by Sonja Yoerg
Payton Root stood in the trail a dozen steps away. He interlaced his fingers and stretched his arms in front of him. “Better watch out, hombre. First step’s a doozy.” From the ledge above them, Rodell let out his pig snort laugh. Payton’s lips stretched into a grin, but the rest of his face was as hard as the stone at his feet.
A voice inside Liz’s head screamed at her to flee, but her feet would not obey.
Dante grabbed her shoulder, spun her on the narrow trail and gave her a nudge to set her in motion.
She ran up the trail as fast as she could, not daring to peer over her shoulder to see if the brothers were in pursuit. Her lungs were on fire. She focused only on the ground in front of her, heard only her own gasping breath. She crested the pass with Dante on her heels and scurried down toward the Whitney Trail junction.
She shouted without turning or slowing. “What do we do?”
“They’re following us! Either we go down the way we came or try to lose them on the way to the summit.”
The spire at the junction came into view. They scrambled down the rough trail.
Liz said, “The way down is too open. We have to hide and hope they pass by. Then we can turn back and get the hell out of here.” They arrived at the junction and veered right along the summit path. Liz’s heart beat in her throat as she navigated the jumble of broken rock and angular boulders where landslides had occurred, interspersed with sections of smooth gravel. The trail snaked between gigantic pinnacles and stacked rectangles of stone, creating shadow patterns that fooled Liz’s eye and made her stumble again and again. She pressed on, the menace behind like a hot breath on her neck. She could find no rhythm. The trail opened up for a stretch, a yard-wide strip between the sloping talus on her right and a sheer drop of two thousand feet on her left, then wended amid the granite formations again, where she was forced to careen from rock to rock. Her lungs squeezed painfully, begging for oxygen. Her temples pounded.
She paused to lean against a boulder, panting. “Are they still following us?”
Dante’s face was twisted with effort. “A minute ago they were.” He scanned around them. “I thought there’d be places to hide.”
“We can’t stop. We have to keep going.” She heard her voice, shrill with distress. She pushed off the boulder and sped up the trail, fighting to control her breathing, searching for a cadence. The footing improved and she took her eyes off the ground to check the sky. Fear stabbed her insides. Gigantic thunderclouds filled the space between Mount Hitchcock and the Whitney massif, blocking the top third of the Hitchcock range. The clouds bore huge mushroom caps. And the wind was blowing them their way.
She shuddered as she placed her right foot onto a large rock. It tilted sharply under her weight, throwing her off balance. Her right pole skidded across a slab, and her pack swung sideways, toppling her. Her elbow smashed into the slab. A searing volt of pain shot up her arm. Her shoulder collapsed and her head hit the ground with a thump.
“Liz!” Dante squatted beside her. “Are you hurt?” She opened her eyes. Dante’s boots. He was touching her head. “Your head’s bleeding. Not too much.”
She shifted to push herself up. A stab of pain from her elbow froze her. She stretched out her other arm. “Can you help me up?”
He grasped her arm in one hand and her shoulder strap with the other and pulled her to standing. She touched her forehead. A lump. Her fingers came away slick with blood. She moved to straighten her right arm and cried out.
“Oh, carina.” He turned to search the trail behind them, but only a short stretch was visible. He placed his fingers under her chin. “We’re going to find a place for you to rest, okay?”
She nodded.
“Can you carry your pack?”
“I think so.”
He took one of her poles from her. “Okay, follow me. And watch your feet.”
She hugged her injured arm to her belly and stepped where Dante stepped. One foot in front of the other. She bit down hard on her lip to take her mind off her throbbing elbow and planted her pole with care. She didn’t monitor the clouds or look behind her. She knew all too well what she would see.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Dante stepped from behind a block of granite and motioned to her. She climbed up to him and slid past into a space the size of a closet. He helped her remove her pack. She squatted in the far corner and cradled her arm. Now that she’d stopped, the pain was worse. She struggled not to cry. Dante handed her a water bottle and she drank deeply, realizing how thirsty she was.
“How’s your arm?”
“Not good.”
He untied the top of her pack. “Ibuprofen. And I can make a sling out of something.”
“That would help a lot. But Dante, I’m really worried it’s going to storm.” Her voice broke. She closed her eyes, tried to focus, but she couldn’t dispel the image of looming thunderheads.
He opened the bottle of pills, tapped four into his palm and gave them to her. “I agree we need to get off this mountain, but the Roots are between us and the exit.” He pointed to the opening. “They’ll find us here. There are so few places to hide.”
She could see he was thinking the same thing she was: they should have retraced their route to Guitar Lake, gone out the long way through the Kern. Hindsight. He frowned, and fished the map out of the top compartment of her pack and unfolded it.
“What?” she said.
“I just want to look.” He pored over the map. He looked up at her, excitement lighting up his face. “There’s another trail.” He turned the map so she could see and pointed at a dotted line to the east of the Whitney summit.
For a split second she believed a new way off the mountain had magically appeared. Then her heart sank as it hit her what the dotted line represented. “It’s dotted because it’s not a regular trail.”
“What sort of trail is it?”
“A mountaineering trail.”
