Trojan Gold (31 page)

The sheer splendid ineptitude of the performance held Dieter frozen for a few moments. Not until the snow began to settle and a dim form appeared, groping but upright, did he remember he had a gun.

At least the fall had freed John's skis; the bindings are supposed to let go when that happens. He still had his poles. As he came wobbling toward us, blinking the snow from his eyes, Dieter's hand dipped into his pocket. I let out a screech of warning. Half blinded though he was, John reacted in time; one of his poles swung in a wide arc. The gun flew out of Dieter's hand and sank into the snow.

The side of John's face was not a pretty sight, but I knew he must have ducked in time to escape the full impact of Dieter's kick, or he wouldn't be where he was. He was not at his best, however. Dieter flew at him, knife, corkscrew, and all; he went over backward in another billow of snow. Dieter staggered back clutching the inside of his thigh. Slightly off target, that kick, but not bad under the circumstances. It gave John time to regain his feet.

They circled one another warily. Dieter held the knife low; knees flexed, left hand weaving, he looked very professional. John's movements lacked their usual spring; he was at a disadvantage in a one-to-one fight against an opponent who probably knew as many dirty tricks as he did and who was in much better physical condition. I wished that he had been able to overcome his prejudice against firearms. The ski poles kept Dieter from closing in, but they were not very effective attack weapons, the fiberglass shafts too light to strike a crippling blow, the tips more blunted than the older type that had caused so many accidents on the slopes.

The left-hand stake gave way. I sat up and stretched, trying to reach my feet. Muscles I had forgotten I owned screamed in protest. Oh, God, I
thought, straining. Oh, God, help me, I swear—from now on, I'll do those exercises every morning.

One of the poles broke clear across as John brought it down in a vicious blow on Dieter's head. It staggered Dieter for a moment, but it staggered John more. Dieter knocked the jagged stub out of his hand and John fell back, avoiding Dieter's rush. Slowly but inexorably they were retreating toward the far edge of the plateau, where only the ragged remains of a stone wall stood between them and the drop to the road below. I redoubled my efforts, but twice zero is still zero, and all my muscles had gone limp and stringy like overcooked spaghetti. The fingers of my right hand were practically useless; I was sure a couple of them must be broken.

Dieter was facing away from me, John toward me. Seeing me struggling, he yelled, “Hurry up, can't you?”

I always knew that mouth of his would get us in trouble. Dieter risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Apparently he didn't like what he saw. His next move caught John off guard; he turned and pelted back toward me, leaving John beating the empty air with his remaining ski pole.

Dieter was after the gun. The snow was wet and heavy; the hole where it had sunk out of sight was clearly visible to him as it was to me. I had marked the spot, since I meant to head straight for it as soon as I was free. Dieter got off one shot before John tackled him. He wasn't aiming at John; the bullet hit the ground less than a foot from my shoulder.

They went rolling and tumbling across the graveyard, Dieter trying to escape his opponent's grasp
long enough to aim and fire, John trying to prevent just that. Dieter squeezed off a few more shots; I gathered that they missed, since John continued to press him back. The echoes rolled from hill to hill, and as they faded I heard another sound, the sound of distant thunder. That was strange, I thought. The skies were clear, there wasn't a cloud in sight….

Looking up, I saw it begin—a small puff of white, so innocent and harmless, at the barren summit of the Witches' Hat. It wasn't a cloud. It was a mass of snow. By the time it reached the bottom of the slope, it would be studded with boulders like raisins in a pudding, with snapped-off branches and whole trees.

The cloud expanded. It was coming straight down the ski slope, the path of least resistance, but it would not follow the curve of the slope. By the time it reached that point, it would have gained enough momentum and mass to continue straight on down—into the cemetery. Perhaps the trees would stop it or minimize its impact; perhaps they wouldn't. All these years the surrounding forest had protected the church, but the ski run had changed that. Herr Müller had been so right—fools, tampering with God's work for their sport….

