Things hadn’t been the same in Jackson since the plant construction started. There was the disappearance of the Kennedy girl, and, of course, Joe Thibideau, but it was more than that. People were acting crazy all over town.

Towing the trailer and snowmobile, the Cherokee tended to weave more than usual, and with the heavy gusts of wind, Hank had to fight to keep it under control. He was only about three miles from the house now, thank God. Another hour of this snow and nobody was going anywhere. Even on the snowmobile it was going to be a rough ride, especially through those woods, if that was the way they decided to go. He knew them by heart, had cut trails most everywhere by now, but when the visibility was less than thirty feet, it didn’t matter if you were psychic. Every place looked the same, and those big drifts could do a hell of a lot of damage when you hit them at fifty miles an hour. Turn that drift into a tree, and you were in a pack of trouble.

A hard gust of wind almost spun him around, and he jerked the wheel back to center, feeling a tingle of fear run its fingers down the nape of his neck. He wasn’t going more than thirty-five, nowhere near fast enough to get really hurt in a crash, but it wasn’t the crash he was worried about. If he got stuck out in this, there was a good chance he would freeze to death before anybody came along to rescue him. He’d been on the road now for close to an hour, and he hadn’t seen one car, not one.

He slowed it down to thirty.

Five minutes later, he pulled into the Pierces’ driveway, feeling the weight of the trailer holding the Cherokee back a little. It was rough, but he was handling it just fine.

Then, ahead of him through the white sheet of snow, a form loomed out like a demon, red eyes glowing with fire…

It was a car, front end deep in the drifts just off the road. He swerved and hit the brakes, and still the ruts almost pulled him directly into it; he barely managed to yank the wheels out of them with a bump and thud. He felt the weight of the trailer behind him threatening to tip over, and maybe take the Cherokee with it.

Then he was past it, the front fender just scraping by the other car’s bumper by a hair. Christ but wasn’t that close. He swiped at the beads of sweat running down his forehead, his fingers shaking so badly he could hardly control them. Just a goddamn car. I gotta lighten up a little. A demon, Jesus. But he slowed down even more, and blessed that Cherokee’s soul one more time.