Date with a Sheesha (33 page)

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extreme cold. She’d have no idea what was going on, why these people were doing this terrible thing to her. Still, she would have had hope. Simon was a strong-willed girl. She was a fighter. She would have believed she’d find a way out of this, or that help would arrive in time—from her dad…from me? So she did it. She walked out to the centre of the ice to await what happened next.

With hope.

Watching her quiet, still body, as I once again began my migra-tion towards her, my mind began to creep into deep, dark corners I did not want to visit. Was Simon…okay? Had her hope—her trust in those who were supposed to be protecting her—been for nothing? What about Ethan? I felt the molten sting of icy tears burn into my cheeks as I came closer to the curled up form.

Simon would have cuddled up into a fetal circle, trying to preserve warmth. Or maybe, mercifully, they’d given her a fast-acting sedative before they’d sent her on her fatal walk, to ensure she’d stay in place until I arrived. And now that I had, and was nearly by her side, their flawless plan could continue to stage two.

Of anywhere on a frozen body of water, the ice is at its thinnest near the centre. Where Simon was. Where I was about to be. All they had to do was shoot at the ice until they found a vul-nerable spot. One small crack, under pressure from Simon’s weight, and now mine, would quickly lead to more. Eventually, the ice would give way. We would fall through. The bodies, once discovered, would seem to have been drowned, not shot.

It would be ruled a horrible accident. It happened all the time in cold climates. Places where outdoor skating was considered a fun activity, or crossing a supposedly frozen-solid body of water was seen as a necessity. Farm kids trying to walk across a slough on a dare. Hunters. Winter sports and outdoor enthusiasts.

Skidooers. Tragedy happened. It was, sadly, nothing new. We’d be seen as just another two victims who’d made the wrong decision.

Well, screw them!

I would not—could not—give up. Using triple time, I sped up my shimmying towards Simon. “Simon! Honey, I’m here! I’m coming!” I cried out again and again in desperation.

The closer I came to her body, the more worried I became. The 229

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visible skin, puffy and discoloured, did not have goosebumps.

There was no obvious shivering. These weren’t good signs. In hypothermia, the body begins to shut down, pulling the victim into an irresistible sleep. I had to wake her up. I knew she’d be sluggish and uncoordinated, but if we were to have any chance of getting out of this, I’d need her help.

Closer.

Closer.

Closer.

Crack! Another shot.

Crack!

Crack!

“Fuck off, you assholes!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. I knew it was a useless gesture, born of intense frustration and fear.

But it felt good all the same.

I was just about there. Closer. And then, with the very tip of the longest finger of my outstretched hand, I brushed against the back of Simon’s exposed neck.

Cold.

Oh God.

Too cold.

Closer. Closer.

More gunfire.

I finally reached her. I maneuvered my way around to her other side, like some kind of ice slug, until I could see her face.

Deep brown eyes, steeped in dread, stared at me.

Not Simon.

Hema Gupta.

Dead.

And then the shooter met his mark.

I heard the unmistakable, gut-twisting sound of cracking ice.

An ominous dark line streaked out from beneath Hema’s hip, like a black fork of lightning.

I instantly knew, the ice would not hold the weight of both of us so close together.

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Like a frightened seal, I tried to shuffle backward. The movement wasn’t working. I was getting nowhere. I knew I had to turn around. Going forward I could move faster.

One more shot.

I heard a pop.

An ugly, harsh noise shattered the air, like the cracking and rubbing together of two Styrofoam boards. Then, right in front of me, like some horror movie playing out just for me, I watched the grotesque sight of Hema’s body falling through the ice that had just given way below her. She slipped below the surface, swallowed by freezing, liquid quicksand.

Oh God, no. No!

My hand shot out just in time to catch hers. For a moment we remained motionless in that state. I was lying flat on my stomach, only inches from the hole, grasping the fingers of Hema’s brown-ish-blue little hand with all my might.

Then something caught my eye. In a world seemingly devoid of colour other than white, blue, and brown, I saw red.

In the palm of Hema’s hand.

It was bleeding. Had she somehow cut it on a shard of ice?

Another cracking of the ice.

At least the shooting had stopped. Whoever was out there knew there was no need to fire another round. Their job was complete. They’d been successful. The surface of the ice had been broken. One of us was under and the other soon to follow. We were lost. And they were free to escape the scene of their crime.

More cracking.

My eyes were glued to Hema’s bloody hand. There was something about it. It wasn’t a just a wound. It looked like…like…

Cracking.

And then I saw it. Clear as day. How had I missed it? This wasn’t just an accidental gash on her skin. It was intentional. It was…a message.

The letter “C” was cut into her skin. My eyes could barely believe what they were seeing. How had she done this? With her fingernails? Her diamond ring?

I heard a deadly groan well up below me.

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Oh no. Oh no!

With bitter tears stinging my eyes, I knew what I had to do.

If I continued to hold onto her, our combined weight would destabilize the already weakened ice bed even further. To save myself, I could not save her. I could not keep her from a watery grave.

I let go of Hema’s hand.

I watched in stunned horror as the ice water pulled the rest of her in. It wanted her. The tiny hand with its tiny fingers quickly disappeared. With an appalling sucking sound, her body was irre-trievably committed to the water.

I’d given her up. My stomach roiled, and I thought I might throw up. I had even bigger problems, though. The ominous groaning sound of the ice did not stop.

My eyes darted from left to right. What I saw frightened me more than anything I’d seen before. A web of fine lines was rapid-ly radiating out from beneath my body.

And then I fell through the ice.

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Chapter 18

All hope was gone.

