Silence, as deathly as a funeral parlor, filled the cabin.
Oliver turned to Regi. His heart was in his throat as he stared at his bloody face and prayed the kid was alive. His left eye was already swollen shut and the cut to his lip was so bad he’d probably need stitches. Regi’s good eye fluttered and Oliver let out the breath he’d been holding.
Regi reached up to touch his split lip. “You fucker.” He spat blood at Pope’s feet.
The thug didn’t seem to notice. Pope’s meaty hand was smeared in blood, and he stared at it like it was the first time he’d seen blood. Oliver was certain it wasn’t. His other hand was slack, the gun aimed at the floor. When Pope raised his eyes and looked at Oliver, a sick grin formed on his burnt lips.
Oliver waited.
Waited for Pope to make the next move.
Waited for Regi to.
Waited to be assassinated.
The plane creaked as if overwhelmed with the horror it contained.
Regi groaned and Holly cried soft little whimpers that broke Oliver’s heart.
When Pope slumped into the front seat and blinked around at the carnage, Oliver had a feeling that the man was emerging from some sort of evil state. His rage, like his brutish stature, appeared to diminish. His eyes, which had emitted pure hatred just moments ago, had a glimmer of lucidity.
“Right.” Pope’s voice was brittle, like his throat too had been scorched by the sun. “We better get ready for the night.”
Holly’s hand darted to her mouth; her eyes skipped from Oliver to Pope and back to Chancy’s lifeless body. Oliver knew what she was thinking. That they should get out of there. Get back to safety.
But it wasn’t going to happen.
Not now.
Maybe never.
Pope won’t let them go. Not after what he’d just done. After what they’d witnessed. They were dead. Just like the pilot, they were destined to remain on Whiskey Mountain. Maybe forever.
Oliver forced his brain to focus. They were alive. Pope could’ve shot them all right there and then. But he hadn’t. He’d spared them for a reason. The answer came quickly. Pope needed them. Without them, he wouldn’t get to Milton’s body. He needed Regi too. Without Regi there was no billion-dollar estate to settle.
Their only option was to follow Pope’s orders, keep him pacified, and hope for a miracle.
That glimmer of hope was enough to get him moving.
He touched Holly’s arm and begged for her to look at him. When her red-rimmed eyes met his, he nodded and tried to portray a look of strength and control that implied everything would work out.
Oliver turned back to Pope. “What do you need me to do?”
Pope squinted at Oliver as if he was assessing whether he was planning to double-cross him. “I’ll get the food,” Oliver prompted.
Pope nodded. “Yes, the food. And don’t try anything stupid or I’ll shoot her.” He aimed the gun at Holly. But rather than crumble under the weight of the threat, she pushed up from her knees and stood with her bloodied gloves rolled into fists at her sides.
The determination in her eyes, in her stature, in everything about her, made Oliver’s heart swell, and for the first time in his life, he was willing to put his life on the line to save someone.
No matter what happened, he’d do anything and everything to protect her.
Oliver stood with his hands raised and stepped to block Pope’s aim. The thug eyeballed him. “The food’s outside,” Oliver said. “On the sled.” As he walked between the rows of chairs, Pope backed up to stand between the pilot and co-pilot’s seats, giving Oliver access to the door.
The exit creaked open, and when Oliver stepped into the frigid air, he realized just how warm it’d become inside the plane. It gave him hope that they wouldn’t freeze to death in their sleep.
Without the crampons, his boots slipped in the snow, and using his hands as stabilizers he crossed the short distance to the sled. He tugged off his gloves, shoved them in his pockets, and, working quickly, untied the knots to release the webbing that held everything in place. The satchel containing the food was on top. He removed it and tossed it toward the plane door, along with the cooking equipment and small cooking stove.
His heart raced when their belts caught his attention. Hooked into everyone’s belts were ice axes. The temptation to grab one and shove it down his jacket was so strong he could barely breathe. But Pope would be watching through the cabin windows, of that he was sure.
