“Shit,” whispered Cabral. The phone was picked up. “Carlos, for Christ’s sake, don’t call me on this phone! Scared the crap out of me. Use my cell. You made delivery?...Yeah, where did he put them?...Jesus, Carlos, you should have insisted he tell you. Never give anyone complete control. Even him...A big one?...More snow won’t hurt. The winds could slow us down though...Lucky bastard, here I am freezing my cojones.” The instrument went back on its cradle.
There was silence for a moment, then Crow, “The TV this morning showed troops hunting up and down rivers for those tanks.”
“They never read Lear.”
“Lear?”
“It’s the lakes that are important.” Cilla was aware on some level of a pleased chuckle in his voice. But her head wouldn’t clear, and the awkward position she’d been strung-up in was sapping her remaining strength. When she relaxed aching arms, the cord bit into her wrists cutting off circulation. Cramps were starting in her upper legs; her body was wet with strain. She closed her eyes, repeating the familiar mantra,
She woke with a start, realizing she’d been out for more than just a few minutes. Something brushed her hair and was tugging at her arm. A hand with a knife appeared over her shoulder! Frank! She tensed her muscles; almost could feel the blade entering her back. Suddenly the cord tying her right arm parted, and the knife was sawing the cord that bound her left. With both hands free, she started to twist her body around to confront her attacker when she heard the door close and feet on the stairway. Bending, through her legs she could see the room was empty. Her fingers refused to obey as she fumbled at the knots on her feet. Hurry. Returning circulation sent daggers up her arms, but she got her legs free. Who?
Crouching at the head of the stairs, on legs that wouldn’t yet hold her weight, she listened for sounds from the living areas, her mind racing from confusion, physical exhaustion, and hope. Finally satisfied, she tiptoed down the top flight. There was no one. All on the first floor? Or outside? What had to be Frank’s bedroom was the closed door at the end of one corridor. Someone wanted her to get...away? A trap maybe. For what purpose? Rubbing wobbly legs she forced her mind to consider. Could Crow have been so disgusted with Cabral’s description of Frank’s hobby that he sneaked back to set her free when the Nutcracker was out? Almost as unlikely as Cabral doing it himself. Then who? Frank? She had to get to Frank in any case, somehow make the monster tell her where Hudson was. She gazed longingly for a minute at the stairs down; freedom lay just beyond. Then shook herself and searched for a weapon. Nothing useful. A dull table knife would be no more effective than her hands, still aching like her legs, but their operation close to normal. Taking a breath, she quietly moved down the corridor to the North bedroom. Wasn’t that where the ghost dwelt? She remembered stories that the souls of those who had died on the mountain were in that bedroom. The knob turned easily; she edged it open. The room was empty, no sign of a ghost. There was a Bible on a shelf on her left. In memory of the departed? Or for them to read? Then she saw another door beyond. Again her muscles tightened as she slowly opened it. Beyond was complete dark, no window. She had to edge open the door all the way and let her eyes adjust to see in. It was a small bedroom, and empty. Damn. She stood, uncertain. Voices, coming from downstairs, made the decision for her; she ran back down the corridor and down the stairs, pausing at the bottom. The voices were coming from the other end of the building. She moved to the door she’d been brought in, grabbing her parka and gloves that had been thrown in a chair when they looked at her scar. How had Cabral known about that? When she opened the door to the outside, it was all she could do to keep the wind from blowing it wide. She shrugged into her clothes. Peering around the corner of the doorway she saw the helicopter, its blades winding down and two men standing outside it. Her quick glance told her they were neither Todd nor the wounded Kurt.
If she could just make it to the Observatory building! The helicopter was between her and...sanctuary. Or would even that substantial structure nestled in the northeast face protect her? They didn’t hesitate to kill; would they not just wipe out those inside? But if she could reach there unobserved and get to a telephone she could at least reveal the Nutcracker’s plan. They hadn’t dropped the pods yet; there was still time.
