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wanted, very simply, to see Kresinski's face because now it would be his real
face. There was no fight left in
John. None at all. He was scared and hurt and blind. Also he was resigned.
Even if he managed to get across the ledge and descend the ramp, there was no
way he'd ever make it back all those miles to the trailhead alone. And he was
very alone.
"Is that my coke down there?" asked the voice.
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Jeff Long - Angels of Light
The question made no sense. But it identified the shape. It wasn't Kresinski.
It was the smuggler. The smuggler had followed them up.
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"What?" said John. He was not particularly shocked.
"Down there. That pack, boy." John obligingly bent his head and looked into
the abyss. He couldn't see a thing. Nevertheless, he was able to imagine his
pack as a tiny blue dot flattened on the lake. It must have been plucked from
his back during the fall.
"Is that my coke?" the man repeated. There was no bullshit to the man. He was
direct. It wasn't "goods," "merchandise," or "snow." It was "my coke." "Or is
it still up there?" said the smuggler.
"I can't see you," said John. This was it. He was dead fucked now. His one
regret was that the finish couldn't have been on his own terms, sleepy,
caressed by the cold.
Another few hours and she would have had him stiff and blue, locked to the
mountain. "Let me see you." He didn't have a plan. He just wanted to see the
man's face, even though he couldn't.
"It's still up there, isn't it?" said the smuggler. "With your friend."
John gently rested his neck back on the snow. His black hair fanned out upon
the white snow. "You know what you did?" he asked the smuggler. The smuggler
couldn't hear him.
"Call him. Call your buddy."
Lifting his voice against the wind, John said. "He wouldn't come even if I
did." He was indifferent.
"Call him, damn it."
"He pulled my anchor. He dumped me."
Suddenly he felt his shoulder nudged by something hard. The toe of the man's
boot.
"Loud. Get him down here. Now." His shoulder dipped under another nudge of the
boot.
Holding his ribs, John attempted a yell. The bones actually grated under his
hand, and he fought against vomiting in pain.
"We'll wait then," said the smuggler. They listened to the wind for a minute.
"So which one are you?" he asked conversationally. "John or Matthew?"
John's eyes were closed tight against the stinging snow and the sear in his
chest. One thing about the broken ribs, they kept his concentration in a nice
tight tunnel. No room for anything but the next tiny breath. Hardly room to
even hear what the man had to say. But then the implication of the man's words
hit him, and John's eyes opened in alarm. There was only one person who had
the kindness to call Kresinski by his full first name. Liz.
The smuggler detected his alarm. He'd been waiting for it. "You thought this
was all for free?" he said.
"What have you done?" said John. He tried, but couldn't catch up with the
possible
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Jeff Long - Angels of Light branchings of fate. Keep it simple, he told
himself. The man had talked to Liz.
"I took something that was yours."
John tried again to look over one shoulder, then the other. The smuggler was
just out of view and, most definitely, out of reach. He was taking no chances,
not that John was an adversary. Then John was tired again. He laid his head on
the snow. "We didn't even know," he said.
"Ignorance is a hell of a reason for dying," said the smuggler.
"Goddamn you," John cursed. It was an old-style curse, sincere and final. But
because he couldn't see his enemy, it was like hexing the wind.
The smuggler was full of patience. "I know," he said. "I know." After a moment
he added, "Hell of a place for a Mexican standoff, ain't it?" The man was
terrified of the mountain. John could tell by the bonhomie in his voice. It
was an artificial camaraderie.
"What did you do with her?" John demanded.
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"With Elizabeth? The real question is what did you do to her? In a month some
hiker will find her. Then they'll find you two boys. They'll wonder about it
all."
John squinted blindly into the wind. There was a sense in which the smuggler
didn't even exist. He operated in their interstices, between their daily
mechanisms. Their risks became his weapons. Their motives and dreams and
jealousies and petty entanglements became his explanations and he didn't even
have to explain. All he had to do was tip their forward motion into terminal
velocity.
"She came in with you?"
"She's down there, John-or-Matthew. Somewhere out in your wilderness there.
Waiting for you."
Still alive, John decided. How alive was another problem. And he couldn't even
fight to save her, or see to track her.
"It's time, friend. You going to jump? Or do you need some help?"
His kindness was obscene and yet comforting. John went on sitting sideways in
the snow, clutching his ribs. "Can you stand up?" the smuggler asked.
John didn't even attempt to stand.
"That's okay."
The smuggler kicked him in the back. It wasn't much of a kick, too high,
oblique, and tenuous. The man was too scared to descend for a really good
swing. The second swipe caught John on the shoulder. He grunted. Then the
smuggler had a better idea.
He changed position and lowered his boot to John's inside shoulder and shoved
down. John budged. The extra weight forced him six inches lower. Grimacing,
John replanted his feet. The boot nestled against his neck and shoved down
again. John lost another few inches. He was afraid to resist the boot because
the snow was barely glued to the ledge as it was. The boot shoved him down
again.
"Fuck you," he said.
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"I know," said the smuggler. And he did know, John reflected. He'd practiced.
First with Tucker. Then with Bullseye. Now with him. One thing the bastard
must have learned: Climbers stick. You have to shove and kick and beat them
before gravity gets her due. He couldn't fight back, but he could sure let the
man work for his conclusions. The boot jarred him again, pushing the abyss
that much closer. John grunted.
And suddenly the smuggler grunted, too.
John heard the snap of bone. It was distinct, a sharp cracking noise, like a
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