Mountain Refuge

[FOTH]

No chapter for tonight, back with another tomorrow.

Thank you all for reading.

[FOTH]

A reluctant guide, seeking, as he broke trail, some means by which he might throw the search off Einar and Liz’s tracks—and his own—Kilgore found his answer as the day drew to a close. At some point in the little group’s descent—three quarters of the way down to the trailhead, Bud noted with nearly as much consternation as relief—the storm had apparently grown in its intensity, wiping out nearly every trace of the trail they had up until then been following only with difficulty. Might have gone on following it anyway with Bud’s help, tracker that he was, piecing together little clues from beneath trees and guessing at the routes the little party had taken, only Bud seemed to lose the trail fairly quickly, leading them down a rough gully and into a nearly impassible section of steep, icy rock where he said all sign of the fugitives seemed to have vanished…

The agents spent the following hour and half struggling to get themselves and the gear they were carrying back up out of that cliffy, dead end gully, two of them losing their footing in the attempt and nearly cascading down over the ice to what would have been certain death waiting below. By the time they regained safe ground it was nearly dark and very windy, and with snow being whipped up from the ground and hurled sideways with a fury strong enough to entirely prevent anyone seeing where they were going in that steep, dangerous terrain, a hasty camp had to be made in the meager shelter of an island of stunted firs, only their tops protruding through the snow.

Rolling up in his sleeping bag and bivy sack as the others huddled somewhat miserably behind the crinkly, wind-whipped cacophony of half a dozen metalized emergency blankets, the bulk of their supplies remaining up at the base camp, Bud had to suppress a chuckle at the ironic justice in these men having to spend a cold and fireless night away from their tents, when Einar and his family had spent so many that way. Wished Asmundson could be there to see it in person, crouching behind a tree and grinning fiercely into the night at the misfortune of his pursuers, as surely he’d done more than once since the beginning of the search. Just as well he wasn’t there, though, Bud told himself. Scrawny old fool would like as not freeze himself solid in that wind, enjoying every moment of it, of course, but probably not waking in the morning. And then he’d have a lot of explaining to do, both to Liz and to his own bride. Be lucky to come out of that one alive, I would!

The way the wind was blowing, Kilgore knew that little ought to remain of the fugitive group’s trail come morning, and what signs might linger would not likely be noticeable to any but the most experienced tracker in the group, who happened to be none other than himself. Helpful details, helpful weather, but he and those in his charge were still in one heck of a mess, now that the mystery tracks had been discovered, the mitten, cloth scrap, blood evidence…wouldn’t be too long before they had that back to the lab, tested and confirmed as Asmundson’s, and then the search would really go hot again.

Good thing you’re not out here right now, fella. Gonna be my job to try real hard and keep them up here looking, rather than focusing on their suspicion that you may have skipped the area in the car of some mystery guy who may have been up here with Juni…though that could have its advantages, too. Send them off to California, stir things up and draw them away from here once and for all, and we’ll all more or less be in the clear. Huh. Not real likely, but there’s your assignment, Kilgore. Supposing they don’t find one scrap of evidence too many, and shift the focus of this whole thing onto you, and the fact that it appears you were traveling with them disreputable characters. At that point, things get real interesting, real fast…

* * *

Finally managing to talk Einar up out of the hard kitchen chair and onto the couch with her—seemed such a simple thing, and reasonable, too, when one is dealing with an injured hip and tending to get pressure sores just about anywhere he came into contact with a hard surface for more than a few minutes, with all his bones so near the surface, yet Einar seemed intent on resisting the more comfortable seating arrangement—Liz settled herself with Will on her lap, content for the moment to eat while she sat with his father.

Quiet for a while, pondering, Liz could not help but be glad Einar was finally eating, but she expected it would all start over again, the pattern that had got him into this trouble in the first place, wanted very badly to interrupt it, end it, and knew that the only way to do that likely lay in his past, in his allowing himself to let it go, as much as was possible… She’d tried that before, tried talking it through with him and it hadn’t seemed to get them anywhere, had perhaps caused a temporary easing in whatever sequence of dreams and rememberings seemed most to be troubling him at the time, but always the difficulty returned.

