Black Ice

  Had I shot him? Where was the blood? Had I missed?

  Laughing with quiet menace, Calvin stayed on his knee an extra moment before rising to his full height. There was a coldness in his eyes that robbed me of breath. There was nothing of my Calvin left. He looked exactly like his dad.

  I squeezed the trigger again. And again. Each time, a dull, empty click slapped my ears.

  "Damn unlucky for you," he said, ripping the gun out of my hands. He grasped me roughly by the elbow, dragging me across the room toward the front door. I dug in my heels and wrenched from side to side. I knew what he was going to do next, because it was the worst possible way he could hurt me. I wasn't wearing a coat. I wasn't even wearing boots.

  "Korbie!" I screamed. Would she hear? If she didn't stop her brother--

  "Calvin? What's going on?"

  Calvin jerked around, startled by the sound of his sister's voice on the stairs. Her sleepy gaze flickered between her brother and me.

  "Why are you hurting Britt?" she asked.

  "Korbie." Tears fell down my face. "Calvin killed those girls. The girls who went missing last year. He killed Shaun. And who knows who else. He's going to kill me too. You have to stop him."

  Calvin spoke calmly. "She's lying, Korb. Obviously she's lying. She's delusional, a completely normal reaction to the hypothermia and dehydration she suffered out there in the forest. Go back to bed. I've got this. I'm going to give her a sleeping pill and put her to bed."

  "Korbie," I sobbed. "I'm telling the truth. Check the kitchen cabinets and the garbage bin out back. He's been living here all winter. He never went to Stanford."

  Korbie frowned, eyeing me like I'd lost my mind. "I know you're pissed at Calvin for breaking up with you, but that doesn't mean he's a killer. Calvin's right. You need sleep."

  I made a frantic sound and tugged fiercely against Calvin's grip. "Let me go! Let me go!"

  "Come here, Korbie," Calvin said, gritting his teeth as he wrestled me more securely into his hold, "and help me get her into bed." Squashing his mouth to my ear, he hissed, "Did you really think my sister would go against me?"

  "Go for help! Get the police!" I yelled to Korbie. With growing panic, I watched her descend the stairs.

  "It's okay, Britt," she said. "I know how you feel. I felt the same way when Calvin found me at the cabin. I was dehydrated and I saw things that weren't real. I thought Calvin was Shaun."

  "Get the police!" I screamed. "For once, just do what I say! This has nothing to do with me and Calvin!"

  "Pin her legs together," Calvin instructed his sister.

  Korbie knelt down beside me, and that's when Calvin slammed the butt of the gun against the base of her skull. Without a sound, Korbie sank to the ground.

  "Korbie!" I yelled. But she was out cold.

  "When she wakes up, I'll tell her you kicked her in the head," Calvin grunted, dragging me toward the front door.

  "You won't do this to me!" I shrieked hysterically, fighting to free myself. His arms, locked around me, seemed to grind into my bones. "You won't hurt me, Calvin!"

  Calvin opened the door and thrust me onto the porch. I tripped over the threshold, sprawling hands-first into the snow.

  "Stay close," he said. "Mason doesn't care about his own life, but maybe he cares about yours. I'll call you back in after he tells me where he hid the map."

  "Cal--" I begged, throwing myself forward at his feet.

  He shut the door in my face.

  Through a haze of disbelief, I heard the dead bolt roll into place.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  I rose to my feet, dusting snow off my pj's. My mind waded through a black fog of shock, but on some deeper level, I mechanically processed my next crucial moves. I needed to keep dry. I needed to find shelter.

  I eyed the edge of the dark forest, where the towering wall of trees swayed in the wind. The woods seemed alive, haunted; they seemed to be stirring uneasily.

  My palms were scraped and bleeding from my fall. I stared at them blankly, thinking they couldn't be my hands. This couldn't be happening to me. I couldn't be out in the cold again, facing death. Calvin would not hurt me this way. I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them, trying to flush out the fog and return to reality--because this couldn't be my reality.

