June 19, 1996 3:00 P.M. Are you ready to die? Jess Feldman exchanged glances with his brother, Owen, and tried to sidestep the wild-eyed man who suddenly blocked their path. "I said, are you ready to die?" The man stayed with them, his voice rising an octave. One of a group of sign-carrying marchers in front of Salt Lake City's airport, he was fortyish, balding, wearing a cheap gray polyester suit, a yellowing white shirt, and an ancient-looking black tie. "Bug off," Jess said, not gently, as Owen caught the sleeve of his plaid flannel shirt and dragged him past. "Repent!" The man screamed after them. "The end of the world is at hand!" "Oh, yeah?" Jess tossed back over his shoulder. Owen towed him forward implacably. "When?" "June twenty-third, nineteen ninety-six, sinner! At nine A.M.!" A police car with flashing lights pulled up to the curb. The doomsayer turned away. "Talk about specific," Jess said to his brother. "I wonder what happens to these guys when they make a prediction like that and the world doesn't end on schedule?" Owen shrugged. "Predict again, I guess. Come on, we don't want to be late for the guests. This group's from a swanky girls' school in Chicago, remember." "That's my kind of group," Jess said with a grin. As Owen pulled him through the double doors Jess glanced back. A pair of uniformed cops talked to the marchers. One of their signs drooped his way. Jess read it. REPENT! THE END OF THE WORLD IS AT HAND! Beneath the warning was a blood-red heart, broken in two, with one half toppled over on its side. Under the heart were the words LOVE HEALS. "Bunch of nuts," Jess muttered, shaking his head. Then the glass doors closed behind him and he forgot all about them. June 19, 1996 11:45 P.M. "Someone's out there." Sixteen-year-old Theresa Stewart dropped the edge of the faded yellow gingham curtain and backed away from the window. Her voice was hushed, fearful. Outside, the vast, mountainous wilderness that surrounded the trio of ramshackle cabins had been swallowed up by night. Hidden deep in the folds of Utah's Uinta National Forest, the abandoned mining camp had felt like a sanctuary. More than once Theresa had overheard her father reassure her mother that they were unfindable. Now, for the first time since the Stewarts had moved into the structure eight months ago, there were strangers outside. Moonlight had silhouetted them briefly as they had stepped from the forest into the clearing surrounding the camp. Theresa had seen three of them, possibly more. "Probably a bear." Theresa's mother, Sally, looked up from the rocking chair where she was nursing Elijah, the youngest of the seven Stewart children. Elijah was six months old, a plump, happy baby, and Sally was in the process of weaning him. But she still liked to nurse him just before putting him down for the night. He slept better that way, she said. "Mother, it isn't a bear. I saw men coming out of the woods." "Probably just some campers then. It's summer, you know. We don't have the forest totally to ourselves like we did during the cold weather." Sally sat in front of the fire that was the cabin's only source of warmth as well as illumination. Despite her reassuring words there was an underlying tension in her voice. She, Theresa, and the four youngest children were alone in the cabin. Michael, her husband, had taken the two older boys and gone to Provo to conduct some business and pick up supplies. He would not be back until the following day. "I don't think they're campers." Theresa's voice was hushed as she moved to stand beside her mother. The cabin was small, two rooms on the ground floor with a sleeping loft above. She stood almost in the center of the large front room, which suddenly seemed alive with shadows, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. Terror, raw and primitive, rose like bile in her throat. Theresa didn't know how she knew who was out there. She just knew . "Kyle then. Or maybe Alice, or Marybeth. Or one of the kids needing to use the necessary." Marybeth and Alice were Michael's sisters. Kyle was Alice's husband. They and their eleven children, who ranged in age from eight to eighteen, occupied the other two cabins. Since the camp had been constructed and abandoned in the late 1800's, there was no indoor plumbing. Anyone needing to answer nature's call used a shack near the entrance to the old silver mine that had been converted for just that purpose. Or hied himself off to the woods. "It looked like a man. Men. More than one. They came out of the forest." Theresa's voice cracked. "Are you sure?" Theresa nodded. Sally detached the sleeping baby from her breast and stood, pulling her blouse closed. "Theresa, honey, it can't be them. " "Mother--" A knock on the door interrupted. Theresa and her mother drew closer together instinctively, both staring at the roughhewn wood panel. The baby whimpered, as if sensing their fear. Sally pressed him closer to her breast. Sally knew as well as Theresa did that none of their relatives would ever knock like that. It was a soft knock, so soft it was sinister. "Hush, now," Sally whispered to the baby. Then, handing him to Theresa, she added, "Take him into the back room." The instruction scared Theresa. She realized that her mother, too, felt the evil on the other side of the door. She accepted the baby, clutching him to her bosom, vaguely comforted by his milky smell, the warm weight of him, the feel of his little head brushing against the underside of her chin as he rooted in search of a comfortable position. "Go on," Sally said, giving Theresa a push. "It's probably just some lost campers, but still..." A few steps took Theresa into the tiny dark room that served as their kitchen-cum-storage-room. Turning, she forgot what she was going to say as she watched Sally pick up the doubleheaded ax that stood in a corner of the front room. Clutching Elijah, Theresa backed deep into the shadows as her mother faced the door, hefting the ax. There was a thud, a crash, the shriek of splintered wood and broken hinges as the door was kicked in. Scrambling for cover, holding Elijah close, Theresa heard the sounds of a struggle, her mother's scream. Then she heard a voice, a voice she recognized, a voice straight out of the nightmare she had tried and tried to forget but never could. It was Death's voice, whispering: "It's time." Excerpted from Heartbreaker by Karen Robards All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.