“Fuck! Bear!”
For a second I think he means there’s a bear. It’s not unheard of on mountains for skiers to have wildlife encounters. Then I remind myself we’re in New England. This isn’t exactly grizzly country. Still, I turn my head uphill, checking to make sure I’m not being pursued by anything furry and angry.
In fact, I’m not being pursued by anything. Or anyone.
“Austin?” Involuntarily, I slow. I don’t want to stop, in case he’s playing some kind of trick and he’s about to pop out of the trees farther down the trail where I’ll have no hope of catching him if I’m not already moving.
But he doesn’t come out of the trees. Doesn’t come out of anywhere.
Where the hell did he go?
CHAPTER
SEVEN
“Austin? Austin!”I call his name, then hold my breath waiting for his answer. The mountain is silent, aside from the sound of wind in the trees and a faraway crow who may also be calling for a friend.
“Grimm!”
Still nothing.
It’s fine. He’s fine. He’s an experienced skier. One of the best in the world. He might have wiped out on that last corner, but he’s okay. Just picking snow out of his ears like I did yesterday. In a second, he’ll pop back into view and shout he’s okay, because that’s what we always do.
The crow calls again, echoing over the empty trail.
I put my fingers to my lips, blasting out a single whistle. Even if he can’t hear my voice, he’ll be able to hear that and reply. We’ve done it before, if we ever get separated and wind up taking different trails to the bottom.
But five, ten, fifteen seconds later there’s still no answer and my heart goes cold.
“Austin!” I struggle to get my skis off, banging at the bindings until I finally pop free. Running up in the direction of the turn where I last saw Austin is tough going. Ski boots aren’t exactlymade for trail running. The rigid plastic creaks and the small square toe piece digs into the snow with a rhythmicchk chk. I’m breathing hard as I approach the turn, and my chest squeezes painfully at the sight of two parallel lines that disappear over the edge of the trail. Austin’s ski tracks. He must have caught some air, because they don’t continue down the slope. I call for him again, straining for any sound. There’s a spot in the snow farther down that looks like it’s been disturbed, but it might be a person falling, or snow that’s fallen from the branches of the trees.
“Austin!”
Finally, an answer comes. Sort of an answer. It’s not an animal, but it’s barely human. No words, only a long low moan from somewhere beyond the divot in the snow. I throw myself down the slope, swinging my arms to stay balanced and not smash into a tree.
“Grimm!”
I find a pole. A ski, then another one. They’re strewn in the snow like massive breadcrumbs, marking the trail—if it can be called a trail—Austin took. Shit, he must have been really moving. Of course he was, since he was trying to keep up with me.
Also, the snow is thin down here. Early spring melt has left the ground uneven, with humps of snow against tree trunks, and muddy brown paths between where water has started to flow. Along with stumps and branches, jagged rocks break through the surface, and the sight of them in line with the path of Austin’s discarded equipment makes my heart stop.
What if he really is hurt?
I nearly fall myself, plastic boots skidding in the mud. I have to grab hold of a tree to stay upright.
That’s when I see him.
Austin is lying in the snow, arms and legs splayed out at odd angles. He must have fallen this whole way and the only thingthat stopped him is the large rock he’s rolled up against. I slide to a halt next to him, falling to my knees.
“Austin? Hey. Hey! Can you hear me?” I ask, hands shaking as I try to pull off my gloves. He moans, the sound broken and rough, then flails like he can’t get all his body parts to work at the same time.
“Shh. Shh. It’s okay. Don’t move.” All I can think of is words like “spinal cord” and “head injury.”
But he either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care, because he flops backward onto the snow. It’s an uncoordinated movement, and his face is a mess of blood as I catch his head in my lap.
Holy shit. Holy shit!
“Austin? Can you hear me?” I don’t want to touch him, but also I do. His goggles are shattered, and there’s a terrifying spiderweb of cracks in the front of his helmet. He’s breathing funny, like he can’t get the air all the way down to his lungs. Panic makes my own breathing ragged as I try to think what to do. Something from a distant first aid course. Airways, breathing...shit, those are the same things, aren’t they...what was the C part of the acronym?
