Vegas Sunrise (30 page)

“You owe me your soul. Peel it off, toots.”

“I will not.”

Jeff's arm whipped around Celia's back. The sound of the zipper going down was so loud in the room it drowned out the weatherman's voice. “Are these babies real or are they silicone?” Jeff asked, cupping Celia's right breast while he held her left shoulder firmly in his free hand. “Why fight it, Celia? We're going to do it, so relax and enjoy it. Or are you one of those cold fish who
pretends?”

“That question poses one for me. Are you the kind of man who has to force or trick women to have sex with you? I haven't seen any women hanging around you, and that poses still another question. Are you a switch hitter? I have seen a lot of pretty young men working for you.”

Celia took the slap high on her cheekbone. A second later she was on the floor with her arms pinned down, Jeff on his knees looming over her. “Get off me. I said no. Don't do this.” She struggled, but was no match for Jeff's strength. She heard his zipper go down, felt him shrug loose of his trousers. She tried to clamp her legs shut, but his knee pried them apart. Every obscenity she knew rolled off her lips. When he entered her, she screamed and kept on screaming until he loosened his hold on her arms long enough to whack her jaw. The moment he exploded inside her, she shoved him off her, reaching for a cut glass bowl on the coffee table. She brought it down on his head with all the force she could muster. She rolled out of the way, reaching for one of the beer bottles that she broke on the edge of the coffee table. “Come one step closer, you son of a bitch, and I'll gouge your eyes out. You're bleeding. Profusely. Head wounds always bleed. Did you know that? This is just a guess on my part, but I'd say you probably need . . . say seven, maybe eight stitches. I don't think Mrs. Thornton is going to appreciate all this blood on her nice beige carpet. Blood doesn't come out. Sometimes with club soda but as a rule, no. If you ever touch me again, you four-eyed bastard, I'll stalk you and slice off your balls. Do you understand me? I might go down, but you'll go down with me and where will that leave you?”

Celia moved across the room out of Jeff's reach. She pulled on her dress. She was surprised that she was still wearing her spike-heeled shoes. The broken beer bottle still in her hand, she walked closer to where Jeff was lying. Her voice filled with venom, Celia said, “Now I know why your father didn't want you to have the Thornton name. You're a disgusting little weasel, and he was ashamed of you. I hope you bleed to death, you slimy bastard.”

Twenty minutes later, Celia Thornton locked the door of Room 2222 and headed straight for the shower, tears rolling down her cheeks. She wasn't crying because Jeff Lassiter raped her. She was crying because of the darkening bruise on her face.

 

Sunny tugged at Harry's sleeve. She was hoarse with all the shouting she'd done earlier. “We're lost, aren't we, Harry?”

“Yeah, we are. We're almost out of gas, too. The battery's about gone on the light. I'm hoping to see some kind of stand of trees, anything that will give us a little shelter. Maybe we can rig up something with the blankets around this machine. I'm just talking, Sunny. It's all my fault. I never should have let you come out with me. Just because I'm a horse's patoot doesn't mean I had the right to take your life in my hands.”

Tears burned Sunny's eyes. She knew if she cried, the tears would freeze on her lashes. Maybe her eyeballs would freeze. She took a second to wonder how that would feel. She knew whatever she said would be carried away on the hurricane-force winds. She patted Harry's shoulder to let him know she understood and wasn't blaming him.

Would they ever be found? Weeks from now? Months? The spring thaw? It must be almost four or five in the morning. That meant it had been snowing for more than twelve hours. How long did storms like this last? A day? Two days?

Sunny tugged at Harry's sleeve again and pointed to what looked like a small crop of evergreens. Harry turned on the snowmobile's light as he steered the machine to where Sunny was pointing. A feeling of light-headedness swept over Sunny when Harry cut the engine of the snowmobile. She didn't know which was worse, the high-pitched whine of the snow machine or the shrieking, howling wind surrounding her.

