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PROLOGUE His thoughts drove sleep away. He had been threatened, a squirrelly, ugly feeling. And he didn’t know about those damn private brokerage accounts or the margin calls. How the hell could he have known? Sure, he could have questioned those sales and profit projections… But they wouldn’t give him the underlying information. And now he had been threatened…. How dare he threaten him? |
Rolling over, he groaned from aching muscles and joint pain. Hisworn mattress did little to cushion the bite of the rusty chain link beneath it. But it wasn’t the crude bedding in the stone hut that was keeping him awake.It was the threats, and he wasn’t going to take them any more. Tomorrow, he’d just leave. And when he got back to Seattle he’d call a board meeting, reveal what he’d learned and resign. He’d let the management team try to cover their asses with the shareholders, the outside directors and the SEC. He’d be ruined, but he’d have some self-respect."Maybe I’ll write a book about the whole thing," he whispered into the snoring dark. “I’ll bury that bastard.” He rolled over again, grimacing. His face made contact with the grungy mattress, and he sat up. "Shit!" The boot camp warrior from Fort Lewis in the bunk next to him rolled over and opened his eyes. "You okay, fella?" "Yeah. These mattresses are for shit. How do the guides expect anybody to sleep?” The warrior sniffed, "This ain’t the Four Seasons,” and turned away. Castle was quiet a moment. "I’m going outside. Maybe get some pictures in the moonlight, salvage something out of this night." "Be careful man. Glaciers all ’round. Swallow you whole." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Outside, the night was still. Moonlit snow was fluorescent except where the hut and out-buildings cast long shadows. A light breeze made the quiet all the more profound. Castle trudged to the north, the crunching of his boots breaking the eerie silence. The hut for the general public was over to the right, about fifty yards away. Scattered around it were tents of hopeful, unguided climbers expecting a big day tomorrow. But for now, he was the only person moving. The Guide Shack and Ranger Station were dark also, and his anger rose again as he imagined that threatening bastard sleeping peacefully in the Guide Shack. He pulled his camera and some 1000 ASA film out of his camera bag. After loading the film, he captured some of the marvelous sights around him, the process easing his anger. The mountain was tranquil. Some of his stress was lifting, as if blown away on soft winds. Heading out onto the Cowlitz Glacier, he decided not to turn on his headlamp; the mountain was bathed in light. Off to his right, he could see depressions, which he knew from yesterday’s training were probably hidden crevasses. Danger areas. But if he followed the rocks, stayed close to them, he should be safe all the way to the trail over the Cathedral Rocks, three quarters of a mile away. The tracks of yesterday’s climbers were visible. Castle decided to follow them, maybe catch some shots of Little Tahoma, the small peak shaped like a tail, shooting off the east side of the mountain. After several hundred feet of easy walking on the hard-packed snow, he stopped to shoot the massive Gibraltar Rock behind him. He remembered reading in Dee Molenar’s book, The Challenge of Rainier, that the summit route back in the 1930s had been a trail right up the side of that monolith, but one day in 1936, shortly after a group had passed over it, the trail just broke away. Some thirty minutes later, he’d crested the Cathedral Rocks ridge. “Sure enough,” he muttered aloud, seeing Little Tahoma gleaming off to the right. “Jesus! It’s magnificent!” He swung his camera up and began taking shots. Then, sighting through his lens, he turned slowly to the left — toward Rainier’s summit. Ought to be able to get a good one. But instead of the brightly lit summit in his viewfinder, he saw an eerie cloud cap swirling like cream in stirred coffee. “What the hell is that?” The cap was mesmerizing, almost spiritual. He clicked off exposures until he ran out of film. He lowered the camera and fumbled through his camera bag, until he found another roll. He hurried to reload. The light wasn’t as bright as before; he was on dark rock now instead of snow. Frustrated, he sat down and turned on his headlamp. When his loading was done, he shut off his headlamp, stood up and waited as his eyes adjusted to the ambient light. He felt a breeze, colder, steadier and stronger than before. Is the wind picking up? The cloud cap had rotated down and picked up more density, as if it was being poured from above and stirred. For a while longer he watched, transfixed by the swirling, growing and ever darkening cloud mass. The wind started to gust. The air was charged with static electricity and his hair stood up. Castle began retracing his steps. He switched his headlamp on. The wind was roaring by the time he reached the bottom of the ridge. It bit at him, stung his face with icy needles. Fight the panic. Fight the panic… He was running now; not fast — the winds prevented that — but at a brisk jog, following the tracks on the edge of the glacier parallel to the ridge. He looked up. The whirling mass now obscured the top of the Cathedral Rocks and Gibraltar Rock ahead was invisible. He ran harder, pushing against the ever increasing winds, breathing labored, progress sluggish. Now it began to snow, light spits in the beam of his headlamp; then, as the cloud descended, larger, icy flakes drove down on him. “How much farther?” But his words were lost in the blow. Altitude and conditions were draining him; he was tiring rapidly. Finally, he saw the turn that would take him to Muir. But the wind now roared about him. It drove icy daggers into his face. He was having difficulty breathing; he needed great gulps of air, but could manage only small gasps. Snow blowing into his mouth caused him to cough. Sucking air through his teeth gave only small amounts of altitude-thinned oxygen to his starving lungs. He stopped and bent over, hoping for some unfettered breaths. He used the moment to pull up his hood. But it wouldn’t stay up in the ferocious winds. And Castle feared if he removed his gloves to tie it shut, his hands would freeze. Instead, he sucked in more breaths, straightened up and plowed ahead. The trail was hard to follow now, but he could occasionally see rocks — or what appeared to be rocks — off to the right. Snow and winds grew stronger. His hood was snapping him in the face and he couldn’t breathe. There was only one sound, a locomotive, and it was running him down. The camera around his neck banged him in the face. He let go of his hood to secure it. The hood flapped back exposing his head. Terrified, Castle turned to the right. Got to find the rocks. But snow was blinding him. And he was off-trail; he knew it because the snow was deeper, each step an ordeal. He stumbled and fell, then groped for something solid. He couldn’t feel or see the rocks, but he was sure they were near. They had to be. He cursed himself for being stupid, for ignoring warnings, for not telling anyone where he was going. But wait! He’d told that soldier! Maybe he’d heard the storm, told someone there was somebody outside. Surely he couldn’t be sleeping through this storm! Fear, doubt and cold gripped him. Shielding his eyes, he willed them to see, and thought he sensed movement. "Here! I’m here! Help me!" His shouts were swept away on the howling wind. He sensed movement again and stumbled toward it. He felt himself being caught, held by strong, confident hands. Thank God! Castle felt himself being straightened up and between gasps, tears of relief froze on his face. He brushed his arm across his eyes. A shoulder grip released itself. The hold on his other shoulder remained tight. Thank God! Once more optimism found purchase. He forced his eyes to focus. But as his vision cleared, panic seized him anew, and he opened his mouth to scream. His scream was blocked by the serrated blade of an ice axe embedding itself in his skull. The man wielding the axe grabbed the body by the parka hood and walked out onto the glacier, dragging it effortlessly behind him. He stood immune to the howling winds and driving snow. Some several hundred feet out, he stopped by a slight depression in the snow. He raised the body up, swung it around and gazed with satisfaction at its dead eyes. With a small push, he released it. The depression opened like a hungry mouth and the body of what had been Aimsley Castle, Vice President and General Counsel of the giant Eastman Aerospace Corporation, disappeared — sucked in through the maw of one of Rainier’s hidden glacial crevasses. In a few hours, the crevasse would be entirely covered over again, as if it had never existed. It had been so easy: no blood, no body, no worry. |
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