A fact of life for him, she supposed, something that would never really go away. Some things are like that. But somehow or other he’d got to make his peace with it, even if that peace consisted of nothing more than an uneasy truce. Had to find ways to live with the thing, before it finished killing him. She didn’t know how to help him with that. Had tried patience, and though he seemed greatly to appreciate the patience, and sometimes was even able to let her know this was the case…well, here they were, just a day or two away from his very nearly having died as a direct result of the sort of life he’d resorted to living in an attempt—admirable, if perhaps misguided—to manage the memories, and the rest of it. Just wasn’t working, but she was at a loss as to what else she could do about it. Nothing, really, as he had to be the one to decide that something needed to be done, and so far as she could tell, he had yet to really make that decision. Back to the patience, then, and with it the hope and prayer that for the time at least, he would continue on his present path, drinking, starting to eat again and allowing his body to grow a bit stronger for the next round. Whenever it would come. She sighed, glanced up to find him watching her curiously, as if wondering what could be on her mind. A good opportunity, perhaps, to try and bring the subject up, see if they could make some sort of progress, but she stopped herself. Not now. He’s eating, trying to work his way through this difficult spot. Better that we should keep it that way for a day or two if we can.

To which end she eased the sleeping Will down onto the end of the couch, rose and went into the kitchen, beckoning for Einar to follow, which he did, rising with some difficulty and moving quickly on the theory that he might thus sooner reach his destination and have less chance of falling on the way there. Liz had taken eggs from the refrigerator, retrieved an onion, a sweet pepper and some ham that was left over from the making of one of Susan’s recent casseroles, wanting to make Einar feel useful and also hoping that he’d be more inclined to eat, if he’d helped prepare the meal. “Help me fix some lunch?”

Einar shrugged, took the knife she was offering him, and began chopping onions. “Sure.”

“It’s not exactly the half-thawed wolverine steak, bear fat and avalanche lily bulbs you’re used to, but it’s good stuff nonetheless! And ought to make a fine lunch.”

A chuckle from Einar.

“You’d probably like to live this way, wouldn’t you? All the time, I mean.”

“Oh, I won’t deny that I’m enjoying the change right now, but no, I like our little cabin, the life we’d made up there, even the wolverine steaks and bear fat. Though I do definitely prefer elk to wolverine! Yeah…I want to get back home! When we can.”

A slow smile from Einar, who could tell she meant it, found himself once more amazed at her existence.

[FOTH]

With Susan gone well into the afternoon Einar found himself growing increasingly watchful and wary as the hours went by, ears continually alert for any sign of trouble outside, despite the knowledge that the shadowy and mysterious fellow with whom he’d had his own rather abrupt and attention-getting encounter surely remained on patrol. Bill, vigilant and he clearly appeared to be, was only one man, and as such could end up surprised or overwhelmed by the chance federal patrol or—worse—lured away and then disposed of by a small team whose members had arrived to act on some evidence that their target might be hiding in Bud and Susan’s hilltop log house. The man would in such a case surely do his best to notify them of the trouble, would have plans, backup plans and probably another layer beyond that designed to ensure that some warning would be given, but under the right circumstances, each of them could well end up failing. Ultimately, responsibility for his family’s security, and his own, rested squarely on Einar’s shoulders, and he could not help but fret at a set of circumstances where so many of the variables necessarily remained thoroughly beyond his control.

Though restless, Einar managed with minimal coaxing from Liz to refrain from slipping out of the house to go have a look at the surrounding timber, himself, aware that his doing so could put them all in more danger by potentially revealing their presence at the house. Liz was glad to see him listening to reason on this matter, but at the same time hated to see that he was spending so much energy in wandering about the house, wearing himself out with watching, listening, every sound apparently magnified for him, each wind-tossed movement of a spruce bough catching his eye. She was relieved when finally Susan’s truck started up the drive, something real, at last, for him to focus upon and perhaps some lessening of the tension which had been slowly mounting since her departure.

When Susan returned from town, it was with several bags of groceries, included amongst them a jar of Nutella which she set aside on the counter as she unloaded. Soon added to the little pile were several bottles of liquid vitamin and mineral supplements, iron, potassium, magnesium and few others, a variety of fruits and berries, and—not from the store, but filling a paper sack of Susan’s own provision—a sizeable cluster of young stinging nettle plants. That last bit really got Einar’s interest, mainly because the plants’ presence did not make sense to him, did not add up.

