Chains of Fire (18 page)

She held up her hand. This time, it was her turn to be honest. “But I’m sick of eating half-frozen dehydrated rations. I’m tired of being cold except when I’m in my sleeping bag. I don’t want to spend all my time thinking up corny movie titles to make you smile—and anyway, it’s not working anymore. I’m scared we’re going to slowly fade away, be discovered in the spring, and be a footnote in some Swiss newspaper article. My lips are chapped because all the lip balms we’ve found were someone else’s and open, and I don’t want to get a disease, but what difference does it make if we’re going to die anyway?”

“Okay, we’ll use the dynamite.”

“We can either die slowly, one by one, or we can take this one chance and maybe the rescuers will find us, or even better, maybe we’ll blast our way out—” Her head snapped around. “What did you say?”

“I still plan to look in the venting.” He stood, looking up the ladder, his jaw squared as he contemplated his mission. “If we could find an outlet up by the ceiling, one that goes outside the building, that would be our best chance
not
to destroy the roof over our heads. There’s no point in alerting the rescuers while killing ourselves in the process.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed.

For so long, she’d thought of Samuel as a slick lawyer who wore expensive suits, swam with the sharks, and had the moral integrity of a tomcat. But right now, dressed in black ski pants and a red plaid flannel shirt, he looked tough and capable, the kind of man she could depend on to rescue her in any crisis.

Come to think of it, in the past he’d always been there, even when she didn’t want him. Always she had known that if she called him, he would come.

In so many ways, he was the best man she’d ever known.

If only she could trust him.

She must have contemplated him a little too long, because he asked, “What? You think I haven’t thought of everything you said?”

“I . . . I think you’re a good guy.”

“I think if you’re saying that, it’s definitely time to get you out of here.” He sounded humorous, but he looked at her as if her sanity were in doubt.

“No, really. This has been like a retreat in a convent . . . er . . . other than the sex that we didn’t just have. I’ve had a lot of time for contemplation. What happened between us—you nailed it. The first time we separated, it was my fault. The second time, it was yours.”

He muttered something dark and crude.

“But you’ve been my friend, always.” Quickly she added, “Which is why I’ll set the charge.”

“The charge on the dynamite?” His voice rose. “Why don’t you just cut off my balls?”

Just when she was starting to feel charitable . . . “Are you insinuating that I’m trying to emasculate you?”

“After what the two of us just did there?” He gestured toward the tent sack. “No. But you know how you have to coddle my ego.”

She snorted in unladylike amusement. “You’ve got an ironclad ego. Do you really think anyone out there”—she waved vaguely toward the ceiling—“is ever going to know who made it go boom?”

“I’ll
know.”

She gathered the shreds of her patience around her. “You aren’t familiar with dynamite.”

“I agree. So you tell me what you learned about it in boot camp. You know me well enough to realize I’m not going to hide while you put yourself in danger, so you might as well give me a crash course on how to blow stuff up, or we’ll be stuck down here forever.”

Now, five days alone with him and she had transformed into a screeching, ranting, grudge-carrying bitch who hated the man so much she dropped her pants at the first opportunity.

She sat on the stuffed tent sack, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her fists, staring at some unspecified point. . . .

She hadn’t really dropped her pants at the
first
opportunity. She’d managed to hold off for five days.

But it hadn’t been easy and it hadn’t been fun, and if she had any integrity she would admit that living in a giant deep freeze had been the only reason she’d held off so long.

Above her, the tin heating vent snapped and crackled like breakfast cereal.

She shot to her feet. “How’s it going?” she shouted.

“Fine.” His voice sounded distant and abstracted. “Now if only I could remember whether the red wire connects to the green cable or—”

She stood frozen in horror.

As if he read her reaction from there, he said, “Chill, Isabelle! I know how to use a timer.”

Which meant he had been joking, which wasn’t funny. Unless she’d completely lost her sense of humor . . . and that was certainly possible. She wrung her hands and stared at the ceiling. Definitely, certainly possible.

