Tess Gerritsen - Ice Cold

Even so, the pack weighed heavily on her shoulders as she started up the valley road. Every step took her past reminders of their earlier ill-fated attempt to leave. Here were the rutted tracks left by the Jeep as it had struggled to climb through the snow. Here were the footprints they’d left after they’d abandoned the stranded vehicle and walked back down, dragging Arlo on the sled. Another hundred yards, another few hairpin turns, and she began spotting Arlo’s blood on the snow, tracked down the road on their boots. Another turn of the road, and there was the stranded Jeep with the broken tire chain. And more blood.

She paused to catch her breath and stared down at the churned snow, stained in different shades of red and pink, like the icy confections you slurped up on a hot summer’s day. It brought back the screams and the panic, and her heart pounded as much from that terrible memory as it did from her trudge up the hill.

She left the Jeep behind and kept walking. Here the snow was broken only by Doug’s footprints. Over the past three days, they had partially melted in the sun, and had hardened into icy crusts. She continued her climb, unsettled by the thought that she was following in Doug’s footsteps, that every step she took he, too, had taken two mornings ago. How far down the mountain would she be able to follow this trail? Would there be a point when it suddenly stopped, when she would discover what had become of him?

Am I bound for the same fate?

The road grew steeper, and she was sweating in her heavy clothes. She unzipped the jacket, pulled off her gloves and hat. This climb would be the most strenuous part of her journey. Once she reached the main road, it would be a mostly downhill glide on skis. That, at least, was the theory. Yet Doug had failed to complete it. Now she was beginning to wonder if she was being reckless, attempting a feat that Doug, so fit and athletic, had been unable to complete.

She could still change her mind. She could turn around and head back to the house, where they had enough food to last them until spring. She reached a viewpoint from which she could see the settlement far below, where smoke was curling from the chimney of their house. She was not even at the main road yet, and already she was exhausted, her legs aching and wobbly. Had Doug felt as weary when he’d reached this point in the climb? Had he paused at this very spot, looked down at the valley, and debated the wisdom of continuing?

She knew what he chose; his footprints left the record of his decision. They continued up the road.

So, too, did she. This is for Arlo, she thought. His name became her silent chant as she walked. Save Arlo. Save Arlo.

Pine trees soon blocked her view, and the valley disappeared behind her. The backpack seemed to grow heavier with every step, and she considered dumping some of the contents. Did she really need those three tins of sardines? Wouldn’t the half jar of peanut butter provide enough energy to get her down the mountain? She debated the issue as she huffed up the road, the cans clanking in her pack. It was a bad sign that she was already considering such a move, less than two hours into her journey.

The road leveled out and she spotted the sign ahead, marking the viewpoint where they had caught their very first glimpse of Kingdom Come five days ago. The valley was so far below her now that the settlement looked like a toy landscape, decorated with artificial forests and flocked with fake snow. But the chimney smoke was real, and so were the people in that house, and one of them was dying.

She turned to continue the trek, took two steps, and came to a sudden halt. Staring down at the snow, she saw Doug’s footprints marking the route ahead of her.

Another set of prints trailed behind his. Snowshoes.

She knew they’d been left after Doug came this way, because they overlaid the impression of his boots. But how soon after? Hours later, a day later? Or had Doug’s pursuer been right behind him, moving ever closer?

Is he now right behind me?

She spun around, heart hammering as she scanned her surroundings. The trees seemed closer, as though they had somehow crept in on the road when she wasn’t looking. The sun’s glare left her half blind to the gloom under those heavy branches, and her gaze could penetrate only a few feet into the woods before the shadows veiled her view. She heard nothing on that silent trail. No wind, no footfalls, only the sound of her own frantic breathing.

Get the skis. Get down this mountain.

She began to run, following the trail of Doug’s footprints. He had not been running. His stride continued as it had before, steady and even, his soles leaving deep impressions in the snow. At this point, he had not realized he was being followed. He was probably thinking only about the task ahead. About getting on his skis and starting his glide down the mountain. It would never occur to him that he was being followed.

Her chest ached and her throat burned from the cold air. Every step she took seemed deafeningly loud as her boots cracked through the icy glaze. Anyone nearby would think that an elephant was lumbering through. A wheezing, clumsy elephant.

At last she spotted the chain strung across the entrance to the private road. Almost there. She followed Doug’s boot prints the last few dozen yards, past the chain, past the RESIDENTS ONLY sign, and saw the Suburban, still tipped on its side in the ditch. One pair of cross-country skis was missing from the roof rack.

So Doug had made it this far. She saw the parallel tracks left by his skis as he’d glided away down the road.

She waded into the ditch, sinking thigh-deep in snow, and unlatched the second set of skis from the rack. Retrieving the ski shoes would take longer. They were inside the Suburban, and with the vehicle lying on its side, it was a struggle to lift the heavy door. When at last she managed to swing it open, she was out of breath and panting hard.

Suddenly she heard a distant rumble. She went still, listening through the pounding of her own heart, afraid that she’d only imagined it. No, there it was-the sound of an engine.

A snowplow was coming up the mountain.

He made it. Doug made it, and now we’re going to be saved.

She gave a shout of joy and let the Suburban’s door slam shut. She could not yet see the plow, but the noise was louder, closer, and she was laughing and crying at the same time. Back to civilization, she thought. Back to hot showers and electric lights and telephones. Most important, back to hospitals.

Arlo was going to live.

She scrambled onto the road and stood waiting for her rescuers. Feeling the sun on her face, the joy coursing through her veins. Here is where it all turns out right, she thought. Here is where the nightmare ends.

Then, through the approaching rumble of the plow, she heard the soft crunch of weight settling onto snow. The sound came from just behind her. She sucked in a startled breath, and it rushed into her lungs like a cold wind. Only then did she see the shadow moving in to engulf hers.

The watcher in the woods. He’s here.

JANE FOUND DANIEL BROPHY HUNCHED IN A BOOTH IN THE HOTEL’S empty cocktail lounge. He did not look up at her, but kept his gaze on the table, clearly signaling that he wanted to be alone.

She sat down anyway. “We missed you at lunch,” she said. “Did you get something to eat?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I’m still waiting to hear back from Queenan. But I don’t think he has anything new to tell us today.”

He nodded, still not looking at her. Still giving off signals of Go away. I don’t want to talk. Even in the forgiving gloom of the lounge, he looked visibly older. Weary and beaten down.

“Daniel,” she said. “I’m not going to give up. And neither should you.”