“Maybe we can make an igloo. Sage makes them with the kids in the winter all the time. We're still warm enough. Let's try, Harry. There is a little shelter here. That awful wind doesn't seem as strong in here. We have the blankets. I brought three and at the last minute I threw in two of those collapsible shovels. We'll have to work fast. We're going to make it, Harry, I know we will. We can't just sit, though. It will be light in a couple of hours. Birch will find us. We're going to think positively. You slide out first and catch me when I go over the side. We'll slide backward and work from there. The snowmobile will be by our front door if we get this igloo built. It will take the brunt of the snow and wind. My battery packs are still a little warm. We have another fresh one and a little time on the one we changed. We'll be okay, Harry. If something was going to happen, I'd feel it. Women sense things. Okay, here's your shovel. We build a high pile of it, pack it down, and then carve out a door and a space inside just big enough for us to sit up. It's the only thing I can think of. If you have a better idea . . .”

“No. We'll do it your way. It must be the same principle as building a sand castle. Lord. It's cold.”

“Harry, are you all right?”

“I'm just scared out of my wits.”

“Me too. We can't think about that, Harry. We have a project we need to work on right now. We have a completion time. We need to pretend we're back at the center and Libby is monitoring us. I say it's going to take us every bit of two hours to build the igloo because we're going to stop for breaks. Let's get to it. The cold air is searing my lungs, so we won't talk anymore. Okay?”

Harry nodded.

“I can do this. I know I can do this. I have to do this. I have to do it for Jake and Polly,” Sunny murmured.

“What about me and your mother?”

“Dad?”

“It's me, kiddo. It's cold as a witch's tit, isn't it?”

“Oh, man, I really screwed up this time. I can't even remember if it was my idea or Harry's idea to come out here. I thought we could do it. I hate my limitations. I just goddamn hate them. I don't know how you did it. I'm dreaming, and that's why you're here. I dream about you so much. I can't figure out why that is. How come you're here? Is it time for me to die?”

“Of course not. I told you I'd look out for you. I have to admit this wasn't one of your better ideas. The igloo is a nice touch. I probably would have thought of it eventually. I like the way everyone looks out for each other. Was it always like that when you kids were growing up?”

“Yeah. We couldn't depend on you. Mom was busy being mother and father and doing her own thing. It's okay. You made up for it those last few years with Jake. How's Grandma Sallie? This is stupid. I'm talking to myself. I know you aren't here. I'm just thinking, dreaming this so the work goes faster. How's it going up there?”

“Your grandmother is fine. It's peaceful. I had a hard time adjusting at first. I wanted to go go go. There is no place to go.”

“So what do you do?”

“Watch over all of you. Let me tell you, kiddo, it's a full-time job. None of you have your shit together. Your mother was on overload and ready to take a handful of pills. I had to put a stop to that in a hurry. Tomorrow I have to pay your sister a visit and straighten her out. Sage is a hell of a pilot. He's almost as good as I was.”

“It sucks, doesn't it?” Sunny giggled.

“Yeah it does. Sunny, listen to me very carefully. Do not go to sleep. Do you hear me?”

“Why are you yelling at me? Is it because of the storm?”

“What did I just say, Sunny?”

“You said not to go to sleep. I heard you. I won't go to sleep.”

“Promise me. Don't let Harry sleep either.”

“I promise. I am really tired, though.”

“Sunny, listen to me. This is what I want you to do. I want you to build a domino bridge in your head. The kind we used to build when you and the twins were little. I want you to picture those black-and-white tiles as slats on a bridge. It's going to take 3,254 of them to get you to the front door of the lodge. When the bridge is all done, when you've counted 3,254 tiles, then you can go to sleep. I'm going to be watching you and listening to you count. Did you understand what I said?”

“I understand, Dad. I'm not stupid.”

“I know you're not. But, you are tired. If you fall asleep, you'll freeze to death.
”

“Where are you going, Dad?”

“To help Sage?”

“What'd he do now?”

“If I told you, you wouldn't believe me. Start counting.”

Sunny sighed. The only thing she wanted to do was sleep. Building a bridge of dominos in the middle of a snowstorm was the stupidest thing she ever heard of. “Harry, listen to me. We're going to build a bridge. I was just talking to my dad and . . . I know that sounds stupid, but I was talking to . . .
someone.
Repeat after me . . .”