Samuel had explored the vent that exited through the ceiling and ended in the snow, then called it their first piece of real luck.

The plan was for him to place the dynamite into the snow above the roof, set the charge on a timer, and get out of the heating run. He had insisted that ninety seconds was long enough for him to reach the ground and for the two of them to go to cover; any longer and he said they’d be hyperventilating by the time the blast occurred.

He had a point, but she was hyperventilating now. If he died . . . She didn’t think she could survive if he died. Because he was a part of her. An integral part of her. A really, really important part of her.

“Okay!” he shouted. “Ninety seconds! Go to cover!”

Above her, she heard the tin crackling as he slithered along. He cursed once, shouted, “I mean it, Isabelle, go on!”

She wrung her gloved hands, desperate to see him appear.

His feet popped into view. His legs.

She put her hands on the ladder to steady it.

He slid out of the vent, glanced down, and his dark eyes kindled with anger. “Isabelle . . .” But he didn’t take the time to shout at her. Instead he wrapped his legs around the sides of the ladder and slid down in one motion.

She sprang out of the way, turned, and ran for the far side of the basement.

He was hot on her heels.

They got under the table they had wedged in the corner, covered with blankets, cushioned in every way possible. They donned their ear protection. He flipped off the LED lantern and, ignoring her protests, flung himself on top of her. Unerringly, he found her mouth and kissed her.

It tasted like a just-in-case farewell.

And the explosion rocked the floor.

She didn’t want be buried alive.

She didn’t want to die at all.

Her heart thundered. Her hands trembled. She held on to Samuel as if he were her only hope of heaven.

Gradually the hailstorm of debris ended.

They were still alive, uncrushed . . . and the explosion was done and they needed to get out and survey the results.

Except she
was
crushed. By him. He stretched out on her, covering every inch of her so that her nose was pressed into his chest and his arms protected her head.

Chivalrous?

Yes.

Stifling?

Also yes.

Nerves jangling, she removed her ear protection. “What good is you lying on top of me going to do if the ceiling collapses?” She shoved at him.

“Hey, at least I’ll get a farewell feel.” He ran his hands up and down her sides, bold and insulting.

Typical Samuel.

Funny, but he made her feel better, as if knowing Samuel was still in this world, his same old obnoxious self, made her life complete.

Her heartbeat calmed. She took a long breath.

“It’s over.” He lifted himself off her and flipped the switch on the lamp. “Shall we go out and see what we’ve done?” He looked different to her. Austere, intense, not at all the sarcastic, flippant Samuel she knew so well.

“Let’s go,” she said.

They dug their way out of the padding over the table and out into the open air.

The basement had been changed by the shock wave—yet it was the same. Dust swirled in the air. All the lockers had been flattened, tilted away from the explosion like a forest of trees blasted by a volcano. In the far corner, the heating runs were crumpled piles of metal crushed beneath massive chunks of the ceiling.

Yet . . . yet . . . no sunlight shone into the basement locker room. No fresh wind blew in their faces. Even from a distance, even in this dim light, it appeared the snow, although blackened and jagged, remained essentially intact.

No. Oh, no.

They picked their way through the wreckage, staring incredulously as they approached the site of the explosion. Heads craned up, they circled beneath the shattered ceiling and the igloolike dome of ice.

“How is this possible?” she whispered.

“I had to work hard to get the dynamite into the snow. As I said, I think on the first night, a shell of ice formed over what remains of the ski lodge.” The explosion had tossed the ladder into the wall and slightly crumpled the aluminum, but Samuel set it up under the hole in the ceiling. “Would you steady this?”

She leaned on it as he climbed, and she speculated, “Since then the weight of the snow above has crushed the snow below, packing it into an even more impermeable layer. So the ice didn’t yield, which forced the blast of the dynamite downward. We’re at the bottom of a glacier.”