“Where’d you find nettles, this time of year?”

“Ah, you noticed! Expect you noticed the other things too, but you don’t want to talk about them yet, do you?”

He shrugged, very deliberately keeping his eyes averted from the groceries. Especially the Nutella. Didn’t want to stare, to be caught wanting something. Needing something. Wouldn’t do.

“The nettles?”

“Oh, there are none out yet, of course, with snow still on the ground a lot of places, but a couple at my church have a greenhouse similar to mine, and they apparently ended up bringing in a load of nettle seed with some soil they dug up from the creekbank near their house, last fall. As things start warming up in there, the nettles all sprouted and when she told me about having to clean them out, I asked if I could come help her. Told her I wanted them for a spring tonic I like to make, which I do, but this first batch is going to be part of your supper!”

Einar nodded. “I like nettles. Taste a lot like spinach, only with such an intense, lively ‘green’ flavor. Not too many people use them around here, just never think about their being edible it seems, because of the sting…”

“Right, but a quick steaming takes care of that, and turns them into one of the best spring vegetables around. Many are the times I’ve made ‘spinach’ lasagna for guest out of nettles from our creek, and they’ve never known the difference—unless I’ve gone ahead and told them!”

“We ate them sometimes, up on the mountain. And I used them for Liz after Will was born. Dried ones we’d saved, to make tea. Lots of iron.”

“Yes, that’s why I brought them for you today. You need lots of iron.”

“Didn’t lose that much blood, really.”

“Maybe not, but you certainly lost some, and that’s not a terribly infrequent occurrence, is it?”

A black stare, no words, but she had not expected any.

“So between that and your eating habits, you were really deficient in iron even before your little meeting with our friend Bill, I have no doubt. Can see it in the way you look, your color, the way you have trouble getting enough air sometimes, enough oxygen. That must have been mighty rough, up there in the really high country where you’ve been living.”

No answer from Einar, who was none too pleased with the entire subject, but knew better than to argue when the facts were so far from being on his side. Susan went on, answer or no answer.

“Shouldn’t happen to a fellow whose diet consists primarily of wild-caught meat, you know…but he’s got to actually eat some of it, if it’s to do him any good! You have these nettles when I make them into soup tonight, have some more tomorrow, eat some liver once you’re swallowing a little better, and I guarantee you’re going to start having more energy, less trouble with falling asleep when you don’t want to; lots of things will start improving for you.”

“I’ll eat them.”

“Good. And about the rest of the things I brought home today…well, it can be a struggle to get enough minerals from food, alone, when you’re so far behind, especially now when eating is still a bit of a chore, so I hope you’ll take advantage of some of these supplements, too. I can put them straight in your banana milkshakes or something, to make it easier to get them down. Seemed we should make the most of the time you’re with us, since we don’t know exactly how long that’s going to be, and see just how much progress you can make. Consider it a challenge. How about it?”

Reluctance in his eyes, but remembering his struggle of several days past and not wanting to again find himself in that state—not, at least, so long as he was in the presence of others who might see it as their duty to find some remedy—no refusal. He would do it.

[icefire]

GOOD! Maybe NOW he can start to gain back at least a LITTLE of the ground he's lost.

[FOTH]

Folks, I'm heading out for a couple days of wandering, so won't have a chapter until Friday or so.

Thanks for sticking with Einar's story, for the comments, discussion and the patience.

Be back soon.

[thefishinmagician]

Banana and Nutella milkshakes sound good!

[FOTH]

May 16, 2013 8:28:55 GMT -6 thefishinmagician said:

Banana and Nutella milkshakes sound good!

Yes, they do!

