Books : The Snow Garden : Excerpts

Prologue: Inverness Creek, March 1983

Groping at the icy tree trunks and pushing branches from his face, he followed the sound of water flowing against the ice until it brought him to the edge of Inverness Creek. The haggard elms stood in regiments along the sloping banks of ice-slick mud. Veils of snow danced on contrary gusts of wind before vanishing into ice punctuated by sudden black pools of creek water. The music of Fraternity Green was an eerie, distant suggestion far behind him. Bursts of drunken laughter and the delighted squeals of young women, underscored by the bass thud of a stereo, barely filtered through the thicket of trees to where he stood, steadying himself on a branch, staring down at Pamela Milford.

She was lying facedown on a sheet of ice that bobbed in the struggling current, her blonde hair fanned forward from her head. A few strands draped the side of her face where her cheek puffed against the upward press of the ice, the corner of her mouth open slightly as if she was trying to draw breath. One arm was pinned beneath her chest; the other was frozen in mid-reach for the far bank. Her right leg shot outward at an awkward angle from her body. A miniature geyser erupted around the toe of the boot on her left foot, water spilling over the top of the ice, a puncture that revealed the frailty of the sheet she lay on.

From this distance, the red trail extending out from her neck could easily have been mistaken for blood. He knew better.

With a gloved hand he caressed the branch he held for balance, then yanked it hard. The branch broke free.

As he descended the bank, she was trying in vain to lift her head. It was no use. Each attempt brought her cheek smacking back to the ice, and she let out a groan.

He didn't have time to linger on the details of this image, no matter how much the sight of this broken woman chased the sting of betrayal from his veins. With both feet planted on the bank, he focused his attention on the clawlike branch as he gripped it with both hands, extending it over the ice. Pamela gazed drowsily into the ice and erupted into muffled sobs, coughing weakly with each ice-laced breath.

The twig tickled the back of her neck. She went to bat it away and missed.

When it caught the back of her scarf, his heart thumped and he tightened his grip on the branch, pulling and tugging until the scarf came free. The tails of red cashmere tossed in the wind as he lifted the branch high and out of her reach, retracting it slowly so as not to disturb the scarf's delicate balance on the spidery twig.

When it was close enough, he grabbed it and shoved it into his jacket pocket. He was about to toss the branch aside when Pamela heaved a groan of protest. Startled, he lowered the branch to his side and watched as she found some reserve of strength, rolling herself over onto her back and twisting her broken leg. Her mouth opened in a silent scream. The back of her head slammed back on the ice. She reached for her kneecap and failed.

He waited until she lifted her head once more and peered through the swirling snow with narrowed eyes. Her lips curled into her best attempt at a grimace, and the same arm that hadn't made it to her leg lifted itself from her body and extended a finger toward him. Breaths whistling in her nostrils, she stabbed the air with her finger as if trying to convince him that he was really there.

She couldn't hear what he was hearing: voices entered the woods, male. Their words were unintelligible, but their tone lit by obvious urgency. He tossed the branch aside and looked back over his shoulder. The muddy slope rose five feet, almost over his head, concealing their approach.

There was only one way to go. He turned back to the creek.

Keeping his steps light as the ice protested beneath him, he edged his way past Pamela and swiftly hoisted himself up over the opposite bank. His gloved hands grappled with mud for a second before he got a leg up. As he climbed, he heard a sound like a hand gathering tin foil, but he didn't look back.

At the top of the bank, he turned.

Where Pamela had been, shattered ice bobbed on the black current. He scanned the smoky glass of the rest of the creek, searching for a sign of her passage underneath.

Beyond the shattered ice, flashlight beams stabbed the woods.

He drove the crumpled scarf deeper into his pocket, turned from the creek, and accepted the invitation of the darkness on the other side.