He spied the lanterns, and while making a show of releasing them from the webbing he covered an axe with a roll of rope. All sorts of other equipment on the sled could serve as weapons too: hooks, ice screws, the crampons—hell, even the belay devices could do some damage. All Oliver needed was the right moment.
Just before he pulled his gloves back on, he saw a first aid kit. He pulled it from the rigging and resisted opening it until he returned inside. Oliver’s fingers were aching with the cold by the time he put his gloves back on.
Back at the door, he tugged it open, shoved everything inside, and, mindful of the escaping warmth, quickly jumped back in and slammed the door shut. He turned to Holly; she was in the back seat, and she nodded at him, confirming she was okay.
Oliver tipped the contents of the food bag onto the front seat. There were several different choices of hydrated meals. He turned to Pope. “What do you want?”
Pope indicated with the gun for Oliver to go to the back. He turned his back on Pope and strode to Holly. They wrapped their arms around each other and he kissed her forehead. When he pulled back, he squeezed her hand and met her glare. “We’ll be okay.”
Maybe she believed him, or maybe she was too petrified to talk. Either way, she remained silent. Oliver turned to Regi and touched his leg.
Regi flinched and opened his right eye.
“Hey, man, I found the first aid kit. I’ll get you painkillers in a minute.”
He nodded. “Thanks.”
“I’ll have this one.” Pope tossed one of the food packets onto a spare chair, and Oliver picked it up.
“Beef curry. Good choice.” Oliver hoped his upbeat response would give him some leeway. “Mind if I grab that first aid kit?”
Pope gave a curt nod. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I won’t.” Oliver unclipped the clasps on the kit as he stepped back to Regi. Using the opposite chair, he rummaged through the contents and plucked out a packet of painkillers.
He turned to Holly. “Can you get some water?”
She nodded and reached for her water bottle.
Oliver touched the younger man’s shoulder. “Regi.”
Regi’s right eye opened and he wriggled back on his seat. “Yeah.”
“Here’s some painkillers.” He placed two pills into Regi’s palm.
“Here you go.” Holly handed him her water bottle.
Oliver couldn’t imagine the pounding headache Regi must be experiencing. When he opened his mouth to take the pill, Oliver noticed blood all over his tongue. Blood covered Regi’s chin, and the swelling over his closed eye was now a nasty shade of purple. But other than his hideous facial injuries, the rest of him looked fine.
Oliver had lived a fairly uneventful life. He’d never been in a fight, at least not a physical one, and the only bruises he’d ever had were from sports. He’d never even broken a bone, so he couldn’t comprehend what Regi was going through.
Holly certainly could, though. He turned to her. “You look after him, I’ll get the food ready.”
“Okay.” She paused, her mouth ajar, her eyes wide, and he knew she wanted to say more, but, like him, it was impossible to find the right words.
He placed his hand on her cheek, and with their eyes locked he gave a slight nod.
Oliver tried to ignore Pope’s glare as he returned to the equipment on
the wreck’s floor and removed the propane gas burner from the kit. With everything he touched in the set-up process, he wondered how the item could be utilized as a weapon. The pot, forks, gas bottle. Weapons were everywhere, though none were as efficient as the one Pope hadn’t let go of.
The gun.
Darkness fell so quickly Oliver had to fumble to find the camp lanterns and matches. He gave one light to Pope and positioned one lantern on the floor between Regi and Holly. The glow made Regi’s already gruesome facial injuries look hideous.
Meal preparation was as easy as pouring boiling water into the individual food satchels, letting them sit for ten minutes, and stirring. Oliver had to resist his urge to pour the water over Pope when it hit boiling point. His worry was that the brute would not only survive the attack, but that it would enrage him even further.
He handed out each meal with a fork, and then sat beside Holly on the floor at the back of the cabin. At their feet was Chancy. His body occupied a significant portion of the floor space, and Oliver contemplated moving him to one of the seats. But the idea of manhandling his lifeless body was enough to put him off his food. And he couldn’t afford that.