Here are a couple of pictures from my wanderings:








____________________________

That evening Einar, rifle still in hand but finding himself less needful of constantly patrolling the place with it, now that Susan was back, resumed the exercises he’d begun doing with the weapon up at the cabin, holding it over his head, straight out from his body, striving to strengthen arms seriously lacking in muscle and prepare himself for whatever might come. A worthy goal, so far as Liz and Susan were concerned, but perhaps not the best use, at present, of what little strength and energy he was managing to obtain from the small but growing portions of food he’d begun taking in. When sometime after supper he found and began using Bud’s weight bench in the library room, Susan half wanted to take the thing out to the garage and hide it, but decided against such measures, as it was plain that the activity, if perhaps somewhat ill-advised just then, was helping Einar get through his time at the house. Not wise to take such a thing from a person in his position, she figured, not unless something existed with which to replace it. As all the potential replacements which seemed likely to have a similar effect were either impossible to arrange or a good deal more detrimental to the fugitive’s continued existence, she left the weights alone and did not trouble him about their use. Not until later that evening, at least.

Liz, finished helping out with the supper dishes and anxious to be of more assistance to their gracious hostess, if possible, had made her way at Susan’s suggestion out to the one heated greenhouse on the place, and started working to transplant a batch of rosemary and parsley seedlings that Susan had earlier started. These potted herbs would, later in the spring, make up a substantial part of Susan’s business as individual customers showed up to purchase them for their own gardens, but especially in the fulfillment of contracts with the local farm supply and grocery stores. Will—having been smuggled out beneath one of Susan’s shawls to prevent the possibility of his being spotted by any eyes, camera or otherwise, that might be watching the place—played happily in a pile of potting soil by his mother’s side as she worked, soon covered from head to toe in soil, but gurgling happily the entire time.

Meanwhile Susan, working in the kitchen, hadn’t heard anything from Einar in quite a while and finally went to check on him, finding him flat on his back on the library floor, rifle across his chest. He wasn’t moving, did not appear to be awake and she thought at first that he might have overdone it with his exercises and passed out or even had some trouble with his heart, but when she knelt beside him it seemed that he was simply sleeping, a suspicion which was confirmed when, sensing her presence, he rolled suddenly away from her and came to his feet all in one swift if somewhat unsteady motion, wide awake and ready to meet whatever trouble might be lurking. A moment’s confusion, Susan keeping very still in the hopes that Einar would figure things out before acting, which he did, giving her a sheepish grin and sinking back to an uneasy crouch on the floor.

“Sure didn’t mean to be sleeping on duty. No excuse for that sort of thing.”

“Oh, you weren’t on duty. It was my turn.”

A shrug, Einar clearly not buying the offer of absolution, but not interested in contesting it, either. Laying aside the rifle he rose, hoisted two of Bud’s dumbbells and took them over to the weight bench, standing beside it.

Done with keeping silent on the matter, Susan sat down beside him. “How about giving it a rest, coming to the kitchen for some more of that banana milkshake. That seems like a good evening snack…”

Einar shook his head. “Thanks, but not now. If I’m going to be eating…” lifted the dumbbells, straightening his arms and holding them directly out in front of him, entire upper body shaking with the effort, “then I sure enough have to start putting out more effort than I have been doing, quit sitting around so much so I don’t end up all soft and fat and useless.”

Not a chance of anything like that, Susan knew, not for many months, but even less chance of convincing him of the fact, so she let him be, went back to her work. He’d soon be getting hungry, she knew, dreadfully hungry after going so long without and then allowing himself to start having food again, and hopefully that hunger would, before too long, drive him into the kitchen in search of sustenance which she would willingly provide.

Einar went back to his work, as well, struggling to do the exercise which he hoped would strengthen arms, legs, prepare him for his coming return to the vertical world of peak and basin which had been his home, and that of his little family. Knew he had to work to improve his speed, endurance, his strength, if he was to be the kind of protector and provider required of him by present circumstances. Winded and beginning to lose his view of the world to a bevy of black, billowing shapes that assailed his vision, he stopped, sitting, wrapping arms around his knees against the chill he knew would be starting to creep in before too long a time of stillness. Noticed that he could, when he tried, get one hand almost entirely around his leg, just above the knee. Had to work on that, too. Legs like that might carry him up over the ridge and down the other side, had done so, not too long ago, but sure couldn’t be counted on to carry him as swiftly or over as great a distance as he was used to expecting of himself. A good and fitting challenge, perhaps, for a man on his own, alone, to see just what sort of performance he could demand—and receive—from a body thus driven so far beyond its normal limits but he was not alone, and with a wife wanting to walk beside him and a little boy looking to him for far more than that, he knew he had no business continuing on in that direction. Had to turn, start making his way back. Was going to hurt. But—hint of a wry grin—when had he minded that?

