They pulled into a parking lot that was set back from the road. The lot had been cleared the day before, and huge drifts of snow were piled along the side like high retaining walls. Even then, the lot was covered with the trappings from the current winter storm.
“Where is this place?” Mae asked as Ryan stopped the car in the center of the parking lot. He switched off the headlights, plunging them into the darkness of the mountains and winter night. He turned off the car, and the darkness and complete absence of sound made Mae think about what being in outer space might be like.
That, or in the tank. There hadn't been any light or sound in there either.
She pushed that thought away before the panic started.
“We're at a ski resort, closed of course.” He saw the flash of anxiety on her face, and probably got the wrong idea of why she was stressed. He shook his head and looked the other way, out the driver’s side window.
“Of course.” She eyed him a little skeptically, then said, “And why are we here at this ski resort? I'd guess not to ski.”
“No, not to ski.” He smiled at her and propped his elbow on the driver's side door. “I like to come here during the winter, ever since I was old enough to drive. I like it that it’s so calm and peaceful here that you can just sit and watch the snowflakes build up on the windshield like that.”
He pointed to the fat flakes of snow, pelting the glass and then sliding down into small drifts. Already their breath was misting the windows. She drew her finger along the window, a single, vertical line at first.
Paper and ink.
“Tell me something that scares you,” he said.
“What?”
“I don't think you can ever really know someone until you know about what scares them,” he said and smiled.
Mae considered this, then said, “You first.”
“I'm scared of dying,” he said without hesitation. “I'd like to believe that there is something after this life, but I'm not sure that I do. I'm afraid of being nothing.”
She laughed.
“Everyone is afraid of dying,” she said, “that's a cop-out answer. How can I possibly know you if you're afraid of the same old generic thing that everyone else is?”
“Touché,” he said and then thought about it for several minutes as the silence stretched.
“Well, then I guess that I'm afraid of living a life without any meaning. That might have been what I meant before, I'm not sure. I don't want this to all go away without any meaning, without leaving a mark on this world. Meaning in a life is immortality, no matter how you cut it. That meaning lasts forever. Isn't that what we're all looking for anyway, immortality?”
“My dad used to say something like that, about everyone wanting to die a hero,” she said softly, staring out the window. “Maybe the only thing that means is that we're all pocket-philosophers.”
“Maybe so,” he said, chuckling. “Okay, your turn.”
“I don't have anything nearly so deep as that,” she smiled. “My dad used to read me a story called “Little Red Riding Hood,” when I was younger.”
“Oh, was the story called that?” His eyebrows arched in the questioning and amused look she was starting to get used to.
“Yeah, have you heard of it?”
Ryan stared at her, uncomprehending. When he saw that she was serious, he couldn't hide his surprise. She looked back at him, equally confused by his surprise.
“You're a curious girl,” he said. “Go on.”
“Well, I always pictured the wolf as this big, grey monster with a long snout and yellow eyes. It was so thin that you could see its ribs, and the bones in its legs, and it would stand on its hind legs and watch me from the forest just beyond our backyard. It was terrifying to me as a little girl, and even now, when I think about it, the wolf still freaks me out.”
“Okay, so you're saying that your greatest fear is a wolf that walks around on its hind legs, like a circus dog.”
She laughed and looked away.
“Those freak me out too,” she paused, thinking about the tank of thick fluid where she'd been kept for so much time. She remembered the feeling of nothingness as she climbed into the tank and her body grew accustomed to liquid. Even the thought of it filled her with horror.
“Maybe the wolf isn't my worst fear, but it's up there.”
“And you don't want to tell me your worst fear?”
“No,” she said. “At least not right now.”
“Okay,” he said, “so now tell me the thing that makes you happiest.”
Mae thought about it, but not for long.
“I love the autumn season, especially in New England. Here. The cool October air, the leaves, the mist, the smell in the air. I love it when daylight savings is finally over, I don't know, just everything about autumn makes me happy.”
“Now, there's a good answer,” he smiled.
“What about you?”
He touched the steering wheel of the car, running his finger along the bottom side of it, then following the wheel up and around, completing the circle.
“Driving,” he said.
Mae nodded with a smile.
“Okay, driving,” she laughed. “At least you don't like cats.”
“Yeah, cats aren't so good in my book. Too stubborn and aloof,” he said, and they laughed. Outside the car, a gust of wind drove through the little parking lot, lifting the fallen powder into twirling dervishes.
They talked for a little while longer before falling silent and enjoying the night. She looked out her window, and when her eyes adjusted better to the dark, she saw the huge, white slopes on the mountain face beyond the parking lot, like giant rivers cutting through the trees and down the mountain. The trees that lined the parking lot begin to take shape, and the ski lodge just beyond those trees, silent and dark and waiting for the first round of skiers in the morning.
The snow fell, and the scene was peaceful and beautiful. She looked back at him and reached for his hand, which was resting on the gear shift. She touched his skin first, and then moved her fingers over his. He looked at her and smiled, taking her hand in his, and they shared the warmth of their touch. He let go for only a minute, changing the song to listen to Crash once again.