He stood at the top and slammed his fist into the ice. “With no way out.”

As he descended, his simmering frustration scalded her.

She looked around at the debris. “I guess we’d better set up the tent again.”

“Why? If we’re right, and the explosion used all our oxygen, we’re going to suffocate.”

“Not yet.” Although she already felt light-headed. But maybe that was disappointment.

“But soon.” He headed toward the far corner where they’d stashed all their “just in case this doesn’t work” stuff.

Most of the time, Samuel was such a cocky jerk, she couldn’t stand him. Or she told herself she couldn’t stand him. But right now, he looked so
guilty
.

She picked her way through the mess, thought briefly about making an attempt to clean it up.

Then she re-sorted her priorities and crawled under the table that had protected them from the explosion. She found the stash she’d so carefully collected. She gathered a half dozen bottles, and came out with them held between her fingers.

She found Samuel on his knees stoically, deliberately rebuilding their tent. “What do you want?” she asked. “Scotch? Aquavit? Ouzo? Schnapps?”

He surveyed her, standing there smiling like a waitress in a German beer hall. “You came prepared.”

“For celebration—or forgetfulness.”

“Of course. You are always prepared.”

“You were the one who had the condom.”

“Old habits die hard.” He reached up and with one finger tapped the thin, tall, clear bottle. “Since this is a ski lodge, schnapps is called for.”

“The perfect choice.” The schnapps was from one of the hundreds of small German families who distilled their own brand, and as she pulled the cork, the scent of peppermint did not so much rise to fill her nostrils as assault her. She sipped. Peppermint exploded on her taste buds. “Ah. A good vintage.”

He snapped the tent poles together, then took the bottle from her, staring at her as if he didn’t know who she was.

“What?” She knew what, but she wanted to distract him. Make him notice her and not the mess they were in.

He sipped cautiously, then handed the schnapps back. “I’ve never seen you drink from the bottle before.”

“Probably because I’ve never drunk from the bottle before. But I want to try everything once before I die, so I guess I’d better hurry.” She took a swig and coughed. “You know, I have to say something here, and I want you to listen very carefully.”

“Go ahead.” He slipped the sleeping bags into the tent, laid them out, side by side.

She enunciated clearly. “This is. Not. Your. Fault.”

He spread a blanket over the top of the bags and made everything look as it had before.

He wasn’t listening.

She would make him. Kneeling beside him, she handed him the bottle. “Look. I’ll blame you for everything you deserve. You know that. But you’re not responsible for the avalanche. You had no way of knowing what the Others intended. You gave us a few more days with your quick thinking getting us here. I know what I said, but I was mad and I also know that once we were trapped, you did everything you could to get us out. We waited until there was no other choice before we set off that dynamite, and I’m the one who said it was time, and I told you how to set the blast. It didn’t work. We’re stuck and our oxygen is seriously depleted.” She leaned in until he had to look her in the eyes. “There’s no one I’d rather face death with.”

He clutched the bottle as if his icy fingers didn’t comprehend what they held. “Do you mean that?”

“Why would I say it if I didn’t mean it?”

“You’re incredibly polite.”

“Not to
you
.”

He laughed. A brief, harsh chortle, but it was a laugh. “That’s true.”

“Too right.”

“Here’s to honesty.” Lifting the bottle, he drank. “I love you.”

“What?” She sat back on her heels.

“I love you. You know that. I’ve always loved you. I’d rather live with you. But if we have to die together . . . yeah, that’s good, too.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

This knowing they were going to die—it brought so many emotions to the surface. Raw emotions. True emotions. The old hurts seemed less important. She remembered the golden moments.

He contemplated her, his eyes serious. “About that last time we were together and what I did—”

“No!” She held up her hand. She was feeling good. She was feeling mellow. She couldn’t remember
that
. His betrayal had been so unexpected, so cruel. . . . “Let’s just remember the good times.”