* * *

None too amused at their largely un-sheltered night out in the mountainside gale, the Task Force agents greeted the return of day in a sullen mood, cold, stiff and sleep-deprived, more than ready to be off the mountain. But not—they were determined—until they’d returned to the site of the slide and scoured the place for the tracks of whoever it was they’d been following down from the place. The descending trail might be lost to them, but if they could find and backtrack the small party’s approach to the place, perhaps they could make some additional and very valuable progress in their investigation.

[FOTH]

Gingerly over snow that tended to sink suddenly underfoot in places with a muted thump and could only be described as wind slab, the little group of investigators retraced their steps to the site of the slide, stopping with increasing frequency to stare up-slope as they neared the area, consternation evident on the faces of all. Except for Bud, who followed at a distance, slight gleam of something that might almost have been mistaken for mischief showing behind his goggles. A majority of his temporary colleagues had wanted him to take the lead, insisting he knew the country better than they, and wanting, without saying it, to have someone not of their number out front should the ground prove anywhere near as unstable as it was feeling. Bud, however, had very diplomatically deferred to the senior agent of the bunch, a gentleman by the name of Shirley who was fresh off the plane from San Francisco and not doing too well with the thin air of the mountains even after two nights spent up at altitude, a man far more adept at forensic analysis than the safe and successful navigation of rotten, avalanche-prone snow slopes.

Picking his way across the ruined, cement-solid debris that lay jumbled about in the path of the slide, the lead agent would go no further upon reaching the relatively untouched snow on its far side. Which presented a problem, as he—and all the rest—could clearly see the trail of three, perhaps even four people emerging from the timber seventy-five yards upslope, drifted some by the force of the wind but left largely untouched. That trail, he was as determined to have the little group follow as he was not to be in the lead when it happened, and he turned with rather more anger than the situation might have required on Bud, summoning him to the front of the line.

“You’re the tracker, Kilgore, and I need you to track!”

Bud nodded, stalked his way stoically to the head of the column. “What’s the matter, Shirley? That thing stands out as plain as a white Persian cat in a sea of hot fudge sauce, at least from where I’m standing. Not a hard one to follow. Unless you’re all out of breath or something, you go on and break trail for a while, let me take over if it starts getting rough to find the next bit of sign. Would hate to trample all over something of forensic value with my big clumsy boots, and spoil a potential clue for you fellas. Yeah, best you stay in the lead as long as you can, here.

Which points Shirley could not reasonably dispute, besides which his pride was beginning to suffer slightly at the implication that he might be having some trouble pulling his own weight, so he said no more about it, resuming his slow, plodding ascent as the snow popped and cracked ominously beneath his feet.

* * *

When bedtime came and Einar did not want to quit his exercises to get some sleep, pausing only to say good night to a very sleepy little Will before returning to Bud’s weight bench, Liz knew she had a problem. He had, it seemed, simply replaced one thing with another, using relentless exercise of a nature which might soon have tired the fittest of men to wear himself out and keep himself in line as he’d previously been doing with the starvation. While it represented perhaps a less detrimental option in the long run, trouble was that for the time, the strenuous nature of the work would almost certainly prevent him from putting on any of the fat he so desperately needed or even the muscle he appeared determined to rebuild. All the food he was managing to take in would be consumed almost instantly, simply to meet his body’s immediate energy needs. Watching him in frustration from the doorway—arms trembling with the strain, eyes glazed and a look of fixed determination on his face—Liz finally shook her head, turned away.

Though wanting very badly to go physically pull Einar away from his endeavor, drag him to bed and hope to find some way to convince or compel him to stay there—several yards of two-inch webbing and some good strong Velcro seemed appropriate, and she was of half a mind to try it—Liz opted instead to give him a bit of space, let him wear himself out, if that was what he wanted. He’d made so many concessions already, to his way of seeing things. Simply being there at the house was the biggest concession, and one which most times she could tell he regretted to some degree, and then there had been his willingness to allow Susan to provide him intravenous hydration, his subsequent efforts to get himself hydrated and even to eat as she could not remember him doing for many months…if he needed to spend half the night wearing himself out in order to sustain such changes, then so be it.

