The Middle of Somewhere(97)

He paused. When he spoke, his voice was hushed. “It’s what I’ve always wanted.”

She’d been so stupid to doubt him, so blind in not seeing the strength of his devotion. And she’d wounded him in the worst possible way because of it. But did he want her still? She couldn’t ask for fear of the answer.

He touched her shoulder. “We can’t sit here, Liz. We really can’t. Help me figure out what gear we need. Please.”

She raised her head and wiped her eyes. “Okay.” Moving quickly, he emptied both packs. He consulted with Liz about what they would need in a worst-case scenario, and refilled his pack with the tent, sleeping bags, ready-to-eat food, medical and safety kits, headlamp, knife and Aquamira for purifying water. In anticipation of increasing wind and the likelihood of rain, Dante put on his rain jacket and helped Liz into hers. He fashioned a sling from a shoulder strap, padding it with a rolled-up shirt, and stashed everything else in Liz’s pack to be left behind.

Dante scouted to ensure the Roots were not in sight, and they left the hiding spot and resumed their climb toward the summit. The pills had taken the edge off Liz’s pain, and she breathed more easily without the burden of a pack. Still, the air was thin and her heart raced. Dante walked behind her and offered encouragement. They left the twisting path behind and moved into the open. To the left, the face fell away steeply into the valley. To the right, a line of subpeaks of the Whitney massif came into view. At the far end was Whitney itself, a wedge of talus jutting into space. A hut stood near the lip, a tiny square set on a sloping plane of staggering proportions. The mountain’s size was matched by thunderheads above, towering anvils with black undersides, changing Whitney’s white granite to lead. The scope of the scene horrified her. The mountain was too vast, the clouds too dark and piled too high. She would be swallowed whole. Liz hiked faster, deaf to the ache in her muscles and her chest.

Dante called to her to stop. His grim expression told her everything. He pointed with his pole to a section of trail behind them, less than a half mile away. Two dark figures, one seated. The seated one rose and both set off toward Liz and Dante at a brisk pace.

“They’ve seen us,” Dante said.

And there was nowhere to hide.

Liz smelled the sharp tang of ozone. She swallowed hard. A raindrop hit her boot. More drops fell noisily, dark splotches on stone. A low boom of thunder rolled in from the west. The skin on her arms prickled and dread filled her body with an ache like flu. She pulled up her hood and tightened the toggle. Dante gave her a wan smile and she turned from him and walked on toward the summit.

With every step they took, the sky darkened. Thunder rumbled, nearer and nearer each time. Out of the corner of her eye, Liz saw a flash of lightning. She turned to witness a series of strikes—five, six, seven—above Mount Hitchcock and closer, each followed by a roar of thunder, each igniting a paroxysm of distress in her. Her pace slowed. The trail led higher, and higher was not where she wanted to be.

They passed a gap between the eastern wall of peaks, windows through which they could see mountains and lakes and snowfields, and far beyond, the Owens Valley, where Lone Pine, and safety, lay. A few steps farther and the windows were behind them.

A deafening crack, resounding so close it trembled through the ground and up through the soles of Liz’s boots. She dropped into a crouch and her knee hit her right arm. She screamed and squeezed her eyes shut. The hair on the nape of her neck tingled. Fear bloomed inside her, spreading out to her limbs.

This is it, she thought.

Dante was next to her, his arm around her. “It’s okay, Liz.”

She shook her head, her eyes still closed.

“We need to keep going. We’re pretty close.”

“I can’t.”

She made herself smaller, lower. If it weren’t for her arm, she’d flatten herself against the earth. So flat, the lightning would never find her. So flat, the Roots would never see her. She would meld into rock, become stone. Become hard, unbreakable, impervious. Insensate. Unable to be hurt, to be lost. Payton Root could do nothing to stone. Stone could do nothing to Dante.

Thunder roared and her mind skipped. She glanced around her in jerking movements, taking in the trail, the slope, the dark sky. A realization hit her. Flat was wrong. Her best chance was the least contact with the ground. She scooted onto a flat rock balanced on sharp points.

Dante followed her. “What if we go to the hut?”

“The hut? No! It’s not safe! Nowhere’s safe. Lightning spreads. It hits and it spreads. You have to stay small!”