Despite his swollen lip, Regi managed to eat his meal, and Oliver was impressed when Holly ate hers too. She didn’t balk at the absence of a vegetarian option. She didn’t hesitate over eating beside a dead body. And she didn’t recoil at Chancy’s dried blood on her gloves. Instead, she was robotic in her movements, forcing down each mouthful until she’d finished her rehydrated cottage pie.
Holly’s determination never ceased to amaze him.
After they’d eaten, Pope went through everyone’s packs and began throwing anything he didn’t want them to have outside. When he found Holly’s first aid kit, he downed a couple of painkillers, and Oliver secretly enjoyed knowing he was in pain.
Pope plucked Holly’s camera from her bag, assessed it for a moment or two, and when he went to throw it aside, she spoke her first words in hours. “We’ll need that.”
Pope blinked at her, camera in hand.
“If Regi’s to prove where he got the DNA from, he’ll need the camera.”
Oliver was impressed with her quick thinking.
“She’s right, Pope.” Regi croaked his assertion.
Pope grunted and shoved the camera back in her case and removed Holly’s headlamp. He adjusted the strap, fitted it onto his head, and turned it on.
In the end there weren’t too many things that Pope had rejected, and he tossed their packs aside. He flopped into the passenger seat in the front row, placed the gun on his lap, and folded his arms across his chest. “Get some sleep.” He turned to them. The torch beam made it impossible to see Pope’s face. “And don’t do anything stupid, or I’ll put a bullet through yer brain.”
With nothing more to do, Oliver turned to Holly, and she tugged something from her jacket. The thermal blanket. Thank god for her. He removed the one she’d insisted he take and, realizing Regi would need it more than him, he shook it out and draped it over the young man.
Regi croaked a thank you and adjusted the shiny fabric to fit his body. Pope’s torch beam was like an alien’s eye when he jumped up from his seat, strode down the aisle, and snatched the blanket off Regi.
Regi clutched at the fabric but it slipped through his fingers. “Fucking bastard.”
Pope returned to the front and the rustling sound confirmed he was wrapping the blanket around himself. Oliver wondered if Pope had made the fatal mistake of wrapping the gun up inside with him, but quickly conceded he had no intention of finding out.
Holly shook out her blanket, and rather than wrap it around them she handed it to Regi. Oliver was two seconds off snatching it back when he realized that not only was it the right thing to do, but also that she wouldn’t have accepted it back anyway.
He sat on the floor with his back up against the curved wall of the plane and opened his arms. Holly sat with her bottom between his thighs, her legs curled over his right leg and her side against his torso. When he wrapped his arms around her, he realized that this was the exact same position she’d described Angel and Frederick being in when they froze to death.
It was a horrifying thought, but then… If these were to be his final moments, he was happy to be sharing them with the woman he loved.
Sitting still for the first time since he got into the cabin, Oliver noticed the cold seeping into his skin, especially from the metal beneath his legs and back. His bones too began to ache, taking on the cold like ice was leaching in intravenously.
The wind outside howled like a demon, and the wreckage creaked and groaned as if protesting the ferocious onslaught. Pope’s snoring added to the noises, and again Oliver wondered if this was his chance. But he quickly discarded the temptation. Here inside the cabin, there was no margin for error. Chancy’s death was proof enough of that.
Thinking of Chancy gave him an idea, and as much as the thought was horrifying, it made sense too. Chancy no longer needed his jacket. He and Holly did.
“Hey, babe,” he whispered.
“Yeah.”
“Hop off me for a sec. I’m going to get Chancy’s jacket.” When she didn’t move, he added, “I need it to sit on; the cold’s getting to me.”
She slid off his lap and crawled toward Chancy. Again she showed incredible mental strength as the two of them worked together to remove their guide’s jacket. Oliver tried to ignore the metallic tang of Chancy’s blood as he folded the jacket and placed it so it’d shield as much of his legs and back as possible from the cold metal.
