The ambulance bucked as it hit a series of potholes, and she gripped the wheel with her latex gloves more tightly. “The Vane family,” she summed up, “has an uncanny talent for destruction.”
Slater, staring off into the inky blackness, wondered just how deep that talent ran. Even if he found Harley, would he be able to reason with him? If he still had the vials from the freezer in the lab, not to mention the scroll and the icon, would Slater be able to explain to him the mortal danger in which he had placed himself as a result? Would he be able to convince him that no further charges would be leveled against him—that his very identity would be concealed—if he would just relinquish this lethal booty? Slater was well aware of the catastrophe this entire mission had become, but if he could simply contain the danger before it went any farther, it might provide a decent grace note to end his public career on. He could still hear his ex-wife’s voice in his head, all those times she had tried to talk him into a nice, quiet, suburban practice, treating allergies and scraped knees, but the idea was still anathema. He wanted his work to matter in the world, to feel that he was doing something valuable and needed and worthwhile.
For a long stretch now, there had been no signs of habitation at all, just a lonely road that had gradually wound its way back down toward the jagged coastline. Snow and sleet, blown all the way from Siberia and across the Bering Sea, slashed against the windows. It was hard to imagine the zeal that must have driven that tiny Russian sect, over a hundred years before, to make that same journey across this icy strait and settle on a forbidding bit of foreign land, a place they dared to rename after their patron saint, St. Peter.
Even more astonishing was the fact that their long-forgotten journey, which had ended in their own annihilation, should now pose such a threat to the world beyond this wilderness.
“It’s just around the next bend,” Nika said, slowing the ambulance. “You can’t miss the lighted cross that Charlie stuck up on his roof.”
Slater recalled seeing the cross when he had first flown over the town. But as the headlights swept the sparse brush along the oceanfront, his eyes were riveted on a ramshackle wharf, instead. Lashed to a concrete piling, a small vessel bobbed in the icy water.
It was the RHI.
“Harley’s here,” he declared. “That’s the boat from the island!”
Nika nodded and turned the ambulance up a narrow drive with snowdrifts piled high on either side, stopping beside a flight of sagging stairs. The illuminated cross beamed beside the chimney stack. There were lights on in the house, and a detached garage that looked old enough to have been originally built as a stable.
“Let me do the talking,” Nika said. “They may be crazy, but I know how to handle them.”
While Nika went up the stairs, Slater took a flashlight from the glove compartment and sidled around to the garage. As he dragged a rotting log over toward a window mounted high on the wall, he heard Nika pounding on the front door of the house. The booties of his hazmat suit were wet, and he had to work hard to maintain his balance while pointing the flashlight beam through the grimy, spider-webbed glass. Inside, he could make out a stack of used tires, a pyramid of rusty paint cans, and a snowmobile.
But there was no sign of a van, retrofitted or otherwise.
“Step on down,” he heard from a few feet behind him, “or else,” and when he turned his head, he saw Rebekah, in a long, ratty fur coat, aiming a shotgun at him. Judging from the look on her scrawny face, it was not an idle threat.
He stepped off the log, holding his palms out to show he meant no harm.
“We’re looking for Harley Vane,” he said, his voice muffled by his mask, “that’s all.”
“I could shoot you dead,” she said, “right on this spot, and I’d be within my rights.”
“We just need to talk to him,” he said, in as reasonable a tone as he could muster.
“Get going,” she said, indicating with the end of the gun that he should walk around to the front steps and go on up them. He could feel the rifle trained on him the whole way. In the entry hall, he found Nika with her own hands in the air, and Bathsheba shakily aiming a pistol in her general direction.
“I thought you said they’d listen to you,” Slater said, and Nika shrugged.
“They tell me Harley’s not here,” she said.
“Go on into the meeting room,” Rebekah ordered, and then Bathsheba stood to one side. Beyond her, Slater saw a big room with rugs all over the floor and some folding chairs stacked beside a gun cabinet, which was standing wide open.
Once Slater and Nika had complied, the two sisters seemed at a loss as to what to do next. Bathsheba had forgotten even to keep her pistol raised, and Rebekah kept moving the muzzle of her own doublebarreled shotgun from one to the other.
“Charlie’s not home, either?” Nika asked.
“Go get some rope,” Rebekah said to her sister.
“How much?”