  I gazed up at Idlewilde. Seen from the outside, it had transformed. Instantly, it had become as sprawling and foreboding as the mountains around it, as cold and impenetrable as a castle carved from ice. I pounded my fists on the windows, gazing hungrily at the warmth inside while the wind whipped through my pj's and the cold boards of the porch sucked heat through my soles.

  I could not see Calvin. My eyes traveled to the door at the top of the stairs. The door had been open when Calvin threw me out, but it was closed now. All at once, reality did return. Behind that door, Calvin was giving Jude his options: Reveal where the map is hidden. Or let Britt freeze to death.

  I'm going to freeze to death, I thought. Jude won't tell Calvin where the map is. He wants Cal to go down for his sister's murder. He's willing to give up his life, and mine, for it.

  The gravity of this thought startled me out of my paralysis. Jude would not come to my rescue. I was alone. My survival depended solely on me.

  I didn't know how long I had. An hour at most. My internal temperature would continue to drop, and I knew too well what would happen next. I'd lose the use of my hands and feet. If I walked, my steps would be slow and uncoordinated. Then the hallucinations would start. With no accurate picture of my surroundings, I would begin to see things that weren't real. I would dream of a roaring fire, and sit contently by it to warm myself, when in reality I would be lying in the snow, slipping deeper into a sleep that I would never wake from.

  Clenching my teeth against the icy burn of the snow melting through my socks, I ran across the front yard. I rounded the cabin, the wind immediately blasting me. My eyes watered and my brain screamed in shock. Ducking my head, I struggled forward toward the ditch.

  The ditch. It was as much a part of Idlewilde as the cabin. Korbie and Calvin had introduced me to it on my first visit, years ago. Mr. Versteeg had installed a footbridge over the deep ditch that ran along the back edge of the property, creating a shady nook beneath the trestle that Calvin had christened, unimaginatively, "the ditch." Dragging a large square of carpet into the basin of the ditch, Korbie had given the ditch a touch of warmth, and Calvin had nailed flanks of wood to make a ladder to hoist us safely in and out. The last time I'd come to Idlewilde with the Versteegs, Korbie and I had discovered Calvin's cache of cigarettes and adult magazines hidden under a flap of the carpet. In exchange for our silence, Korbie and I had blackmailed Calvin for fifty dollars apiece. What I'd give to go back and rat him out.

  As I climbed down into the ditch, my heart sank to find it offered almost no relief. The carpet fibers were stiff with frost, and the wind could not be fooled; it surged after me, tormenting me with wintry gusts.

  It hurt to draw breath, every inhalation washing me in a deeper wave of cold. I felt completely alone. I could not call my dad for help. I couldn't drag Ian to my aid. As for Jude, he was tied to a bed and suffering through torture by Calvin. I had to build a fire, but the enormity of the task overwhelmed me. If I failed, there was no one to save me. I was utterly and truly alone.

  Leaning back against the ditch, I began to cry.

  While I cried, a strange memory unfolded: I was very young, and dashed outside barefoot one wintry day to play tag with Ian and his friends. My feet felt blisteringly cold on the sidewalk, but I couldn't bring myself to leave the game even for a minute to go inside for shoes. Instead, I pushed the cold out of my mind and played on. I wished I felt that way now. Absorbed in any distracting task that took my mind off the raw, penetrating, relentless cold.

  Dig for dry twigs around the trees. I heard Jude's voice slip into my thoughts.

  I can't, I thought back bleakly. I can't walk on the snow; I have no shoes. I can't dig in the snow; I have n
o gloves.

  Pine pitch. It burns like gasoline, remember? Jude's voice persisted.

  And waste what little energy I have hunting for it? I returned.

  I ran my trembling hands over the rigid carpet fibers, wondering how long it would be until I was like them. Frozen solid. It was while staring despondently at them that the idea pushed into my mind: Cal's cigarettes.

  I peeled back the edge of the carpet. There, nestled into a matted patch of brown weeds, were a carton of cigarettes and a book of matches from Holiday Inn. Cold, but dry. There was a chance they'd light.

  This small victory propelled me to act. As agonizing as it would be to run over the snow to find kindling, I had to. I threw together a hurried plan before I talked myself out of it.

