Chapter 32

“Do you realize how many people were guarding an empty house?” Frances Ingalls was about a six on a scale of ten between unhappy and furious. She and the others stationed around the Carver house felt foolish, she particularly, since she was the one assigned to protect Cilla. “First, Mr. Carver didn’t return from Boston. Then I found you weren’t even in Germany, you were both on the West Coast.”

Cilla liked the FBI woman. She knew Great Haystack was running like clockwork in her absence, mostly due to Kurt, but perhaps a little to Frances. “It wasn’t your fault, and I’ve told John Krestinski he isn’t to blame you. Short of tying me up, what could you or he have done differently?”

“I don’t think even he understands how I feel.”

“I know you aren’t married now, have you been?”

“Don’t change the subject.” Cilla waited, watching Ingalls’ chest rise and fall more rapidly. Finally, “For a short time.”

“Sorry, I don’t mean to pry. Hudson is just about everything to me. When he didn’t return from Boston I knew he was in trouble. He would have at least called Carver.”

“So you went after him. He must be quite a guy, to create that kind of love. But you made me look bad to my superiors, Cilla. Working for the FBI isn’t like working in a department store or a ski area. Anything you do goes into your record, and is re-examined when you’re up for promotion.”

“John knows, and after this is over...”

“If we’re still here.” Both were silent a moment. Frances wasn’t done. “But what John Krestinski may or may not know is unimportant. He has to report what happens.” She took a breath. “My Dad wanted to be an agent; didn’t have the right color. Or the degree. I was supposed to have an `i’ in my first name. Mom couldn’t have any more after me, so I had to live his dream. Everything in my life has been geared to making me the first woman to run the Bureau.”

“You can’t live someone else’s life for them. It’s not fair to ask it of you.”

“It started out that way...maybe Dad’s a good salesman, but it’s my dream now.”

“And I’ve screwed it up for you. Frances, I can’t go back in time. Even if I could, I wouldn’t change what I did.”

There was silence, as the two wrestled with mingled feelings of determination, understanding and resignation. It was Frances who ended it. “I guess I’m just feeling left out of things.”

“Won’t John let you go back to Boston?”

“He wants me here to help at Great Haystack, so you’re free to...do what ever it is you’re doing.”

Cilla could hear the hurt, but didn’t let it penetrate. “How are you getting along with Kurt?”

“Fine. He’s very well organized.”

That speaks volumes, thought Cilla. “Is Bob out of the hospital?”

“Tomorrow. Cilla...do you suppose Mr. Carver would mind if I brought him back to the house. Just so someone can keep an eye on him, and...”

“I’m sure he’d be delighted.” And so will she, to fill one of those empty rooms.

She left her car at the bottom of the hill and climbed to the cabin on skis. No one had been there since last fall, and the snow on and around it was smooth and unmarked except for the ripples caused by the wind. More shanty than cabin, it was old and weathered, bare boards with only a fireplace to warm them. This time of year it would be warmer outside than in, and she’d brought a toasty sleeping bag. She paused, absorbing the serenity.

Sitting on the rickety porch in the fading twilight, she unwrapped a sandwich and looked out at the cliffs on the other side of the valley of the Saco River. When she finished eating, she took her sleeping bag and thin, foam mattress to the edge of the brook in a little flat area just under the falls, which she cleared enough to fit. She threw a blanket over her shoulders and sat on the other two, folding her legs in a lotus position.

Om namah shivaya, om namah shivaya, om namah shivaya. She repeated the mantra over and over. Slowly her mind cleared; the horror and despair of the past few days receded. The sound of the falling water soothed her. An hour passed. Then another. And more. She was one with the center of all things, from where the life force emanates. Trickles and flows to spread throughout the universe. Like the brook wending its way to the Saco, flowing, merging and growing on its way to other places, other lands and eventually the sea. And yet...She blinked. The falls were louder. She shivered. With awareness returning so did the cold of the night. She pried her frozen legs apart and let life flow back into them. Frozen. Of course. She took a handful of snow and rubbed her face with it. Then, leaving her bedding where it lay, she hurriedly made her way back to the cabin, stepped into skis, and recklessly hurtled down to the car through scarcely-seen trees illuminated only by the faint light of distant stars. Ten minutes later she was in her office at darkened Great Haystack base station, pouring over maps. She took a pencil and drew a circle on one. Then picked up the phone and dialed. The FBI number had no information on the whereabouts of John Krestinski, and how could they be expected to at this hour? She looked at her watch. 2:30 AM, March 16. She’d been at the brook longer than she’d thought. Thirty-three and a half hours to noon. She couldn’t wait for John; she’d take her cell phone. There was barely enough time if she started now...But she couldn’t do it alone. Not only didn’t she know the terrain in winter but she’d be no match for whoever she found there. If she found them. Who...She pushed the button, her address book opened to Kurt Britton.

“Britton.” The voice was alert, might never have been asleep.

“Cilla. I need you Kurt. And I need a third who knows the Presidentials in winter. Suggestions?”

“Todd Seaver.” There was no hesitation. “He spends a lot of time in the back country.”

Of course, she should have thought of him herself. Even in school while other kids were sliding their boots into alpine ski bindings, Todd was strapping on snowshoes to explore a new peak.

“What’s happened?”

“We’re going to climb Mt. Washington.”

Silence. “In winter?”

“Today. As soon as it’s light. If I can get Todd, we’ll meet here at the ski area in two hours.”

“I’ll be there.”

Todd’s voice was heavy with sleep. It took a while to convince him she was serious, but once the idea took hold she could hear his excitement building. But first his cautions. Did she know what she was getting into? The Presidential Range has weather like no other in North America. Nearly a hundred and fifty people had died on Mt. Washington. Unpredictable was the kindest word used for winter weather on top of the Presidentials. High storms sweeping in off the Atlantic encountered no obstruction until they crashed into these peaks, often without warning. The valley below might be pleasant, even sunny, while up there bitter-cold, hurricane-force winds were whipping snow and ice and cutting visibility to a few feet.

She stopped the flow. “You have enough equipment for three?”

“Sure. Goggles, ice axes, MICRO spikes. You want snowshoes or skis?”

“Both.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’ll be hunting.”

“What?”

“Killers.”