Ahern, Jerry - The Web

He had looked at her over his shoulder once; she hadn't waved, but he'd felt she would have if she could have.

And John—that Rourke had gotten through the storm at all wasn't something over which Rubenstein worried— Rourke was all but invincible, unstoppable.

But, as he released the handlebar a moment to push his glasses up from the bridge of his nose, Rubenstein wondered—had John Rourke found them yet?

Tildie had wandered ashore minutes after Sarah had taken Michael out of the water; Annie had been the first to spot her. The animal was visibly shuddering.

Sarah had built a fire by the shoreline in the shelter of some rocks and a red clay embankment; then having done what she could to warm the children, she had mounted Tildie—feeling the only way to warm the animal was to exercise her, then rub her down. Promising to keep them in sight, Sarah had started along the water's edge perhaps twenty feet above the shoreline, the wind of the slipstream around her and the animal, chilling her to the bone, but the animal responding.

Sarah clutched the patched-together reins, leaning into Tildie's mane to let the animal break the wind for her. The air temperature was cold, but vastly warmer than it had been. In her heart, she knew the reason why she rode—to think; and she had another reason as well, to search for Sam, her husband's horse, her son's horse. Tildie couldn't carry Michael, Annie, and herself for very long.

And there was affection as well, the affection between human and animal; she wanted to know that Sam was

alive or dead, not half-broken and crushed and suffering.

She reined m Tildie, about a quarter-mile closer to the damtiow. On tire red clay embankment beneath her she could see a shape, stained with mud, moving in the tree line.

"Sam!" Sarah wasn't ready to risk the embankment with Tiidie. She dismounted, securing Tildie's reins to a sapling Georgia pine, then started down the muddy embankment toward the trees by the shore. She could see the form clearly now—an animal.

She broke through the tree line, stopping. "Sam!"

The horse, its white hide covered in a wash of red— blood?—started toward her. Closer now, she could see it was only mud. She held out her hands.

The animal, frightened and weary, came toward her, nuzzling against her outstretched hands.

"Sam!" She hugged the animal to her, the wetness of her own clothing seeming to wash away some of the red clay mud on the animal's neck. She checked the saddle, that it was secure, then swung up, catching up the rein almost as an afterthought. Her feet dangled below the stirrups which had been set to Michael's leg length.

"Gotta get you out of here, Sam," she cooed, stroking his once-black mane and his red-smeared white neck. "Gotta get out of here." She nudged the animal forward with her knees. . . .

It had taken time to find a way up the embankment, one that the exhausted animal under her could navigate; then she had gone back for Tildie. Sarah had switched to Tildie's back and led Sam, his cinch loosened and some of the mud covering him already flaking away.

By the time she returned to the children, Annie was

shivering uncontrollably and Michael was gone. Her heart seemed to stop, but then Michael reappeared, more wood for the fire cradled in his arms.

She suddenly noticed he had no jacket—he had given it to Annie.

She warmed Annie with her own body until the shivering subsided to where the little girl could control it. She talked, not to Annie or Michael, not really to herself, but just to think. "I lost my rifle. The horses are exhausted. Those maniacs, the one with the human-teeth necklace and the others, are probably still out there."

She heard something which at once frightened her and comforted her. It would be Brigands; but the sound was lhat of a truck engine. . . .

She left Michael with Annie and the horses, a half mile away, and hid herself, shivering in her wet clothes, in a bracken of pines not far from the water's edge. There was one truck, a pickup, and in the back of it, she noticed cans of extra fuel. With extra gasoline, she could run the truck's heater. It was a Ford, and she had driven Ford pickups often. She could drive this one.

There were ten Brigands in sight, and if two rode the pickup truck it matched with the number of motorcycles—eight bikes in all. Holding her husband's . automatic in her right fist she wiped the palm of her hand against the thigh of her wet jeans. She did not know whether gunpowder was destroyed by water; would the gun shoot at aff, would it blow up on her?

There wasonfy one way to find out.

She started down from the trees, edging closer toward the shore. The Brigands huddled by a fireside away from the vehicles, their weapons on the ground beside them or leaning beside tree trunks. She recognized some of the

guns as Colt-type rifles, perhaps AR-s like the gun she had lost in the lake.

All would be lost if the key had been removed from the truck. She knew cars and trucks could be started without keys, but she didn't know how.

Her track shoes squishing, the bandanna wet over her hair, her body shivering under the woolen coat, she edged toward the front of the truck.

She ducked, hiding by the grill, listening as one of the Brigands rasped, "I gotta take a leak—be back in a second."

She heard gravel crunching—louder, coming toward her.

She pressed her body against the front of the truck; the engine was still warm and she could feel its heat. The gravel crunching and the sound of the Brigand's feet against the dirt were coming closer, becoming louder.

The ., cocked with the safety off, was in her right hand. She held her breath.

The man passed her, walking off into the trees from which she had come.

She let out a long sigh, then upped the safety on her pistol and peered around behind the rear of the truck, toward the other Brigands.

They still huddled around the fire—nine of them. She pushed herself up to her full height and came around toward the driver's side. The button on the door was up. Before touching the door, she looked inside. "Thank you, God," she murmured. The keys were in the ignition.

She shifted the pistol to her left hand, then with her right hand tried the door handle. It opened easily, the door creaking slightly on its hinges. She waited. None of the Brigands turned around.

She started up into the truck, then heard, "Hey—

hey, bitch!"

She glanced behind her, toward the front of the truck. It was the man who'd passed her, gone into the trees to urinate. In that instant, she cursed men for being able to do it so fast.

Sarah Rourke shifted the gun into her right hand, worked down the safety with her right thumb and pointed the pistol straight out between the open door and the body of the truck. She didn't say, "Hold it—don't come any closer." An old Sarah Rourke would have said that. She felt it in her bones. She pulled the trigger, the pistol bucking once in her right hand; the man's face exploded in blood.

She dismissed him mentally, climbing aboard and setting down the pistol, the safety upped again. Her right hand worked the ignition, her left foot the clutch, her righl foot the gas. She hadn't driven in so long, she thought. The engine rumbled reassuringly, then caught.

With her left elbow, she pushed down the door-lock button to give herself an extra instant while she found the emergency brake.

She heard the creaking of hinges, looked across the seat, and saw a face—one of the Brigands. "What the fu—" She picked up the pistol as the man started for his, and she fired. His left eye seemed to explode and the body slumped away.

She found the emergency brake, released it, and popped the clutch, looking to her left; there was a man clinging to the driver's side of the truck.