth of the abyss and watched the abyss blink first. He had done it. He had outrun the state troopers, survived the sub-zero trek through the pass, patched his own bullet hole, and successfully bluffed the county law right through the front window.
"You see that, kid?" Marcus crowed, his voice thick with unearned arrogance. He pushed himself upright, using the counter for balance, his sneer returning in full force. "You see how easy that was? That pig was sitting right there, thirty feet away, with a shotgun locked in his rack and a radio that could call down twenty cars... and he drove off like a blind dog."
Arthur slowly turned around, his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his yellow sweater. "You were very brave, sir."
"Brave? It’s not about being brave, you idiot," Marcus scoffed, waving the snub-nose dismissively through the air. "It’s about knowing how the world works. There’s two kinds of people on this mountain tonight. There’s wolves, and there’s sheep."
Marcus took a limping step toward Arthur, towering over the quiet clerk, his chest puffing out beneath his torn, blood-caked flannel.
"You," Marcus said, tapping the cold steel barrel of the revolver against Arthur’s chest, "are a sheep. A meek, sniveling, spineless little sheep. You spend your life terrified of loud noises, doing what people tell you, waiting for somebody to give you permission to breathe. You only exist so guys like me have someone to use when the snow starts falling."
