Black Ice

  In the bathroom, I studied the map. I wouldn't have a compass tonight, not unless Shaun or Mason left one of theirs out in the open where I could easily grab it, but Calvin had detailed the map with enough landmarks that I could connect the dots to the ranger station, roughly six miles away. I could do this. I had to do this.

  I rehearsed my plans, standing quietly by the window. It was only a surface calm. Deep down, I grew more and more frightened. How long could I last in the freezing woods without water, food, and shelter?

  Shaun yawned loudly and closed himself in the bedroom, leaving me alone in the living room with Mason.

  "I found a pair of wool socks in the bedroom," Mason told me, extending a pair of black Wigwam ski socks. "You might want to swap out the ones you're wearing so your feet stay dry."

  "You found them--you take them," I said, snubbing him.

  "I thought I'd offer them to you."

  "Why would you do that?"

  "Because I know how uncomfortable wet feet are."

  "I don't want the socks." But my feet were damp and cold, and I would have given almost anything for fresh socks--almost. Just not my self-respect, in accepting a gift from the man who held me captive.

  "Have it your way," he said with a shrug.

  "If I had my way, I wouldn't be here with you."

  "Take the sofa tonight," Mason offered, ignoring my biting tone. He threw his blanket in the rocking chair, claiming it, and peeled off his fleece jacket, leaving on his fitted gray thermal shirt. Next he took off his belt, presumably so it wouldn't grind into his hips while he slept. It was a harmless action, but somehow his undressing made the air in the room feel thicker.

  Mason rotated his arms in wide circles, releasing tension in his shoulders. I didn't want to watch him, in case it gave the wrong impression, but when he didn't seem to notice me, I continued to study him in quick, stolen glances. He was taller than Calvin and more muscular. Not in a bulky, gym-rat way, but it was obvious he was athletic. His tight shirt revealed sculpted arms and a broad chest that tapered to a hard, flat stomach. It was difficult to recall what I'd first thought of him at the gas station, yesterday. Before I knew who he really was. That first meeting felt so very long ago. And I'd been so very wrong about him.

  Finally, a more recent memory of Cal. It dropped into my head after I'd given up, and wasn't that the way it always happened? It was a good one. Our first trip to Jackson Lake as a couple. I'd been stretched out on a towel on the shore, reading People magazine. Calvin and his friends were taking turns racing jet skis around the buoys. I'd only finished one article when lake water, icy cold, dripped on my back.

  I rolled over, startled, as Calvin flung himself playfully onto my towel and pulled me close to cuddle. He was soaking wet. I shrieked, trying halfheartedly to squirm away. The truth was, I loved that he'd left his friends to spend time with me.

  "You didn't jet-ski very long," I pointed out.

  "Long enough to keep the guys happy. Now I get to keep you happy."

  I kissed him, slow and deliberate. "And how do you plan on doing that?"

  He wiped a smudge of wet sand off my cheek with his thumb. We were propped on our elbows, facing each other, gazing into each other's eyes with an intensity that made my blood feel like it had been lit on fire. Just before he leaned in to kiss me back, the moment seemed to hold its breath, and I remembered thinking how perfect he was. How perfect we were.

  I could have lived in that moment forever.

  "Take first dibs on the bathroom," Mason told me, transporting me back to the thick of the nightmare. I tried to block him out. My mind was desperately fishing for more of the memory. I wanted to replay that perfect moment over and over.

  Mason stopped stuffing his pillow into a laundered pillowcase and gave me a funny look, and I knew I hadn't erased the nostalgic, faraway expression from my face fast enough. He kept his emotions locked away, and I wanted to be equally self-controlled. But this time I'd slipped.

  "You're thinking about him? The guy from 7-Eleven?" he asked gently.

  I felt a flash of anger--not because he'd been perceptive enough to guess the truth, but because he'd brought up Calvin. I was stuck in this awful place and the only thing keeping me from losing it was Calvin, the memories of him and, yes, even the hopes, because as imperfect as our relationship had been, I still had hope for us. Things would be different this time. We knew each other better. We knew ourselves better. We'd grown up during the last year, and our maturity would show. Until I was far from this place, and back with Calvin, he was my secret life jacket, my sanctuary, the one thing Mason and Shaun couldn't take. If I lost Calvin, I lost everything. The nightmare would swallow me whole.

