Protecting the Flame Read online

  She met Ben at Top of the World. It was her second night, and she’d spent the day capturing the play of light on the icebergs and the sea. She wandered into the club, her hair smelling of icy salt, her cheeks still stinging from wind and sunburn. Slotting herself into an opening at the bar, she looked at the guy on her left. No real reason. Completely random.

  What she noticed first was not his looks. She saw the book. Well, actually, the author’s photograph on the cover: T.S. Eliot. Which simply did not compute. It was like finding a homicide cop who loved Jane Austen or Emily Dickinson.

  “The Waste Land?” she asked.

  “What?” He’d looked up, blue eyes a little glazed and unfocused until they sharpened on her. “Oh, no. Prufrock. You know Eliot?”

  Her mother was an English teacher. Of course, she knew Eliot. Nu, was the pope Polish? (This had not been true for a couple years by then, but she still liked the line.) For the next several hours, they argued the poem over ice-cold Belvedere martinis—three olives, very dry, a glance at the vermouth bottle. He thought that the line, I am Lazarus, come from the dead, was an allusion to Lazarus and Jesus in John, while she pointed out that it might also be the beggar from Luke, and then that had led to a discussion of how a good Jewish girl knew anything about the New Testament. (It all boiled down to three words: know thy enemy.)

  Two days later—her last on Thule, as it happened—they bundled up in parkas and hiked up Mount Dundas. It was kind of a weeny adventure. They made the seven hundred feet in an hour, more or less, though the best part was the final fifty feet straight up over sheer gray rock on a fixed rope, where he also taught her how to do an emergency belay because, well, you never knew. She teased him about being a Boy Scout. A throwaway line, sure, but also a test of sorts. She’d been raised by two people who were also Star Trek loons. For a school Halloween party, her dad, who taught cinema and television at the local university extension, dressed up as Spock while her mom slathered on green body paint, donned a tattered bikini-thing, and did a pretty credible Orion slave girl while she near about died of embarrassment.

  Anyway, if this guy had ever seen The Wrath of Khan, he knew what his line should be.

  And he nailed it. “I may be many things,” he said, managing to look offended, “but I was never a Boy Scout.”

  Then, to prove it, he kissed her—and then he did that again and again, and his lips were warm and hungry, and she sighed into his mouth. If it hadn’t been forty degrees, and they’d not been on top of a barren plateau, things might have gone further right then and there. That would have to wait a few hours yet, though, but worth it because once they were in bed, they didn’t have sex. They made love. Big difference.

  Before they descended Dundas, they inked their names on a rock he’d carried up from the base and put it atop a large mound of other rocks left by previous climbers. They couldn’t hold hands on the way back, not if they wanted to make it down alive. But it didn’t matter. Every time she cast a glance over a shoulder, Ben was there, with those beautiful blue eyes and those lips, that face. That body she wanted to explore. The love they were in the process of making with a glance, a smile. An argument about Eliot. A throwaway line about Captain Kirk.

  Thule was the beginning.

  It was also, in a way, the death of him—and her.

  Chapter 5

  On the way to the charters’ hangar, she spotted an airport shop that sold sweatshirts with bison logos, ball caps, magazines, newspapers, candy, gum, buttons, aspirin, and anything else a traveler might need so long as she was willing to cough up an obscene amount of money. The muffin was a stone in her gut, but at least it hadn’t reappeared, so she might as well stock up because who knew when they’d get to Lone Ridge Airstrip, a place so tiny the charter pilot said there was no control tower and all flights were VFR only. Visual flights rules, he’d said. It’s one thing instrument flying in clouds. We can do that, but it’s another trying to land somewhere, at night, with no tower or landmarks. She’d already called Kuntz to let him know she wouldn’t be landing at Billings. Thankfully, Kuntz—he kept telling her to call him Kujo, and all she could think of was that rabid dog—knew the airstrip, which was east of Lonesome, and said he’d get in touch with Hank Cooper so she wouldn’t have long to wait for a pickup.

  Maybe Kim was right. Maybe this was going to be okay after all, she thought, as she pulled two Gatorades from a cooler. She debated about a third Gatorade because hydration was important then thought that since she’d also gotten another piping-hot-but-tasteless herbal tea for her travel mug, she might live to regret that decision. She doubted the charter would have a john. Instead, she selected two sandwiches, egg salad and tuna. She wasn’t the least bit hungry, but she was trying to be optimistic.

