“Try not to look at it, honey,” Sheila urged as Whitman covered Conners’ body—what was left of it—with the customary blue tarp, then trudged back through the snow toward his idling car and got in. Then they were on their way, Sheila following him closely—but not too closely, as it was slick—down the snow blown road.
It wasn’t long before Erik was sound asleep, snoring and sniffing, coughing and swallowing. They were climbing now, up the side of Mount Olive whose peak was enshrouded in a sinister gray mist. On a clear day you could see all of the Anchor Rock valley from here; not so tonight. Tonight it was but a vast pool of nearly impenetrable fog, beneath which Sheila could just make out the glowing, yellow lights of Anchor Rock proper. And she supposed she was grateful—so very, very gra