The two heading away from the plane decided it. She closed the door behind her and crept toward the chopper. She’d almost reached it when a figure came out its door! Gil. He saw her just as she did him, but he wasn’t expecting trouble; she was. With both hands she grabbed his parka close to the neck and, putting a foot in his midsection, fell backwards, sending him flying over her to land hard on the icy rock ground; his breath exploded out of him. She kept her hold on the jacket and used his momentum to flip herself over him, landing astride his chest. A side-of-hand blow to his already wounded neck, and he was still. Bouncing to her feet, she ran toward the Observatory as quickly as she dared, battling both strong gusty winds and icy, treacherous ground. She’d reached a grimy Snowcat parked outside the Observatory entrance, when the first shot came, ricocheting off the cat’s treads. Damn! She ran behind the vehicle, protected for the moment. Could she make it to a phone before...? Another shot. No way, she’d only get the staff killed. She climbed on a tread and opened the door. The key was in the ignition! She slipped behind the wheel and had the engine running almost without thinking; Snowcats were familiar vehicles to her, she’d often driven them at the ski area, grooming slopes and trails and transporting supplies. A pile of cross country skis and poles fell off one of the facing benches in the rear and rattled around the floor as she moved out. The Auto Road - used by passenger cars in summer but now under twenty feet of snow - was the only vehicle exit from the summit. Someone was shooting from beside the helicopter. The plane. It was still light; they could easily hunt her down with it. Slouching low in the seat, she brought the cat to full speed directly at the helicopter. A bullet buried itself in the seat beside her. Two more shots and the Cat was on the shooter. With a crunch, vehicle and plane collided. The helicopter was pushed into a tilt; the Snowcat engine died. Frantically she tried to re-start it. No. Another man came out of the Yankee building. Reaching behind the seat she pulled out a set of skis and poles and, with them in-hand, ran slipping and sliding over wind-scoured ice toward the stairs that lead to the parking lots and the Auto Road. Another shot, a pistol this time, she thought. Did the tipped plane put anyone out of action?
She reached the head of the stairs when she heard the sound of an engine being started. The plane? No, smaller. Snowmobile. She quickly slipped boots into bindings, tightened them and poled off down the snow-covered stairs that in summer were trod by thousands of hikers and sightseers. Could the shots have been heard inside the Observatory? Unlikely. The living quarters were on the floor below ground, and the fierce wind dispersed noise.
The snow on the Auto Road had been packed down by the passage of Snowcats; for her it would be a novice trail to the base. Which was the problem. She couldn’t outrun the snowmobile on the gentle grade; it wasn’t steep enough for gravity to make the difference. And she was stuck with it.
The cone at the top of Mt. Washington is sprinkled with rocks, lining the sides of the Auto Road and limiting access to it. Constant winds keep them scoured clean, and it takes a very good snow year for these rocks on the lee face to be covered. This hadn’t been one of those years. There was no way for skis to get through; they were confined to one narrow track on which she could be overtaken. Another shot, this one the louder bark of a rifle. The snowmobile had started after her. If she were hit it wouldn’t matter where she skied or how well; a wound of any kind that hampered her physically would eventually prove fatal, as they’d be able to hunt her down. Somewhere underneath was the awareness that failure on her part would also be fatal to many thousands of others, and with this understanding came the pressure of time. They hadn’t yet spread the pods. Her actions might move them to act faster, and once the beast was out of the bottle…
Her mind went swiftly over what she knew of the mountain. If skis couldn’t navigate through the field of ice- covered rocks, neither could the snowmobile. Once through those on her right she would be in the upper snow fields and… There was a chance! She was about five hundred feet from the summit when she stopped, slipped out of the skis - noting their metal edges with relief - and with them in hand, started clambering through the jagged stones. A giant hand of wind pushed at her back. A shot ricocheted off a chunk of ice. She bent low, darting from side to side. The whine of another shot, but the sound of the snowmobile was fading. There was no way they’d be able to follow in that machine. She heard them starting over the rocks on foot and focused on keeping a fast pace without falling.
