The Winter Man (28 page)

He got to his feet and unloaded the backpack as the pilot and two of the other men gathered around him.

“I've got a modular phone,” Quinn said, “which I hope to God will work.” He punched buttons and waited, his dark eyes narrowed, holding his breath.

It seemed to take forever. Then a voice, a recognizable voice, came over the wire. “Hello.”

“Terry!” Quinn called. “It's Sutton. I've found them.”

“Thank God!” Terry replied. “Okay, give me your position.”

Quinn did, spreading out his laminated map to verify it, and then gave the report on casualties.

“Only one unconscious?” Terry asked again.

“Only one,” Quinn replied heavily.

“We'll have to airlift you out, but we can't do it until the wind dies down. You understand, Quinn, the same downdrafts and updrafts that kept the chopper out this morning are going to keep it out now.”

“Yes, I know, damn it,” Quinn yelled. “But I've got to get her to a hospital. She's failing already.”

Terry sighed. “And there you are without a rescue toboggan. Listen, what if I get Larry Hale down there?”
he asked excitedly. “You know Larry; he was national champ in downhill a few years back, and he's a senior member of the Ski Patrol now. We could airdrop you the toboggan and some supplies for the rest of the survivors by plane. The two of you could tow her to a point accessible by chopper. Do you want to risk it, Quinn?”

“I don't know if she'll be alive in the morning, Terry,” Quinn said somberly. “I'm more afraid to risk doing nothing than I am of towing her out. It's fairly level, if I remember right, all the way to the pass that leads from Caraway Ridge into Jackson Hole. The chopper might be able to fly down Jackson Hole and come in that way, without having to navigate the peaks. What do you think?”

“I think it's a good idea,” Terry said. “If I remember right, they cleared that pass from the Ridge into Jackson Hole in the fall. It should still be accessible.”

“No problem,” Quinn said, his jaw grim. “If it isn't cleared, I'll clear it, by hand if necessary.”

Terry chuckled softly. “Hale says he's already on the way. We'll get the plane up—hell of a pity he can't land where you are, but it's just too tricky. How about the other survivors?”

Quinn told him their conditions, along with the two bodies that would have to be airlifted out.

“Too bad,” he replied. He paused for a minute to talk to somebody. “Listen, Quinn, if you can get the woman to
Caraway Ridge, the chopper pilot thinks he can safely put down there. About the others, can they manage until morning if we drop the supplies?”

Quinn looked at the pilot. “Can you?”

“I ate snakes in Nam and Bill over there served in Antarctica.” He grinned. “Between us, we can keep these pilgrims warm and even feed them. Sure, we'll be okay. Get that little lady out if you can.”

“Amen,” the man named Bill added, glancing at Amanda's still form. “I've heard her sing. It would be a crime against art to let her die.”

Quinn lifted the cellular phone to his ear. “They say they can manage, Terry. Are you sure you can get them out in the morning?”

“If we have to send the snowplow in through the valley or send in a squad of snowmobiles and a horse-drawn sled, you'd better believe we'll get them out. The Ski Patrol is already working out the details.”

“Okay.”

Quinn unloaded his backpack. He had flares and matches, packets of high protein dehydrated food, the first-aid kit and some cans of sterno.

“Paradise,” the pilot said, looking at the stores. “With that, I can prepare a seven-course meal, build a bonfire and make a house. But those supplies they're going to drop will come in handy, just the same.”

Quinn smiled in spite of himself. “Okay.”

“We can sure use this first-aid kit, but I've already set a broken arm and patched a few cuts. Before I became a pilot, I worked in the medical corps.”

“I had rescue training when I was in the Ski Patrol,” Quinn replied. He grinned at the pilot. “But if I ever come down in a plane, I hope you're on it.”

“Thanks. I hope none of us ever come down again.” He glanced at the two bodies. “God, I'm sorry about them.” He glanced at Amanda. “I hope she makes it.”