One of the pegs came out, but I was still tethered, like a goat, by one foot. The two men were perilously close to the edge of the drop, on their feet, clinging like lovers. Dieter's raised rigid arm strained to free itself from John's desperate grip. I don't know whether Dieter was even aware of the dreadful thing roaring down toward him. John was; but he couldn't run for cover unless he let go of Dieter, whereupon Dieter would probably shoot
him in the back, or else lie low until the avalanche had passed—and then shoot both of us.

It happened so fast. John's taut body gathered itself for a final effort. Dieter's feet went out from under him. The small of his back hit the top of the low wall, and for a split second he hung there. I heard him scream, even over the mounting roar from the slope; but it was a scream of rage, not terror, and he never let go his hold on John or on the gun, though if his hands had been free, he might have saved himself. They went over together.

I had about six seconds in which to decide what to do. That's longer than it sounds. It didn't take any time at all. I found myself on my feet and running like a madwoman, the broken stake flopping. On the top of the wall, I could see two pale patches that weren't snow. Slowly a head rose up between the grasping hands. I was close enough to see every detail; in fact, I felt as if I were looking through binoculars, everything was abnormally clear and sharp. His eyes opened so wide the pupils looked like cabochon sapphires set in milky mother-of-pearl, and his lips shaped words. I couldn't hear him but I knew what he was saying. Good advice, but I went on running, throwing myself flat when I reached the wall and reaching out with both hands. My fingers weren't broken, they worked just fine; all ten of them clamped around John's left wrist.

I didn't look over my shoulder. I figured the sight would just depress me. It sounded like an express train, rushing toward the heroine tied to the tracks; but there wouldn't be a hero galloping up
on his great white horse this time. A couple of skull-sized rocks, the precursors of the main mass, bounced off the ground and flew over the edge. “Duck,” I yelled. I knew he couldn't hear me, though our faces were only inches apart.

In the final seconds, the agonized lines of his face relaxed. His eyelids dropped, veiling his eyes, and he said something—not the expletives, orders, and insults he had been hurling at me—something quite different. It surprised me so that I almost let go of his wrist. “What?” I screamed. “What did you say?”

Then it was on us.

I pushed my face down into the snow.

The only good thing about it was that it didn't last long, though the howling assault seemed to go on forever. A couple of rocks bounced off my back, but I didn't feel them at the time because all the nerve endings in my body were focused on my hands and the cold, limp thing they held in a death grip. I was still holding it when the echoes faded into silence and I dared to raise my head.

The brunt of the avalanche had been broken by the trees above the cemetery. If the full force had struck, it would have swept both of us away with it. It was bad enough, however. I think the noise was the worst. My ears were ringing even after the thunder died, and I felt lightheaded and dizzy. My eyes wouldn't focus at first. Then I saw that most of the wall was gone. Only a few tumbled courses remained. There was no sign of John—no face, no white-knuckled hands.

He was still down there, though. I could feel his weight—his entire, dead weight, pulling at my
arms. I must not have been thinking very clearly. Instead of calling his name, I croaked, “What was that you said?”

I do not know how the hell I ever got him back up. At first he was no help, he kept passing out. Finally, he got one toe into a crevice and I was able to grasp the back of his jacket. When at last he was sprawled on the ground at my feet, I looked over the edge.

Fifty feet below, the road was blocked by snow and fallen stone. Nobody would be coming that way for a while. The section of cliff above the road was almost perpendicular, a sheer drop of broken, jagged stone. A single blotch of color broke the gray-white monotony of the background—a patch of bright turquoise, unmoving and crumpled.

I bent over John and shook him. He groaned and tried to burrow deeper into the snow.

“Come on,” I said briskly. “Let's hope the horses didn't bolt during all that pandemonium. You'll have to walk or crawl or something; I can't drag you, my arms feel as if they're about to fall out of the sockets.”

 

When I returned to my room, he was still lying across the bed, booted feet dangling and dripping, stained jacket soaking the spread. I put the tray down on the table and bent over him. His lashes were stuck together in starry points. They lay quiet in the bruised and sunken sockets.