“What the difference?”
She’d read about the route in her book on Whitney. “It’s steep—climbing, not walking. For most of the year, you need an ice ax and crampons for the top section.”
“And the rest of the year?”
“Dante, we don’t have the gear.”
“People use ropes?”
“Some.”
“So, it’s possible without anything special?”
“Yes, but—”
He squatted in front of her and brushed her hair from her forehead. “We can’t stay here. We can’t go back. The Roots are waiting for us. Looking for us. They might not know about this route. And, even if they do, they won’t expect us to take it.”
Her mind spun, searching for a better alternative, coming up empty. Despair wrapped her tightly in its grip.
Dante locked eyes with her, his expression determined. “We need to get going, Liz.” His eyes softened. “We need to go home.”
His words broke into her. “Oh, Dante.” Tears clogged her throat. She bent her head, unable to meet his gaze. “Do I even have a home with you?”
He paused. When he spoke, his voice was hushed. “It’s what I’ve always wanted.”
She’d been so stupid to doubt him, so blind in not seeing the strength of his devotion. And she’d wounded him in the worst possible way because of it. But did he want her still? She couldn’t ask for fear of the answer.
He touched her shoulder. “We can’t sit here, Liz. We really can’t. Help me figure out what gear we need. Please.”
She raised her head and wiped her eyes. “Okay.” Moving quickly, he emptied both packs. He consulted with Liz about what they would need in a worst-case scenario, and refilled his pack with the tent, sleeping bags, ready-to-eat food, medical and safety kits, headlamp, knife and Aquamira for purifying water. In anticipation of increasing wind and the likelihood of rain, Dante put on his rain jacket and helped Li
z into hers. He fashioned a sling from a shoulder strap, padding it with a rolled-up shirt, and stashed everything else in Liz’s pack to be left behind.
Dante scouted to ensure the Roots were not in sight, and they left the hiding spot and resumed their climb toward the summit. The pills had taken the edge off Liz’s pain, and she breathed more easily without the burden of a pack. Still, the air was thin and her heart raced. Dante walked behind her and offered encouragement. They left the twisting path behind and moved into the open. To the left, the face fell away steeply into the valley. To the right, a line of subpeaks of the Whitney massif came into view. At the far end was Whitney itself, a wedge of talus jutting into space. A hut stood near the lip, a tiny square set on a sloping plane of staggering proportions. The mountain’s size was matched by thunderheads above, towering anvils with black undersides, changing Whitney’s white granite to lead. The scope of the scene horrified her. The mountain was too vast, the clouds too dark and piled too high. She would be swallowed whole. Liz hiked faster, deaf to the ache in her muscles and her chest.
Dante called to her to stop. His grim expression told her everything. He pointed with his pole to a section of trail behind them, less than a half mile away. Two dark figures, one seated. The seated one rose and both set off toward Liz and Dante at a brisk pace.
“They’ve seen us,” Dante said.
And there was nowhere to hide.
Liz smelled the sharp tang of ozone. She swallowed hard. A raindrop hit her boot. More drops fell noisily, dark splotches on stone. A low boom of thunder rolled in from the west. The skin on her arms prickled and dread filled her body with an ache like flu. She pulled up her hood and tightened the toggle. Dante gave her a wan smile and she turned from him and walked on toward the summit.
With every step they took, the sky darkened. Thunder rumbled, nearer and nearer each time. Out of the corner of her eye, Liz saw a flash of lightning. She turned to witness a series of strikes—five, six, seven—above Mount Hitchcock and closer, each followed by a roar of thunder, each igniting a paroxysm of distress in her. Her pace slowed. The trail led higher, and higher was not where she wanted to be.
They passed a gap between the eastern wall of peaks, windows through which they could see mountains and lakes and snowfields, and far beyond, the Owens Valley, where Lone Pine, and safety, lay. A few steps farther and the windows were behind them.
A deafening crack, resounding so close it trembled through the ground and up through the soles of Liz’s boots. She dropped into a crouch and her knee hit her right arm. She screamed and squeezed her eyes shut. The hair on the nape of her neck tingled. Fear bloomed inside her, spreading out to her limbs.
This is it, she thought.
Dante was next to her, his arm around her. “It’s okay, Liz.”
She shook her head, her eyes still closed.
“We need to keep going. We’re pretty close.”
“I can’t.”
She made herself smaller, lower. If it weren’t for her arm, she’d flatten herself against the earth. So flat, the lightning would never find her. So flat, the Roots would never see her. She would meld into rock, become stone. Become hard, unbreakable, impervious. Insensate. Unable to be hurt, to be lost. Payton Root could do nothing to stone. Stone could do nothing to Dante.
Thunder roared and her mind skipped. She glanced around her in jerking movements, taking in the trail, the slope, the dark sky. A realization hit her. Flat was wrong. Her best chance was the least contact with the ground. She scooted onto a flat rock balanced on sharp points.
Dante followed her. “What if we go to the hut?”
“The hut? No! It’s not safe! Nowhere’s safe. Lightning spreads. It hits and it spreads. You have to stay small!”
A rumble like a freight train overhead. Liz whimpered, bracing for the strike.