  I could build a platform using the firewood Mr. Versteeg kept stacked near the kitchen door. I'd seen a fallen bird's nest near one of the trees; it could be broken down to form kindling. Pine cones and tree bark too. And I would scrape pine sap from the trees with my fingernails.

  Gritting my teeth against the cold, I climbed out of the ditch and staggered into the wind. It slapped me with each icy blast. Stumbling forward one soaked foot at a time, I constricted my focus, until my thoughts consisted of only one thing: I would gather what I needed for a fire, or die trying.

  I stopped battling the intolerable cold. I was freezing, and I accepted it. I put my energy into clawing my brittle fingers into the snow drifted around the trees, scavenging for bark, pine cones, twigs, and dry needles. Stuffing every treasure into my pockets, I paused only to shake feeling back into my fingers. Then I went back to work, scraping, clawing, digging.

  With my pockets full, I ran in broken steps to the ditch. My hands and feet worked slowly. Even my brain lagged, churning thoughts like it was a rusty gear grinding reluctantly into motion.

  I knew building a platform was the first step, but picking out the proper pieces from my scavenged resources was immensely difficult. I could feel my concentration slipping away. Shivering, I used my fists to nudge the larger logs together.

  I was growing tired quickly. My hands trembled with cold, and with great deliberation and frustration, I tried to prop the twigs into a tepee. After several minutes, I'd successfully braced six or seven of the twigs upright. I broke apart the bird's nest and carefully wedged the tinder between the wobbly legs of the tepee. My knuckles bumped one of the sides, and the structure collapsed. With a cry of despair, I sank forward on my knees, sucking on my fingers to thaw them.

  I started over. One twig at a time, I uprighted the tepee. This time, I fared better. It wasn't perfect, but I hoped it was enough. Striking a match between the flaps of the matchbook, I watched a small trail of smoke drift upward. Again and again I struck the match, until it was wasted. I drew a new match, and tried again. And again. My hands shook uncontrollably. If one of the matches didn't light soon, I was afraid I'd lose my ability to squeeze the match between the flaps, creating the necessary friction. Already my left hand was too stiff to manipulate.

  "Damn," I said wearily.

  And then I had the idea of striking the match against a rock. I didn't know why it hadn't occurred to me sooner, except that I could feel my good judgment fading rapidly, my fingers not the only part of me too numb to work. Thankfully the bridge overhead had kept the rock dry. Sluggishly, my brain struggled to process each command.

  Rock. Match. Strike. Hurry.

  It was with something of a shock that I watched the match sizzle to life. I stared at the dancing flame, eyes watering with tears of amazement. With extreme care, I set the flame against the tinder. Slowly it began to smoke, then burn. After a few seconds, the fire grew to eat the kindling. When the logs also began to ignite, I pressed my hands to my face with a sob of relief.

  A fire.

  I was not going to freeze to death.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Huddling close to the fire, I rubbed feeling back into my fingers. It was tempting to think I could rest now, but I knew the clock was ticking. I could not sit here through the night--I had to get Jude out. I'd made it over one hurdle, but I was not done.

  I shuddered as I thought about what was happening within the walls of Idlewilde. Calvin wouldn't stop until he had the map. He would know how to hurt Jude, how to wear him down. If I waited much longer, I feared it would be too late.

  And then my plan came to me. I straightened in surprise. Jude had found a way inside Idlewilde without using the front or back doors. Whatever access point he'd used, I had to find it.

  Savoring the heat one final moment, I braced myself for the impending cold, then scrabbled out of the ditch. Running along the perimeter of the cabin, I made my way from window to window, trying to pry open the glass. One of them had to be unlocked. It was the only way Jude could have gotten in. And then, as I rounded the side of the cabin, I saw Jude's access point. A basement window had been broken.

  I lowered myself into the window well. The tools he'd used lay at my feet: a large stone and a piece of firewood. Jude had used the stone to break the glass, and the wood to knock free any shards gaping like teeth from the frame.

  I drew up a mental blueprint of Idlewilde. The bedroom at the top of the stairs was on the opposite side of the cabin. Jude must have scouted the cabin for some time, determined Calvin's and my positions, and forced his way inside as far from us as possible, to minimize the chance that we would hear the glass shatter.

