Supernatural Fresh Meat (21 page)

She stood up. “Let me help you.”

Dean retrieved some nails and a hammer he’d seen earlier in one of the kitchen drawers, and they nailed the blanket around the window frame. He stepped back, admiring their work. “Good as new.”

She wrinkled her brow. “Yeah. Good as new.”

She lay down on the couch then, crossing her legs. “I’m going to get some shut-eye.”

Dean noticed her pack. “Hey, you have a radio, right? I need to get a message out to my colleagues. My phone died.”

She crossed her arms behind her head and looked at him regretfully. “I wish. I was crossing a snow bank and fell through into a hidden stream. Had my radio out in the middle of a transmission, and it washed away.” She frowned. “Searched for it till my hands went numb in the water, but it was gone.”

Dean couldn’t disguise his disappointment.

She lifted her head to look at him. “Hey, we’ll be okay. We’re both fit as a fiddle. We’ll hike out ourselves tomorrow.”

Dean nodded, turning back toward the fire. He watched the gold and blue flames wrap around the wood, flickering up the sides in tendrils. He hoped she was right. But the wintry scene he’d witnessed while nailing up the makeshift curtain didn’t look like it was going to end tomorrow.

The wind howled, pressing in on the quilt and making it billow. With it came a tremendously cold gust that curled around Dean and made him shiver in spite of the fire. He shoved a chair in front of the curtain to keep it from blowing into the room. Then he prepared himself for a long, cold night of vigilance.

THIRTY-THREE

Bobby pulled up outside the ranger station on the outskirts of Truckee. It was a simple brown wooden building, and the lights were still on inside. They tried the door but found it locked, so Bobby knocked.

A few minutes later the door opened, and a burly ranger in his fifties appeared. He stared at them a little impatiently from beneath a crop of short brown hair. Sam recognized the red-faced man, especially his impressive Grizzly Adams beard. “Yes?”

“Ranger McGovern,” Sam started amiably. He flashed his F.B.I. badge. “Do you remember me?”

The ranger nodded.

“We were told by the sheriff’s deputy that some hikers were brought out of the Tahoe National Forest?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you remember my partner? Early thirties, short brown hair?”

The ranger knitted his eyebrows together. “I remember him, but he wasn’t among the folks who were escorted out. So far we’ve just had a couple and a woman with her dog.”

Bobby pulled out his F.B.I. credentials, too. “I’m Special Agent Cash. Our colleague’s out there following the trail of a serial killer.”

The ranger lifted his eyebrows and his jaw dropped a little. “Oh, jeez. You’d better come in.” He opened the door wider and they stepped into the warmth of the building. He ushered them over to a small vinyl couch in front of a coffee table that doubled as the crew’s break room. McGovern perched on the corner of a desk and gave a low whistle. “So he’s out there right now, in this blizzard, trying to bring a man in?”

“That’s right,” Sam told him. “We were supposed to join him, but we couldn’t get through the road block.”

“So those questions you asked me earlier, about the animal killings, that’s your guy?”

“Yes.”

“I knew it! Knew it wasn’t some rogue bear.”

“Agent Plant is out there alone right now,” Bobby told him.

“Wow. That’s rough.” McGovern took a sip of some coffee from a mug sitting on the desk. “But no way can we let additional people up there right now. We’re still waiting to see what avalanche control can pull off. If we can force it to slide in the right direction, we could alleviate the tension before a massive avalanche takes out the whole side of the mountain and everything in its path. They’ve got a team of guys up at Tahoe Summit Ski Lodge. They’ve got hand charges and even a howitzer up there. Thing is, the cloud ceiling’s too low for them to know if they’re hitting the right places.”

“Listen,” Sam said. “We really need to reach our colleague. Is there another access point to that area of the forest?”

“I’m afraid not. That’s the closest and most direct route. Any other way would take you twice as long and make you go over far more rugged and dangerous terrain.”

Bobby tried another tack. “His cell phone died out there. Is there a radio we can use? Are there any backcountry rangers in the area, still trying to find people to bring out?”

McGovern looked doubtful, then turned and checked a list of names on a clipboard. “Nope, nope,” he said, scanning through them. “Our last ranger came in forty-five minutes ago.”

Sam stood up. “Well, can we talk to Grace? She knows him and may have even seen him last.”

The ranger raised his eyebrows. “Grace?”

“Yeah, Grace Cumberlin, the backcountry patrol ranger?”

McGovern wrinkled his brow and looked thoughtful. “We don’t have a Grace.”

“But we’ve run into her,” Sam insisted. “More than once.”

“Well, all I can tell you is we don’t have a Grace here.”

“Could she be part of another Forest Service branch?” Bobby asked.

“Not if she was patrolling out where your friend is. She’d be with the Tahoe National Forest.”

Bobby and Sam looked at each other, then Sam noticed an employee board where everyone’s photos were tacked up. “May I?” he asked the ranger.

“Be my guest.”

Sam walked to the board, Bobby following. Some twenty-four rangers smiled back at them. Each had a headshot, a list of interests beneath, and how long they’d been with the Forest Service.

