problems. What Sayid secretly longed for was the chance to be like Max, even to try and match his attitude. His best friend seemed able to determine a plan of action and act on it. Sayid would do anything to help him, that was chiseled in stone, but he knew in his heart he did not possess the instinct-yes, that was what it was-an animal instinct for survival. Only Max had that.
The avalanche his friend had saved him from clearly wasn’t as huge as the one that had swept Max away. The thought of a massive snowfield and mountainside crashing down filled Sayid with horror. To be buried alive; crushed. What a way to die. Max was right: he owed his life to the single-minded determination of the monk.
“I want to find out more about this monk,” Max said.
“You don’t think we should just hand this problem over to the cops? Blimey, Max, someone tried to murder him.”
“He saved me.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re responsible for him dying,” Sayid said.
“He could have left me buried, Sayid, he could have got himself down the mountain and reached a doctor. I owe him. He was desperate. He was begging me.”
“He was warning you!”
“And that was important as well.”
Sayid knew it was useless trying to dissuade Max once he’d made up his mind. “I’m not going back to England on my own, Max. You’ve got to promise not to let that happen, yeah?”
“I’ll come back and get you. I promise.”
“So you need to buy some time. How long?”
“Another day at least. How are your acting skills?”
“You mean this terrible pain that has suddenly shot up my leg into my back and the terrible headaches I’m getting?”
Max smiled. “Don’t overdo the headaches bit. They might do a brain scan and discover there’s nothing there.”
Bobby Morrell had left messages with the hospital staff when he’d phoned to see how Max was getting along. Max dialed the number of the hostel where he and the other competitors were staying in Mont la Croix. Bobby was on the slopes-where else? Max knew he’d be back once the light faded. He was going to need his help. Making sure the hostel manager repeated everything carefully, he left instructions for Bobby.
Max shed the hospital pajamas and dressing gown, and felt better the moment he pulled on his cargo pants, fleece and boots. He ran his fingers under the tap and mussed his hair. He slipped the brass pendant over his head, tucking it out of sight beneath his sweat rag, but he wasn’t sure what to do with the broken rosary.
The young Basque nurse walked in with a tray of food, fully expecting to see Max in bed. “What are you doing?”
Max thought quickly. “I have to go and sort out my friend’s equipment. Clothes and stuff. We’ll be going back to England. The doctor said it was OK.”
“But only tomorrow, I think. No?”
She put down the tray of food, shook her head impatiently and placed her hand on his forehead, then held two fingers to his wrist.
The nurse seemed satisfied with his pulse, but she was hesitant about something.
“Is everything OK?” Max asked her. “No snow or ice inside me that needs defrosting?” he quipped, but she didn’t understand.
“It is OK.” She nodded. Her fingers touched the crucifix in his hand. “I have seen this before.” She hesitated. “Did you steal it?” she asked very carefully.
“No! Course I didn’t.” He was more shocked that the crucifix had been recognized than at being thought a thief.
“Will you tell me where you got it?” she asked him, gazing directly into his eyes. Max knew that if you lied, the dead giveaway was in your eyes. So, do what? Turn away, think of an answer, cover your hesitation by doing something else? No. Look her straight in the eye, don’t blink-and don’t tell her the truth.
“I found it on the ski slopes.”
He held her gaze. After a moment’s consideration, she nodded. “It is possible. I have heard he skis on the high mountains.”
She knew the monk? Max’s heart beat faster. Just as well she wasn’t taking his pulse now. He stayed as nonchalant as he could. “Who?”
She slipped the rosary from his hands, traced a finger down to the bottom of its crucifix. There was a piece broken from the bottom corner. “Once in a while he would come down from the mountains to celebrate Mass in our own language. I have kissed this cross and I have always seen this small piece missing. He is a Basque monk.”
“So, Basque is something different from being French?”
“Of course. We have our own language, our own culture. The Spanish Basques are more aggressive for their independence, some are terrorists, but on this side of the Pyrenees, we love French culture as much as our own. There is no conflict for us.”
“Are you certain it belongs to him?” Max said.
“What is it you are doing? You know something, but you are frightened to say.” She spoke softly, and then, carefully, repeated the warning he had muttered when he recovered consciousness.
Was she suspicious or did her uneven English accent suggest someone who was worried for his safety? Concern or suspicion was all in a person’s voice inflection, and Max wasn’t sure how to read her intentions. He decided to ignore the question. She might well be a big-sister-type caring nurse, but he should trust no one.
Max eased the rosary from her fingers. “I’ll take it back to him,” he said.
“But he is a recluse. He lives somewhere in the mountains. There is a place,
Max shook his head.
“It is a place where no one lives except wild animals. He has a sanctuary, a hut, in the Montagne Noire,” she said.
“The Black Mountain? Are you sure?” Max hid his shock. He had been there barely a couple of weeks ago. As part of his altitude and fitness training, Max had hiked for three days, on and off trails of the Montagne Noire, before the competitions started. It was a wild place, subject to sudden snowstorms, but because of its orientation, the effect of Atlantic mists and rain caused snow to settle for no more than a week or two. That meant there was vegetation that supported wild mountain goats, which in turn fed birds of prey. Max had been warned that if he went too high, wolves and bears could still be found. Climate change meant bears were not hibernating as they used to. It was not the place to get injured, for then the chances of survival would be almost nonexistent. Max wasn’t that keen to go back up there.
“Do you know his name?” he asked.
“Brother Zabala. He is a big man with a beard and long hair.”
There was no doubt in Max’s mind that it was the same monk who had saved his life in the avalanche and then fallen so horribly to his death.
Max clutched the rosary even tighter. A warning voice deep inside told him that he was about to plunge into the darkness of a dead man’s secret.
4
Max was relieved to see the battered blue van at the far end of the hospital parking lot. Snowboards and windsurfers in their covers were strapped on the roof rack. The sliding door was open and Bobby Morrell was sitting in a folding chair, as were a couple of other teenagers Max recognized from the competition. The French police were strict about drinking in public and no one wanted trouble, so Bobby and his friends sipped hot coffee and ate hot dogs.