The early part of the night was restless for Liz, listening, though she’d told herself not to, for any small sound which might give her a clue as to how Einar was doing down there, if he’d run into trouble or was nearing the end of his endurance for the night, about ready to call it quits and get some of the sleep that he needed nearly as bad as he did food and drink, if his body was to really begin repairing itself. Finally, unable to sleep and prevented by the good stout interior log walls of the house from hearing anything that might be going on in the library room, she eased Will away from her side and crept down the winding contours of the spiral staircase, lingering warmth of the stove rising to meet her as she went.

Silence from the library, and for a moment her heart leapt into her throat at the thought that something might have happened to him in there, something final and irreversible, but she was reassured the next moment when, stepping into the room, she found him there curled up on the floor beneath the weight bench—he did have a way of getting himself into the strangest, tightest spots around, especially if wanting a bit of sleep in an unfamiliar place—clearly still breathing and by all appearances resting quite peacefully. Sliding the ever-present rifle a bit further from his reach she moved carefully to ease him from beneath the bench, retrieving an afghan from the living room couch and curling up with him on the floor. A compromise of sorts, even if not perhaps an entirely voluntary one on his part. Perhaps such could be reached in the morning.

[FOTH]

Somewhat amazingly to Bud, the slope held as Shirley and the others picked their way carefully across it, leaving the relative safety of the debris field and following a series of all-too-visible tracks up towards the waiting timber. Should they make that timber where tracks would have been preserved from the destructive action of wind and sun by the density of the trees, he was concerned that individual footprints would begin showing a good deal more clearly than they had below the slide path, and perhaps giving agents more information than he wanted them to have. Glancing about in search of a solution, the only possibility that clearly presented itself lay in a rifle shot into the massing, menacing bulge of snow that clung with tenuous grip to the rock of the ridge some three hundred yards above their current position, but that one, he told himself, would be way too obvious. Especially if it didn’t work. Or someone managed to live through the resulting chaos of thundering snow and rent, tumbling trees, and came through to tell the tale.

Perhaps if the party had numbered only three or four, he might have risked it, counting on being able to deal appropriately with any survivors after the fact, but under current conditions, he found himself unwilling to thus show his hand. Though a few of them might suspect his motives, none had voiced this suspicion and neither—as of yet—did they have any solid evidence to support it. He wanted to keep things that way as long as possible. Pretty bad deal should he fall under enough suspicion that agents back and Headquarters might decide that his house warranted searching, while he was still up on the mountain. Or after he came back down. A lot to lose there, and most of it was Susan’s. Well, theirs together, but she had built the business, lived in the house for forty years, and certainly had the most to lose. Not to mention their contraband houseguests, who very literally had everything at stake. Nope. No place for any fancy work with snow and shock waves, not that day. If the slope was to slide, it would have to do so all on its own, and that wasn’t appearing terribly likely. Already Shirley had made it across the slope, and was entering the timber. No point in a slide coming now, with him already safe and the others following in speedy if nervous succession, and he picked up his own pace, eager to join them and see just what they’d managed to discover in the timber.

* * * *

That morning Einar, struggling to pick himself up off the floor where he had spent the entirety of the dark hours, found to his dismay that he was all but unable to move. Head felt thick and confused, eyes not wanting to open all the way, but worst of all his arms and legs simply didn’t respond the way he expected them to. Ached dreadfully, which he could have put up with, but at the same time they felt like lead, heavy, stiff and barely mobile. Clearly, he told himself, a result of his own laziness, of having not worked hard enough the day before, but even as he insisted on that theory, he knew the opposite was likely true. Had so thoroughly worn himself out with his efforts that now he’d nothing left with which to start the day, and had better be heading into the kitchen in search of some sort of meal, if he wanted to remedy the situation.

Nobody was around, Liz having returned to the bed, and Will, early in the morning in anticipation of his needing to eat, and Einar was glad to be alone with his struggle to rise. Made it after some trying, fumbling about some in the darkness, sitting on the weight bench and bracing himself with both arms lest he topple over and bash his head on the wall. Shifting his weight for better balance he experimentally reclaimed one of his arms and felt about until he came across the weights he’d been using that previous evening, taking hold of one and attempting to lift it. No luck. It wasn’t even a matter of pain. He could and would have pushed through that, kept going, made the thing happen, but that wasn’t it. Muscles simply wouldn’t respond, and instead of going out and finding something to eat as logic perhaps dictated, he stayed right where he was, struggling, determined, unwilling to move until he’d made it work.