Quinn's jaw hardened. “She's a fighter,” he said. “Let's hope she cares enough to try.” He alone knew how defeated she'd probably felt when she left the lodge. He'd inflicted some terrible damage with his coldness. Pride had forced him to send her away, to deny his own happiness. Once he knew how famous and wealthy she was in her own right, he hadn't felt that he had the right to ask her to give it all up to live with him and Elliot in the wilds of Wyoming. He'd been doing what he thought was best for her. Now he only wanted her to live.

He took a deep breath. “Watch for the plane and Hale, will you? I'm going to sit with her.”

“Sure.” The pilot gave him a long look that he didn't see before he went back to talk to the other survivors.

Quinn sat down beside Amanda, reaching for one cold little hand under the coats that covered her. It was going to be a rough ride for her, and she didn't need any more jarring. But if they waited until morning, without medical
help, she could die. It was much riskier to do nothing than it was to risk moving her. And down here in the valley, the snow was deep and fairly level. It would be like Nordic skiing; cross-country skiing. With luck, it would feel like a nice lazy sleigh ride to her.

“Listen to me, honey,” he said softly. “We've got a long way to go before we get you out of here and to a hospital. You're going to have to hold on for a long time.” His hand tightened around hers, warming it. “I'll be right with you every step of the way. I won't leave you for a second. But you have to do your part, Amanda. You have to fight to stay alive. I hope that you still want to live. If you don't, there's something I need to tell you. I sent you away not because I hated you, Amanda, but because I loved you so much. I loved you enough to let you go back to the life you needed. You've got to stay alive so that I can tell you that,” he added, stopping because his voice broke.

He looked away, getting control back breath by breath. He thought he felt her fingers move, but he couldn't be sure. “I'm going to get you out of here, honey, one way or the other, even if I have to walk out with you in my arms. Try to hold on, for me.” He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the palm hungrily. “Try to hold on, because if you die, so do I. I can't keep going unless you're somewhere in the world, even if I never see you again. Even if you hate me forever.”

He swallowed hard and put down her hand. The sound
of an airplane in the distance indicated that supplies were on the way. Quinn put Amanda's hand back under the cover and bent to brush his mouth against her cold, still one.

“I love you,” he whispered roughly. “You've got to hold on until I can get you out of here.”

He stood, his face like the stony crags above them, his eyes glittering as he joined the others.

The plane circled and seconds later, a white parachute appeared. Quinn held his breath as it descended, hoping against hope that the chute wouldn't hang up in the tall trees and that the toboggan would soft-land so that it was usable. A drop in this kind of wind was risky at best.

But luck was with them. The supplies and the sled made it in one piece. Quinn and the pilot and a couple of the sturdier survivors unfastened the chute and brought the contents back to the wreckage of the commuter plane. The sled was even equipped with blankets and a pillow and straps to keep Amanda secured.

Minutes later, the drone of a helicopter whispered on the wind, and not long after that, Hale started down the mountainside.

It took several minutes. Quinn saw the flash of rust that denoted the distinctive jacket and white waist pack of the Ski Patrol above, and when Hale came closer, he could see the gold cross on the right pocket of the jacket—a duplicate of the big one stenciled on the jacket's back. He
smiled, remembering when he'd worn that same type of jacket during a brief stint as a ski patrolman. It was a special kind of occupation, and countless skiers owed their lives to those brave men and women. The National Ski Patrol had only existed since 1938. It was created by Charles Dole of Connecticut, after a skiing accident that took the life of one of his friends. Today, the Ski Patrol had over 10,000 members nationally, of whom ninety-eight percent were volunteers. They were the first on the slopes and the last off, patrolling for dangerous areas and rescuing injured people. Quinn had once been part of that elite group and he still had the greatest respect for them.

Hale was the only color against the whiteness of the snow. The sun was out, and thank God it hadn't snowed all day. It had done enough of that last night.

Quinn's nerves were stretched. He hadn't had a cigarette since he'd arrived at the lodge, and he didn't dare have one now. Nicotine and caffeine tended to constrict blood vessels, and the cold was dangerous enough without giving it any help. Experienced skiers knew better than to stack the odds against themselves.

“Well, I made it.” Hale grinned, getting his breath. “How are you, Quinn?” He extended a hand and Quinn shook it.