When he sat on it, a bulge beneath his right thigh caught his attention. Feeling with his hand, he realized it was something in Chancy’s jacket. When he plucked it from the zippered pocket, he had to resist whooping for joy. It was a two-way radio.
He concealed it from Regi’s potential line of sight, and once Holly was back in position between his legs he showed her. Holly’s reaction was to wrap her arms around him and plant a firm kiss on his lips.
Oliver wasn’t sure if it was sheer exhaustion, the comfort of the communication device in his pocket, or the woman in his arms that had him relaxing. But it wasn’t long before he closed his eyes and surrendered himself to sleep.
A loud crack had Oliver snapping his eyes open. It was a couple of frantic heartbeats before he remembered where he was. Holly was in his lap, and her wide blinking eyes showed her confusion too. He glanced toward the front of the plane, where Pope had been when he last saw him. But he wasn’t there, and when Oliver turned to peer out the small glass window it was fogged up. Wiping a circle clean, he wished he hadn’t, because Pope was right outside, peeing onto the snow.
The fact that it was already morning surprised him. He’d slept right through the night.
When Holly pushed off him and groaned, he tried to move too and understood her verbal discomfort. Oliver pushed up from the floor, and every part of his body was stiff and painful. He rolled to his feet and tried to stretch the resistance from his muscles.
Regi opened his good eye and shifted in his seat.
“Hey, you okay?” Oliver asked Regi.
“Been better.” Regi reached up to touch his swollen eye and winced.
“Look, don’t try anything silly, okay? We’ll figure this out.”
“I’m sorry about Chancy, I didn’t—”
Holly touched his shoulder. “Don’t worry. We know it wasn’t you.”
Regi nodded and despite his gruesome injuries, the relief on his face was visible.
Pope’s return to the plane was announced by both the groaning wreckage and his grunts. He glared at Oliver as if he hadn’t expected him to be awake, let alone standing.
Pope pointed the gun barrel at Oliver’s belly. “Get your spikes on, you lot. We’ve got a job to do.” He motioned for them to get outside and pointed at their crampons veiled in a t
hin layer of snow.
Oliver placed Chancy’s jacket over his body and face, and made a silent promise that they’d return to him and take him home. His only hope was that he’d be able to keep that promise.
Once outside, he plucked his crampons from the pile and handed Holly her pair. He climbed up the incline slightly and sat down on the snow. As he clicked them into position, he scanned the area. The morning brought with it perfect conditions, and he could see right down the valley.
He saw something else too.
A couple hundred feet below, to their left, was a giant gash in the white tundra.
The crevasse.
He looked toward Holly, but it was Pope’s glare that caught his attention. He’d been watching Oliver, possibly ready for his reaction—which meant Pope had seen the crevasse too.
His grin was evil, knowing, and Oliver knew without a shadow of a doubt that once Pope had what he was after, he no longer needed him or Holly. Oliver needed to take control, without making Pope realize he was doing it.
“Hey, Holly, come here.”
She looked up from her feet, frowned, then clomped up to him. “Look.” He pointed toward what looked like a giant wound in the mountain.
“Oh.” She turned to him, maybe unsure of what she should say.
He gave a very small nod. “Is that it?”
“Yeah. That must be the crevasse.”
“It’s closer than I thought. Okay. Pope, do you want me to stack the sled? We’re going to need a bit of equipment.”
Pope squinted, revealing his skepticism. But thankfully he nodded.
With Pope watching their every move, Oliver and Holly pulled unnecessary equipment from the sled and restacked it with what they needed.
Twenty minutes after waking, the four of them left the wreck. Oliver was in the front, pulling the sled. Pope was at the rear, and he’d deliberately put Holly in front of him. At Pope’s insistence, they were roped together. Maybe he thought they were going to run off.
Out of Mind Page 23