Thus it was that Liz found him an hour later when she rose, light beginning to creep through the windows and Einar flat on his back on the floor still struggling to raise his arms above his head with the rifle, weights, the fierce determination in his eyes beginning to be mixed with a sort of despair. She helped him sit up, took the weights from trembling hands and laid them aside.

“Come have some breakfast.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Can’t work, this morning. Can’t get anything to work. If I don’t work, I don’t eat.”

“If you don’t eat, you won’t be able to work. You know that. You just need fuel. Still have a lot of catching up to do.”

Shook his head. She didn’t understand. Perhaps it ought not be so difficult, this continuing struggle which was convincing himself to go on eating, but it was, and without some way to counter everything that seemed to come along with the improved nutrition and the increased energy it had been starting to bring him—the dreams, memories, a tendency to slip quite unintentionally into that other world, and not always know the way back again—he could think of nothing he wanted less than breakfast. His usual means of dealing with such times—solo forays into the high country, nights spent freezing in the rocks or testing himself in the shadow of that gnarly old dead pine—seemed quite out of his reach under present circumstances. Hunger was the only thing left him. The only means by which he could hope to maintain some sort of grasp on the whole situation. He needed it, even though it was killing him. But none of that, he could not help but think, would be likely to make an awful lot of sense to Liz, even if he’d been more able to put it into words. So he just shook his head, struggled to get to his feet, becoming a bit frantic when it didn’t work.

Liz watched him, sadness in her eyes, but with it an understanding, for had underestimated her. Many of the things he was thinking, she knew without his having to speak them. She sat down beside him on the floor where he had fallen, got hold of him, took his shoulders in her hands, not quite shaking him, but wanting to. Her nearness quieted him some, and he was still.

“Einar. Remember last year when I was snowblind, and you had to lead me…? Through the woods, and then later, after the feds questioned me, out of Susan’s garage, through those tunnels and on the wild climb up out of that slippery, dripping vertical stope hole…and it was terrifying, but I followed because I trusted you, trusted not only that you could see things that I was incapable of seeing at the time, but that you meant nothing but good for me. And it worked, and we both came through it. Remember that?”

He nodded.

“Well, let me lead you now. Just for a little while.”

“But I’m not…”

“I know. I know you’re not snowblind, or blind at all, and it’s not exactly the same, but try to see the analogy.” She held out her hands. “Will you let me lead you?”

[thefishinmagician]

I hope he sees her wisdom and says yes...for his sake, and his family's.

[FOTH]

Einar did not know exactly what she meant, but figured sure, if she had even some slight inkling of knowing her way through this current quagmire, that was more than he’d got, and it seemed he might as well follow her. His ideas were all either hopelessly impractical or downright dangerous to their continued freedom under present circumstances, or fairly certain to bring about the eventual end of his life in their successful execution. So he agreed, nodding, allowing her to take his hands as she wanted to do, a cold knot of anxiety gripping him around the middle, but not showing on his face.

The first place she led him, having to help him up off the weight bench on legs that did not want to bear even his own meager weight, was to the table. He’d been afraid of that. Would have liked to be able to hang onto some of his own notions while following her, high on that list being the one that through a rigorous routine of self-discipline—including greatly limited amounts of food—he could not only continue to make himself more ready to leave the house and face again the hardships of the high country, but could manage at the same time to help himself maintain the tenuous grip which seemed all he was able to gain of late on reality, keep himself in this world and avoid slipping quite so readily into the dark, distant haze of the jungle.

Deprived of his usual tools, he didn’t know how he would do it. Guessed that was where she was asking him to trust her…and for a moment, following, sitting down at the table when she pulled out a chair, he felt all the blind terror that must have been hers as she took his hand and followed him, snowblind and baffled, up the echoing, unseen heights of that vertical tunnel up out of the mine.