Grace was not among them.

Sam clearly recalled her Forest Service uniform, the distinct logo on the upper arm of her jacket. She certainly wasn’t working for a different branch of the government.

“Bobby.”

“I know.”

“It would be a perfect disguise. People would feel safe. People would trust her.”

Bobby looked grim. “I know.”

THIRTY-FOUR

As snow cascaded down over Truckee, Sam and Bobby drove up an old fire road. Sam gripped the armrest as the van rumbled over the rough ground, jostling them and their gear. The road had been washed out so many times that huge gullies created dangerous pits along its entire length. Bobby was doing the best he could, but the heavy snowfall masked the location of the potholes and ravines, and they lurched and skidded all over the place. Sam’s snowshoes slid off the backseat and skittered around in the back.

He aimed his flashlight at the topographic map on his lap. “Okay, there should be another road coming up on the right.”

In a few more minutes, the headlights shone on the intersection, which was marked only with a small metal sign bearing the fire number 145GPH24. Bobby turned onto it and they rumbled on.

“We’re almost there,” Sam told him.

It was the closest they would be able to get to where they’d left Dean. They had tried again to get through the roadblock with no success. Most of the guests had been evacuated from the Tahoe Summit Ski Resort, and absolutely no one was being allowed up the road to the trailhead where the Impala sat. Dean would not be happy that his baby was getting buried in feet upon feet of snow.

As the car jerked and lurched, Sam tried Dean’s cell again. Straight to voicemail. He tried Jason’s, too, with the same result.

The van jammed up against a boulder hidden under the snow, and Bobby had to reverse and try again. “Can’t make anything out in this storm!” he cursed.

“Just a little farther,” Sam said, consulting the map again. “There’s another road on the right in 0.2 miles.”

When they reached it, Bobby turned right, but the road ascended steeply and became even more washed out and treacherous.

“I don’t know how far we’re going to make it. This looks more like a fire break than a fire road.”

Branches scraped along the sides of the van as they climbed. A few times the vegetation grew so thick on either side that Sam thought the car might get wedged. But they pushed through.

“Not far now,” he assured Bobby. “The secondary trail should come into view in the next couple minutes.”

They rose higher, the tires spinning on patches of ice beneath the snow. They saw a large pullout, and Sam checked their GPS location against the map. “This is it, Bobby.”

Bobby parked in the wide gravel spot and they geared up in the warmth of the van. Sam donned a Capilene shirt, fleece pullover, and rainproof parka. On his bottom half he wore Capilene long johns and a pair of warm pile pants under waterproof rain paints. He slid on a warm black balaclava and a Turtle Fur hat. Then he stepped outside, his breath instantly sucked out by the sheer cold of the air.

He buckled on the snowshoes over his waterproof boots and cinched a pair of gaiters around his ankles and calves. No snow was getting in.

On the other side of the van, he could hear Bobby tightening up his snowshoes. Starting to feel warm despite the temperatures being in the low twenties, Sam strapped his rifle to his back, grabbed a handgun, the stingray whip, three bottles of the spice concoction, and stuffed them all in his parka pockets. In his pack he put food, water, an emergency blanket, map, compass, phone, phone charger, and extra batteries. On the bottom he lashed a waterproof bag with a tent and his sleeping bag.

“You ready?” Bobby asked from behind him.

Sam turned to his friend. Bobby was so thickly suited up in cold weather gear that he looked like the Michelin Man, if the Michelin Man walked around with an arsenal strapped to his back. Bobby placed four jars of the spice concoction into pockets in his parka, too.

“I’m ready,” Sam told him.

Side by side, they lowered their snow goggles in place, grabbed their trekking poles, and started off into the dark and the heart of the blizzard.

THIRTY-FIVE

Dean startled awake to a thunderous roar. He sat up in bed, unsure for a moment where he was. For a second he thought he’d fallen asleep in the car next to a freight train yard. Something loud was approaching. He propped his elbow behind him, his heart thumping wildly. Then he remembered where he was, in the bedroom of the cabin in the Tahoe National Forest. Exhaustion had claimed him some time in the early hours.

The roar grew louder, reminding him of the cacophony of funnel clouds he’d seen in Kansas. He swung his legs to the ground and peered up through the window above the bed. Only white swirled there.

He stood up, moving to the window and staring out. The higher viewpoint didn’t offer anything else. Only white fog met his eyes.

“Grace?” he called, walking quickly into the main room.

She wasn’t on the couch where he’d left her. The quilt over the broken window had billowed out, blowing over the chair.

He pulled on his boots and moved to the door. Outside, the roar intensified. He found the door unlocked and swung it open just as the ground began to shake. He gripped the doorjamb with both hands as the cabin started to vibrate and shudder. He could make out the vague, hazy outline of trees in the swirling white. The snow on the ground quaked and jumped, breaking into chunks that cracked and shifted. The vibrations moved up through his boots into his legs and torso until he could feel the tremors through his whole body, a deep thrumming at his core.