Chris was crying. Laura reached for him. He came into her arms, and she lifted him, held him, while he sobbed against her neck.
Dazed. Danny turned to their savior. “Who . . . who in the name of God are you?” Laura stared at her guardian, finding it difficult to cope with the fact that he really was there. She had not seen him in over twenty years since she was twelve, that day in the cemetery when she had spotted him watching her father’s interment from the grove of
Indian laurels. She had not seen him close up for almost twenty-five years, since the day he had killed the junkie in her father’s grocery. When he failed to save her from the Eel, when he left her to handle that one on her own, a loss of faith set in, and doubt was encouraged when he did nothing to save Nina Dockweiler, either— or Ruthie. With the passage of so much time, he had become a dream figure, more myth than reality, and in the last couple of .ears she had not thought about him at all, had abandoned belief in him just as Chris was currently abandoning belief in Santa Claus. She still had the note that he’d left on her desk, after her father’s funeral. But she had long ago convinced herself that it had not in fact been written by a magical guardian but perhaps by Cora or Tern Lance, her father’s friends. Now he had saved her again, miraculously, and Danny wanted to know who in the name of God he was, and that was what Laura wanted to know as well.
The strangest part of it was that he looked the same as when he had shot the junkie. Exactly the same. She had recognized him at once, even after the passage of so much time, because he had not aged. He still appeared to be in his middle to late thirties. Impossibly, the years had left no mark on him, no hint of gray in his blond hair, no wrinkles in his face. Though he had been her father’s age that bloody day in the grocery store, he now was of her own generation or nearly so.
Before the man could answer Danny’s question or find a way to avoid an answer, a car topped the hill and started down toward them. It was a late-model Pontiac equipped with tire chains that sang on the pavement. The driver apparently saw the damage to the Jeep and the Blazer and noted the pickup’s still fresh skid marks that had not yet been obliterated by wind and snow; he slowed— with reduced speed the song of the chains quickly changed to a
clatter—and pulled across the pavement into the southbound lane. Instead of going all the way to the shoulder and out of traffic, however, the car continued north in the wrong lane, stopping only fifteen feet from them, near the back of the Jeep. When he threw open the door and got out of the Pontiac, the driver—a tall man in dark clothing—was holding an object that, too late, Laura identified as a submachine gun.
Her guardian said, “Kokoschka!”
Even as his name was spoken, Kokoschka opened fire.
Though he was more than fifteen years from Vietnam, Danny reacted with the instincts of a soldier. As bullets ricocheted off the red Jeep in front of them and off the Blazer behind them, Danny grabbed Laura, pushing her and Chris to the ground between the two vehicles.
As Laura dropped below the line of fire, she saw Danny struck in the back. He was hit at least once, maybe twice, and she jerked as if the slugs had hit her. He fell against the front of the Blazer, dropped to his knees.
Laura cried out and, holding Chris with one arm, reached for her husband.
He was still alive, and in fact he swung toward her on his knees. His face was as white as the snow falling around them, and she had the bizarre and terrible feeling that she was looking into the countenance of a ghost rather than that of a living man. ‘ ‘Get under the Jeep,” Danny said, pushing her hand away. His voice was thick ] and wet, as if something had broken in his throat. “Quick!”