For a brief moment, my mind went there. It went to the underwater tomb, where Hema Gupta’s body lay at the bottom of the pond, an eerily translucent light seeping through the roof of ice.

Her pale, cold, lifeless arms floated upwards, reaching for me, wanting to pull me down with her.

“Snap out of it, Quant!” I remonstrated with myself.

I was in the excruciatingly cold water. With gloved hands, I held onto the nearest, fragile edge of ice. As I fought the paralyzing effects of the freezing liquid, my legs below me performed a stolid dog paddle.

Where was Kirsch? Where were the police sirens? The dis-patcher had promised she’d get my message to him pronto. Sure, Kirsch and I had a like/dislike relationship…well, mostly dislike…but he knew I’d never cry wolf about something like this. If this were a TV show, he would be riding in about now. So where was he?

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The snow-covered hills and thickets of trees were exasperat-ingly silent. The shooters were long gone, obviously having rushed away in a hidden vehicle. Not that I wasn’t glad of that.

They certainly weren’t about to come out here and save me, even if they had bothered to stick around.

I had to get out of the water. I’d already been cold before I fell through the ice. But if I was in here much longer, I knew my limbs would begin to numb and I’d lose finger dexterity, and then I’d be gone. I would join poor Hema fifteen feet below.

I devised a plan. There wasn’t any time to study it for flaws. It was now or never. So it had to be good.

Trying for a firmer grip on the ice’s edge with my left hand, I slowly let go of it with my right. Once I was sure I was managing to stay afloat with only one hand on the ice, my right hand dived underwater. In less than three seconds it found its goal: the right-hand pocket of my coat. Blindly I pulled up the Velcroed flap and felt inside.

There! My keys.

My right hand surfaced, key ring in hand. Fiddling with my fingers, thick with cold, and less agile because of the glove covering them, I maneuvered so that the longest of the keys was now positioned in my fist, like the pointed end of a pickaxe. With effort that seemed Herculean, I reached out. I was aiming for the closest part of the ice that seemed the sturdiest. With as much power as I could muster, I pounded down.

It was a mighty risk. Either the ice would hold or it would crack and create an even bigger hole. A hole from which I was unlikely to escape.

There was a third option I did not anticipate. Complete failure.

The tip of the key was either too blunt or the ice too solid. My key, along with my clenched fist, thumped ineffectually against the pond ice. There was no puncture. Like fingernails against chalkboard, but with a hollower, yet no less grating sound, the fist-clamped key uselessly skittered its way back toward me.

I tried again. This time letting out an “oomph!” sound like Roger Federer at match point.

Again, the key failed to penetrate the granite-like surface.

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A third attempt had the same result.

There would, as it turned out, have to be time for another plan.

The problem was, I had none.

I just needed out.

“Out!” my brain shrieked.

A deep, calming breath. I was ready to try again.

I tested the firmness of the ice edge nearest me by lightly tapping it with my right fist. If the damn stuff was so thick a key couldn’t puncture it, surely there was some way to work that in my favour. I devised a new plan. In the back of my mind, I knew that if this one didn’t work, I would be finished.

Fortunately, the hole made by both my and Hema’s dunkings was rather large. Large enough so that, while holding onto the ice edge, I could slowly kick my feet up and eventually float level with the surface. It didn’t seem like much, but the effort rendered me near exhaustion. My abdominal and back muscles were screaming as I fought to keep my body flat and level with the ice shelf. (Thank goodness for those camel-riding workouts.) Next, I flung out my arms, as far in front of me as I could, and willed myself to float forward. Small laps of water, caused by the slight rocking motion of my body, helped to propel me.

Eventually, centimetre by precious centimetre, I began to move out of the water and onto the ice.

After what seemed like hours, but was probably less than a minute, a third of my body, probably down to just below my chest, was completely out of the water.

Crack.

No no no no no no no!

I froze. I lay there. Half in water, half out. I tried to regulate my breathing as much as possible so I could be perfectly still. My right cheek began to stick to the ice surface. One more crack and I’d be toast. Soggy toast.

After several seconds of silence—I didn’t have a lot of time to work with here—I concluded the cracking had stopped.

I tried to move forward again.

I couldn’t. My jacket had frozen to the ice; the ice water had 235

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turned into damnable glue.

Just great! Why couldn’t I get a break?

But no, wait. Maybe that’s exactly what I’d been given. My mind danced with hope…this
was
great. I could use this.

I waited another second or two, thinking—wishing—that would give the jacket time to stick even more firmly to the frosty surface. Then, using the solidity of my frozen but fragile attachment as leverage, I slooooooowly swivelled my legs slightly up and over and in the direction of the ice.

More.

More.

Just a bit more.

More.

I did it! My entire body was now out of the water and lying prone right next to the deadly chasm of water. But it wasn’t time for celebration just yet. This was pretty much where I’d started out in the first place. I knew I had to get away from there fast, before either I froze to death, or the ice cracked again, plummet-ing me back into the drink. Neither option appealed.

I took one last deep breath, pulled my stinging cheek free…and rolled.

I rolled and rolled and rolled and rolled. In my mind I could see a thunderbolt-sized crack forming behind me, chasing me across the pond, my wildly rolling body only mere seconds ahead of it.

I did not stop until I hit dirt. Bumping up against that snowy beach, with its thatch of scrubby willow branches whipping my face, was the most welcome sensation I’d experienced in my entire life until then. I was safe. I would live.

But as fast as the excitement over my own survival overwhelmed me, so did my sorrow that the same could not be said for Hema Gupta. Just the thought of her lying at the bottom of that frozen pond nearly made me physically ill. And then came the shivering. I wasn’t out of the woods yet. If I didn’t get heated up soon, I would still be in danger.