Darkness(52)

By the time they’d finished that off she was breathing more or less normally and the pain from the stitch in her side had gone away. The base of her spine and her left elbow hurt from hitting the kitchen floor, horror at the fate of her friends lurked in the back of her mind like a malevolent shadow, and she was cold and queasy and afraid of dying, either at the hands of the killers or from exposure: they had nowhere to go and the clouds that were rolling in on the wind were low and the color of lead, which she was afraid meant more snow.

On a positive note, she was still alive.

“Better?” he asked, and she nodded. She happened to be looking down at the camp just as the wind disturbed the fog enough so that she could see the buildings, as well as headlights moving away from them in a jerky, stop-and-go fashion. The headlights could only belong to the tractor, and as she watched, the vehicle chugged into a relatively clear patch of air so she could actually see it. A cross between a Caterpillar and a farm tractor complete with a small, enclosed cab and nine wheels in sets of three on each side that had been wrapped in tank treads, the thing was the canary yellow of a school bus and about as long. Right now it had its snowplow attachment down. Hard at work, it moved busily back and forth, scraping snow and ice off the asphalt.

Gina frowned. “They’re clearing the runway.”

Cal followed her gaze.

“Shit.” He stood up abruptly. Picking up the backpacks, he slung them over his shoulder. “Come on, let’s go.”

Gina stood up, too, but she was still staring down at the tractor. “Why would they be—” She broke off as the answer sent cold chills sliding down her spine. “They’re expecting a plane to land.”

“Looks like it.” His voice was grim. He started walking and she followed. Every instinct she possessed screamed at her to put as much distance as possible between herself and what was going on below.

They were maybe halfway up the mountain, high enough so that she could see but not hear the tractor, and at this point the trail was wide enough for them to walk side by side, with about five feet on the other side of it before a sheer drop-off plunged some three hundred feet into a snowy ravine. As it curled around the mountain, she knew from experience, the trail got narrower, and steeper.

“That can’t be good,” she said, catching up and falling into step beside him.

“Nope.”

“Unless a plane’s coming to pick them up and take them away from here?” She knew it was a forlorn hope even as she said it.

“I’d say they’re bringing in more people.”

“Why?” Her voice was full of trepidation. She looked back down at the camp. Except for the glow of its headlights, the tractor once again had been swallowed by fog. The light spilling from the windows of the main building created yellow rectangles in the mass of gray, keeping her oriented. She and Cal were above the dense blanket of fog covering the low-lying areas now, and as they climbed higher it was like looking down on a rolling bank of storm clouds from the window of an airplane. Up where they were, the mist was lighter and finer, more lacy tendrils and a less solid block of condensation. The honks of a formation of Aleutian cackling geese as they flew past overhead were the only sounds other than the wind and the sea.

Cal said, “They’ll be concerned about possible witnesses.”

Gina digested that. “They can’t afford to leave anybody alive.” Her voice was hollow with realization.

He said, “We’ve got some time. Nobody’s landing anything in this fog.”

At that indirect confirmation that she was right on with her deduction, the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach intensified. “Oh, goody. We just have to worry about the killers who are already here. For now.”

A corner of his mouth quirked up in response. He slanted a glance at her. “How well do you know Attu?”

“I’ve studied a map: I know the layout and where things are generally.” Glancing back down at the industriously moving headlights, she shuddered. “I’ve walked some of the trails, although the farthest I’ve gone is about half a day’s walk from camp.” She flicked a look at him. His head was bent slightly, to hear her better over the blowing wind, she thought. Seen in profile, his features looked as hard and unyielding as the craggy black mountain rising behind him. “I’ve gone around the eastern tip of the island in a Zodiac.”

“Big mistake, huh?” The hint of humor in his voice caught her by surprise.

“Oh, yeah.”

He smiled at the fervency with which she said that, and once again she found herself thinking what a great-looking guy he was. Good-looking, good with his hands—the memory of their kiss and his subsequent feel-up of her body sent a reminiscent pulse through her—why, if she hadn’t been on the run for her life and he hadn’t been a dangerous stranger that she not only knew nothing about but didn’t want to know anything about and, oh, yeah, if life hadn’t smashed her romantic tendencies like a glass at the end of a Jewish wedding ceremony, she just might have been interested in him.

But given the above conditions, not a chance. Even if he was an excellent kisser.

He said, “You know of anyplace where we could hide out and still keep an eye on that runway?”

Gina frowned, considering. “There’s a lookout post near the top of Weston Mountain.” She pointed. The peak loomed to her left, its summit wreathed in fog that hid the tiny, tumbledown cabin on sky-high stilts that was the lookout post. “Well, the remains of one. You can see the whole camp from there. When it isn’t so foggy, that is. Artillery Hill”—she pointed toward the west, where fog obscured the lower-elevation knob near the bay—“has some old Quonset huts still standing. Plus there are storage sheds all over the place. And caves.”