  "I don't have to use the bathroom," I said curtly, again rejecting his kindness. I did have to pee, but thinking about my bladder would keep me awake through the night. The worst that could happen now would be to fall asleep and miss my chance. "And I'll take the rocking chair," I said coldly. "I slept fine in it earlier."

  Mason appeared doubtful. "It doesn't look comfortable. Really, you can have the sofa. I'll feel better if you do." He shot me a brief, disparaging smile. "This is your chance to make me bear my load of the pain."

  "Why does my comfort suddenly matter to you?" I lashed out. "You're holding me here against my will. You're forcing me to hike in exhausting, frigid, dangerous conditions. Am I supposed to believe you're suddenly worried how I feel? Because this is how I feel: I hate it here. And I hate you. More than I've ever hated anyone!"

  A spark of emotion flickered over his face before it turned stoic again.

  "I'm keeping you here because there is a blizzard outside. You wouldn't make it on your own. You're safer here with me, even though you don't believe it."

  I was seized with rage. "I don't believe it. That's exactly the kind of lie you want me to believe to keep me passive and obedient. You're keeping me here because you need me to get you off this mountain, end of story. I hate you, and I'll kill you if I get the chance. Would love to, in fact!" They were strong words, and I realized I'd probably never carry out their threat. Even if I got the opportunity, I didn't believe myself capable of killing another human, but I wanted to make myself perfectly clear. None of this was okay.

  I was angry and frustrated, but the truth was, the more I spent time with Mason, the harder it was to believe he was capable of killing another human. I'd seen the shock and horror on his face when Shaun brutally shot the game warden. And even though I'd originally suspected Mason had been involved in the death of the girl whose body I'd found at the cabin, I was starting to think he didn't have anything to do with it. He might not even know about the body.

  "Just please take the sofa," Mason said one last time, his voice infuriatingly calm.

  "Never," I breathed wrathfully. With a pointed look at him, I brushed his blanket onto the floor and sat in the rocking chair as grandly as if it were a throne. The curved bars dug into my back and the hard, wooden seat didn't have a cushion. I wouldn't be able to sleep twenty consecutive minutes. Every time I shifted, I'd be jarred awake. Meanwhile, Mason, who had to be exhausted, would sleep soundly on the sofa.

  "Good night, Britt," Mason said uncertainly, clicking off the lamp.

  I didn't respond. I didn't want him to think I was softening, or that I was letting him in. I wouldn't crack. As long as he kept me here, I would hate him.

  I woke up damp with sweat. For several disoriented seconds, I couldn't remember where I was. The walls flickered with shadows, and I turned to find the source--the fire, which had died down, but gave off heat. As I stretched my legs, the rocking chair creaked, and that's when I remembered how vital it was that I not make a sound.

  Mason stirred at the noise, but after a pause, his breathing resumed droning softly through the darkness. He lay sprawled on the sofa, his cheek pressed into the cushion, his mouth parted slightly, his too long legs and arms draping over the edges. He looked different with the firelight dancing on his face and a pillo
w hugged to his chest. He looked younger, boyish. Innocent.

  His blanket had fallen off in the night, and as I walked silently past, I stepped over it, listening to the quiet rise and fall of his breathing. The air felt almost solid as I pushed my way toward the front door. Barely breaking stride, I greedily picked up a headlamp and canteen, which, to my great fortune, one of them had left on the kitchen bar. The canteen was full. An even better stroke of luck.

  I put one foot in front of the other, eyes boring into the door handle, which seemed to slide out of reach with every step.

  A heartbeat later, it was in my hand. My stomach somersaulted, part joy, part fear--there was no turning back now. I twisted the knob by the tiniest degrees. It reached the end of the rotation. All I had to do was pull. The pressure in the cabin would change slightly when I opened the door, but Mason wouldn't notice. He was deep in slumber. And the fire would chase away the cold draft I let in.

  Suddenly I was on the porch, inching the door shut behind me. I half expected to hear Mason bolt to his feet and chase me, shouting for Shaun to wake up. But the only sound came from the bitterly cold wind striking snow, as fine as sand, at my face.

