that.'
The instant the stethoscope touched her flesh, the skin turned black, curling back and exposing her muscle and sinew, which rapidly rotted away, revealing her sternum and internal organs, which were riddled with yellow pus.
'No!' Matt screamed, lunging for the doctor, but it was too late. The rot was spreading up to her lovely face, devouring it, revealing her skull, eroding the bone itself, and exposing her brain, where maggots feasted on the gelatinous lobes as one writhing, squirming, squiggly mass that spewed out of her cranial cavity and over her entire body.
Matt looked up in horror at the doctor, who unwrapped a lollipop and began sucking on it in an outrageously lewd and suggestive way.
That's when Matt noticed the doctor's orange hair, the round, red ball on the tip of his nose, and the smile painted around his lips.
He wasn't a doctor at all. He was a clown.
The clown took the sucker out of his mouth. “We are going to have so much fun together, Matt.'
And that's when Matt woke up, disoriented and afraid, his heart pounding.
It took him a few long seconds to realize that he'd had a nightmare, and that he was in his cabin and not the hospital, and that Janey was long dead.
So the worst part of the nightmare was true.
He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was 4:11 a.m., several hours until dawn. But he knew there was no way he could get back to sleep now. So he got up, put on his clothes, and went out into the frigid darkness to chop wood.
Perhaps if Matt hadn't been in such a hurry to get out of the room, and if it wasn't so dark, he might have noticed the lollipop wrapper on the floor…
…and the maggots squirming beneath his bed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
November 19, 2010
The original lodge at Mammoth Peaks was essentially a massive log cabin with several stone chimneys. It was the only authentic building in the resort. The stores, restaurants, and condos mimicked the look of the lodge, with facades of fake stone and artificially weathered timber that might not have seemed so artificial if the real thing wasn't right next door.
Matt and Rachel were staying in the lodge, surrounded by the natural, rustic warmth of that aged timber, in a room with a huge fireplace and a bed made of carved wood that was eerily similar to the one in Matt's cabin.
Rachel didn't know that, since she'd never been in Matt's bedroom, and thought his discomfort was the lingering result of the embarrassing 'mix-up' in their reservations that meant they now had to share a room.
'I am so sorry about this,' Matt said. “I really did reserve two rooms.'
'You don't have to keep apologizing,' she said. “I honestly don't mind.'
Especially since she'd dishonestly canceled the reservation herself and was relieved when the desk clerk told them the hotel was entirely booked up.
'You can take the bed,' Matt said. “I'll be fine on the couch.'
She stepped close to him and draped her arms around his neck. “I want to sleep with you.'
Rachel could feel him stiffen up, but not in the way she would have liked. His shoulders got tight and he pulled ever so slightly away from her. She responded by pressing herself against him and giving him a deep, tender kiss.
She could feel him relax, and his hands found the small of her back. He didn't move away.
'I don't know if I am ready for this,' he said.
Rachel never knew a man who wasn't ready for sex, and yet here he was, going so achingly, frustratingly slow. In a way, it was sexy, like the longest foreplay ever. But she was ready for it to end.
'All I'm asking is for you to hold me close, to let me fall asleep in your arms, and to let me wake up beside you in the morning,' she said. “Does that really sound so awful?'
'No, it doesn't.' He kissed her softly. “It sounds very nice.'
Rachel resisted the temptation to suggest that they take a little nap right now, which was smart, since it wasn't even eleven a.m. yet.
She smiled and broke away from him.
'Let's hit the slopes,' she said.
They took the lift up the peak, and then Rachel led Matt away from the crowds to her favorite spot, far from the day-trippers from King City, to a secluded, double-black-diamond run that was pure virgin powder.
Chopping wood was how Matthew Cahill got in tune with himself and the world. For Rachel, it was skiing. The mountain was her church, and skiing was her form of worship.
When she was skiing, she became one with the mountain, the snow, and the earth.
Within moments of beginning their run, she shot ahead of Matt and her rhythm of skiing became fluid and instinctive. It was almost as if she'd fallen into a trance, her body perfectly tuned to the changing terrain beneath her skis. She wasn't even aware of the motions that went into what she was doing-some unconscious part of her mind was doing that. Instead, she simply reveled in the invigorating speed, the cold air whipping at her bare cheeks.
It wasn't the same for Matt, who trailed far behind her. Skiing required his complete concentration. He was good at the sport, but he was acutely aware of each decision and move, of how fast he was going and how one mistake could send him flying smack into the trees that lined their narrow path.
The run was full of sudden drops and big air, offering Rachel the giddy sensation of flying into the sharp, blue sky, before landing again on the snow and rocketing on down the glade.
For her, catching air was pure freedom and unadulterated joy, comparable to nothing else except, perhaps, the body-quaking climax she fully expected to have with Matthew Cahill when they got back to the lodge.
For Matt, the leaps were more terrifying than exhilarating, the joy more from the relief that he'd landed safely than from the thrill of momentary flight.
But Matt marveled at Rachel's grace, how she somehow seemed connected to the landscape and yet was totally free. Her happiness, her soaring spirit, was conveyed in every natural, flowing movement that she made.
Maybe if he could let go, and stop thinking about his skiing instead of just doing it, he might experience the same wondrous freedom that she was.
Let go.
God, the idea was appealing.
What would it be like to just relax, to do something without thinking, to allow himself the risk, and perhaps the exhilaration, of making a mistake, of getting hurt?
Let go.
What was the worst that could happen?
And that's when he noticed, for the first time, just how formfitting Rachel's ski suit was and how good the form was that it fit.
She was beautiful.
How could he not have noticed that before?
And he knew she genuinely cared about him, that there was depth to her feelings beyond mere attraction.
So why was he denying her the affection, the tenderness, and the intimacy that she obviously wanted?
Why was he denying himself?
They could be good together, if he could just…
Let go.
