Chapter 59

Sven turned the vehicle off. The noise of the truck gone, there was silence all around him, the falling snow shrouding everything.

The mountain, a man, the sky. And a lone SUV, far from civilization, driven right to the point where anything even loosely called a road ended. Abruptly.

He was here. Two thirds to his destination. But the last third, he’d have to traverse downhill, on skis. There was no way to reach the cabin dead on. Not by vehicle.

There were brutal hazards ahead. Tree wells, in all this snow. If you skied too close, you’d be engulfed. Sideways snow, hurtling at you, stealing your balance, your sense of perspective. All compounded by the inky, dark night.

He yanked his pack and his skis out of the back seat. His bear spray, knife, and stick were already part of his arsenal. He activated the beacon he wore—standard equipment for him. Pulled down his goggles. Got out of the car, and snow engulfed him.

An endless panorama of white stretched before him. He struggled to make it out—and yes, there was the vaguest glimmer of light below.

In the cabin. The fool was still there. Alive? Dead?

Or…waiting. For him.

He stared ahead, mentally plotted the route. Whispered one last prayer to Terrence Point, the fates and any gods who might be looking on.

Then he bent his knees, dug his poles into the ice, and started the treacherous slide down.

* * *

“They’re late. Where the hell are they?”

The man paced, kept looking at his watch. His voice was gruff, his anger rising.

The dog looked for somewhere to hide until the storm blew over, but there was no place in this tiny, one-room shack. He put his head down.

Humans liked it when he acted submissive, when they were angry. It wasn’t hard to do. They were stronger. And dangerous.

“We had an arrangement. Bastards. Do I have to pay everybody off?” He kicked at an old can, spat. The spit froze, landing on the outer wall of the tiny room.

He eyed the dog.

“It’s all your fault. All your fault!” His voice rose over the screech of the wind, the incessant jostling of the thin boards.

The dog hunkered down. He’d always had the opportunity to slink away when the man got mad before. This time, there was nowhere to slink. He tried to disappear into himself, make himself small. Tiny.

“You and your demon mistress!” He hurled the words at him.

And the dog knew, this time, he was in danger.

The man’s face turned horrific. Not like a man at all. He screamed, made for him.

But the door burst open, and another man stood there. The man. His doggy heart leapt. Joy!

The one he’d started loving, almost as well as his mistress. She’d always be first, always. But this man was a close second.

He was here!

But immediately, his doggy heart fell. This man was a good man. Not like the old, bad one, facing him.

And he was in deep, hard danger. The bad man may have had his good moments—had had many—and hadn’t hurt him yet, ever. Though he threatened.

But he knew the bad man had hurt other men. Viciously. Willingly.

The man he now loved, and even more important—that his mistress now loved—was in danger.

And he knew he would not fight as wickedly, as evilly as the bad man. And because of that…he would lose.

And out here, that would mean….

“You! You bullshit, phony, piece of shit. Looking after the bitch who brought my boy down!”

No. He couldn’t let that happen.

The bad man pulled something from his back pocket, aimed it at his mistress’s man.

But before he could do that, Buddy leapt. Jumped, with all his heart and all his strength, as hard and as high as he could, at the man, into the path of his weapon. Used his body as a shield. The only thing he’d ever had to give.

And dropped, as the bullet hit him, the blood spurting from his body.

* * *

The next few moments passed in a blur.

Sven, after a second of shock, rushed forward, at Blaine. To grab him, subdue him, physically.

But he missed him. Because, in the moment his body was hurtling through the air at him, the old man dropped. Simply dropped.

Landed suddenly and hard, at the animal’s side. And moaned wildly. Uncontrollably. “Oh god, oh, god. What have I done?”

Sven watched in horror as the man crumpled, laid his body over the bleeding animal. Resting his face on Buddy’s heaving side, his old hands spreading wide, taking in the feel of the animal as if he couldn’t get enough. “Buddy. Goddammit, Dog. Don’t you die on me!”

Sven knelt quickly, yanked open the first-aid kit from his pack. “Get off him, you fool! Let me do what I came to do.” Noted that the gun had dropped from Blaine’s hand, skittered, was now over by the wall.

But Buddy was bleeding badly.

Blaine slid from Buddy. “Can you save him?”

“You old fool,” Sven spat, angry beyond words. “I don’t know.”

“You must. You must, you must, you must.” The old man started chanting, his tone low, but urgent. “You must you must you must.”

“You wanted him to die in a dog fight tonight!” He hurled the words at him.

“Pfft. Weather’s too damn bad for a fight tonight. Just said that to tear her heart out. Knew it would.”

That had the ring of truth. And when a demented old man like him started to make sense to him, that was his cue to do something drastic. Sven put the crazy fool out of his mind. Quickly, adeptly, he cleaned the wound. Not near anything vital. Thank God. Turned, saw the bullet had lodged in the earthen floor. No bullet to deal with. But the shock. Worked fast, as the dog moaned once, then stayed quiet. “Don’t give up on me now, Buddy.”

The old man hovered, his breath dank, a thousand illnesses percolating in that abused body. “Don’t give up on us, Dog.”

Sven raised his glance sharply. Was he serious? Such a caricature of a face, he couldn’t read it. But he knew, intuitively, the man didn’t want the animal to die. Desperately.

And then a thought struck him. Was it so he could hurt him later? Somehow…end him?

Well, it wasn’t going to happen. Once he was done with Buddy, the gun was his.

