Cover Your Tracks

by Daco Auffenorde

  “This was passable earlier,” he said, sounding perplexed. “There must have been another avalanche, smaller but large enough to block the way.”

  “Do we have to turn back? I’ve already turned back once today.”

  “We can’t go back. We’ll have to go through the forest and make our way around it.”

  Part of her was relieved not to retreat, but retreat might’ve been easier than continuing to climb. She bent over at the waist, clasped her knees, and drew in air, trying to oxygenate her muscles. If only they could sit down. But she might not get up if she did.

  “Let’s take a break, Nick.”

  “We can’t.”

  “Five minutes.”

  “I know it’s tough, but we have to keep moving. It’s not only the leopard. We have get out of the cold.”

  They continued the climb, navigating through the forest and back around to a narrow path. The snow wasn’t as deep on the trail, which meant it was likely a deer trail. That meant they were heading someplace, and she hoped that place was the cabin and not barren wilderness.

  Cold air burned her lungs. She had to do something to keep her mind occupied or she’d go crazy. She thought of seeing her baby’s face, hearing its first cry, watching the child take its first step. Repeating the scenarios from earlier that day, she imagined the years passing, the times she and her child would spend together, all the simple but precious joys motherhood brought. And yes, she’d keep going until she dropped. She owed that to herself and her child. One day she’d tell the child about this harrowing experience, about what hell she went through to save them. What a family story that would make, though not one she’d wish on anyone.

  But eventually, not knowing whether they would survive became overwhelming. When the stories in her mind became muddled and she couldn’t put two thoughts together, she began repeating a duruum sound in her mind, like a child comforting herself while lying alone in bed in a dark room, or a marathoner pursuing the runner’s high, or a speed-reader clearing the mind of distracting thoughts. The mantra propelled her forward, helped her forget the pain radiating through her limbs and lungs, and helped her forget how this journey might really be the last.

  Nick stopped again and glanced around in front of them.

  “Are we close?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  Stopping was a mistake. Her legs wobbled and turned to what felt like congealed jelly. Another step forward and she’d fall. “I can’t do this!” she shouted. “I can’t. I just can’t do this!”

  He looked back over his shoulder but kept walking. “Save your energy. Worry and panic will drain it from you.”

  Too late. She dropped to her knees and shoved her hands in her coat pockets. She couldn’t control the tears. As a doctor, she’d learned to endure long, hard hours. But she’d never learned to hike through the wilderness like a soldier at war—certainly not at eight months pregnant. She looked up at the sky. Snowflakes landed on her face and eyelashes. Their coldness tingled against her skin. She closed her eyes and bowed her head as if in prayer, but she wasn’t praying—not conventionally. More like communing with her unborn baby, seeking strength and at the same time imparting her strength. Nick made no attempt to coddle her, and she was glad about that. He did crouch down nearby, as if to let her know he was present and ready to help.

  Finally, a wave of eerie calm shrouded her. Or was it hopelessness? She lifted her head and in that moment saw that the clouds had parted to reveal a sliver of sky and the twinkle of a few stars. There it was, the hopeful sign she needed. A little beauty among all the brutality. Her shoulders slumped as the clouds came together again. The starlight was gone.

  “Oh,” she sighed. But she didn’t cry this time.

  Nick came over and kneeled down on one leg. “Margo, your eyelashes are frozen. Are you warm enough?”

  She wiped her eyes, then felt her neck and wrist. “My body’s warm. I think I’m all right. How much farther?”

  “We’re almost there.”

  “You just told me we weren’t.” Why was he messing with her mind?

  “I didn’t want to tell you because I wanted you to continue to conserve your strength. Needless emotional toil wastes energy. Starving people die when they try to feast right away.”

  She stood. “Let’s go. No excitement. I’ll be a true ascetic.”

  “You’re a student of Greek philosophy. Good.” He clasped her hand without asking and pulled her along. When they came to a clearing in the trees, she saw it.