  The woods were abysmally dark; I'd only made it one hundred paces from the patrol cabin when, in a single backward glance, I could no longer see it. The night enveloped it in velvety blackness.

  The wind whipped through my clothes and lashed at any patches of skin I hadn't managed to cover, but I was almost grateful for it. I was wide-awake from cold. And if Mason and Shaun came looking for me, it would be impossible for them to hear my movements above the fierce whistle hissing down the slopes. Bolstered by this line of thinking, I wrapped my coat more tightly around me, shielded my eyes from the blowing precipitation, and picked my way carefully up the steep slope riddled with rock fragments and tree stumps that hid beneath the snow. The rocks were jagged enough, and hard enough, that if I fell at the right angle, I could break a bone.

  An owl hooted overhead. The sound carried into the midnight-black woods, mingling with the howl of wind tearing through the branches and clacking them together with haunting effect. I tried to quicken my pace, but the snow was too deep, and I continually sank forward on my knees, nearly dropping the canteen and headlamp in my arms. As tempted as I was to switch on the headlamp, I didn't dare yet. Until I was a safe distance from the patrol cabin, it would act like a beacon for Mason and Shaun to follow.

  By the time I reached the summit, my climbing pace had lagged, and my breathing was labored. My legs trembled with exhaustion, and knots of stress seemed to ball like fists in my lower back. The anxiety of the past twenty-four hours had taken a toll--I'd never felt so sucked of energy, so small and powerless in the shadow of the treacherous mountains.

  According to Calvin's map, I needed to get over this pass and down into the basin, which I could follow to the park ranger station. But there was no clear path, and as I waded through the snow, it crept higher up my boots, making each step increasingly heavy.

  An itchy warmth prickled along the inseams of my clothes and under my arms. I'd broken a sweat, a mistake. Later, when I rested, the sweat would cool and freeze against my skin, rapidly lowering my body temperature. I'd have to worry about it when it happened. The park ranger station was miles away. I had to keep moving. But to be safe, I slowed my pace further.

  Compacting snow between my gloves, I made a slushy ball, and pushed it into my mouth, letting the icy mixture melt down my throat. It was painfully cold, but invigorating. If I was sweating, I needed to drink. It seemed impossible that I could dehydrate in such cold weather, but I trusted the guidebooks and my training.

  A hazy beam of light bobbed spottily in the woods ahead. Instinctively, I dropped behind a tree. I ground my back into it, forming a frantic, rapid conclusion. The light originated behind me, not very far away. I strained my ears, listening. A man's voice, shouting. The wind distorted his words, but he was hollering my name.

  "Britt!"

  I couldn't tell if it was Mason or Shaun, but I almost prayed it was Shaun. I stood a chance of escaping him. The forest was a vast maze; he'd never be able to track me.

  "Britt! Not . . . hurt you. Stop . . . run!"

  I wasn't above the tree line, but the dense woods sheltering the bottom of the mountain had thinned. I didn't have the cover I needed, and though indeed it was indescribably dark, he had a flashlight. The minute I stepped into the open, he'd see me. I was trapped.

  The light swerved away. With a moment to think, I decided to make a run for it. Breaking into the open, I lunged toward the next cluster of trees, using my free arm to propel myself faster. Far short of my target, I tripped, hands shooting out as I sprawled on the snow a split moment before the flashlight glided back, illuminating the darkness above my head. I army-crawled several more feet, dragging my supplies behind me and taking cover behind an outcropping of rock that jutted like an iceberg above the sea of snow.

  I watched the beam from his flashlight scatter intermittent light through the branches ahead.

  He was closer, moving up the mountainside far faster than I had. Squeezing the canteen and headlamp to my chest, I pushed to my feet and ran to another patch of trees.

  ". . . help each other!"

  Help each other? I had the sickening urge to laugh. He thought I'd fall for that? He wanted off the mountain; as soon as I helped him, he'd kill me. I stood a better chance at survival facing the forest alone.

  I set my provisions in the snow beside me. Planting my gloved hands on my thighs, I leaned forward, giving my upper body a moment's rest. I was breathing so loudly, I was sure he'd hear it. Each gulp of air scraped painfully down my throat. I was so lightheaded, I feared I might pass out.