He worked quickly in the cold that had wrested its way into the cabin with him, and patched Buddy up, put on the final dressing. It hadn’t been a bad wound, thank goodness. Just incredibly bloody. He laid his hand against the animal’s throat. A heartbeat. Steady.

Still needed more care than he could give him. He knew first aid, but he wasn’t a vet.

“We’ve got to get him down, back to the chalet. There’s a doctor there. She’ll be able to make sure he’s…”

He looked up, and Blaine was standing five feet from him. When had he gotten up? And he was holding the gun, in unsteady hands.

The old man’s eyes bored into him. Yellow. Was it the light or just his sickness?

“You think you’re so smart. Coming in and ruining everything. While my boy rots in that hellhole.” His eyes danced wildly.

Suddenly Sven thought—he’s not in his right mind. He’s…nuts.

There was no way he could leap up and tackle the man. This time, his body would take the bullet.

His life sped before him in a flash. And crazy thing. It wasn’t the snow or the storm or an avalanche that would get him. It hadn’t been the countless special missions over in Afghanistan, in the thick of a cruel war that he’d been lucky to survive.

It was an insane old man he’d never met before, with a gun.

“I didn’t ruin anything. I came to get the damn dog. Like you did, earlier tonight, at the chalet.” And he realized.

It was a moment to find out things, if there ever was. Before he died. “How the hell did you pull that off?”

The old man spat, a sick pride glinting in his amber eyes. Was it the tiny heater, on its last legs, reflecting the yellow bits flickering through the ill-fitting grate? Or was it just him?

“Not hard to get things done, if you pay. Man came in on snowmobile. Experienced in these parts. Said the dog would need to shit, snow or not. Waited in the darkest area of your resort, with my coat. An old one. Saw the woman come out with him, waited till they both went back in. Then opened the door himself, called, and he came. Grabbed him. Didn’t have to grab too hard—dog smelled me, thought I needed help. Came like butter.” The smile hardened on his face, around the wrinkles and the grizzle. A mask.

An evil mask to have nightmares about.

Sven had to keep talking, before all that was left for the old man was…to pull the trigger. “So the dog wanted to help you. Was willing to go out into this crazy storm…because he thought you needed help.”

His emphasis was on purpose. Words, and his brain. That’s all he had now.

Cracks in the mask appeared, as Blaine’s face softened unexpectedly. “Yeah. Good dog. Bitch is first, but he always had time for me. One of my business partners got rough once. Let me tell you, that dog can growl when it wants to. Tear the hide off you, with that growl. Dog did right by me that day.” He smirked. “Showed the bugger who was boss. Me. Bugger ran like hell.”

A foolhardy spirit seized Sven. His last go, to save his life. “That’s all she did, you know. Was try to save dogs, like Buddy. Ones that would go out on a limb for their humans. Do anything to make their lives better, protect them, their reputation. Like Buddy did, twice, for you. That time with your partner, and tonight. Maybe more. You needed him? The dog came. You didn’t have to fight him.” He stared into the old man’s eyes. “He just came. For you.”

The sweat was prickling on his forehead, despite the cold. On his back, under all his layers. “That’s all she did. You love Buddy. She does, too.”

He paused. The picture of the old man, just scant seconds ago, weeping for the dog—those tears hadn’t been fake, suddenly he knew— flashed before him. “Just like you, Westerling. You could have ended me before I saved the dog. But you didn’t.”

And suddenly, the crazy reality of that hit him. Struck him.

No matter what the old fool did to him, now, he’d let him save Buddy. Had wanted him saved, had wanted him, deep down, to stay unhurt. Because, on some unfathomable level, he loved this dog, too.

For that, he was grateful. “No matter what people say about you, you did that. No matter what anybody says of you, that’s there.” His voice dipped, and indeed, the words barely came out.

This was his parting shot, and if didn’t work, he was done for. Would they even find his body? Buddy’s? “Namaste, Blaine Westerling.”

The spirit in me…honors the spirit in you.

Or as Sven had always felt it better expressed—the good in me… honors the good in you.

He watched the wrinkled, lined face as it contorted at his words. Now.

Now his time was coming, and he was facing it, like a man.

His family would be proud. And Keara?

Damn it, Keara. Would she know?

Well, had he ever bloody well told her?

This was his final chance. And it was up to the man with the gun to give it to him.

His voice started hoarse, but gained clarity. Depth. “You and I don’t know each other. All we got in common is this one animal that we both love. Will you do something for me? And for the dog?” He hesitated a crack, about to trust the most important mission he could think of to a madman who hated her. Possibly hated him, in this moment.

And leapt off the cliff. “Tell her I love her, will you?”

The request jarred the old man. Hit him. Sven watched his expression as it changed. His eyes widened abruptly as if an epiphany struck him.

Then it settled back into the man everyone knew and would always think of. The gargoyle, with the cruel, rigid face.

He stared a hard look at Sven, raised the gun, and aimed it at his chest. Held it there a second, and Sven got to watch it waver, as time slowed.

Then the old man gave an abrupt command that roiled out of the very depths of him. Short, scant, clipped. “For fuck’s sake. Tell her yourself.”

And before Sven could stop him, he hurtled past him, with a burst of adrenaline-soaked speed. Slapped the old, shaky door wide open, and flew out into the hell storm. He watched in horror as the man ran full out, hard, and purposefully…right over the edge.

And disappeared, as if he’d never existed.