The boy and the girl leaned back in their seats and looked through the moon roof at the snow falling from the sky and collecting on the clear glass. The air in the car was not as warm as before, but that was okay. Mae listened to the silence outside the car, and watched the winter unfold.
She didn't have to think about the autumn ridge, or that first kiss, or the swath of colorful leaves over rolling mountains, because this was perfect. She couldn't have noticed the snowflakes just outside the car, lifting off the ground and floating in the air several inches from where they'd been laying just seconds before. A few pebbles and tiny rocks followed suit, rising from the ground and hovering, whirling slightly in the wind. Mae didn't notice the faint buzz in her head, or the whisper of warm air against her skin. She felt his hand on hers, and his touch was all she felt.
She set down the ink, admiring the picture from afar.
Paper and ink, and her world had opened.
Paper and ink, and this was perfect.
Chapter Seventeen
Paul heard the latch on the door to his room slowly, and stealthily, turn. He opened his eyes instantly, but didn't move his body, for fear that if he moved, they would know that he was awake and move on him more quickly. If he didn't move, then maybe he'd be able to surprise them, to spring out of bed at the last minute and fight for his life. With the element of surprise, maybe he’d have a chance.
He listened carefully, straining his ears for any sound of the door opening, and he didn't have to wait long. The creaking hinge was faint, almost too faint to hear, but he heard it all the same. The door was being pushed open very slowly, and it stopped with the sound. Paul closed his eyes and focused on every sound.
On the city streets below, he heard cars driving by thr
ough the muddy streets. Somewhere far away, but still probably in the hotel where he currently lived, he heard laughing and talking. Music. The sounds were very soft, but as he focused his hearing, they became more pronounced and clear.
Paul shut those sounds out, trying to filter everything from his senses but what was happening a mere twenty feet from his bed.
A scrape of a shoe across the carpeted threshold, and Paul was certain that he wasn't alone. He stayed perfectly still, forcing his breathing to remain slow and steady, as if he were still asleep. No matter what, though, he couldn't slow his thudding heart beat. That was okay, he decided. Anyone coming after him probably wouldn't be paying attention to his heartbeats, especially from the doorway.
He remembered the assassin in the hospital, and the needle he'd been holding in his hand over the police officer's bed, right before Paul had tackled the guy. The assassin who had killed a nurse and two cops to get to the officer, not to shoot him with a gun, but to inject something into his bloodstream.
So maybe they will be paying attention to my heartbeat, Paul considered. He suddenly had an idea that when the door was opened enough, there would be a line of light from the hallway on the floor, a clear indication that someone was coming into his room, and he might even get a glimpse of the attacker's shadow.
Paul opened his eyes and searched along the floor but didn't see any light. His hopes sank further as he thought that the attacker, if he was good, had probably removed the light bulbs from the hallway to avoid just such a giveaway.
If the attacker was anything like the tall man in the hospital room, silently moving though the hallways like a scepter of death, then his own attacker would be just as professional. That's what he did, unscrewed the light bulbs in the hallway and shot anyone who witnessed him coming here. No witnesses. Not like Paul, who had witnessed something he should not have seen.
And the piper will be paid, he thought bitterly as he squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to be afraid. He wanted to throw the blanket over his head and disappear in the comfort there, his mind and fears reverting to when he was just a child, afraid of his own shadow.
STOP IT! He was a grown man, and he hadn't just rolled over in the hospital, and then in the garage, and he wouldn't just lay there now as the attacker killed him. He was going to fight, and he was going to win, no matter what. He tried to tense his muscles, to flex and relax with his breathing, without any movements, to get the blood flowing through his entire body, to be ready to spring into action.
He heard another click, which sounded like the door being gently placed back into its frame, and his heart leapt into his throat. He could feel the other presence in the room now, and he wondered if it was Robert Morales himself, the officer who had almost killed him on that day. Flashes came from that night in the parking garage, the struggle to escape, the gunshots, and the wild, frenzied desperation on the police officer's face as he'd fired the gun at Paul. Paul remembered the burst of blood and bone as the bullet tore through his knee, remembered the white explosion of pain and his scream.
As if in response, the dull ache in his leg began to throb. His body broke out in a cold sweat as he thought about the intruder sneaking up on him from behind.
Breathe ... breathe slow and deep, and stay calm, he thought, but his heart was racing and he needed to breathe faster, to gulp the air. He wanted to turn that instant to face his attacker, but knew if he did so, the attacker would have the upper hand.
The attacker already has the upper hand, he thought and wondered how he was going to get out of this. If this intruder planned to kill him like the assassin had planned to kill Morales in the hospital, with a syringe of some sort, then he had at least a fighting chance. Even a knife could be dealt with, although that was more risky. All it would take is one slice to a major artery, and he would be done.
Breathe slow, breathe slow, stay calm ...
But if the attacker had a gun, and fired it at any other distance than right next to him, then Paul would have no way of fighting, no matter how quickly he moved, or how surprised the attacker was. Paul gulped, and the taste in his mouth was metallic and rancid. He tasted the fear he had felt in the parking garage, in those short seconds when he had struggled to escape. It was the same taste that he went to bed with each night, that he woke up with each morning.