  “That’s a fire tower,” she said. “Not a cabin.”

  “I didn’t use the word cabin, you did. Anyway, same difference.”

  CHAPTER 28

  A few weeks after the trip to New Zealand, Nick’s unit was assigned to visit a schoolhouse in a small village located thirty miles from camp, where the Taliban had threatened the teachers for educating girls. Andie entered the schoolhouse. Nick ordered his men to hang back at a safe distance and not to intimidate the locals, whose cooperation Andie sought. Nick remained at the door. Once inside, Andie was greeted by the headmaster, an Afghan woman who spoke passable English. Andie removed her helmet to reveal her long hair, spoke to the headmaster in elementary Pashto, and followed the woman to an interior office. Nick remained in the hallway within earshot.

  “How many girls came to school today?” Andie asked the headmaster.

  “Only three. Two are mine, one is a neighbor whose mother works because her husband was killed.”

  “And boys?”

  “Five. The families are terrified to send the children, the girls in particular. Families have been threatened. I have been threatened. Last night at my home, two men came late in the night. My husband and I woke to guns pointed in our faces. The men threatened to kill us and our two children if we did not obey them and close the school.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I cannot risk telling you. These men will kill us. They have killed many others.”

  “You have to understand that these murders won’t stop until the brave people of Afghanistan, with the help of our coalition forces, resist the oppressors.”

  The woman thought for a long time, clearly agonized. Then she nodded her head resolutely. “Your American soldiers will protect us?”

  “Absolutely,” Andie said. “Our guarantee.”

  Ten minutes later, Andie had the names of the Taliban insurgents, who were holed up in a safe house. When nightfall came, the unit, using night-vision gear, moved into a stronghold in the foothills. Once inside the targeted stone building, the unit split up. Nick and Andie entered a room where a mother was sleeping, cradling an infant in her arms. Nick’s antenna went up—this was no Taliban safe house, not with a woman and child there.

  “It’s an ambush!” Nick hollered. “Move out!”

  Before they could evacuate, there were loud footsteps, followed by gunfire and the sound of men shouting. Nick’s unit had been set up by the headmaster—she’d probably believed cooperating with the Taliban was the only way she could save herself. The woman in the bed awoke, and the baby began wailing. Nick readied his weapon and pointed it at the door.

  The woman in the bed tried to stand, but Andie said, “Stay down!”

  The woman didn’t listen but instead ran for the door—leaving her child in the bed. What kind of people were these to put an infant at risk?

  Two insurgents burst into the room, guns drawn. Andie dropped down and used her body to shield the child. Nick began firing, taking out the two men, but not before they fired their own weapons. Nick looked over at the bed. A large stain of blood had sullied the bedsheets under Andie’s head. Beneath her body, the baby continued to cry.

  From the deep recesses of his brain emerged a dark urge—an urge he thought lay buried in Arizona. He ran into the other rooms and fired at anything moving that wasn’t an American soldier. Nick had killed all the insurgents, but nothing would avenge the death of Andie. He wanted to keep killing, until he remembered
he had to see Andie home. No soldier left behind.

  He cradled her lifeless body in his arm, her arms dangling free.

  He held her close to his chest as if she were a stillborn babe. If only he could breathe life back into her.

  “Sarg,” a medic said. “Put her on the gurney.”

  Nick knew someone was talking to him, but his ears were ringing from all the gunfire. No matter. He didn’t want to listen, he didn’t want to talk. He wanted to walk off the edge of the world to a place where no harm existed. He remembered that place where he felt no pain. A place where he would be free from physical pain, from his father’s wrath, from his mother’s berating. A place where no one existed but Nick and JJ. His friend had reassured him that the door would always be open. That Nick only had to step through it, and all the world would be right.

  Light flashed. Nick blinked hard in the glare. Was he hallucinating?

  That door was now open, only feet away.

  “This way, Nicky. Bring her to me, I’ll make her alive again.”

  He began walking toward the light that glimmered behind the door.