The man in the Ski Patrol jacket nodded to the others, accepted their thanks for the supplies he'd brought with him, which included a makeshift shelter and plenty of food and water and even a bottle of cognac. But he didn't
waste time. “We'd better get moving if we hope to get Miss Callaway out of here by dark.”

“She's over here,” Quinn said. “God, I hate doing this,” he added heavily when he and Hale were standing over the unconscious woman. “If there was any hope, any at all, that the chopper could get in here…”

“You can feel the wind for yourself,” Hale replied, his eyes solemn. “We're the only chance she has. We'll get her to the chopper. Piece of cake,” he added with a reassuring smile.

“I hope so,” Quinn said somberly. He bent and nodded to Hale. They lifted her very gently onto the long sled containing the litter. It had handles on both ends, because it was designed to be towed. They attached the towlines, covered Amanda carefully and set out, with reassurances from the stranded survivors.

There was no time to talk. The track was fairly straightforward, but it worried Quinn, all the same, because there were crusts that jarred the woman on the litter. He towed, Hale guided, their rhythms matching perfectly as they made their way down the snow-covered valley. Around them, the wind sang through the tall firs and lodgepole pines, and Quinn thought about the old trappers and mountain men who must have come through this valley a hundred, two hundred years before. In those days of poor sanitation and even poorer medicine, Amanda wouldn't have stood a chance.

He forced himself not to look back. He had to
concentrate on getting her to the Ridge. All that was important now, was that she get medical help while it could still do her some good. He hadn't come all this way to find her alive, only to lose her.

It seemed to take forever. Once, Quinn was certain that they'd lost their way as they navigated through the narrow pass that led to the fifty-mile valley between the Grand Tetons and the Wind River Range, an area known as Jackson Hole. But he recognized landmarks as they went along, and eventually they wound their way around the trees and along the sparkling river until they reached the flats below Caraway Ridge.

Quinn and Hale were both breathing hard by now. They'd changed places several times, so that neither got too tired of towing the toboggan, and they were both in peak condition. But it was still a difficult thing to do.

They rested, and Quinn reached down to check Amanda's pulse. It was still there, and even seemed to be, incredibly, a little stronger than it had been. But she was pale and still and Quinn felt his spirits sink as he looked down at her.

“There it is,” Hale called, sweeping his arm over the ridge. “The chopper.”

“Now if only it can land,” Quinn said quietly, and he began to pray.

The chopper came lower and lower, then it seemed to shoot up again and Quinn bit off a hard word. But the pilot
corrected for the wind, which was dying down, and eased the helicopter toward the ground. It seemed to settle inch by inch until it landed safe. The pilot was out of it before the blades stopped.

“Let's get out of here,” he called to the men. “If that wind catches up again, I wouldn't give us a chance in hell of getting out. It was a miracle that I even got in!”

Quinn released his bindings in a flash, leaving his skis and poles for Hale to carry, along with his own. He got one side of the stretcher while the pilot, fortunately no lightweight himself, got the other. They put the stretcher in the back of the broad helicopter, on the floor, and Quinn and Hale piled in—Hale in the passenger seat up front, Quinn behind with Amanda, carefully laying ski equipment beside her.

“Let's go!” the pilot called as he revved up the engine.

It was touch and go. The wind decided to play tag with them, and they almost went into a lodgepole pine on the way up. But the pilot was a tenacious man with good nerves. He eased down and then up, down and up until he caught the wind off guard and shot up out of the valley and over the mountain.

Quinn reached down and clasped Amanda's cold hand in his. Only a little longer, honey, he thought, watching her with his heart in his eyes. Only a little longer, for God's sake, hold on!

It was the longest ride of his entire life. He spared one
thought for the people who'd stayed behind to give Amanda her chance and he prayed that they'd be rescued without any further injuries. Then his eyes settled on her pale face and stayed there until the helicopter landed on the hospital lawn.

The reporters, local, state and national, had gotten word of the rescue mission. They were waiting. Police kept them back just long enough for Amanda to be carried into the hospital, but Quinn and Hale were caught. Quinn volunteered Hale to give an account of the rescue and then he ducked out, leaving the other man to field the enthusiastic audience while he trailed quickly behind the men who'd taken Amanda into the emergency room.