Tess Gerritsen - Ice Cold

The dog moved close beside its master, and was rewarded with a pat on the head. Boy and dog both stared at her, contemplating the strange creature that they had captured on the road.

“You have to let me go,” said Maura. “They’ll be looking for me.”

“Not anymore.” The boy slid the knife into his belt and went back to the fire. It was dying, and already the chill had started to penetrate their shelter. He threw on another log, and the flames danced to life in the ring of stones. As the fire brightened, she could make out more details of the hovel in which she had been imprisoned. How many days have I been here? She didn’t know. There were no windows, and she could not see whether it was day or night outside. The walls were rough-hewn logs sealed with dried mud. A pallet of twigs covered with blankets served as his bed. By the fire was a single cooking pot and cans of food, stacked into a neat pyramid. She spotted a familiar-looking jar of peanut butter; it was the same jar that she had been carrying in her backpack.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “What do you want from me?”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“By dragging me here? Keeping me a prisoner?” She could not hold back a disdainful laugh. “Are you insane?”

His gaze narrowed, a look so dark, so intent, that she wondered if she had just pushed him too far. “I saved your life,” he said.

“People will look for me. And they’ll keep searching, for as long as it takes. If you don’t let me go-”

“No one’s looking for you, ma’am. Because you’re dead.”

His words, spoken so calmly, chilled her to the marrow. You’re dead. For one wild, disorienting moment she thought that maybe it was true, that she was dead. That this was her hell, her punishment, trapped forever in a dark and frigid wilderness of her own creation with this strange companion who was half boy, half man. He watched her confusion with an eerie stillness, saying nothing.

“What do you mean?” she whispered.

“They found your body.”

“But I’m right here. I’m alive.”

“That’s not what the radio said.” He threw another log on the fire and the flames leaped up, filling the shelter with smoke that made her eyes water, her throat burn. Then he went to the corner where he crouched over a dark jumble of clothes and backpacks. Rummaging through the pile, he produced a small radio. He clicked it on and tinny music played, shot through with static. A country-western song, sung by a woman wailing about love and betrayal. He held out the radio to her. “Wait for the news.”

But her gaze was focused instead on the pile of belongings in the corner. She saw her own backpack, the one she’d been wearing on her last hike out of the valley. And she spotted something else that startled her.

“You took Elaine’s purse,” she said. “You’re a thief.”

“Wanted to know who was in the valley.”

“Those were your snowshoe tracks. You were watching us.”

“Been waiting for someone to come back. I saw your fire.”

“Why didn’t you just come talk to us? Why sneak around?”

“I didn’t know if you were one of his people. One of them.”

“Who?”

“The Gathering,” he said softly.

She remembered the words that had been stamped in gold on the leather-bound Bible. Words of Our Prophet. The Wisdom of The Gathering. And she remembered, too, the portrait that hung in every house. One of his people, the boy had said. The prophet.

The country-western song faded. They both turned to the radio as the DJ’s voice came on.

“More details are coming out about that fiery crash up on Skyview Road. Four tourists were killed last week when their rented Suburban veered over the edge and plummeted fifty feet into a ravine. The names of the victims have now been identified, and they were Arlo Zielinski and Dr. Douglas Comley of San Diego, as well as Dr. Comley’s thirteen-year-old daughter, Grace. The fourth victim was Dr. Maura Isles from Boston. Drs. Isles and Comley were both in town to attend a medical conference. Icy roads and poor visibility during last Saturday’s snowstorm may have been a factor.”

The boy shut off the radio. “That’s you, isn’t it? You’re the doctor from Boston.” He reached into her backpack and took out her wallet. “I found your driver’s license.”

“I don’t understand,” she murmured. “There’s been a terrible mistake. They aren’t dead. They were alive when I left them. Grace and Elaine and Arlo, they were alive.”

“They think she’s you.” He pointed to Elaine’s purse.

“There was never any crash! And Doug skied out days ago!”

“He never made it.”

“How do you know?”

“You heard what the radio said. They caught him before he got down the mountain. No one made it out alive, except for you. And that’s only because you weren’t there when they came.”

“But they were coming to rescue us! There was a snowplow. I heard it, coming up the road. Just before you…” Suddenly dizzy, she dropped her head between her knees. This is wrong, all wrong. The boy was lying to her. Confusing her, scaring her, so that she would stay with him. But how could the radio be wrong, too? A crashed Suburban with four people dead, the news report had said.

One of the victims was Dr. Maura Isles from Boston.

Her head was throbbing, an aftermath of the blow the boy had landed on her skull to silence her. The last memory she had before that blow was his hand clamped over her mouth as she’d flailed and kicked, as he’d hauled her away from the road, away from the brightness of sunlight and into the gloom of the trees.

There, in the woods, the memory abruptly ended.

She pressed her hands to her temples, trying to think through the ache, trying to understand everything she had heard. I must be hallucinating, she thought. Maybe he hit me hard enough to rupture a vessel. Maybe my brain is slowly being crushed by hemorrhaging blood. That’s why none of this makes sense. I have to concentrate. I have to focus on what I do know, what I’m absolutely certain is true. I know that I’m alive. I know that Elaine and Grace did not die in a car crash. The radio is wrong. The boy is lying.

Slowly she struggled to stand. The boy and dog watched as she rose to her feet, wobbly as a newborn calf. It was only a few paces to the rough-hewn door, but after days of confinement, her legs felt weak and unsteady. If she tried to flee, she knew she could not outrun them.

“You don’t really want to leave,” he said.

“You can’t keep me a prisoner.”

“If you go, they’ll find you.”

“But you’re not going to stop me?”

He sighed. “I can’t, ma’am. If you don’t want to be saved.” He looked down at the dog, as though seeking his comfort. Sensing his owner’s distress, the dog whined and licked the boy’s hand.

She inched toward the door, half expecting the boy to yank her back. The boy remained motionless as she swung open the door, as she stepped outside into a pitch-black night. She stumbled into thigh-deep snow. Staggering back to her feet, she found herself facing the utter blackness of woods. Behind her, the fire glowed invitingly through the open doorway. Glancing back, she saw the boy standing there watching her, the firelight silhouetting his shoulders. She looked ahead again, at the trees, took two steps forward, and stopped. I don’t know where I am or where I’m going. I don’t know what waits for me in those woods. She saw no road, no vehicle, nothing but the claustrophobic trees surrounding that miserable little hovel. Surely Kingdom Come must be within walking distance. How far could one malnourished boy have dragged her unconscious body?

“It’s thirty miles to the nearest town,” he said.