  “We’ll all live on the farm together,” JJ said.

  Now he remembered. Andie would be safe there.

  He hadn’t comprehended the depth of his feelings for Andrea White. He thought he had, but his attachment to her was far deeper than anything he had ever felt. It hadn’t been he who’d burrowed inside her shell to form the perfect pearl. Rather, she’d made her way into his soul. She was only supposed to be a helicopter pilot attached to his unit, another cog in the machine, serving alongside the elite Special Forces. Anyone could die on a mission. All too many of his men had fallen. But he’d never expected Andie to die. They were supposed to retire from the service and raise chickens together, a few roosters as well, she had said. They were supposed to have a child together.

  “Sarg,” the medic said louder. “It’s over, Sarg. Protocol. Sir.”

  Nick heard nothing, only the ramblings of a soldier performing his duty. He moved closer and closer to the door, feeling a lightness. Only a few feet more and he stepped through that door and into another world.

  “Stop!” a man ordered.

  Outside the house, three soldiers stepped in front of Nick. The door slammed shut. Which one? From the house or Nick’s refuge?

  Men spoke to him, shouted in his face, and suddenly, Nick was aware.

  “Sergeant,” his commander said. “It’s not your fault.”

  The following morning, at approximately 0600 hours, a soldier banged on the door to Nick’s quarters. “Sergeant! Are you awake?”

  Nick woke with a start. How had he managed to fall asleep? He glanced at the clock on his bedside table; he wasn’t due to report in until 0700. For a moment, he’d forgotten about Andie, thought he would get up and see her directing maintenance of her chopper. Then he remembered, and the morning came crashing down.

  “Sergeant Eliot,” the soldier called out again.

  Nick didn’t respond but rolled over. If the soldier tried to come in, Nick might not be able to control his rage and would kill the man.

  “Orders from the Lieutenant. You’re needed right away.” The soldier paused and then said, “There’s something you have to see.”

  When had Nick heard those words before? Long ago. The soldier refused to go away and pounded louder. Nick rose and answered the door. The morning light assaulted his eyes, making him squint.

  “Lieutenant’s orders, Sergeant. There’s something he wants you to investigate.”

  “What is it, Private?”

  The Private took a deep breath and tried to talk, but the words didn’t come. Nick threw on his uniform and boots and followed the Private outside.

  Nick got into the Private’s Jeep, and they drove to the school-house. He parked the car out front. On the front porch, hanging from the rafters, was the body of the headmaster who had betrayed Nick’s squad—who had caused Andie’s death. Her vacant eyes stared out at the village, a gruesome warning. Flies swarmed on and around the body. The stench of rotting flesh was already filling the village square. What was more remarkable about the headmaster’s corpse was that the face was the only part that remained intact. The woman had been scalped and skinned alive.

  The Private gestured and looked away. “The Lieutenant wonders if any of our people know who’s involved in this.”

  Nick shrugged and looked away.

  “Sarg?” the Private asked again.

  “It’s obvious, Private. The Taliban got her for educating girls. I have to admit, it’s a very effective technique.”

  But Nick’s thoughts were elsewhere. He was wondering what had become of Donnie Hollis. He hadn’t thought about Donnie for years.

  CHAPTER 29

  Another break in the cloud cover exposed just enough sunlight for Margo to see the fire tower when she and Nick emerged from the dense forest. The tower sat on the peak of a hill. It had a three-hundred-and-sixty degree vantage point and was like no watch-tower she knew of in Washington. Back home, the structures she’d seen sat on stilts and had ladders for access. But that wasn’t to say she hadn’t heard of elaborate watchtowers like this one—her father mentioned them during family dinners while talking about his cross-country skiing trips, which he’d taken with a group of faculty members. She’d never paid that much attention, but some of what her father said had sunk in. This watchtower didn’t seem completely foreign to her.