  "Britt? It's Mason."

  Damn, damn, damn.

  He called out to me in a reassuring voice, but I wasn't going to let it fool me. "I know you can hear me," he continued. "You can't be far. There's another storm coming; that's why the wind has picked up. You can't stay out here. You'll freeze to death."

  I squeezed my eyes shut against the gusting snow. He's lying, he's lying! I shouted the words at myself, because I felt my resolve weakening. I was frightened and desperate and cold, and to my amazement, I actually wanted to believe him. I wanted to trust that he'd help me. That scared me most of all. Because deep down, I knew the minute I moved out from behind the tree, I was dead.

  From my hideout, I watched him kneel a short distance away and observe how my tracks had disrupted the snow. Even if I tried to run, it was inevitable. He'd catch me now or in five minutes.

  "Think about it, Britt," Mason called. "You don't want to die out here. If you can hear me, call out my name."

  Never, I thought at him.

  I watched him pick up my trail and start jogging toward my hideout. I knew what was coming, but knowing my fate didn't dim the deeply embedded need to survive. I pushed to my feet and ran as hard as I could.

  "Britt, stop!" he shouted.

  "No!" I said, whirling around to face him. "Never." I bit off the word. I would not go back. I would fight. I would die fighting rather than let him drag me back.

  He started to shine the flashlight on me, thought better, and instead of blinding me, asked, "Are you okay?"

  "No."

  "You're hurt?" There was evident alarm in his voice.

  "Just because I'm not hurt doesn't mean I'm okay."

  He hiked uphill, approaching me cautiously. He circled me, scrutinizing me for injuries. His eyes fell on the ground, to my stolen provisions.

  "You took a canteen and headlamp," he said, sounding almost impressed. Which made me feel a strange mix of pride and irritation. Of course I'd grabbed what I could. I wasn't helpless.

  And then his voice turned serious, admonishing. "Three hours. That's how long you would have lasted out here on your own, Britt. Less, if this storm turns severe."

  "I'm not going back." I sat in the snow, cementing my position.

  "You'd rather die ou
t here?"

  "You're going to kill me anyway."

  "I'm not going to let Shaun kill you."

  I snapped my chin up. "Why should I believe you? You're a criminal. You belong in prison. I hope the police catch you and send you away for life. You didn't stop Shaun from killing the game warden or shooting that cop. Or from killing that girl in the cabin," I went on, before I could stop myself. I hadn't meant to tell Mason that I knew about the dead body, but it was too late for secrets now.

  Mason's brows pulled together. "What girl?"

  His confusion seemed genuine, but he was a good liar. And damned if I was going to let him fool me again. "The storage room at the cabin, the one you forced me to stay in. There was a large toolbox with a dead body inside. You really expect me to believe you know nothing about it?"

  A brittle pause.

  "Did you tell Shaun about the body?" Mason asked, his voice unnaturally cool and calm. But his whole body had gone rigid, tight as a knot.

  "Why? Did you kill her?" Cold dread trickled into my veins.

  "You didn't tell Shaun."

  "And I don't know why I didn't!" I fired back, as nervous as I was distraught. Had Mason killed her? I'd seen glimpses of a nicer guy, but maybe I'd been wrong. Maybe all along I'd let a few kind gestures distract me from seeing his true character. "You were never going to let me live, not from the first moment."

  "I meant what I said; I'm not going to kill you. And neither is Shaun--I won't let him."

  "Really," I breathed wrathfully. "Do you hear how stupid and empty that promise sounds? Shaun has the gun. He's in control. You're--nothing more than his pathetic lackey!"

  Instead of taking offense, Mason watched me closely, as if trying to figure out my true frame of mind.

  "Stand up," he said at last. "Your clothes are getting wet and your body temperature is going to drop."

  "So? Let me die. I'm not going to help you off the mountain. I'm done helping you and Shaun. You can't force me to do it. I'm useless to you. Just let me go."

  Mason hoisted me to my feet, swatting snow off my clothes. "Where's the tough little girl from before? The girl who wanted to backpack the Teton Range, damn the odds stacked against her?"

  "I'm not her anymore. I want to go home," I said, my eyes filming. I missed my dad and Ian. They must be so worried about me.