Don Pendleton: Blood Testament

He took a breath and held it, swallowing the surge of panic, willing rationality to take control and suppress the primal terror he felt inside. There were alternatives, distinct and separate from any danger situation. All he had to do was keep his wits about him, think it through, until he solved the mystery. No. There wasno mystery.

His family was out, but he could not infer from that alone that they were missing. Worlds of difference separated one fact from the other, worlds of hurt that made the difference between a pleasant evening and an endless night of madness.

Neighbors. That had to be it.

He had seen no lights in either of the cabins that he passed, but that left two more at the far side of the cul-de-sac, invisible from where he stood. It was entirely possible that Helen and the kids had tired of waiting for him, or had simply sought to stretch their legs by visiting their neighbors down the road. Maybe they had simply gone out walking, but the darkness and the chill reminded him that they would certainly have turned toward home by now.

It would be neighbors, or it would be nothing, and he doubled back to close the cabin door before he set off down the unpaved drive on foot. He might have driven, covering the distance in a shorter time, but he was anxious for the Buick to be waiting when his family returned. It would alert them to his presence, let them know that he was waiting, looking for them.

Brognola reached the nearest cabin in a brisk ten-minute hike. At first he almost missed it, darkened as it was, deserted in the shadow of the forest. Aware that he was wasting time, but loath to overlook the smallest chance of gaining information on his family's whereabouts, he crossed the porch and hammered on the door. He was rewarded with only the echo of his pounding through the empty rooms inside.

Three down, and one remaining. Fifteen minutes farther on, Brognola felt hope swelling in his chest as he beheld the lighted windows of the final cabin. Parked outside, a Blazer four-by-four with gun racks in the window advertised the presence of a hunter. Hal had met the cabin owner several seasons before, but he could not recall the face or name. Already certain that his family was not there, he felt compelled to ask in any case.

The face that finally responded to his knock was not familiar in the least. The cabin had undoubtedly changed hands, but still he forged ahead, inquiring if the long-haired youth in residence had seen his family, anyone at all? And at the risk of being rude, precisely when had he arrived?

The young man recognized Brognola's tension, and helped as best he could. He had arrived that evening, about the time when Hal was pushing west on Constitution Avenue, and he had marked a station wagon at the second cabin down. Since his arrival there had been no sign of hikers, male or female, on the trail outside... but, then again, he wasn't really watching for them, either.

Feeling drained, Brognola thanked him for his help and trudged back through the darkness toward the cabin, praying silently that Helen and the kids would be there when he stepped across the threshold. They would not be there, of course; he knew that now with desperate certainty. They were not visiting the neighbors, and they had not opted for a hike through darkness.

They were simply gone.

In the yard Hal Brognola stopped to look at the cabin once more, as if his stare could will some message, a clue, of his family's whereabouts. He discerned on an outside wall of the lodge a sailboat, now disused, that he had fashioned out of driftwood for his son in earlier years. Hal's mind raced to the rooms inside, silent witnesses to adolescent dreams of sparkling water and buccaneers; rooms that kept secret tender endearments and the sounds of frenetic lovemaking on soft summer nights.

But what his eyes perceived instead made him take an involuntary step backward. The orange glow from lighted windows seemed to him a feral glare, the cabin's grim facade now mocking, taunting, slavering for blood. This refuge from the concrete jungle, Hal thought, this haven of love and happy times had betrayed him, surrendered his family to unspeakable and insidious evil.

Suddenly Hal Brognola felt a loathing for the place.

Shivering, although it was still warm, he stepped inside the cabin and called their names. Then he checked each empty room. But only silence greeted him, grating on his nerves like salt ground into an open wound.

Alternatives.

He had already wasted what — an hour? — tracking down the several low-risk possibilities. For peace of mind, if nothing else, the futile exercise had been an absolute necessity. That done, he recognized the need to search for answers on the darker side.

The cabin showed no evidence of any struggle. Clearly they had been here long enough to stow their luggage, and for Helen to begin unpacking. Food was waiting in the fridge, but they had not progressed as far as starting dinner. There, between the everyday parameters of settling in and sitting down to eat, must lie the extraordinary answer to the riddle of a lifetime. And Brognola realized with perfect certainty that everything depended on his own ability to solve that riddle quickly.

If there had been an accident, an injury to any of them, they would certainly have headed back to town. And if the station wagon had perhaps refused to start, they would have called an ambulance.

Brognola knew there would have been a note, as well, but he could not afford to let the notion pass without considering it. He carried keys to Helen's car, as she had keys for the Buick, and a moment later he was in the driver's seat, breathing ragged as he prepared to test the wagon's engine.

It started first time, sparking sudden anger in Brognola, causing him to slam a fist against the steering wheel before he turned off the ignition and stalked back toward the empty cabin.

And on to other possibilities.

If they had been surprised by an intruder, Jeff would certainly resist. As tall as Hal, athletic, muscular, he would be capable of handling any normal situation that arose. But there was nothing normal in the present circumstances, nothing to reveal what might have happened to his family.

The absence of a struggle mystified Brognola, and he scanned the several explanations. Several intruders. Weapons. The advantage of surprise.

There were no bloodstains at the scene, and that was good... unless their captor was a lunatic, one of the transient monsters lately targeted by federal research projects. He had seen those maniacs' work and memories of twisted, lacerated flesh on undertakers' tables brought a sudden rush of nausea that left him dizzy, gasping.

He forced it down as he realized he had no evidence that they had come to any harm. He was well aware that roving maniacs were loners, for the most part, timid when confronted by potential victims in a group. A psycho bold enough to forcibly invade the cabin would have killed them there, for sure. It was a thought that Hal could cling to, and if not precisely comforting, at least it gave him room for hope.

There were other enemies, of course, with motives of revenge that were completely rational, but wouldn't they have waited for him here, to finish off what they had started? There would be no reason to abduct his family, not when they could have as easily positioned gunners in the trees, or inside the cabin, to eliminate him when he left his car.

And yet...

The sudden shrilling of the telephone made Hal jump. He checked his watch, surprised to find that it was one minute short of midnight. Time had slipped away from him, and he was still no closer to an answer than he had been hours earlier.

He grabbed it on the second ring and fairly shouted down the wire. "Hello?"

"I'll bet it's lonely where you are." A man's voice, gloating, evil.