“Girlie, I’m comin’ for ya—”
Two more icicles dropped to her right and left, exploding like twin gunshots in her eardrums, and the picnic table wobbled underneath her as Rodent Face climbed up toward her, clambering on elbows and knees like a racing, scuttling animal, but she was only focused on that hinged window. On that warm glow behind the glass, so teasingly close. On her clamped fingertips, wrenching the thing open— Pull . . .
Pullpullpull—
The mechanism broke. The window came free.
She let it fall, and it shattered off an icy picnic table. Lars raised a hand to shield his face from the shards — Oh, Jesus Christ, he’s right behind me — and Darby was out of time. She lunged inside, face-first, performing a desperate swan dive through the tiny opening— Icy fingers clasped around her ankle. “Gotcha—”
She kicked free.
12:04 a.m.
She dropped six feet and landed on a toilet.
Spine-first, slamming into the porcelain lip with the small of her back. She rolled off it, kicking a toilet paper dispenser off the wall, knocking a stall door open. Her skull banged against floor tile. Flashbulbs behind her eyes.
The toilet flushed.
She scrambled upright, bumping the stall door again, whirling to face the empty window. Just a triangle of darkness. Snowflakes swirled inside. The opening was probably too small for Lars to follow her through, but she couldn’t count on that. Plus, Ashley was still around.
She backed away from the window, down the long rectangle of a restroom, past the stalls, past PEYTON MANNING TAKES IT IN THE ASS, past the stained urinals, until she bumped into the sink with her bruised back. Another flare of pain. She’d left her purse here. She scooped it up, feeling inside for the reassuring jingle of her Honda keys. And her iPhone.
Three percent battery.
She held her breath and listened. She could hear Lars’s footsteps outside the window, and his wheezing mouth-breaths under the whine of the wind. He was stymied now — unwilling to climb through and risk getting his bony ass stuck, unwilling to leave the little window unguarded and circle around the front. It was eerie. He’d given up speaking to her. Just grunting, huffing animal sounds now.
Keep moving, Darby.
She heard voices from the visitor center lobby. Muffled by the door. Ed and Sandi had probably heard her fall. And she recognized the robotic tones of the radio — another CDOT update. What was the timetable before help arrived, now? Dawn, right? Six hours? Seven?
Don’t think about that. Keep moving.
Ashley was nearby but unaccounted for, and this terrified her. Worse, she was unarmed now. She hoped Jay could saw through the kennel bars with her serrated knife, or this was all wasted. She just had to buy the little girl enough time to do so (assuming she could survive the next few minutes in close quarters with two killers) and then drive them both to safety (assuming Blue could limp through Snowmageddon). All in all, three colossal assumptions. Unlikely didn’t even do it justice.
No, Blue was snowed in. The snow was too deep now— But what about Sandi’s truck?
Tire chains, good lift — yeah, that thing stood a chance.
She closed a fist around her keys, letting the sharp points protrude between her knuckles. She could do some damage to an attacker’s face, or gouge an eye if she got lucky. Her Dryden Hall dorm key was particularly sharp, like a little filet knife.
She heard shuffling outside. She froze, listening. Something heavy moved and scraped, followed by a thud of displaced snow. A picnic table shifting. She knew Lars was attempting, a second time, to climb the wobbly stack of tables and follow her inside. Any second now, that chinless little face would appear in the window, grinning with demented cheer— Time to go.
Darby slipped on her left shoe. Double-knotted the shoelace. Then she slung her purse over her shoulders — car keys still clenched in her knuckles — and pushed out into the Wanapani visitor center lobby.
Ed was fussing with the radio’s antenna through the security shutter. He performed a confused double-take in her direction, and she knew why. She’d exited the building twenty minutes ago — and now she’d returned through the restrooms. Beyond him, Sandi napped on the bench, her legs hunched, her paperback covering her face.
“Find a cell signal?” Ed asked.
Darby didn’t answer. She looked ahead, past Espresso Peak, at the front door. That was where Ashley stood, his broad shoulders blocking her exit. He was staring at her. The flinching, nervous asthmatic she’d spoken to just an hour ago was gone, just a discarded act. This new Ashley was still and solid, with deep, observant eyes. He looked her up and down — she had snow on her knees, her cheeks were flushed red, her skin sticky with sweat, her Honda keys clasped in her fist — and then he glanced at the center table, as if ordering her to take a seat.
She stared back at him, gritting her teeth and trying to appear fearless. Defiant. Like a courageous hero encircled by evil forces.
Instead, she almost cried.
She was certain now — she’d die tonight.
“Hey.” Ed leaned between them, straining to remember her name. “Are . . . are you okay, Dara?”
For Christ’s sake, it’s Darby.
She swallowed, her voice mouse-like. “I’m fine.”
She wasn’t. She felt sobs trapped in her chest, shuddery spasms struggling to escape. Her spine ached where she’d landed on the toilet. She wanted to jump forward, grab Ed by the shoulders, to scream at this nice old veterinarian and his sleeping cousin: Run. For the love of God, run right now. But where?
Ashley nodded again at the table, harder.
At her chair.
She noticed a brown object neatly placed on the center of her seat, and recognized her brown napkin. The same napkin they’d used before, back when she’d thought he was an ally.
She approached the chair and picked up the napkin. Still watching her, Ashley’s lip curled. It was the beginning of a smug grin, unnoticed by Ed and Sandi.
She unfolded the napkin with numb, clumsy fingers.
IF YOU TELL THEM, I KILL THEM BOTH.
12:09 a.m.
Ashley moved to the table and sat directly across from her. He’d crossed the room silently, and he sat now with both palms flat on the tabletop. His hands were large and callused.
Darby re-folded the napkin and set it in her lap.
The radio crackled.
“I’m sick of Go Fish,” Ashley said crisply. “How about something else?”
She said nothing.
“How about . . .” he thought. “Oh! How about War?”
She glanced over at Ed and Sandi—
Ashley snapped his fingers. “Hey. I’m right here, Darbo. Don’t worry about the rules. War is real simple. Simpler than Go Fish, even. You just cut the deck in two, see, and take turns drawing, one after the other, and we see who has the higher card. Higher card takes both, and adds them to your deck. You know, because every war is fought one battle at a time.”