Ahern, Jerry - The Web

Martha Bogen said, "Remember—it's Halloween."

"Halloween," Rourke repeated. "Right."

He followed her inside the library. As he had by now expected, there were teen-agers in the library, working on reports, it appeared; volumes of encyclopedias and other reference books were spread messily on several of the library tables. An older woman, white-haired, worked at the card catalog.

It was a library—perfectly normal.

"I have a few things to do. If you want you might like to look through the newspaper files," she offered, stopping beside a glass-fronted office.

"What—and read about Memorial Day and Valentine's Day?"

"I'll only be a little bit—I'll get some coffee going, then answer all of your questions."

"I have to leave—very soon," Rourke told her. "And you promised those trails."

"The library closes at five—there'll be plenty of light," she told him, then turned away and started into her office.

Shaking his head, he scanned the library shelves; his eyes stopped on a book that was appropriate—-at least part of the title. War and Peace. He smiled, murmuring half to himself, "We've had the war part." The white-haired woman at the card catalog looked at him strangely, and Rourke only smiled at her.

At five o'clock, trails or not, he was leaving the town. And if it meant shooting his way past policemen to do it, then he would. If it was Halloween here, he didn't want to find out what the locals meant by trick or treat.

"Hurry, Michael . . . Annie," Sarah shouted, taking the saddlebags off the back of Tildie's saddle and slinging them over her own shoulder—it could have been a death weight on her, she realized. She ripped a thong from the saddle and lashed the bags that were across her left shoulder under her right arm.

"Michael—you take that knife of yours—and when I tell you to, cut the rope on the railings—hurry."

"All right, Momma," the boy answered, reaching under his coat and producing what looked like a Bowie knife.

"My God—what a thing," she exclaimed. Then she turned to Annie. "You stay with me—take whatever I tell you to carry and do what I say."

The twin inboard engines weren't able to resist the current—she had tried longer than she should have and now it was impossible even to make way for one of the shorelines. But by swimming they might still escape the houseboat before it crashed against the remainder of the high concrete hydroelectric dam—or crashed through the massive gap in the center, to be crushed there where the water spilled now. Either way meant certain death for/

herself and the children.

But the horses would be strong swimmers, and if they held to the horses there would be a chance to escape the current.

Sarah released Tildie and Sam, then swung up onto Tildie's saddle, reaching down for Annie. "You hold these blankets—don't Jet go unless you have to or I telJ you to." If they made it out alive at all, the water would so soak them that the still-cool air temperatures would bring about chills, perhaps pneumonia. The blankets could be dried over a fire. Annie was in front of her, the little girl's crotch crushed against the front of the saddle.

In her right hand, the arm around Annie, Sarah held Tildie's repaired reins, then in her left she snatched Sam's. She ducked, keeping her head low to avoid crashing it against the ceiling. The houseboat shifted wildly under her now. "Michael—when I shout for you to do it, cut all the ropes you can, then swing aboard Sam and hold on tight and stay with me." She had thought, fleetingly, about tying the children aboard one of the horses, but if the horse were to get in trouble, the children would be powerless to help themselves. She swam, not well, but well enough, Sarah hoped. Annie could paddle around, but it wasn't really swimming. Michael was a strong swimmer for his age and size and couJd stay afloat—she prayed.

She kneed her horse ahead, holding back tight on the reins for control.

Ducking her head but not soon enough, she hit her forehead on the doorframe as Tildie passed through and onto the deck. The boards there were awash with cold spray from the current as the houseboat plowed through the water toward—the dam. She could see it clearly, the gaping holes, as if dynamite had opened it—

or perhaps some crack during the Night of the War, from the bombing. She didn't know what had caused it.

"Michael—the ropes! Cut the ropes. Hurry!"

"Right, Momma." And the boy—not a boy at all she again realized—turned to the ropes, hacking at them.

"Saw with it, Michael—saw with it!"

The boy had the highest of the ropes cut, then began working on the next.

Sarah reined in Tildie; Sam, inside the cabin still, bucked and reared.

Sarah was hardly able to keep the reins in her hands. "Hurry, Michael!

Hurry! I can't hold the horses much longer!" The second rope was cut. The boy glanced toward her once, then ignored her advice, and took the heavy-bladed Bowie pattern knife and chopped with it against the lower and final rope— again and again, the knife blade bounced up toward his face.

"Michael!" she screamed, but the last rope was cut.

She knew now that she could never get him aboard Sam. She edged Tildie forward, as Michael sheathed the knife. "Climb up behind me—and don't you let go of me," she heard herself shriek. Michael tugged at her left arm as she loosed Sam's reins, her arm aching as she helped him swing up behind her.

"Hold on!" she shouted, digging her heels into the frightened mare under her. The horse jumped ahead, through the opening in the guardrail and into the water. The mare's head went down, then surfaced. Sarah was washed in a wave of ice-cold spray that made her sjiiver. Annie screamed; Michael said, 'Tve got you, Momma!"

Sarah Rourke glanced behind her once. Sam had jumped for it, but she lost sight of him in the next instant. Now the houseboat was swirling toward the opening in the dam, spinning wildly like a leaf in a whirlpool.

"Tildie—save us, Tildie," Sarah shouted, afraid to dig

in her heels, the horse floundering under her. "Tildie!" she cried, as the horse's head went down.

"We've gotta jump, Momma," Michael shouted to her.

Sarah bit her lower lip, thought she had screamed; then, holding Annie tight in her arms, she shouted above the roar of the waters around her, "Michael—don't let go of me. And if I go under, you save Annie—do it." She jumped, her left foot momentarily caught up in the stirrup, then free as Tildie washed away in the current.

"Tildie," she shouted, the animal gone from sight. Michael clung to Sarah's neck. Sarah wanted to tell him to loosen his grip; it choked her, but she was afraid she'd lose him.

The saddlebags were filled with water now; the AR-was lost, their food and clothing gone except for what little she had in the bags.

She was swimming, fighting the current. Annie's mouth dipped under the water; Sarah fought to keep her up. Her breath, her own strength, was failing her; then Michael was gone.

"Michael!"

"Here," he shouted, suddenly beside her, no longer behind her, holding her left arm, helping her support his sister. "Momma—there's the shore!" Sarah looked up, the water pelting her face like waves of solid substance, slapping at her, hurting her.

She could see it—the shoreline, a muddy bank. She reached out her right arm, almost losing Annie, catching at the girl, the little girl saying, "I'm frightened, Mommie!"

"I am, too," Sarah cried as she saw the shoreline move rapidly away from her. Glancing to her right, she saw the opening in the dam growing wider by the instant. The

houseboat was now batting against the sides of the dam, then suddenly was sucked through, lost.

She reached out her right arm again; Michael was trying to tow her. She wanted to tell him to save himself—so at least one of them would survive.