Lizzie, my love, I do believe you must be a good deal braver than I…

Somewhat to Einar’s surprise Liz did not immediately begin pushing food in his direction, instead retreating up the stairs to retrieve a thoroughly wakeful and somewhat indignant Will, who had managed to exit the bed without enough injury to set him to wailing, and crawl precariously close to the edge of the spiral staircase, where he stood rocking back and forth on hands and knees as if preparing for a launch. Which he probably had been, and she scooped him up, softly scolding that “you really are just like your father, aren’t you? Have to learn everything the hard way. Well, it’s good to learn a lot of things like that, because the lessons stick, but some with some things you just don’t get a second chance, and this might be one of them. We’ll have to see about some sort of a gate, won’t we? If you’re going to be sleeping up there. Only then you’d just find some way to climb the gate, and have farther to fall… Maybe not so good! But I’ll think of something.”

With which she eased the little one into Einar’s lap. “Contain your son for a little while, won’t you, while I go fix breakfast?”

* * *

Clearly preserved beneath the timber, virtually untouched by the aging influences of wind or sun, Shirley and the other agents had come upon a windfall of new tracks unlike any they had previously discovered. Crisp and undisturbed, they were quickly able to identify one set as belonging to Juniper Melton, the reporter who had perished in the avalanche, another set likely having been made by their fugitive, Asmundson. While they had strongly suspected his presence with the party before, a final conclusion had been waiting on the DNA tests which would be made on fragments of clothing found amongst the slide debris, but now, they were all but certain. The man’s walk had changed some over the years they’d been seeking him, a result, they’d concluded, of various injuries sustained and healed, or partially so, but it retained a certain set of characteristics which they had identified, and with which Shirley had made himself familiar before setting out on this latest escapade. Kilgore, when confronted with the evidence, could not disagree that the tracks might belong to Asmundson, though he cautioned that it was difficult to be absolutely certain. Shirley gave him a strange look, at that.

“Is it? How difficult, then, is it to be absolutely certain about this other set of tracks?” He asked Kilgore, pointing to a set of the tracker’s own size 11s.

Kilgore shrugged. “That fella’s unidentified as yet. Friend of the reporter’s, most likely.” Which seemed to satisfy the agent for the time, but Bud doubted he’d heard the last of the matter. The man was shrewd, observant, and though not trained in the art of tracking to the degree that he, himself had been, the man’s eyes and brain worked just fine, and were appearing to present more and more of a threat.

“Excluding the unidentified male,” Shirley continued, “it looks like we can probably be safe in saying that the other set of female tracks ought to belong to Elizabeth Riddle, known at one point to be traveling with Asmundson. Apparently she still is. Last contact we had with her she was expecting a baby, and that baby ought to have come several months ago. Looks like she survived the birth, but I guess there’s nothing here to indicate whether or not the child survived, is there? What do you say, Kilgore? Was this woman carrying a baby on her back when she made these tracks?”

Bud suppressed a glimmer that was wanting to creep into his eyes, survived? Of course she survived, and so did the little one, and the pair area lot healthier and more robust than a lot of new mothers and their children who I’ve seen down in civilization, if you must know. That’s gonna be one tough kid, and if you’re still around in ten, fifteen years, Shirley, he’s gonna be the bane of your existence same as his father is now, I’m guessing. Yep, it’ll be the two of them against the world. Three of them. Maybe more, if Asmundson actually makes it through these next few days, weeks, and gets back out here where he belongs. Poor old buzzard. Mountain couldn’t kill him, but Sue’s comfortable house just may do it. Huh. That’s not what Shirley was asking about though, was it? “Carrying a baby, you said?”

“Yeah. On her back. Can’t you tell from her tracks, how far they sink in on one side or the other, something like that? I thought you were supposed to be that good.”

“Well, she was carrying something on her back. Baby don’t carry a whole lot differently than a backpack full of venison or some such, I wouldn’t figure. But she had something on there.”

“I guess that’ll have to be good enough for now. I’d like to find some evidence of the child, if it survived. Living out here on the run is one thing, doing it with an infant something else, entirely. That would be useful intelligence for us, knowing if they were traveling with a child. So. Two questions to answer. The matter of the child, and the identity of this second man. Let’s get to work.”

[icefire]

Dang! That agent Shirley is going to be TROUBLE! Let's hope that Bud can get a little help throwing him off the trail!