David Gilman - Ice Claw

Sayid looked up.

“It’s just the wind,” Max said.

Sayid smiled halfheartedly and put his eye back to the telescope. Max decided to let him stay where he was for a few moments. The light that had shimmered came from the far side of the room.

An old burnished mirror, its copper surround a patina of dull green, barely reflected any light at all. It must have been one of the original mirrors in the house, and the glass was now a murky brown color. Max looked at his reflection. The boy who stared back at him had no eyes; the light from above cast deep shadow across his face, obliterating any reflection from his pupils, blackening the sockets. The thin red line of a scar still puckered the skin across his eyebrow, and his bunched jacket gave him the appearance of a hunched creature. He smiled, half expecting to see fangs instead of teeth. But then he gazed beyond his own image. Pulling down his cuff, he wiped away the dust on the mirror’s surface. It was clearer now.

Something in its reflection caught his eye.

Max turned and moved towards the opposite wall where an old wooden panel hung, its dingy paint seeming testimony of its age. It was about fifty centimeters long and half as wide. Small, tarnished brass eyelets, hooked on barely visible nails, held it to the wall. The painted image, faded and dull, hung in the darkest corner of the room and was out of place; the only picture in the whole room.

It had that kind of medieval look about it, where the figures didn’t seem quite real-flat and two-dimensional. There was a mountain range in the back of the picture; dirty, dust-covered peaks, any resemblance to snow long gone. But the image was easy to understand. A faded star, the yellow and white paint still recognizable, hovered above the peak. To the right of that another star, equidistant. And to the front of the mountains, lying in the foreground, was a monk. His head rested on a log or a boulder-Max couldn’t decide which-one hand held a telescope, crude, like the first ever made. The monk looked old, almost biblical; his ragged beard covered his chest, but his free hand’s index finger pointed towards himself.

Max scanned the tiny writing on the engraved metal square screwed to the frame’s base. It was in French and said that the chateau was dedicated to St. Anthony the Hermit. Max concentrated, looking at every brushstroke on the wooden panel. There was a scratch in the bottom left-hand corner. He tilted the panel and let the light pick up the picture’s texture. The mark was barely visible unless you were looking for it. It was a Z .

This was no medieval painting, it wasn’t even done at the turn of the last century. Max lifted the panel down onto the floor, surprised at its weight. Why the hermit was looking through a telescope made no sense, but the two words in old-fashioned letters did. One lay to the left and below the old man, and the other was opposite: Lux Ferre . Max jerked his head up, almost fearful that anyone else might have seen the clue. Max was on his hands and knees, staring down at the picture on the floor, gazing at the eyes of the old man. The way the figure was painted allowed the viewer to look directly into his eyes-even with the telescope balanced in front of the man’s face. It was as if he were looking directly at Max. Appealing.

The hermit pointed to a tiny dab of light beneath his beard. Another star. Next to his neck.

Max touched the pendant at his throat.

Bobby Morrell had run for his life. The sand slowed him, but he was strong and athletic enough to ignore it. Besides, high-octane fear drove his muscles towards the sea. The one place of safety. The dark waters would swallow him, his wet suit the perfect camouflage. And Bobby could swim a long way underwater. Up and over a sand dune, across the last stretch to where the moonlight corrugated the beach. The tide was high, he’d make it, no problem, then he’d warn Max. He didn’t know how, but he’d stay out in the sea until these thugs beat it. Then swim for the rocky headland. He’d find a way.

In those first few strides he had screamed Peaches’s name. Yelled at the top of his lungs into the night. Telling her to run. Telling her to hide. But the attack came fast and took him by surprise. They’d been hiding in the trees and bushes near the dunes. The motocross bikes coughed once, throttles turned, wheels churned sand. They leapt from the darkness, wolves hunting a vulnerable animal.

He was in the shallows, but they were already on him. Wheels sprayed wet sand. Well-rehearsed, they crisscrossed him, one from the left, another from the right. There was a faltering moment when he couldn’t move, and a third biker knocked the wind out of him.

Bobby sprawled, face slamming into wet sand. The sea was tantalizingly close. He breathed through the pain, pushed his feet into the sucking sand and lunged for the water.

They let him make three, four strides and then powered their bikes into the shallows. One of them held a club, or a stick, he couldn’t see; his eyes focused on the beckoning refuge. He needed deep water.

The blow spun him around. The back of his head hit the water. He went under, gagged. Salt water flooded his nose and mouth; gritty sand choked him. Gasping for air, he was struck by the irony taunting him. You’re gonna die in six inches of water!

Someone grabbed his wet suit, hauled his face out of the water and shook him. He spluttered, regained his breath. The faceless figure, silhouetted by the moon, hissed with pleasure.

“We’re not finished with you yet,” the twisted mouth said.

Unless anyone had ever felt the grip of a crashing six-meter wave, its hungry power pummeling you below the surface, they couldn’t know the strength of someone who spent every spare moment in the water. Bobby twisted hard and fast. His fist, clutching wet sand, slammed into the boy’s head, whose cry of surprise and pain made him release the hand that gripped him.

Like a seal escaping a killer whale, Bobby slithered free and struck out for deeper water. Within seconds he was swimming. The bikes couldn’t follow him now. He kept going. Head down, a crawl stroke, breathe, pound the water, breathe. Keep going! Gotta warn Max. Gotta warn him!

He twisted, pushed his back against the swell and faced the shore. He’d put a couple of hundred yards between him and the bikers. They weren’t going anywhere; they just stared at the sea, watching him.

He laughed. If they were waiting for him to tire they had a long night ahead of them. Bobby Morrell could swim like a dolphin. He’d cut across the headland, get ashore by the rocks and into the grassland behind the chateau. The distant crashing waves muted the sound of an engine. At first he didn’t under stand. It couldn’t be a motorbike.

He turned.

Slicing through the water, the speedboat was coming straight for him. They’d had a backup, and with this moon they didn’t need a searchlight. He was an easy target. The boat roared around him, the waves bobbing him even more clearly for them to see. It turned again and thundered in for the kill.

He ducked his head, pulled himself underwater and kicked, praying the propellers wouldn’t mangle him. The muted roar of the powerful outboard reverberated through the water, and the shock wave plucked at him. He broke the surface, sucked air and swam. The boat was turning, lining up another attack; he had to keep going for the headland. But he’d miscalculated. The boat had spun so quickly it was already bearing down on him. The engines slowed. Too much speed had made them overshoot their target on the last run. But the thumping power was still enough to finish him.

If he was to survive he had to know when the hit was coming. He turned, faced the boat, waited, took a deep breath and, when it was three yards away, kicked hard to one side. But it was not enough. The boat cuffed him. His ribs cracked. Pain. He gasped, swallowed water and rolled, clearing his lungs of water.