  This structure, a weary backpacker’s dream, stood two stories high. She was grateful it wasn’t the other kind of tower that sat on stilts because she suffered from mild acrophobia. Besides, a ladder would prove too treacherous to climb, especially in her condition. The tower’s lower level was made of stone bricks. The top level, which had a balcony surrounding it, was constructed of wood, and windows overlooked the mountains from every direction. Now her reluctance to climb up the mountain seemed entirely foolish. This place looked like heaven. Why did she ever doubt Nick when all he wanted was to find them safety and shelter? Yet why hadn’t he described this place to her? The whole truth would’ve made all the difference.

  Only one more obstacle remained. The watchtower was perched on the apex of the mountain; the pathway to reach it followed a narrow ridge that dropped off precipitously on both sides.

  As they approached the pathway, Nick said, “Take my hand.”

  That was a surprise. Now he was going out of his way to help. Why? She tried not to fear the worst, but she couldn’t rid the odd thoughts from her mind. He was a strange one, but would he really have brought her all the way up there to shove her over the edge? If he wanted to kill her, she’d already be dead.

  She smiled appreciatively and took his hand.

  They walked with care, taking one step at a time. Too far to the left or the right and they could stumble and fall to their deaths. It would take only a tiny misstep.

  About twenty feet away from the tower, Nick stopped. “Wait here, Margo.”

  The pathway had narrowed quite a bit. It was now a trap even for the cautious, because with the snow cover there was no way to gauge the width of the path by looking at it. Nick handed her the torch, which was barely flickering. That he’d kept it lit at all was amazing. He slowly treaded the twenty feet, testing the snow with each step. Then he returned and took the torch.

  “You’re going to have to do it without my help. If I hold your hand, you might misjudge your step. If you lose your balance, do your best to keep your weight forward.” He gestured with a circular motion of the arm. “Fall forward if you stumble or slip. Whatever you do, don’t fall sideways or backward.”

  She no longer had his comforting hand to help her. How remarkable that the simple touch of his hand had given her courage. No matter. She would do this on her own. She looked off the ridge, a mistake because a bout of vertigo caused her to wobble. She righted herself before she stumbled. “Maybe I should crawl.”

  “No. If you crawl, you won’t have any momentum to swing back
if you start to slide or fall. Hold your arms out to each side like a tightrope walker. It’s a cliché, but do not look down again. And take your time.”

  Navigating those twenty feet to the entrance to the tower was going to be like walking an icy tightrope. Not a chance she’d look down a second time.

  “Show time,” he said. “I’ll go first.”

  He started across, and she followed. With each step, she made sure of her balance. Her foot slipped a time or two, not enough to send her over the ridge, but certainly enough for her stomach to drop and her pulse to quicken.

  When she was about ten feet in, Nick turned around. “Slow down!”

  “I’m not—”

  “Yes, you are. You’re going much too fast.”

  Only then did she realize just how right he was. With safety only feet away, every bone in her body wanted to run to its door. So close but so far away. Her adrenaline pumped on high. She felt like a cartoon character whose big red heart was bouncing on a spring in and out of her chest.

  “Slow,” he said, softly but firmly.

  She started forward again, forcing herself to move at a snail’s pace. Nick was waiting at the entrance to the tower—only a few feet away. He’d already cleared the snow off the steps that led up to the landing and inside.

  A gust of wind blew hard. Out of reflex, she brushed away a few strands of hair that had gotten in her eyes, an action that caused her to misjudge her next step. That slight indiscretion threw her off balance and she pitched forward. Quickly, she reached out with her arms and righted herself, but felt no ground underneath her right foot.

  She looked up and whispered, “Ni—?”

  He reacted before she finished saying his name. He grasped her hand and kept her upright and on the mountain, but at the same time he went down hard on one knee—on the side of his injured leg. He winced in pain, then stood up gingerly like a gymnast performing an arabesque on the balance beam.

  “Oh God, I’m sorry,” Margo said. Once they were inside and settled back into their own brand of civilization, she’d have to examine his wound. His reaction revealed that it hadn’t healed.