by Nora Roberts
"You're going to land?" Burke asked when she'd repeated the call and relayed coordinates. "On that?"
"You're going one better," she told him. "You're going out on it. I can't leave the plane—crosswinds are too risky, and there's no place, and no time to tie down."
He stared down, saw the figure stumble, fall and roll, tumbling, sliding before it lay still, nearly invisible now in the white surf.
"Better give me a lesson and make it quick."
"I put down, you get out, climb up, get him, bring him back. Then we all go home and have a really big beer."
"Short lesson."
"No time for much more. Make him walk. If he can't, drag him. Grab some goggles. You'll need them. There's no fancy work here. It's just like crossing a pond and climbing a few rocks."
"Just doing it several thousand feet above sea level. No big deal."
She showed her teeth in a grin as she fought minor little wars to keep the plane steady. "That's the spirit."
The wind tore at the plane, and she fought back, dragging the nose back up, leveling the wings. She angled toward her approach, dropped the gear, cut back the throttle.
Nate decided not to hold his breath since inhaling and exhaling might not be an option very shortly. But she slid the plane onto the glacier, between the void and the wall.
"Move!" she ordered, but he was already yanking off his safety belt.
"It's probably twenty below out there, so you make it quick. Unless I have to take off again, don't try to give him any medical assistance until we've got him back in the plane. Just get him, haul him, dump him in."
"I've got it."
"One more thing," she shouted as he shoved open the door and the wind roared in. "If I do have to lift off, don't panic. I'll come back for you."
He leaped onto the mountain. It wasn't the time to question, to over-think. Cold cut into him like knives, and the air was so thin that it sliced his throat. There were hills rising up out of hills, rippling seas, acres of shadow, oceans of white.
He pushed himself across the glacier, settling for a lumbering jog instead of the sprint he'd hoped for.
When he hit rock, he went by instinct, pulling his way up, clattering like a goat, then sinking nearly to his knees when the short wall was scaled.
He heard engines, the wind and his own laboring breath.
He dropped down beside the boy and, despite Meg's instructions, felt for a pulse. The kid's face was gray, with rough patches of what looked like dried skin on his cheek, his chin.
But his eyes fluttered open. "Made it." He croaked out the words. "Made it."
"Yeah. Let's get the hell out of here."
"They're in the cave. Couldn't make it, couldn't make it down. Scott's sick, Brad—think his leg might be broken. I came for help. I came—"
"You've got it. You can show us where they are once we're back in the plane. Can you walk?"
"Don't know. Try."
Nate fought the boy up, took his weight. "Come on, Steven. One foot in front of the other. You've come this far."
"Can't feel my feet."
"Just lift your legs, one at a time. They'll follow. You've got to climb down." He could already feel the cold eating through his gloves and wished he'd thought to double up. "I'm not good enough at this to carry you. Hold on to me, and help me climb down. We've got to get down to help your friends."
"I had to leave them, to get help. Had to leave them with the dead man."
"It's all right. We're going back for them. We're climbing down now. Ready?"
"I can do it."
Nate went first. If the kid fell, fainted, slipped, he'd break the fall. He kept shouting at him as they picked their way down. Shouting to keep the boy steady and conscious, demanding answers to keep him alert.
"How long since you left your friends?"
"I don't know. Two days. Three? Hartborne didn't come back. Or . . . I think I saw, but then I didn't."
"Okay. Nearly there. You're going to show us where your friends are, in just a couple minutes."
"In the ice cave, with the dead man."
"Who's the dead man?" Nate dropped down on the glacier. "Who's the dead man?"
"Don't know." The voice was dreamy now as Steven slithered and slumped into Nate's hold. "Found him in the cave. Ice man, staring. Just staring. Got an ax in his chest. Spooky."
"I bet." He half dragged, half carried Steven toward the shuddering plane.
"He knows where the others are." He pushed, then climbed in to pull Steven into the plane. "He can show us."