 

The small group huddled under the wing of Metaxas Parish's plane. “I'm better off drawing you a quick map in the snow than trying to show you the map in this wind. Now, this is where we were
supposed
to land. That guy, Major or whatever his name was, said we were off course. According to him, we're over here. That means we have some tough climbing to do. It looks to me like there is twelve inches of snow on most of the ground and some twenty-inch-high drifts. I'm no weatherman, but I'd say an inch to an inch and a half of snow is falling every hour. The air doesn't feel like there's going to be any letup soon, so there is no point in waiting for a more opportune time. What I do know for certain is the temperature is below freezing. What we have to do is get to the top of the tree line. Put your scarves over your mouth and don't talk. We'll rest every twenty minutes. If anyone has anything to say, say it now. No. Okay, let's get cracking. Sage takes the lead, I'm next, and Ruby is behind me. You guys, one on each side of Ruby and two behind. Stay tight.”

Sage struggled to take a deep breath. He lost the struggle and was forced to take little puffing breaths that left him exhausted. He knew he was climbing because his legs protested each step he made in the thigh-high snow. His heart labored each time he pulled one foot out of the snow. He stumbled and landed facedown. He cursed ripely, the snow blistering his face. What the hell happened to his damn scarf? He was on his feet again, his mouth full of snow, trudging forward. At the rate he was going he would be lucky to make a tenth of a mile in an hour. Impossible. He wanted to call out to Metaxas to see how he was faring. He negated the idea immediately. Calling out would take energy and time. He had to hunker down and keep moving. Maybe what he needed to do was come up with something he hated and feed off that hatred so it would keep him moving. The only problem was, he didn't hate anyone or anything.
Oh, yes, I do. I hate this goddamn fucking snow. I hate these goddamn fucking drifts that are up to my thighs.
His knees buckled and he was facedown again.
There has to be a better way. Snowshoes. Why hadn't anyone thought of snowshoes? Probably because they wouldn't work in snow like this,
he answered himself.

A violent gust of wind slammed into Sage, driving him backward. He rolled over twice before he landed on his back in a deep drift, losing all the momentum he'd gained. He cursed again with words he hadn't used since his college days when he'd tried to blend in with the rough-and-ready crowd on his dorm floor.

“Up and at ‘em, boy. No time to play in the snow,” Mataxas bellowed.

“Go to hell,” Sage said as he struggled to his feet.

He trudged on, his breathing labored. If he survived this night . . . morning or whatever time of day it was, he would devote the rest of his life to never, ever, setting eyes on snow again. He continued to curse as he struggled to pull his foot out of a snowdrift. The effort left him exhausted. He wondered what time it was. Surely it must be close to dawn. Perhaps things would improve with daylight. Even he knew it was a stupid thought. For some reason his head felt heavy, his eyes heavier still. His eyelashes were frozen, and snow was piled high on his ski cap. If he pulled the ice off his eyelashes, would they come out by the roots? What would he look like without eyelashes? Iris loved his eyelashes. She said they were thick, double what most people had, and curled upward. Eyelashes any girl would kill for, she'd said. Birch had the same thick eyelashes. Girls, women, grandmothers always commented on his and Birch's eyelashes. Here he was contemplating pulling them out. “Like hell,” he muttered.

Numb with cold, Sage squeezed his eyes shut and plunged forward. He was beyond all feeling, his thoughts wild and chaotic. He needed to go to another place, another time. A place that was warm and safe. He tried to think as his gloved hands pawed at the snow in front of him.

He was eleven years old walking next to Birch in the desert, sweat dripping down his face. His St. Louis Cardinals baseball hat was yanked down low on his forehead. “I hate this
mission.
I want to go home,” he snarled.

“Me too. Let's sit down and rest. I need a drink,” Birch said.

“We can't sit. Dad gave us a deadline. He said we had to complete this mission in four hours. He's waiting.”

Sage rebelled, his heavy work boots digging into the sand under his feet. He looked around for a tree or some scrub that would afford him a little shade. There was nothing. Defiantly he sat down, Indian fashion. “My legs hurt, my arms hurt from carrying this backpack. I don't even know why we're carrying all this junk. I'm boiling hot.”