  It had been a wise plan. It also meant that I had to cross nearly every room in the cabin to reach Jude, without first being discovered by Calvin.

  I darted through the chilly darkness of the basement. At the top of the basement stairs, I eased the door open, peering into the kitchen. The lights were off, and I scurried through the kitchen and into the dining room, hiding at the edge of a wall as I surveyed the living room. I could see Korbie on the sofa. She was still unconscious, but Calvin had covered her in blankets. Of all of us, Korbie was the safest. Despite what Calvin had done to her, I didn't think he could ever bring himself to kill his sister. Which meant I would get Jude out, go for help, and then come back for her.

  My coat and boots were near the front door, and I grabbed them before climbing the stairs to the second floor, my footsteps making soft creaks that seemed deafening to my ears. At the door at the top of the stairs, I listened. Nothing. I opened the door.

  The stench of blood and sweat hung in the air. The candle flickered on the nightstand, casting dim light on the motionless figure on top of the mattress. Jude's arms and legs, though tied, were relaxed, and his head lolled to one side, cradled on his good shoulder. For one terrifying moment, I thought he was dead. But as I stepped closer, his chest rose shallowly. He was asleep. Or passed out. Given the amount of blood on the sheets, I guessed it was the latter.

  I hurried to the bedside, drawing back the sheet. The window had been shut, but a cold draft clung to the air. I didn't want to send him into another shivering spell, but I had to stir him awake. At the removal of the sheet, however, I felt a sickening wrench. The cause of the blood-dampened sheets came into full view.

  The gory picture was enough to make my insides revolt. I threw my hand over my mouth, stifling the urge to be sick. Red, painful-looking welts and blisters dotted Jude's chest. But the marks on his body did not compare to the swollen lumps around his eyes, or the raw, split skin at his cheekbones. A bag of bruised skin puffed up like a small purple balloon around the now crooked bone at the bridge of his nose. His breathing came in soft, wheezing spurts, further proof that his nose was broken. Only his mouth had been left untouched, but of course Calvin wouldn't want to damage it, I thought bitterly. He needed Jude to talk. He needed the map.

  "Britt?"

  At the sound of Jude's feeble voice, I clasped his hand tightly. "Yes, it's me. You're going to be okay. I'm here now. Everything is going to be okay," I finished determinedly. No need to alert him to his condition by a horrified wavering of my voice.

  "Where's Calvin?"

/>   "I don't know. He could come back at any moment, so we need to hurry."

  "Thank God you're safe," he murmured. "He let you back inside?"

  "No. He would have let me die." My voice sounded thin. "I came in through the basement window."

  "Tough, determined Britt," he sighed wearily. "Knew you'd find a way."

  I'm not tough, I wanted to tell him. I'm scared and afraid we're both going to die. But Jude needed me strong right now. I would be strong for him. "How bad off are you? Do you need a tourniquet?" There was a shocking amount of blood still seeping from the bandage around his shoulder. I had learned how to apply a tourniquet at camp, but I wasn't sure I remembered how to do it correctly. Jude would have to instruct me.

  "No," he said hoarsely. "It was a graze. Just like he wanted."

  I stared at him. "He has good aim," I said at last.

  "Most killers do."

  I couldn't bring myself to laugh at his joke. "There's another cabin a mile away. With any luck, someone's home. If not, we can break in and use the phone to call the police." I was proud of the confidence I'd managed to force into my voice, but a worry clouded my brain. Jude was in no condition to walk. Especially in bitterly cold temperatures.

  Even though every plane of his battered face was drawn taut in pain, Jude managed to turn his head, finding my eyes. "Have I told you how amazing you are? The smartest, bravest, most beautiful girl I know."

  His murmured endearment brought on a fresh surge of tears. I wiped my nose on the back of my hand, nodding enthusiastically, trying to show him confidence. My true feelings--despair, hopelessness, and fear--I pushed out of my mind, not wanting him to read them in my eyes.

  "We're going to get out of here," I said, tugging at the knots at his wrists. I untied them first, sucking in a sharp breath at the sight of the raw marks chafing his skin, then moved to his ankles, one of which was grotesquely swollen to the size of a tennis ball.