Fear, because Morales would come for him. He'd seen and heard too much, and worse, he'd guessed right about the destruction in Miami. He’d seen the destruction in the forest. Both places, decimated by a bomb that wasn’t bomb. How far would those who'd covered up the attack in Miami, and the events in Chicago, go to keep the truth from leaking?
His body racked with cold sweats and the overwhelming urge to leap from his bed and get away, but he knew that no matter where he went, they would follow.
Paul heard another soft scraping of a shoe across the floor, and the sound couldn't have been more than ten feet away. Paul also heard breathing, slow and steady, like his own, and then a stealthy click.
That's the safety on the gun, being switched to the off position. So it was a gun, Paul thought. He would be shot and that was it. His only chance was to spring up now, while the barrel of the gun was being leveled at his head. He took a deep breath and held it. His body was tensed and pulsing with adrenaline. His forehead was damp with sweat, and his body shook with the pent up energy and fear.
He let out a shout and rolled off the bed to the ground, coiling in a crouched position and springing up in the direction of the intruder. All it would take was a simple pull of the trigger, the whisper of a silenced bullet and he would be dead.
His eyes registered the empty room before he could stop his forward momentum. He flew forward, smashing into nothing, and then falling in a heap to the carpet. His leg was wrenched beneath him, and he let out another cry, but this one from the agony that swept through his body like a tidal wave.
Paul pushed himself up from the floor onto all fours, his eyes wild and crazy, searching the room for the intruder. He saw shadows behind every corner, a figure darting away from sight just out of the corner of his eye.
The intruder was there, in the room with him. Even as the thought flew crazily through his mind, he knew it wasn't true. From the ground where he crouched, ready to launch into action, he saw that the chain on the door was still securely in place, and that faint light shone beneath the door from the hallway beyond. Paul sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging. His heart was still racing when he pushed himself off the floor, favoring his bad leg, and stumbled to his bed, where he sat. He touched the back of his hand to his forehead and wiped beads of sweat away, his chest still heaving from his sudden, intense movement, and the adrenaline that was still surging.
Paul was terrified, not so much of an assassin coming to finish the job that Morales had only done partially, but of living with that panic and anxiety every second of every day. He was afraid of feeling constant fear, of never being able to loosen the holds of panic.
Morales had disappeared that night, simply vanished into the night. helped in part by Paul and his car. They'd found the car a few weeks later, beneath the surface of a frozen pond. Some kids had been skating there, when they'd noticed the glint of sunlight off the roof of the car beneath the thick layer of ice. No one was certain how the car had ended up in the pond, especially with no signs that the ice had been broken up recently. One thing was for sure: the car was not meant to be found, and it was only by blind luck that it had been.
From what little Paul knew of Morales, he was sure that the police officer (who wasn't a police officer) would not forget about the man who'd saved his life in the hospital room. The part about Paul saving the man's life should count for something, but Paul was sure that it counted for very little. Paul had guessed about the cover up in Miami, that there was something more to the “accident.” The expression on Morales' face when Paul had posed his idea that Morales had somehow been involved was confirmation enough. Still, Paul had never guessed that there was somethin
g darker underlying the whole thing, that the attack in Miami had been covered up for more sinister reasons than even terrorism.
But after all that, Paul had still thought of Morales as one of the good guys. He tried to save the faux police officer's life when the assassin showed up to finish Morales off with a syringe of potassium chloride, which Paul later learned was one of the three injections given to people who were sentenced to die by lethal injection. The first two injections, pentobarbital and pancuronium bromide, helped the condemned fall asleep, and made the entire process a bit more humane. An injection of straight potassium chloride would stop the heart, but it would happen while the person was aware of just what was happening in the body, and would result in true agony, both mental and physical. The assassin had wanted Morales not only to die, but to be punished on his way out.
In the end, Paul had been duped into trusting Morales and helping him escape. It was a mess, and one that he should have seen coming. After being in Miami, he'd become convinced that he and the rest of the world were being lied to. He could see through the lie as easily as looking through a clear, glass window at the world on the other side, but everyone else seemed to accept what they'd been fed and moved on. No one seemed bothered by the fact that a building had imploded from the inside out, and that it was supposed to be an accident. That more than 400 people had been killed because of an accident. When Paul told people what he thought, they wrote him off as an extremist who dallied in conspiracy theories, running with the same crowds of people who believed that the United States was responsible for the attacks on 9/11.
In fact, Paul was far from being a conspiracy theorist, and the constant reactions he got from people only fed his determination to find the facts, the evidence, to support what he knew to be true. That determination had led to obsession, which led to the crumbling of just about everything else in his life that he had, at one time, found important. Before she left, Paul's wife had warned him that even if he was right (and she took strong umbrage against that notion), he was probably sniffing at something that should be left alone. She'd said, only half-mockingly, to leave the hornet's nests to people better prepared to kick.
The Snow Swept Trilogy Page 31