"Get him in the back, under the blankets. First-aid kit's in the bag. Hot coffee in the thermos. Don't let him drink too much."
"Am I still alive?" The boy was shivering now, his body quaking from the cold.
"Yeah, you are."
Nate laid him on the floor between the seats, then covered him with blankets while Meg lifted off.
He heard the wind and engines screaming, and he wondered if they'd be ripped to pieces now after all.
"You need to tell us where your friends are."
"I can show you." With his teeth chattering, he tried to take the cup of coffee Nate poured.
"Here, let me do it. Just sip."
As he sipped, tears began to leak out of his eyes. "I didn't think I'd make it. They'd die up there because I couldn't make it down, to the plane."
"You did make it."
"Plane wasn't there. He wasn't there."
"We were. We were there." Doing his best to brace himself against the jolts of the plane, Nate carefully lifted the coffee again.
"We almost got to the top, but Scott was sick, and Brad fell. His leg's hurt. We got to the cave, we found the cave and got in before the storm hit. We stayed in there. There's a dead man."
"So you said."
"I'm not making it up."
Nate nodded. "You'll show us."
Nine
Nate hated hospitals. It was one of the triggers that shot him back into the dark. He'd spent too much time in one after he'd been wounded. Enough time for the pain and grief and guilt to coalesce into the gaping void of depression.
He hadn't been able to escape it. He'd longed for the emptiness of sleep, but sleep brought dreams, and dreams were worse than the black.
He'd hoped, passively, that he'd die. Just slide soundlessly away. He hadn't considered killing himself. That would have taken too much effort, too much activity.
No one had blamed him for Jack's death. He'd wanted them to, but instead they'd come with their flowers or sympathy, even their admiration. And it had weighed on him like lead.
Talk of therapy, counseling, antidepressants barely penetrated. He'd gone through the motions, just to get doctors and concerned friends off his back.
He'd gone through the motions for months.
Now he was back in a hospital and could feel the soft and sticky fingers of hopelessness plucking at him. Easier, so much easier to give in, to just let go and sink into the dark.
"Chief Burke?"
Nate stared down at the coffee in his hand. Black coffee. He didn't want it. Couldn't quite remember how it had gotten there. He was too tired for coffee. Too tired to get up and throw it away.
"Chief Burke?"
He glanced up, focused on a face. Female, mid-fifties, brown eyes behind small, black-framed glasses.
He couldn't quite remember who she was.
"Yeah, sorry."
"Steven would like to see you. He's awake and lucid."
It swam back slowly, like thoughts oozing through mud. The three boys, the mountain. "How's he doing?"
"He's young and healthy. He was dehydrated, and he may lose a couple toes, but he may keep them all. So, he's lucky. The other two are on their way in. I'm hoping the same goes."
"They got them. Off the mountain."
"That's what I'm told. You can have a few minutes with Steven."
"Thanks."
As he followed her, the sounds and smells of the ER penetrated.
The voices, the pings, the fretful crying of an infant.
He moved into an exam room and saw the boy on a bed. He had some color under the patches on his cheeks. His hair was matted and blond, his eyes clouded with worry.
"You got me off."
"Nate Burke. New chief of police in Lunacy." Since Steven held out a hand, Nate took it, careful to avoid pressing on the IV needle. "Your friends are on their way in."
"I heard. But nobody'll tell me how they are."
"We'll find out when they get here. They wouldn't be on their way if you hadn't given us the location, Steven. Nearly makes up for being stupid enough to go up there in the first place."
"Seemed like a good idea at the time." He tried a wan smile. "Everything went wrong. And I think something happened to Hartborne. We only gave him half the money, just to be sure he'd come back."
"We're checking into it. Why don't you give me his full name, any other information on him."
"Well, Brad knew him. Actually, Brad knew a guy who knew him."
"Okay. We'll talk to Brad."
"My parents are going to kill me."
Oh, to be twenty, Nate thought, and be as concerned with parental wrath as with a near-death experience. "Count on it. Tell me about the dead man in the cave, Steven."
