She had mixed feelings about the woman from the accident. The remnants of duct tape on the boy’s face disturbed her. Was the woman the boy’s kidnapper? Could she be his mother?
Wylie climbed the rickety ladder up to the hayloft and peered over the edge. The light from the headlamp filled the space. The loft floor was covered in straw, and in the high corners, frozen cobwebs laced the wooden crossbeams. She ascended the top rungs of the ladder and stepped onto the floor of the loft.
Bits of dust rose as Wylie shuffled through the loose straw. From a corner, two small golden eyes blinked up at her and then scurried past Wylie. A raccoon seeking shelter for the winter.
Wylie made a cursory search of the loft. The woman wasn’t there. She approached the latched hayloft door once used to transport bales of hay and looked out the small, grimy window next to it. From this high vantage point, if not for the blizzard, Wylie would be able to see for miles across the countryside. The heavy snow had extinguished the flames from the truck fire, and now her view was limited to what she could see through the beam of her headlamp.
Through the heavy curtain of snow, Wylie got a glimpse of the soft halo from the boy’s flashlight from within the house. He was waiting for her return.
For a moment, the wind stilled, the snow rearranged itself into a steady, glittering shower of white, and the beam from her headlamp bounced off a dark shape emerging from the shadows of the old garden shed. The figure was lurching toward the house. Toward the boy.
It had to be the woman from the truck. She must have found shelter in the old toolshed. But why didn’t she come straight to the house? Wylie had told the woman that the child was safe, that she was there to help her. Wylie couldn’t shake the thought that the woman was up to no good.
She hurried down the ladder, pushed on the barn door, and for a moment, it didn’t move. Someone locked me in, was her first, panicked thought. Wylie threw her shoulder against the door and it groaned open a few inches. In the short time she’d been inside, the snow, gathered up by the wind, had blocked her exit.
Wylie pushed on the door until it opened far enough for her to sidle out of the barn. The blizzard whirled, and the wind blew fiercely into her face making her eyes water. Squinting through the storm, Wylie could see the figure still moving slowly toward the house.
Wylie fought the urge to sprint toward the woman, but they still needed wood for the fire. It would be crucial to get the woman warmed up after hours spent in snow and in the uninsulated garden shed. Wylie forced the barn door open as far it would go, stepped back inside, and pulled the sled, piled with wood, into the storm.
Wylie’s boots sank into the snow with each step, it was like slogging through mud but she was gaining on the woman. From the light of the headlamp, Wylie could see that it was the woman from the accident. She had Wylie’s hat atop her head and was wearing Wylie’s coat.
“Hey,” Wylie called out, but the woman didn’t pause, just kept lumbering forward.
As they came closer to the house, the boy’s face appeared in the window, a pale moon in the dark, and then it vanished. When the wind settled, there he was again. His hands were pressed against the glass, a look of fear stamped on his face. The stranger was almost to the door and Wylie was still thirty yards behind.
Wylie dropped the sled’s rope and started running toward the house. “Hey,” Wylie called out. “Lock the door!” But the boy just stood there, mesmerized by the shape moving toward him. The back door opened, and the woman slipped inside. Through the roar of the wind, Wylie thought she heard Tas’s frantic barks.
The wind lifted, bringing with it a billowing cloud of snow and obscuring the entire house. At that moment, not even the blaze from her headlamp could pierce the storm. Wylie pushed forward.
When she finally reached the back door, Wylie fumbled with the knob and twisted. The door didn’t open. It was locked. She thumped on the door with a fist.
“Hey,” she called out. “Open the door!” Wylie pressed her face to the window, her headlamp lighting up the mudroom.
Inside, Tas barking and dancing in excited circles around the woman who kicked out at the dog. Tas gave a sharp squeal of pain and slunk away.
The woman’s back was to Wylie, but she could clearly see the boy’s face. Tearstained and frightened. But it was what dangled from the woman’s hand that caused Wylie to gasp. A long smooth wooden shaft ending with a triangular wedge of steel that glinted in the glare of the headlamp—a hatchet.
The woman held the weapon in her hand and pulled the boy from the mudroom and into the shadows.