Cover of Night Read online

  The weather wasn’t great for climbing, either; the wind was picking up, and the clouds were pressing lower and lower. If it started raining, they wouldn’t be able to go back down and wait for better weather; they’d have to press on, even though rain would make the rock more slippery. They’d just have to be extra careful. She thanked God this was what she would have considered an easy climb, back in the day. It was about a hundred yards, maybe a hundred and twenty, to the top—and it wasn’t vertical.

  Other climbers had been there before them; bolts and anchors were already hammered into the rock in various places. Some climbers removed them as they went, leaving the rock as they’d found it, others didn’t bother. Generally Cate didn’t like trusting a bolt she hadn’t set herself—or that Derek hadn’t set—but in the name of speed she was prepared to use some of the presets if they felt sturdy.

  Both of them were harnessed and securely roped together. Because she had the most experience, she was the lead rope; she set the way, and when she reached, literally, the end of their rope, she would stop and he’d follow. With the belay set, he would catch her if she fell. When she stopped, she became the belayer and would catch him if he fell.

  Part of her was exhilarated to be back on the rock, even an easy rock. It was the stretch and play of muscle, her strength and skill against the rock. At the same time, she knew deep down in her bones this would be her last climb—at least until her boys were grown—and the only reason she was doing it now was because of the severity of the circumstances. Because she knew this was the last time she’d experience this particular thrill, she paid attention to every second, every scrape and smell and sound, the whisper of the ropes, the wind in her face, the cool, rough rock beneath her fingertips. Every time she looked around and saw how high she’d climbed, she felt intense satisfaction.

  She gained a solid foothold, set a chock, and securely clipped herself to the rock. At her signal, Cal began climbing toward her, following her established route. She watched his every move, her brake hand ready on the rope in case he slipped. The boots he wore were even less suitable for climbing than her sneakers, so every move he made was risky. His upper-body strength compensated somewhat for his boots. Despite the chilly wind, he’d taken off his jacket and rolled it up before adding it to the supplies strapped to his back, so she could see the flex of muscle and tendon in his bare arms. A climber’s strength was sinewy and flexible, like a steel coil, not bulky in the way of bodybuilders’. Cal’s arms looked as if he’d been climbing all his life.

  A cold mist swept over them, and in a matter of seconds, visibility was down to about zero as the cloud engulfed the mountain.

  She knew he was still there, she could feel him on the rope, but she couldn’t see him. “Cal!”

  “I’m still here.”

  He sounded as calm as if they were out for a stroll. One day soon she needed to have a talk with him about this; it wasn’t natural. “I can’t see you, so talk to me, damn it. Tell me everything you do, every step. I have to be able to anticipate.”

  He obliged, talking steadily to her until the wind blew the mist away and he once more emerged into sight. That was the way it went for the next hour, with the mist blowing in and out as the low clouds engulfed them. At one point the mist was like a heavy fog, and they both stopped to put on thin, cheap ponchos that would at least keep most of their clothing dry. That was the rain gear they’d brought, because the ponchos weighed so little, but climbing was impossible with them on. So they simply waited for the mist to clear again. When they could take the ponchos off, they climbed.

  The weather slowed them considerably, and it was just after ten in the morning when they finally reached the top of the rock face, which was nowhere near as high as they needed to get ultimately. Stretching ahead of them was a thickly treed slope; the geography would take them due north instead of northwest, the direction they needed, but they had to follow the land and its restrictions.

  After sipping some water and eating more muesli, then stepping away from each other to answer nature calls in private, they carefully coiled the ropes, slung them over their shoulders, and set off again, this time with Cal in the lead. A light rain began to fall. They put the ponchos on again, and kept hiking.

  “Let’s talk!” Toxtel boomed out, cupping his hands around his mouth to make the sound carry.

  The hell of it, Goss thought, was that he didn’t know if anyone was within hearing distance. All those damn people had disappeared, dropping out of sight as if they’d never existed. Even the bodies were gone. When he and Toxtel had first noticed that this morning, they’d been a little unnerved, because Teague had put such faith in his fancy thermal scopes and now, somehow, the yokels had outsmarted him. It was time for the next step, before these people had a chance to come up with something else.

  Toxtel had been bellowing for a good fifteen minutes, and there hadn’t been so much as a flicker of movement on the other side. He might as well have been farting in the wind, for all the effect he was having.

  After half an hour, Toxtel’s voice was hoarse, but finally a hand waving a white piece of cloth appeared out the front door of the first house. Toxtel shouted again, then waved his own flag, and an old man shuffled out onto the porch.

  The old guy looked to be close to ninety, Goss thought in disbelief, watching as he laboriously made his way down the steps and tottered the hundred yards to the mangled wreckage of the bridge. Was this the best they had to send? But then again, why send the best? Why take that risk? Come to think of it, the old guy was a damn smart choice.

  “What do you want?” he demanded querulously, looking disgruntled at having to go to all this effort.

  Toxtel went right to the point. “The Nightingale woman has what we’re after. Tell her to hand it over, and we’ll pull out and leave.”

  The old guy stared across the ravine separating them, working his jaws as if he were chewing the idea over. Finally he said, “I’ll pass the message on,” and turned around, retracing his steps as if uninterested in anything else they might have to say. They carefully placed themselves behind cover, then watched until he was once more out of sight.

  “What the hell do you make of that?” Toxtel asked rhetorically.

  “They’re pissed” was Goss’s reply.

  28

  THE FIRST SNOWFLAKE DRIFTED DOWN JUST AFTER FIVE that afternoon. Cate stopped in her tracks, staring at it in consternation. Several more flakes followed the first one; then they all disappeared in a swirl of wind.

  “Did you see that?” she asked Cal.

  “Yep.”

  It was early in the season for snow, though not unheard of. With any luck, those few flakes didn’t have any buddies. Rain had started falling in earnest several hours ago. As cold as the temperature had gotten, though, falling steadily through the afternoon hours as they climbed higher and higher, they had to assume a real snowfall was possible.

  Snow wasn’t good for a couple of reasons, the biggest one of which was that they wouldn’t be able to continue. The footing was treacherous enough when they could see where they were stepping; if the way was covered with snow, they would be risking life and limb. Nor were they dressed for snow, or for weather this cold. They’d left the ponchos on as protection against the wind and rain, but they didn’t have the layers necessary to keep them warm. She’d been shivering for some time now, even though she’d put on her sweatshirt jacket and pulled up its hood as well as the hood of the poncho.

  Cal pulled out the rough map Roy Edward had drawn of the abandoned mines. “Are we close to one of them?” Cate asked, moving to his side to look at the piece of paper. She hoped so; they had to get out of this weather before nightfall, which was only a couple of hours away. They would freeze if they had to stay out in this all night.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. He pointed to an X. “That’s the closest one, and by my reckoning we’re about here.” He indicated another spot. “If Roy Edward was anywhere near accurate with his