Nimec looked at Granger, remembered something that had occurred to him just a short while ago. When the chopper was lifting out of sight of the paleontologic expedition.
The thought turned over in his mind with new, cutting significance.
“That day in Bull Pass,” he said. “You didn’t just happen to see our people. You were
Granger held the gun steady.
“Forget about a confession from me,” he said. “Won’t happen. I’ve got nothing to
Nimec lifted his eyes to Granger’s covered face.
“No,” he said. “Not about you.”
Granger stiffened almost imperceptibly, the hand in which he clenched his gun tightening around its stippled rubber grip. Then he motioned its snout toward the crevasse zone beyond the marker.
“All right, hero,” he said, pulling his probe out of the snow. “I’m taking you for another walk.”
This time their walk was a short one. Moving behind Nimec, his gun held out between them, Granger suddenly ordered him to halt near a cluster of hazard wands some fifteen or twenty yards past the first red marker.
He sidled around him toward the red-flagged bamboo poles, never lowering the Beretta.
“Here,” Granger said. “Let me show you something.”
He inched closer to the poles, extended his probe beyond them, and grooved its tip through the snow. Testing, exploring, prodding.
Moments later Nimec heard a sound like a deep swoop of breath — a
Nimec stared into the crevasse exposed by the disintegrated snow bridge. Its jagged lips were about six feet apart and around the same length. He couldn’t know how far down it went into the ice sheet, but the darkness filling it hinted at an evil drop.
Granger stood eying him from behind the snout of the Beretta.
“What you see is a pretty small crater,” he said. “Deep and wide enough, though.” He made a snorting sound that might have been intended as a laugh. “I always call holes like this
Nimec looked at him and said nothing.
“It’s because they’re ugly,” Granger said.
Nimec continued to say nothing.
“And because they’re just the right size to be man-eaters,” Granger said.
Nimec just looked at him.
Granger jammed his probe into the snow, then snorted out another humorless burlesque of a laugh.
“What’s wrong? Don’t like my riddle?” he said. “Or maybe you’re thinking about how you’re going to miss another man-eater. Your friend Megan over at Cold Corners. She’s got a
Nimec was silent.
“Well, okay. Whatever. No need to kiss and tell.” Granger nodded to his left. “All you have to do is walk over to that hag’s mouth over there. Right up to its edge. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Nimec looked at him. Looked at the gun between them. What was it Granger had said to him after he’d almost taken that spill in the snowshoes?
Granger brought his gun up higher now.
“Do it, hero. Walk. Show me how brave you are,” he said, and raised the pistol another few degrees, bringing it level with Nimec’s chest. “Do it or I’ll shoot you dead where you stand.”
He turned slightly, took a half step toward the crevasse.
“You don’t think I—” he began, giving voice to whatever words came into his mouth, intentionally breaking off, trying to sound like he’d really been about to say something as he feigned a slip on the ice and then thrust himself toward Granger in a sliding, lunging belly-dive.
His arms reached for Granger’s legs now, grappling them below the knees, knocking him off balance before he could recover from his stunned surprise.
Granger teetered on his heels a second and fell over backward, driven by Nimec’s weight and momentum. He grunted as the air went out of him, Nimec holding his legs in a tight clinch, his shoulders slamming hard onto the ice and snow.
Somehow his right hand maintained its grip on the Beretta. All in a heartbeat Nimec saw the pistol sweep down toward him, broke his clasp on Granger, and boosted himself halfway on top of him, reaching for the strap from which his rejected metal snowshoes hung around his shoulder.
Nimec swung the paddles at Granger’s gun just as he squeezed the trigger, deflecting its barrel so the round fired harmlessly into space. He swung them twice again, hard, making contact both times, striking Granger on the wrist and knuckles.
Nimec heard Granger’s exclamation of sudden pain, glimpsed the Beretta flying free of his fingers as they involuntarily released it, a black projectile hurtling off against the whiteness.
He also saw that both he and Granger had fallen precariously near the crevasse, their heads mere inches from its broken lip. Granger was heaving, grabbing, thrashing underneath him, his wild struggle to dislodge him moving their bodies closer to its edge — close enough for Nimec to hear miniature cascades of snow and ice spill down and away into its gaping emptiness.
He did not waste an instant. Pushing off with his toes, he clambered further up Granger’s body, got fully on top of him now, and brought an elbow down on Granger’s throat,
Granger made an
Nimec gulped a breath. Then he rose onto his knees, straddling Granger, bunching his fists around the collar of the man’s parka to pull his head and shoulders out of the snow.
“You son of a bitch,” he said. “Let’s see what you’ve got to gain by talking now.”
NINETEEN
Megan watched Pete Nimec and Ron Waylon enter her office.
“Red dog,” Nimec said, shouldering through the door first.
She remained quiet behind the desk, where she’d sat for over an hour, waiting for them to complete their latest interrogation of Russ Granger and report on whether they’d gotten anything out of him.
Waylon pulled up a chair opposite her. Nimec strode over to the big Dry Valley satellite map.
She looked at him.
“I gather,” she said, “you’re going to explain what you mean.”
“Red dog,” Nimec repeated. “It’s the name of a card game I learned—”
“—in pool halls when I was a kid,” Nimec said. “My old man used to play with some
