Baxter took a few more steps forward. Shame and remorse rose from deep within him. This was it. This was the spot where he'd seen the eyes.
The eyes had peered out from within the swirling snow. He and his friends had frozen in their tracks. They'd gawked at the eyes. No vertebrate could survive Antarctica's harsh weather. It was an ironclad rule. And yet, the eyes, shrouded in a cloak of pure white snow, were undeniable.
Someone had shrieked. Before he'd known it, Baxter's pistol was in his hands. He'd lifted it, aimed it at the snow. His finger had clutched the trigger. He'd blinked. But the eyes were gone.
And his friends were dead.
Baxter knelt down and touched the ice. He could almost feel their faces reaching up to him, crying out for retribution.
He recalled yelling at his friends, begging them to wake up. But they were quiet, still. He'd never understood why Fenrir had spared his life.
He'd salvaged some supplies and covered the bodies with snow. For the next two days, he'd wandered the icy tundra. He didn't remember much of that time. It was a blur of snow, ice, and mountains.
Eventually, people came looking for him. They'd questioned him for days on end about his missing friends. Baxter hadn't known what to say. He could scarcely believe what had happened to them. So, he'd made up a story about getting separated during a freak snowstorm.
Later, he went looking for the bodies. But they were gone, presumably dragged and crushed beneath the shifting ice. No remains were ever recovered. Memorial services were held back in the States. Friends and families gave speeches. And life went on for everyone.
Everyone except for Baxter.
The snow picked up speed as Baxter trudged back to his vehicle. Shivering, he clutched his green jacket to his body. He was getting too old to walk around in anything less than a parka.
He saw something out of the corner of his eye. Still deep in thought, he almost ignored it. But something told him to look. He glanced to the south. His heart raced as he stared at something he hadn't seen in three decades.
His hand fumbled for his pistol. It slipped out of his fingers.
The snow swirled faster and faster, gaining substance and weight.
Reaching down, he yanked the gun from the ice and pointed it into the air.
But the swirling snow had already vanished.
His heart pounded as he strode forward, gun in hand. Had he really just seen Fenrir again? Or was it just a figment of his imagination?
He'd only caught glimpses of Fenrir thirty years ago. But those memories continued to haunt him. He recollected every hair on its body, every rippling muscle. He recalled its scowl, its hooded eyes. But most of all he remembered the fear. That horrible, shameful fear he'd felt deep in his gut.
He'd always wondered how he'd react in a life or death situation. He'd imagined all sorts of scenarios. A beautiful woman held at gunpoint. A vicious murderer running through the streets. A stranger, passed out and blue in the face.
In his dreams, he'd always done the right thing. He'd rescue her. He'd catch the criminal. He'd resuscitate the stranger. But when given the chance to be a real-life hero, he'd folded under the pressure.
The falling powder picked up speed, blotting out everything past twenty feet. Baxter stopped just short of where he'd seen the swirling snow. Bending down, he scanned the ground.
He noticed a series of curious impressions. They weren't perfectly formed. But he could see small holes where articulated toes, chunky and pressed close together, had pushed deep into the snow. He could also see a larger imprint that had been made by a big, thick heel. It was definitely a pawprint. A very familiar pawprint.
Fenrir was back.
An icy feeling chilled Baxter's spine. Once upon a time, he'd let his fear get the best of him. It had plagued him for years, always present in the pit of his stomach. It was written in permanent ink, etched in stone. Even dementia's ugly tentacles wouldn't be able to wrench it from his head.
He was sick of the fear. So damn sick of it. It had to end. Nothing else mattered, not even Liza.
It was time. Time to kill the beast.
Time to kill his fear.
Chapter 24
The Sno-Cat bumped over the icy quagmire. The snow fell fast, limiting my visibility to a couple dozen yards. I knew I was heading in the general direction of the Mühlig-Hofmann Mountains. But I sure as hell couldn't see them.
"How are we doing?" I asked.
"How the hell should I know?" Graham replied.
"Check the GPS. I programmed the anomaly's coordinates into it."
Graham picked up the device. He held it at arm's length as if he were afraid it would bite him. "Okay, I see how this works. We're off-track. You're going to want to turn about ten degrees to the right."
I made the correction. "How's that?"
"Much better."
I glanced at Graham. "You never told me what happened between you and Pat."
"It's a long story."
I drove the Sno-Cat over a large bump. We landed with a bone-shaking thud. "It's a long drive."
"It started with a race. Before my accident, I was pretty good on a pair of skis."
"You ended your friendship over a race?"
"It wasn't just any race. It was an epic race. We skied all the way to the South Pole. Craziest damn thing we ever did. We traveled almost five hundred miles, following Roald Amundsen's path. It was hell. I caught pneumonia. Pat got a bad case of frostbite, blisters, the works.
"Who won?"
He grinned. "Who else?"
"So, what's the problem?"
"Pat accused me of cheating."
"Did you?"
"I followed the rules, same as him."
"What were the rules?"
"There weren't any."
I lifted an eyebrow.
"Well, that's not entirely true. We agreed on one rule. We had to use our skis every inch of the way." He shrugged. "Like I said, I was a good skier. But Pat was better. So, a few nights before the race, a buddy and I flew a helicopter out to the area. We planted a snowmobile a few miles from the finish line."
"So, you cheated."
"Not exactly. Pat and I were neck and neck for most of the race. But eventually, he broke away from me. By the time I reached the snowmobile, I was running on fumes." Graham smiled wistfully. "I'd already detached the snowmobile's front skis and adjusted my own skis accordingly. So, it was a simple matter of adding my skis to the snowmobile and riding it to the finish line."
"Pretty clever."
"Even so, I barely beat him."
We drove a little further. The silhouettes of mountains came into view. I could just make out their peaks through the blowing snow. But their bases remained invisible.
"So, you didn't really cheat," I said. "You tricked him."
"I think he felt a little foolish. But that wasn't what got him steamed. He was angry about the bet."
"What bet?"
"You have to understand. We were young and stupid. We didn't know—”
"Just tell me about the bet."
Graham sighed. "We both liked Liza Oliver. So, we decided the winner would get to take her to the annual Halloween party."
"Did she know about this?"
"Nope. Still doesn't as far as I know."
I studied his face. I saw his furrowed brow, his set jaw. Love — especially young love — was a funny thing. If returned, it could enrich a life beyond measure. But left unrequited, it could tear that same life apart.
"So, you took her to the party?"
"No," he replied. "Remember, I caught pneumonia. Baxter took her instead."