With Penny laughing and talking nonstop, they climbed into the car, backed out of the driveway onto Woodlawn, drove to the park entrance, parked in front of the crossbar, and set off on foot. Sinnissippi Park was a black hole of cold and sleet, the darkness unbroken and endless across the flats and through the woods, the snow freezing to ice in the grip of the north wind howling up the river channel. The lights that normally lit the roadway had been lost earlier when a power line went down, and the curtain of blowing snow masked the pale glimmerings of the nearby residences and townhomes. Tonight, the park might as well have been on the moon.
Bennett Scott stumbled and mushed through the deepening snowdrifts, her feet dragging, her body listless, her progress made possible by the fact that the demons who clutched either arm were dragging her. She gulped blasts of frigid air for breath and ducked her head for warmth, automatic responses from her body, but her mind told her almost nothing of what she was doing. She remembered Penny being there, the sharing of drugs that gave her such relief, and the thin, tenuous thread of hope she clung to that somehow, someday, she would find her way back to Harper. Now and again, she would hear her daughter’s voice calling to her, small words, little noises, bits and pieces of memories retrieved from the haze of her thoughts.
She saw nothing of the eyes that began to appear in the dark, bright pairs of yellow slits coming out of nowhere in twos and threes until there were dozens.
They crossed the park to the bluffs, then continued west past the Indian mounds to the turnaround and the cliffs. The road had disappeared in the snow, and the entire area was a white carpet beneath the ragged limbs of the leafless hardwoods. Findo Gask was unconcerned about being interrupted; there was no one else in the park. Together with Penny, he nudged Bennett Scott toward the cliff edge, maneuvering her forward until she was only a few yards from the drop.
The feeders pressed closer, eager to become involved.
“Let her go, Penny,” Gask ordered.
They stepped back from Bennett, leaving her alone at the cliff’s edge, facing out toward the river, her head lolling and her arms hanging loose. The feeders closed on her, touching her softly, cajoling her voicelessly, urging her to give them what they needed.
Bennett stood without moving, her mind in another time zone, gliding through valleys and over peaks, the land all white-edged and golden bright, the singing of her blood in her veins sustaining and comforting. She soared unfettered for a long time, staring at nothing, and then remembered suddenly that she had not come alone.
“Penny?” she managed.
The wind howled at her.
“Penny?”
A child’s voice called sharply. “Mommy!”
Bennett lifted her head and peered into the snow and darkness. It was Harper!
“Mommy, can you hear me?”
“Baby, where are you? Baby?”
“Mommy, I need you! Please, Mommy!”
Bennett felt the cold suddenly, a taste of its bite ripping past the armor of her stupor, leaving her shaking and breathing hard. She licked at her dry lips and glanced around. She saw the eyes now, close and watchful and hungry, and she jerked away in shock and fear.
“Harper!” she screamed.
“Mommy, run!” she heard Harper call out.
She saw her daughter then, a faint image just ahead of her in the darkness, lit by a pale white light that brightened and faded with the beating of her own heart, with the pulsing of her blood. She saw Harper and reached for her, but Harper was already moving away.
“Harper!” she wailed.
She couldn’t go to her, knew she couldn’t, knew there was something very wrong with trying to do so. She had a vague memory of having been in this situation once before, but she could not remember when or why.
“Mommy!” Harper begged, stumbling as she retreated.
Something was pulling at the little girl, dragging her away— something dark and shapeless and forbidding. It was too much for Bennett Scott. She cast off her lethargy and fear and burst through the knot of eyes that pressed against her, lunging after her daughter.