Dante knelt, their knees touching. He bent to see her face. “We can make it to the trail. You said it starts below the summit. We’ll find it and go down. Then we’ll be okay, Liz.”
“You go. I can’t do it. Not with a broken arm.”
“You can. I’ll help you.”
She shook her head.
“Liz, no one’s going to rescue us. They can’t fly helicopters in a storm, not this high.”
“I’ll stay here. Leave me a sleeping bag and the fly.”
“You can’t sleep here! What about the Roots?”
She couldn’t explain it to him, but the Roots and the storm were the same thing. She couldn’t control them, couldn’t evade them. She had faced them and been beaten back. They had it in for her. It was ridiculous to think that of a storm, but that’s how it was. Like her, the Root brothers lacked moral structure (as did thunderstorms, of course) but they, at least, had power.
“Liz, listen to me. You have to walk. It’s not far.”
She shook her head again. Her cheeks were wet with tears. Her head pounded and arrows of pain shot down from her elbow. She could not, would not, move.
Dante didn’t want her. He did before, but not anymore. She’d fucked that up. He was trying to get her off the mountain, but he’d do that for anyone. He’d do it for a cat.
A lightning flash so bright she saw it through her eyelids. She rocked and moaned, waiting for the jolt, the end. The sound of a tree splitting apart. Thunder so near she was sure the mountain would shatter, the ground beneath her crack wide open. Engulf her.
Dante said, “The lightning was in the sky. It didn’t hit the ground. None of them are.”
The storm was toying with her. Cat and mouse, like the Roots.
“Liz.” He cupped her chin. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”
She wouldn’t. There was nothing to see except the pain she had caused. She had nothing to show him except regret.
“Elizabeth. I beg you.” His voice had thickened. “Look at me.”
She did. His beautiful brown eyes, awash in tears.
He said, “I’m going to help you get off this mountain. I’m not leaving you.”
She breathed into the small space that opened in her chest. Afraid, she looked away. He lifted her chin with his fingertips, and kissed her softly. Her lips trembled against his. He pulled back and his eyes met hers, asking her to believe. “I’m not leaving you. Not now. Not ever.”
“But—” A sob choked off her voice. She bit her lip and stared at him, waiting for him to take it back. She wanted nothing more than for him to love her again, but, with the yawning chasm between her fear and mistrust and his principles, her hope was so thin as to be transparent. She wanted to believe in love, to believe in them, but it wasn’t something she could do alone.
Dante’s eyes sparkled like sunlight on a river. She saw he meant what he said. The corners of his mouth lifted and he kissed her again. A sweet warmth flowed through her. She smiled and traced the curve of his cheekbone with her fingers, wiping away a tear.
“Te amo, Dante.”
“Te amo, carina.”
• • •
Liz walked in front of Dante as rapidly as the altitude and terrain would allow. Each boom of thunder rattled her, but she kept on. Twice, the sharp scent of ozone alerted her. She dropped into a low crouch on a loose stone with her feet together and hands off the ground. Dante did the same. As she had explained to him, the posture reduced the chance an electrical charge would hit them and pass through their vital organs.
They passed another window, offering up a view to the sun-soaked valley, and approached Keeler Needle, the last peak before Whitney itself. The rain began to fall more heavily. This would have cheered Liz, as lightning strikes were less likely, but she knew rain would make the descent more hazardous. After Keeler Needle, the trail swung downhill before veering east for the final push to the top. Somewhere before the summit, along the north ridge, was the mountaineers’ route.
A half hour later they stood on the
broad summit slope. The roof of the hut was visible two hundred yards uphill. Dante asked her to stop. “So how do we find the trail?”
She’d been wracking her brain to recall what she’d read a month ago, when she had no idea their lives would depend on it, but lack of oxygen and the threatening storm conspired against her. Thinking was like moving blocks in her head.
“All I remember is the route splits near the top. One is steeper and closer to the hut. The other is a longer traverse farther up the ridge.” She pointed in front of them, where the rocky plane curved away and disappeared.
“Which do we want? The traverse?”
“I think so. If we can find it.”
The air crackled. Dante grabbed hold of her good arm and pulled her into a crouch. She screamed as a bolt of lightning struck between them and the hut, puncturing the air with sharp white light. Liz concentrated on Dante’s touch, binding them, a force equal to that of lightning. A thunderclap sounded above their heads and echoed off the distant peaks. She steadied her breathing, and stayed small.
After a few moments, Dante stood, lifting Liz with him. “Let’s be mountaineers.”
They moved slowly up the main trail, searching for side paths to the right. The first two they followed fizzled out before nearing the edge. The third was more distinct and angled to the west, a direct shot to the summit for climbers coming up the traverse. Liz and Dante increased their pace as they neared the lip.
Dante pointed ahead. “Look! Isn’t that a carn?”
Liz saw the pile of stones and smiled. “A cairn, amigo. Yes, it’s a cairn.”
They reached the cairn and peered over the edge. A rough path through scree, a foot wide, ran diagonally across the face. The way off the mountain. Patches of snow and ice clung to shadows under the overhangs.
