Charles Todd - A Cold Treachery

He took his foot from the pedal, letting the motor slow his speed as he reached a curve, his eyes fixed on the bright swath of his headlamps. Then his wheels began to lose traction and he fought to accomodate the skid, finally bringing the heavy motorcar back to the crown of the road.

Hamish, behind him, scolded sharply, “It willna' help the lad, if you wreck the motorcar and kill yoursel'. It's no' the time to be sae foolish! There's no' a house in sight.”

There hadn't been for some time.

His shoulders ached now, and his face burned from the force of the wind sweeping through the motorcar. His wits were slower, his reactions not as fast. The engine's output of heat, hardly more than a breath of warmth, was losing the battle-his accelerator foot was already growing numb. And beneath it all, the panic of claustrophobia was still there, like a weight.

As the cold penetrated even the heavy clothing he was wearing, he braked, stopping in the middle of the road to drink more of his dwindling store of tea.

“'Ware!” A sharp hiss of warning from Hamish just as he was reaching for the Thermos.

A little beyond the reach of his headlamps, Rutledge could just make out the telltale marks where a carriage wheel had spun across the road in front of him and veered straight for the drop that lay to his right. Snow had nearly filled in the tracks-he couldn't judge how long they'd been there or where they were heading. Or whether the person holding the reins had recovered in time and driven on, as he himself had just done.

It would have been impossible to see the marks, if he hadn't stopped “We havena' met anyone since we left Keswick,” Hamish reminded him.

“He may be ahead of us… if he got himself righted again.”

Rutledge let in the clutch, slowly moving forward a dozen feet, and now could see what appeared to be a jumble of rocks some distance down the slope. Or, no, not rocks! A horse lying quietly in its traces, a good twenty yards below the road's edge. It had thrashed a wide area into a muddy mix of black and white, half obscuring itself as well.

Where there were traces, there must also be a carriage Again he pulled carefully to a stop, leaving the engine running and setting the brake.

Feet and legs stiff with cold, he got out slowly, holding on to the motorcar's frame as he tested his footing. The icy crust was slick, but the weight of his body broke through to firmer ground. No longer blinded by the brightness of the headlamps, he could pick out a shadowy tangle of reins and harness and broken shafts. Taking his torch from the pocket of his greatcoat, he shone the light down the sharp incline, sweeping the snow.

A small carriage, its shape already distorted by a shroud of white, was just visible. It lay like an irregular boulder, only its sharper lines betraying the fact that it had been man-made.

Using great care, Rutledge scrambled down to the horse, and laid a gloved hand on its hide. Dead. Still warm… but already cooling.

He slipped and nearly lost his footing as he reached the overturned carriage and shone the torch beyond its upturned side.

It was then he saw the woman's form, curled into a knot on the ground, her back pressed against the seat.

She responded so lethargically to the glare of his torch that he thought at first she must be dying, then as she stirred, he realized she was alive but very likely badly injured.

When she tried to turn her head to look up at him, he could hear a soft mew, of pain and pleading.

He moved around the footboard of the carriage, careful not to disturb her body, and came to kneel beside her.

“Can you tell me where you hurt?”

She lifted a white face to him, her eyes so dark they seemed sunken in the sockets. “I-” She was shivering violently and could hardly speak, her teeth clicking together involuntarily. “Ribs,” she said, after a moment, “I th-think-ribs. But my f-feet are numb-”

She'd used the blanket to wrap herself, and the seat of the carriage offered some protection from the wind, but she was very, very cold, rigid with it.

Rutledge reached down to touch the hand pressed to her side, and it felt icy through his glove. The woman shook her head, as if afraid he was going to lift her.

“I must get you out of here. Do you understand me? If you stay where you are, you won't live through the night!”

“Please- no -!”

With the snow deep enough and treacherous enough to make carrying her nearly impossible, he said, “There's nothing for miles-no house, no barn. There's no help.” He could feel the wind sucking at his breath, as it had sucked at her will.

“No-I must- I must -” She shook her head again, as if her mind refused to work clearly and tell her what it was she must do.

Making certain, he said, “Were you alone? In the carriage? No one has tried to go for help?”

“Yes-alone.”

“I'm going to lift you to your feet. I'll be as careful as I can. And then you must walk, with my support. I can't carry you. But I have a motorcar on the road-”

After a moment she nodded. With enormous effort she tried to get her feet under her, and finally, with her hands on his shoulders as he knelt to brace her limbs, she was able to stand. He was afraid to bring any force to bear on her arms or shoulders because of her ribs, and instead took her hands. But it wasn't enough to help her climb. Her feet stumbled in the snow as he pulled her upward, and she cried out again from the pain even that induced.

The road might as well be on the moon, he thought, casting a despairing glance in the direction of his headlamps. With nothing and no one to help them.

Hamish, carrying on a running argument in his mind, urged him to hurry.

In the end, he had to wrap his arms around the woman and almost walk her like a child leaning on its father's legs and body, her shoes on the toes of his boots. It was like dealing with a puppet, no will of its own, yet its very awkwardness seeming to defy the puppet master at every step. The effort exhausted both of them.

She bit her lip until the blood flowed, a dark line running down her chin, and fought not to cry out. But her legs were stiff with cold, and it was almost an act of will on both their parts to climb to the road again.

Once he got her there, in the light from the headlamps, he released her for a moment to see if she could stand on her own. She nearly crumpled, and then managed to hold herself erect, swaying. He went to the motorcar, found the Thermos of tea, and brought her a steaming cup. And had to hold it to her lips because her hands trembled too badly to keep it there.

She took the first sip as if it had burned her, jerking her head away, even though the tea was far from scalding. Then she managed to swallow a little. And the sweet liquid ran through her with life-giving warmth. Not enough to stop her from shaking, but enough to bring her back to her senses. And her pain.

He took the empty cup from her, replaced it on the Thermos, and set it back in the floor of the car under his feet. Fumbling in the rear, without looking in the direction where Hamish always seemed to be sitting, he could feel the fringe of his rug, and he set that in his seat as well.

Going back for the woman, he asked, “Can you walk as far as the car?”

But she was looking back down into the darkness. “My horse-we must do something-I see him there-”

“I'm afraid the horse is dead.”

“Oh-a pity-” She went with him docilely then, and with his help was able to lift herself into the high seat. Her own rug was damp with snow, but he left it around her, and added his to cover her.

Hamish said, “She's lost more warmth than she can make.”

It was true. Rutledge gave her a little more of the tea, and finally, with great difficulty, got her into his arms, and himself into the passenger's seat.