The Ascent(75)

I crawled into my sleeping bag, my eyes slamming shut, my body racked with exhaustion. Then I realized something and sat bolt upright, my eyes flipping open.

Hollinger was still gone.

I leaned over and poked Petras on the shoulder. “Wake up.”

“Hmm …”

“Hollinger never came back from taking a leak.”

Petras’s eyes fluttered open. He coughed into one fist, clearing his throat, and sat up against a large stone. We exchanged a glance; the look in his eyes did not make me feel any better.

“How long has it been since he left?”

“Maybe forty minutes,” I guessed.

“Come on,” Petras said, standing.

We crossed the chamber toward the mouth of the tunnel, passingbeneath the pastel light sliding down through the eyelet above our heads. We passed the massive finger of packed snow that sat at an angle against one of the mirrored walls, the crinkly blue tarpaulin spread out at its base. Chad’s blood had spread and frozen into the cracks in the ice.

Together we paused before the mouth of the tunnel. Midway through, it banked at an angle so it was impossible to see the opening at the other end. Petras cupped his hands about his mouth and shouted Hollinger’s name into the tunnel. The echo seemed to go on forever.

Hollinger did not answer.

Entering the tunnel, I extended both hands to feel my way along the wall. My shins barked against calcified spires of stone rising in various angles from the ground. Petras followed close behind me, the sound of his respiration like sandpaper against concrete. Only a dozen steps into the tunnel and we were in absolute darkness. I held my hand just an inch in front of my face and wiggled my fingers. I couldn’t see a damn thing.

“He could have—,” I began but cut myself off as my right foot struck something loose and metallic. I froze.

“The hell was that?” Petras whispered.

Crouching, I patted the ground like a blind man. Whatever it was I’d kicked it somewhere ahead of me. I crawled, hearing the knees of my cargo pants chafe against the stone and the distant sound of cave water dripping from rocky overhangs. Finally my hands fell upon the object, causing my breath to catch in my throat. I knew what it was without picking it up. “It’s Hollinger’s lantern.”

Petras said nothing.

“Hollinger!” I yelled. “Michael Hollinger!”

“He’s not in here.”

“He could have fallen, knocked himself out.” I cranked the switch on the lantern, but the light wouldn’t come on. “He could

have struck his head on something and—” “He’s not in here.” “And—”

“Tim, he’s not here.”

I knew he was right. I stood, leaving the broken lantern on the ground, and continued down the tunnel. As I turned the corner, I could see the fading light of day spilling in through the opening of the cave. The tongue of ice glittered on the floor of the cave as I approached. “Mike? Hollinger?” My voice was insignificant. “Tim,” Petras said, far behind me. “Careful …” I crept to the edge of the cave, heedful not to slip on the icy tongue. Gripping a protruding rock from the wall of the cave, I peered down the hundred-yard drop to the valley below. “Oh, Jesus, f*ck,” I groaned. “What is it?”

“Hollinger,” I said. “He’s dead.”

Petras shuffled toward me through the darkness. He stopped behind me, and I could feel his breath along the sweaty nape of my neck.

Hollinger’s body was shattered on the rocks below. He’d taken his helmet off, and his head had split open like a cantaloupe. “Christ,” I stammered. “Jesus Christ, man …” Petras dug his fingers into my shoulder. “Come on.” “He’s dead. He’s f*ckin’ dead.” Those fingers pressed harder. “Let’s go.”

12



I MUST HAVE DOZED OFF. BECAUSE WHEN I OPENED

my eyes, the quality of the light coming through the hole in the ceiling had changed. I felt groggy and dry mouthed, and a chill rippled through my body. My eyes stung so I closed them again, shivering.

13



PETRAS SHOOK MY SHOULDER. “WAKE UP.”

My eyes fluttered. My head was stuffed with cotton. “What happened?”

“We found Hollinger at the bottom of the cliff,” he said, and it all came rushing back. “You threw up, then passed out.”

Shakily, I sat up. We were still in the Hall of Mirrors, my body sweating beneath a stack of sleeping bags.

“He didn’t fall,” I said. “Hollinger didn’t fall, man.”

Petras sighed and said, “I want to show you something.” He withdrew a bundle of black rope from his backpack, cinched in a bow by a metal clasp. “It’s the line that snapped when Curtis died.” He held up the frayed end. It was the first I’d seen of it. I could see that not all of it was frayed—just a bit. Petras must have noticed the realization in my eyes. “You see it, right?”

I sat up farther on my elbows. “It’s—”

“It’s been cut,” Petras said. “It’s a kernmantle line made of nylon and polyethylene. These lines don’t break.” He paused. “Just like titanium camming devices don’t break.”

“I know what you’re getting at,” I muttered.