“John,” I whispered.

There was no reply. I said, “Kitty, kitty. Here, nice Kitty.”

His eyes popped open. “If you let that damned cat—”

“She's not here. I just said that to tease you.”

“Oh, God,” said John. He closed his eyes again. “To think I once praised your sense of humor.”

“Just rest easy.”

“I intend to. I don't intend to move for at least three days. I may die here, quietly and peacefully—”

His voice faded.

“Hang in there,” I said soothingly. “You can die later, after I'm through with you.”

I had to cut the laces of his boots, they were so sodden and twisted. Midway through the ensuing process, he revived sufficiently to sit up so that I could ease his jacket off. Surveying my preparations, he remarked, “I do admire a well-organized person. But I don't see any thumb-screws or cat-o'-nine tails or—”

“I have everything I need. I wanted to make sure we weren't interrupted.”

“I see,” John said warily.

“You'll have to stand up for a minute. I want to change the bed.”

He did so, without comment, clinging to the bedpost for support; I scooped the whole soggy mess of ribbons, papers, and wet spread into my arms and tossed it aside before replacing it with the blankets I had taken from Tony's bed. The sight of his bruised, lacerated body almost shattered my resolution, but I was determined he wasn't going to get away with it this time.

After I had tended the scars of battle, I propped him up with a couple of pillows. “Now,” I said encouragingly. “The worst is yet to come. What about a glass of wine to stiffen your nerve? Come on, don't be so suspicious. I haven't added anything to it. You don't think I would poison you, do you?”

He wouldn't take the glass until I had drunk from it. “This has been very pleasant,” he said politely. “But I wouldn't want to keep you from your other obligations. Shouldn't you—”

I smiled brightly at him. “You aren't keeping me from a thing. Tony is still in Garmisch, Schmidt is sound asleep—Clara is sleeping on his stomach—and everything else can wait.”

“Vicky,” John began nervously. “I honestly didn't intend—”

“Never mind that.” I put my hands on his shoulders. “What was it you said, just before the avalanche hit? No, don't try to pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. You remember. Say it. Say it again, loud and clear.”

John moistened his lips. “I…”

“That's a start. Come on, get it out.”

“I don't…”

“Yes, you do.”

“I…I need another glass of wine.”

“No, you don't. You aren't going to get out of it by claiming you were drunk.”

He closed his eyes. I put one finger on a lowered lid and pushed it up. There was no brilliance, no sapphirine glitter in the eye that glared back at me; it was opaque as lapis lazuli, resentful and bloodshot. Then a spark stirred deep in the azure depths;
he pushed my hand away and imprisoned it in his.

“I love you,” he said flatly. “I—love—you. Shall I elaborate? I have loved you. I do love you. I will love you. I didn't want to love you. I tried not to love you. I will undoubtedly regret loving you, but—God help me—I love you—so much—”

“That's what I thought you said,” I murmured.

 

“So he has gone?” Schmidt demanded, pouting.

“He has gone. Back into the shadows whence he came—but ready, whenever the chance of profit beckons, to take up his role as Supercrook, robbing the rich to sell to the highest bidder—”

“You joke? You can joke, in the face of this disgrace, this—this fiasco?” Schmidt's pout turned to a scowl. It was hard to tell the difference, since both expressions involved lowering brows and an out-thrust lower lip, but I was only too familiar with my boss's countenance. He went on, his voice rising in pitch and in volume, “Never have I been so humiliated! I, the director of the National Museum! Gaping down into an empty hole, while vulgar policemen snickered behind their hands and went home to tell their wives about the crazy old man who thought there was a treasure buried in an innkeeper's grave…. I believed you. That was my mistake. I should have known better. I should have known you would betray me….”

He went on in this vein for some time. I didn't interrupt, since in a way I felt I deserved a reprimand. It was Tony who came to my rescue. He had
been released just in time to join the expedition to the cemetery, and I must give him credit; he hadn't so much as smiled when the grave turned out to be empty of anything except Frau Hoffman's coffin.