The Sanatorium(45)

The evacuation will be taking place on Sunday morning, with each bus ferrying up to 50 people at a time to hotels in nearby CransMontana.

Cecile Caron, the hotel’s manager, said the evacuees remained calm.


“Thought I’d find you here.”

Elin looks up.

Isaac.

He looks disheveled. His hair is greasy, curls lying flat, matted against his scalp. The skin above his left eye is raw, shiny red, inflamed.

He studies their bags. “Ready to go?” His voice is flat, icy.

“We have to, Isaac. We don’t have a choice.” Elin exchanges a glance with Will. “Even if it wasn’t for the evacuation, there’s nothing I can do now.”

“I’m not going,” he says abruptly. “I called the police first thing. They said they’d come up today. I’m waiting for them.”

“You’re sure they’re still coming? After the evacuation order?”

“I don’t know, but I can’t leave.” Isaac looks at her, unblinking. “What if she’s out in this? Hurt? If I go, it could be days before anyone gets back up here.”

“They won’t let you stay indefinitely. You’ve got to leave it to the police.”

“Police?” Isaac laughs hollowly. “What do you think they’re going to do? If the storm gets worse, they’re not going to risk their lives to find her. That’s how it works in situations like this, Elin—you know that. They make a call, weigh up the risks.”

“Look, chances are things will have calmed down in a few days. You can come back up . . .” She trails off. They both know how unlikely this is. If the storm progresses as forecast, the roads might take days to clear. By then it would be too late. “Isaac, we’re not going far. We’ll stay in town. As soon as the weather improves we’ll come back up.”

“You’re really going.” His face constricts. “You’re no better than Dad, are you? When the going gets tough, you run.”

Elin blinks, flinching at the force of his words. Without saying anything else, he turns, walks away, doesn’t look back.

Anger sparks inside her—at him, at herself. She roughly pushes back her chair.

Will puts a hand on her arm. “Let him calm down. He just needs—”

But he doesn’t get to finish his sentence.

Screams. Screams, then a shout.

The sound is muffled, muted, like it’s coming down a tunnel.

Then a face appears at the window, twisted in an expression of absolute terror.





35





Elin’s cup falls from her hand, clattering against her plate. Coffee streaks across the table: a thin, dark slash.

A man—staff, Elin thinks, taking in the uniform, the gray puffer coat branded with the same lowercased le sommet.

He’s hammering on the window, fists pounding so hard the glass is vibrating. Snow is being blown sideways, blurring his face. All she can make out is dark, closely cropped hair, heavyset features.

Thud. Thud.

Her heart accelerates, tripping double time.

Standing up, Will stumbles toward the window, Elin following close behind.

The man’s face becomes clearer, his features contorted; his eyes are wide, staring, pupils enlarged.

He’s mouthing something. “La piscine . . .” The rest of his words are lost to the wind, the thick wall of glass. “La piscine . . .” the man repeats, louder this time, so she can hear it through the glass. The pool.

“I’ll get someone,” Will says, his voice tremulous.

She nods wordlessly. Adrenaline coursing through her, she gropes for the handle of the door leading onto the terrace. She finds it, pushing down hard.

It doesn’t open.

Elin pushes again. Harder.

Finally, it gives, freezing air hitting her cheeks along with powdery flakes of snow.

The man moves toward her, his body trembling. “La piscine . . .” His voice is high, gabbled, tipping into hysteria. He says the words over and over, final syllable merging with the first. He points toward the spa.

Stepping out onto the terrace, Elin looks where he’s pointing, but she can’t see anything. The spa sits to the left, but it’s screened off by a complex structure of fencing and planting.

“Please, let me—”

Elin recognizes Cecile Caron’s voice straightaway. Will is behind her.

“Let me through.” Cecile’s already pulling on a jacket. Her tone is calm, authoritative, but Elin can hear the flayed undertones: fear, panic.

“Axel, show me.” Following him, Cecile turns to Elin. “Please, go back inside.”

Elin stays put, watches Axel start walking back along the terrace. His movements are uncontrolled, jerky, feet giving way on the ice, compacted snow.

“I’ve got to go with them.”

“No.” Will puts a hand on her arm. “You don’t know what this is.”

She hears his words, but they don’t register. What if it’s Laure?

Going back inside, Elin picks up her tote and snatches her coat from the chair. She pulls it on, heads outside. Cecile and the man disappear down a set of steps at the end of the terrace.

Elin strides toward them. Despite her thick fleece, the wind cuts through the fabric, biting into her chest, her throat.