"I didn't make it up."
"Not saying you did."
"We all saw him. We couldn't leave the cave, not with Brad's leg. We decided I'd go back down, meet Hartborne, get help. They had to stay in there with him. With The Ice Man. He was just sitting there, staring. The ax in his chest. I took pictures."
His eyes widened as he struggled to sit up straighten "I took pictures," he repeated. "The camera. It— I think it's in the pocket of my insulated vest. I think it's still there. You can see."
"Hold on a minute." Nate moved over to the pile of clothes, pawed through and came up with the vest. And in the inside zippered pocket was one of those small digital cameras, hardly bigger than a credit card.
"I don't know how to work this."
"I can show you. You have to turn it on, and then—see—the viewer here? You can call up pictures from the memory. The last ones I took were of the dead guy. I took like three, 'cause I wanted— there!"
Nate studied the facial close-up in the little viewer. The hair might've been black or brown, but it was covered with frost and ice that silvered it. Longish, nearly shoulder-length hair, with a dark watch cap pulled low over it. The face was narrow, white, slashed by ice-crusted brows. He'd seen death often enough to recognize it in the eyes. Wide and blue.
He recalled the previous picture.
There was the body of a man, age between—at his rough guess— twenty and forty. He sat with his back to the ice wall, legs splayed out. He wore a black and yellow parka and snow pants, climbing boots, heavy gloves.
What appeared to be a small ax was buried in his chest.
"Did you touch the body?"
"No. Well, I kinda poked at him—it. Frozen solid."
"Okay, Steven, I'm going to need to take your camera. I'll get it back to you."
"Sure. No problem. He could've been up there for years, you know? Decades or something. It creeped us out, let me tell you, but it sort of took our minds out of the shit we were in. Do you think they know anything about Brad and Scott?"
"I'll find out. I'll go get the doctor. I'm going to need to talk to you again."
"Anytime, man. Seriously, thanks for saving my life."
"Take better care of it."
He headed out, slipping the camera into his pocket. He'd have to contact the State Police, he thought. Homicide in the mountains was out of his jurisdiction. But that didn't mean he couldn't make some copies of the pictures for his own files.
Who was he? How had he gotten there? How long had he been there? Why was he dead? The questions got him through the ER and to the nurse's station just as the rescue team brought in the other two boys.
He decided the best place for him was out of the way, and when he spotted Meg swing in behind the team, he crossed to her.
"It's their lucky day," she said.
Nate caught a glimpse of one of the boy's faces, shook his head. "That's debatable."
"Any day the mountain doesn't kill you is lucky." And bringing them back alive when she'd expected to find bodies, pumped her. "They're probably going to lose a few digits, and the kid with the broken leg is in for some serious pain and physical therapy, but they're not dead. We've lost the light, and I don't see any reason to head out this late. We won't be flying back tonight. I'm going to get us a room at The Wayfarer. Rates are reasonable, and the food's good. You ready?"
"I've got a couple of things to do. I'll find you."
"You're longer than twenty minutes, you'll find me in the bar. I want alcohol, food and sex." She gave him a suggestive smile. "More or less in that order."
"Sounds reasonable. I'll be there."
She zipped up her coat. "Oh, that reflection you caught? Plane wreck. Probably the guy who took those kids up. Mountain got one after all."
* * *
He was closer to ninety than twenty minutes, and he found Meg, as promised, in the bar.
It was wood-paneled, smoky and decorated with animal heads. She was passing the time at her table with a beer and a bump, and a plate of something that looked like nachos. She had her feet up on the second chair, but shifted them off when Nate stepped up to the table.
"There you are. Hey, Stu? Same for my friend."
"Just the beer," Nate corrected. "These any good?" he asked as he pried up a nacho.
"They fill the hole. When we're suitably buzzed, we'll go have a steak. Did you stay back to keep an eye on those boys?"
"That, and a couple of other things." He dragged off his hat,