Obviously I couldn’t spend the night squatting on Frau Hoffman’s grave, waiting for the unknown to turn up. I could freeze to death before that happened, if it ever did. I decided I had better get back to the car. In the enthusiasm of new-car ownership I had stocked the trunk with a variety of suggested emergency equipment. Some of it might even be there. The blanket was kaput; I had used it to cover the seat one day when I took Caesar to the vet, and he had eaten most of it. But if memory served, I still had a small folding shovel and a few other odds and ends. If I couldn’t dig the car out and get it back on the road, I might at least survive until morning.
It was at that point in my cool, deliberate reasoning that I heard something that was not the wind moaning in the branches. The wind wouldn’t call my name.
The voice came behind me—between me and the car. Did I panic? Of course I did. I started forward, my progress agonizingly slowed by the depth of the snow. Get behind something—that was my only thought. A snowbank, a wall—how about a tombstone? Plenty of them around.
“Vicky!” Unmistakably my name, though the wind snatched the syllables and played with them. High-pitched and distorted by emotion, it could have been the voice of a man or a woman.
I reached an area where the snow was slightly less deep—only about to my knees. The black square framed in whiteness was Hoffman’s tombstone. The snow lay deep and untouched over the graves. One of my wreaths had toppled forward, only a black half-circle showed, partially veiled by the drifting snow.
I could hear him now, thrashing after me. I reached into my bag and found the gun. My hands were stiff with cold, despite my gloves. I realized I’d have to remove one of them to get my finger around the trigger.
“Vicky!” Then, at last, I knew the voice.
He was a dark featureless shadow against the paler blanket of snow, but I would have known that shape anywhere. His voice was rough and uneven, barely recognizable. “What the hell are you doing? It’s thirty degrees below freezing; are you trying to turn yourself into an icecube?”
I said, “Friedl is dead. Murdered. Strangled.”
“Ah.” His breath formed a ghostly plume against the darkness. After a moment he said, “It’s here. I should have known. The bulb.”
“The wrong time of year, you said.” My lips were numb with cold. “Bulbs are planted in the fall, before the ground freezes. I expect he put the chrysanthemums in at the same time. Even if anyone noticed, in this remote place, the signs of digging would be explained.”
“And what more appropriate spot than the grave of his Helen,” John murmured.
Had he read Hoffman’s love letters? Not necessarily. His quick, intuitive mind was capable of appreciating the poetry of real life, even if he couldn’t feel it himself.
When he spoke again his voice cracked with anger. “So you came rushing up here in the dead of night, with a blizzard forecast, to catch a killer. Are you out of your mind? Even if he knows—”
“She’s safe until he finds out, you said.”
“I said a lot of things. What am I, the voice of God? He may have had other reasons for murdering her.”
I said, “I have a gun.”
“How nice.” He had regained control of his breathing; his voice was almost back to normal, light and mocking. “I suppose you could use it to start a fire. But if I may venture to make a suggestion, a packet of matches would be more useful.”
“I’m not so sure. What are you doing here?”
“I followed you, what do you think? You came haring out of the hotel as if your jeans were on fire and took off like a bat out of hell.” The dim shadow shifted, and I said warningly, “Don’t come any closer.”
“For God’s sake, Vicky! Do you want them to find us frozen in place, like Lot’s wife and her brother? Let’s go back to town and have a hot drink and a nice long—” His voice broke, in a long indrawn breath. Then he said quietly, almost reverently, “My God.”
Even the great John Smythe couldn’t have feigned that emotion. I glanced behind me.
It was almost upon us. I caught only one flashing glimpse before it engulfed me, but the sight burned an image into my eyes.
Snow. A solid, opaque wall of whiteness, silent, deadly, moving down from the mountain heights.
Within three seconds it had filled my mouth and nostrils, weighted my lashes, hidden the world. I heard John call out, and tried to fight my way toward him, but the wind tore his voice to tatters and drove me to my knees. When I struggled up, I had lost all sense of direction. Groping blindly, I stumbled forward. My foot caught on a tombstone and I fell again. The faint far-off wail I heard might have been his voice, or the wind—or my own whimper of fear. I couldn’t even see the ground, it was the same color as the air around me, but I felt it cold against my face as I slid forward. The blackness that filled my vision was a pleasant change after all that uniform white.
Warmth. Still dark, but warm and therefore wonderful. Surely there was a faint red glow, a specific source of heat not far away…. I was afraid to open my eyes. Mother always warned me I’d go to the bad place if I didn’t mend my sinful ways. Little did she know. After being frozen to death, hell seemed like…
“Heaven,” I murmured blissfully.
“You aren’t the first woman to tell me that,” said John’s voice.
I turned my head slightly and burrowed deeper into the lovely, prickly warmth of his sweater.
“How did you find me?” I asked drowsily.
“I believe the usual answer is, with great difficulty. To be quite honest, I fell over you. Lucky for you…. Lucky for both of us, in fact. It helped orient me; I was heading straight for the cliff.”
“Where are we?”
“Why don’t you open your eyes and find out?”
So I did.
The only light came from the flames of the fire by which I was lying. An empty, echoing darkness reached out beyond the light. At least it was enclosed; there was no wind and no snow, but it was warm only by comparison to the out-of-doors. Though the few details I could make out were indistinct, reasoning told me that there had only been one source of shelter near at hand.
“The church?”
“Mmm-hmmm.”
“Where did you find the wood for the…Oh, John, you didn’t!”
“I hadn’t much choice. Luckily the pews were old wooden affairs. They burn very nicely.”
“But you’ll set the place on fire!”
“No fear. The baptismal font makes a handy little fireplace. Really,” John went on in a meditative voice, “I had no idea how convenient an abandoned church can be. I must remember to look for one the next time I’m benighted.”
“Good God,” I said helplessly.
“I couldn’t agree more. If you are sufficiently recovered to tend the fire, I will go questing to see what other useful items I can find. I felt a fire was the most important thing. You were unpleasantly frigid to the touch when I towed you in.”
I sat up. Once away from the warmth of his body, I realized the temperature of the air was well below freezing. I felt like a piece of bread in one of those old wire toasters, singed on one side and cold on the other.
He had removed my wet outer clothes and laid them on the floor near the fire. I heard him move away, cat-footed in the dust. He was whistling softly.
Well, I could think of worse people to be caught in a blizzard with. My lips twisted in a reluctant smile as I saw the crumpled papers next to the makeshift fireplace. They were pages from a hymnal.
I looked over my shoulder. The flame of his lighter gleamed like a star in the dimness, and I thanked God he had taken up smoking. “Haven’t you got a flashlight?” I called, and then recoiled as the high ceiling threw the last syllables back at me like the voice of the Inhabitant himself.