"What do you mean, they don't die?"
"They join me," she said, her grey eyes open and empty of secrets. "They become my children of the lake." And then she turned her face away. "I am sorry, Peter. I wish there was some other way."
He stared at her through the glass, at that delicate, downturned head, as graceful and as heartless as a stone angel, and he knew then that he'd been wrong to think that she was anything other than lost. This was no fitful madness, no staged insanity; the depth and sincerity of her belief in her developed state were awesome. She was the Rusalka, in a faith that could be neither challenged nor shaken. In her own mind, she lived as the beast… and perhaps in the end, she could only be met and recognised as the beast.
"You're breaking your promise," he reminded her.
"A little," she said, looking at him again and smiling wanly. "As you broke yours, a little. I can leave you and you can't hurt me, no one will believe what you say. But I can't leave others to support you."
"What will happen to Diane?"
"Could she be in love with you?"
"I don't know. It's too early to say."
"If she is, then she'll call to you. And in the night, she may even come to you. And then perhaps you'll come down to the water's edge, and you'll beg me to take you."
"And will you?"
"Yes. Because then I'll be beyond promises." She took a step back from the wired window. "Goodbye, Peter," she said, and she turned to go.
She was going for Diane, to clear out the last of the cell, and Pete realised now that he'd engineered the entire setup himself when he'd broadcast his intentions to Ross Aldridge and to anybody else who might have been listening.
"You can't get to her," he shouted after Alina, and Alina, already halfway across the clearing, turned and looked back.
"I only wish that could be true," she said, and then she walked on.
FORTY-EIGHT
He tried the rear doors but Alina had sealed them somehow, probably by tying the two handles together. Whatever she'd used, he couldn't force them open; after a few seconds he gave up trying, and looked around for another way out. Every window had a wire mesh cover on the outside, a way to protect the glass on badly kept and underused trails; there was a clear cutout section before the driver's position, but it would be too small to crawl through.
Pete scrambled over from the back and into the forward part of the cab, to take a look at the other doors.
Trying the driver's door would have been an obvious waste of time, not only because it had been crushed inward by the collision but also because it still had most of the Toyota holding it shut. Something like a tyre iron had been used to jam the passenger door handle on the outside; dismantling the lock from in here would make no difference, even if he'd had the tools to attempt it.
He lifted out the loose seat sections and started to throw them into the back. The usual locker space under the passenger seat was occupied by a second fuel tank but there was another, smaller locker in the middle that contained a pump and an X shaped wheel brace. Each arm of the X was for a different bolt size.
Think. Ignore this aching head, and concentrate on finding a way out. Alina was already on her way down to the shore. He'd serviced this Rover at least once before; it was ex-army and pretty ancient. He could think of a dozen ways out, but none of them was fast.
Except, perhaps, one.
He tore back the rubber mats on the floor, and then the dusty felt from underneath. The floor here was a single square panel held in place by bolts. He had a start; some of the bolts were already missing.
It was worth a try. He turned the wheelbrace around to see if anything came close to a fit.
Diane had thought that descending the stairway had been a tough job, until it came to getting aboard; there was no gangplank, just a wide step from the dockside across to a gap in the Princess's rail, and then to get around into the cabin she had to make an awkward shuffle and a high step up to the after deck. There were grab rails on the flying bridge above her, and she made full use of them.
God, this was a marathon. She all but collapsed onto the after deck, her ankle raging hot and feeling as if it had swollen to about five times its usual size. She was in near darkness here, the only illumination a kind of pale, dancing underlight from the water that flickered around the walls and through gaps in the boarded quayside. She knew that it was daylight from the lake, getting in under the water doors and being refracted upward, but it gave the place an atmosphere like some forgotten chamber in drowned Atlantis. The deck and flybridge of the Princess stood as an almost solid mass of darkness before her now. She didn't know her way around particularly well, but she did know that a set of keys was hidden under the cover of one of the deck filler points for fuel and water.
A couple of minutes later, she was letting herself in through the sliding glass door and descending the three steps into the after deck saloon.
She tried to remember the layout. How many times had she been on board? Not many. She could remember a chart table to her left, a dinette area ahead of it, the helm and all the instruments forward and to her right. She hopped forward, dragging her heavy boot of molten iron, and with every hop she felt a stab of pain as she jarred the injury. Halfway across the cabin she stumbled and fell. The carpet was intended for hard wear, and wasn't as soft as it might have been. The temptation to give up and lie still was there, but it wasn't quite overpowering. So she dragged herself up, and went on.
At the end of the cabin, she dropped into the padded helmsman's chair.
The control position came alive as she turned the key. Lever controls, twin-scale echo sounder, high speed compass, engine hour meter, rudder position indicator… she found a cabin light switch and turned it on, and the layout immediately became a little less intimidating.
She found the radio telephone. She was hoping that it would work from here inside the boat house because, if it didn't, she'd gone about as far as she could get and for nothing. She had about as much hope of being able to open the lake doors and take the Princess out as she did of dancing Giselle.
She picked up the handset and set one of the frequencies. She didn't know which would be the best, but she could try them all.
"Hello," she said, swivelling the helmsman's chair a little so that she could stretch out her bad leg. "Hello, Mayday. Is anyone receiving me? Mayday."
She turned up the receiver volume, and listened.
Nothing.
She worked her way through every frequency on the set, with no variation in the results. Just the audio snowstorm, the same white noise across all of the channels. She could only suppose that her signal wasn't getting out beyond the walls, or that if it was it was too poor to carry for any useful distance. The valley was notorious for its radio reception at the best of times, and this was hardly one of those.
She tried again, taking frequencies at random.
"Mayday. Mayday. This is Diane Jackson. Can anybody hear me? Mayday."
And then
"Diane? Is that you? Are you serious?"
It was Ted Hammond. The signal wasn't good, but it was definitely Ted Hammond.
"Never more serious in my life, Ted," she said. "Where are you?"
"I'm on the lake with some customers. We just left the marina. What's the problem?"
And so, in as concise and unsensational a manner as she could manage, she told him.
There was silence. "Ted?" she said anxiously, thinking that the signal must have faded as she was speaking and wondering if he'd heard enough to realise the seriousness of the situation, but then he came back on.