Hardbingers

7

Jack checked the weather through the dormer window of his second-floor hotel room. Dark as night. His watch said it was almost five, which meant that it pretty much was night. Or twilight. Not that it mattered a whole lot. The clouds had lowered even further and the local weatherman said the snow was falling at better than an inch an hour. Good.

He'd picked the Wauwinet Inn because it sat on the head of the harbor just a few hundred yards from where the pavement ended, and about half a mile due south across the ice from the yeniceri place. Like every structure elsewhere on the island, it had cedar-shake siding and white trim. Could have been any of the oversized two-story houses he'd seen, only much larger.

He'd taken a second-floor room to see if he could spot the yeniceri house. Early on he'd found it with the field glasses. As the snow had thickened, it disappeared, but not before he'd been able to determine that the third-floor deck was not over the stairway landing.

Bummer. That would have made things easier.

Easy or not, the house was going to have an uninvited guest tonight. What he had to decide was when: Now, with relatively little snow but everyone in the house up and about? Or fight the deeper snow later to arrive when all but the guards were asleep?

He couldn't see that it mattered. No one would stay asleep for long once he made his presence known. Besides, the clock was running.

He stepped to the bed and surveyed his day's purchases spread out on the flowered coverlet.

After finishing his long-distance survey of the house, he'd driven into town to do some shopping, scouring Main Street and the surrounding area for any kind of white clothing. Not many stores open, and the ones he found were closing early because of the snow. He did find a place with a skiwear section, but the men's sets were all red or blue or yellow or a combination of the three.

Lots of white on the women's rack, though. He checked out the largest sizes he could find and garnered strange looks when he tried them on. He settled on a white parka with a fur-lined hood, and white ski pants, both too small but big enough to squeeze into. Then he bought a white king-sized down comforter. As a final touch he picked up twenty feet of half-inch nylon rope from a marine outfitter near the docks.

To all that, he now added the two H-Ks he'd picked up over the past couple of days. He'd have preferred his trusty Glock, but these babies came fitted with high-quality suppressors. He wanted to keep the noise to a minimum.

One last thing before he left: a call to the trauma unit. Stokely was there.

When he asked her his perpetual question, she said, "Not good, I'm afraid. Your wife has developed an arrhythmia and—"

"Her heart?"

"Correct. We're keeping it from getting out of hand, but it's only a matter of time."

"I hope you're not asking me to pull the plug."

"No. That won't be necessary."

A deep, shuttered part of Jack had suspected that, but to hear it put into words…

"No hope?" He could barely hear his own words.

"There's always hope, but…"

Jack knew what she'd left unsaid:… but not enough to matter.

"I don't know where you are," she said, "but I advise you to get here while you can, before the snow keeps you out."

He wanted to be there—she'd never know how much. But Dr. Stokely and all her staff offered no hope. And maybe that house out there on the isthmus didn't either, but it offered a chance of hope. So that was where Jack had to go.

"I'll be there. Soon."

He hoped.

Jack's sense of urgency couldn't push to a higher level, so he blanked it out and concentrated on the moment. He wound the rope around his waist, then wrapped his purchases plus a few other goodies in the comforter and hauled everything out to the Jeep in the lot across the road. He knew his furry white parka would attract attention in the hotel so he put it on in the car.

As for the rest of the night, he very much doubted that whatever went down at that house—whether yeniceri deaths or his own—would ever be reported to the police. The yeniceri had their own laws. So did Jack. Neither would bother with anyone else's.

Still, he wanted to avoid attracting attention. It wasn't a strategy; it was a way of life.

All geared up, he rolled up the comforter, stuck it under his arm, and stepped out of the Jeep. He opened the double gate that led to the lawn. Not until he reached the north side of the hotel did he feel the full force of the storm. A blast of snow-laden wind staggered him. He leaned into it and pushed forward.

The ferocious gale made it hard to tell how much snow had fallen. Some areas of the front lawn were bare down to the dead grass, others had drifts eighteen inches high. And the storm was barely five hours old.

Jack had heard of a whiteout; this was the first time he'd been in one.

He followed the sloping lawn down past a raised deck that sat like a wooden island in the dune grass, then to the water's edge. No problem telling where land ended and harbor began: The wind had buffed the ice virtually clean of snow.

Jack pivoted and looked at the Wauwinet. All he could see was the glow of its outdoor spots. Could have been a hotel or a beached commercial fishing boat with its running lights on.

He turned back toward the head of the harbor and felt his heart pick up its pace when he saw nothing but darkness ahead. He knew the angle he had to travel from the hotel to reach the house, but after moving a hundred feet out on the ice he'd lose the hotel as a landmark. Without bearings he could wander around in circles out there until he froze to death. He needed a compass but hadn't brought one—who could have imagined this situation?—and hadn't been able to find one in town.

Shit.

The only way of surprising them was to come in off the harbor. They wouldn't be expecting anyone from that direction. Probably weren't expecting anyone from anywhere in this storm. But after everything that had gone down this week, they had to be paranoid as all hell. They'd keep their guard up no matter what, especially where the road was concerned.

He stared out at the impenetrable darkness of the ice. Suicide to go out there without a compass. He kicked at some drifted dune grass. God damn it!

He'd have to try the road. He could keep the Jeep's lights off and work his way out along the isthmus until he saw the house lights, then go the rest of the way on foot—head out onto the ice and approach the house at the same angle he would have if he'd been able to cross the harbor.

Yeah. That would do it.

He hurried back up the slope to the lot, started the Jeep, and put it on the road. He kept it in four-wheel drive. The pavement was much like the hotel lawn: drifted in some spots, bare in others. But a hundred feet past the end of the asphalt he had to hit the brakes.

A fallen pine blocked his way.

Jack jumped out and tried to push it aside, but couldn't budge it. The way it was wedged across the road, he'd need a power saw to get past. And there were no side paths out here—hell, there were barely sides.

Back in the Jeep he banged the steering wheel and let his head drop back against the safety restraint. How the hell was he—?

And then he saw a pair of LCD letters in the overhead console: NE.

A compass—the Jeep had a built-in compass.

He slumped back. So what? Not as if he could rip it out and carry it with him across the ice.

Unless…

Did he dare?

He didn't see that he had any choice.

He flipped the Jeep into reverse, turned around, and headed back to the Wauwinet.