didn't deserve that after the eighteen months she'd given him, eighteen
months of tender care and saint-like understanding. She hadn't once
criticized him for whining, for his paranoia or his self-pity or his
selfishness. She had put herself in emotional jeopardy that was no less
terrifying than the physical risk demanded of him. He knew that mental
anguish was every bit as painful as a broken leg. In return for those
eighteen months, he had to make this climb for her. He owed her that
much; hell, he owed her everything.
The perspiration had dissolved some of the coating of Chap Stick on his
forehead and cheeks. As the wind dried the sweat, it chilled his face.
He realized again how little time they could spend out here before the
winter night sapped their strength.
He looked up at the piton that anchored him.
Connie will die if you don't do this.
He was squeezing the line too tightly with his left hand, which ought to
be used only to guide him. He should hold the line loosely, using his
right hand to pass rope and to brake.
Connie will die....
He relaxed his left-hand grip.
He told himself not to look down. Took a deep breath. Let it out.
Started to count to ten. Told himself he was stalling. Pushed off the
wall.
Don't panic!
As he swung backward into the night, he slid down the rope. When he
glided back to the wall, both feet in front of him and firmly planted
against the granite, pain zigzagged through his game leg. He winced,
but he knew he could bear it. When he looked down, he saw that he had
descended no more than two feet: but the fact that he had gotten
anywhere at all made the pain seem unimportant.
He had intended to thrust away from the stone with all his strength and
to cover two yards on each long arc. But he could not do it. Not yet.
He was too scared to rappel as enthusiastically as he had done in the
past; furthermore, a more vigorous descent would make the pain in his
leg unbearable.
instead, he pushed from the wall again, swung backward, dropped two feet
along the line, swooped back to the wall. And again: just a foot or
eighteen inches this time. Little mincing steps. A cautious dance of
fear along the face of the building.
Out, down, in; out, down, in; out, down, in ...
The terror had not evaporated. It was in him yet, bubbling, thick as
stew. A cancer that had fed upon him and grown for years was not likely
to vanish through natural remission in a few minutes. However, he was
no longer overwhelmed by fear, incapacitated by it. He could see ahead
to a day when he might be cured of it; and that was a fine vision.
When he finally dared to look down, he saw that he was so near the ledge
that he no longer needed to rappel. He let go of the rope and dropped
the last few feet.
Connie pressed close to him. She had to shout to be heard above the
wind. 'You did it!'
' I did it!'