  As she passed the shelves with various toiletries and over-the-counter meds, she looked for one particular item even as she told herself that a) she was being a nut and b) nothing would change. It was almost a relief when she didn’t find what she was looking for but then, as she eyed a couple with two kids in tow wandering through, she considered that everything in a place like this had to be completely G-rated.

  At the checkout, she threw in a bag of trail mix, Tic-Tacs, M&Ms, another travel-sized mouthwash, gum, and, finally, an Almond Joy because sometimes you just feel like a nut. The total bill came to thirty-five dollars before she also added a New York Times to the pile because there was something about the smell of newsprint and a real paper she liked. The downside was she’d wind up with blackened fingers. But, hey, beggars.

  Chapter 6

  She almost made it. Fifty feet from the entrance to the charters’ hangar, she suddenly retched, her mouth filled with sour spit, and she knew she had about twenty seconds. Veering into a men’s room—empty, thank God—she sped past a bank of urinals, slammed into a stall, dropped her pack, jackknifed at the waist, held her hair back with one hand, and hung over the bowl as she coughed out a flood of vomit. It didn’t take long; other than the muffin, her stomach had been empty. When she was done, she spat, flushed, shouldered her pack, and was reaching for the latch when she heard that distinctive rasp only a zipper makes and then the unmistakable sound of someone taking a tinkle.

  Shit. She glanced at her watch. The pilot had texted ten minutes ago. He wouldn’t leave, would he? Quickly, she pulled out her phone and tapped out a message: Got hung up. On my way now. Slipping her cell into a leg pocket of her cargo pants, she waited until she heard a flush. She was about to call out a warning when the man beyond the stall said, “It’s safe.”

  Heat flooded up her neck. How had he known? Unlatching the slider lock, she palmed the door open and stepped out.

  “You okay?” He was at the sink, soaping his hands, and eyed her reflection in a mirror. “Bad sushi?”

  That threw her. “I’m sorry?”

  “Sushi. Does it to me every time. You’d think I’d learn not to buy sushi from anyplace that’s landlocked, but…” He smiled into the mirror, and a small dimple showed on the right. “I like to live dangerously.”

  Despite her embarrassment, she felt her mouth kick into a lopsided grin. “No, only an upset tummy.” Moving to the sink, she punched on water and soaped her hands. Her eyes strayed to his left hand. No ring. Didn’t necessarily mean anything. And what are you thinking? You, of all people, you don’t get to think about things like that. As she rinsed, she noticed a tiny pink worm of a scar peeping from the bottom edge of her left cuff. Crap. Quickly yanking down the left sleeve and then the right for good measure, she rinsed then dug out a plastic Ziploc with her toothpaste and toothbrush from her backpack as well as her new bottle of mouthwash. She should’ve bought two while she was it. Maybe emptied out the store.

  He watched her reflection squirt a worm of toothpaste onto her brush. “You sure you’re all right? You’re pretty pale.”

  “I’m okay.” Keeping an eye on her right cuff—she had a feeling this guy didn’t miss much—she focused on brushing her teeth fast before someo
ne else wandered in. The way the guy was still looking freaked her out a little, and when his eyes drifted to her chest, she felt a twist of disgust. Perv.

  She was about to spit and tell him so when he said, “Nice necklace. Looks old. The stone, that is. Unusual to see a ruby in a cabochon cut.”

  Her necklace had flopped out when she was yorping. “Uh, yeah,” she mumbled through foam. Tucking the charm back inside her collar, she spat, rinsed, swished, tugged down both sleeves at the cuffs again, and said, “Thanks. It was my grandmother’s.” Now, why had she bothered with that? “Anyway, thanks for, you know, being so understanding about me…” She gestured toward the stall she’d vacated.

  “Don’t mention it.” Hefting an enormous pack to which he’d also lashed a sleeping bag and snowshoes, he slotted a folded copy of the Minot Daily News under an arm and moved to the exit. “Feel better and safe travels.”

  He had a nice smile. And his eyes—she dried her toothbrush under a blow-dryer—they were hazel, weren’t they? Only they’d also changed color with the light. Shouldering her daypack, she headed for the exit. When they caught the light, his eyes were a warm shade of amber.

  As she turned out of the bathroom, her phone buzzed with an incoming text. Probably the pilot, again. Tugging out her cell, she thumbed her way past the lock screen and started reading the message.

  A man’s voice, way too close. “Oh, good, there you—”

  “What?” Her head jerked up, and she head-butted the guy. “Oof!” Her jaw snapped shut with an audible click. A sharp dart of pain arrowed into her tongue. The smack set a swarm of white fireflies flitting before her eyes. Reeling, she heard her cell clatter to the floor and felt her boots tangle.

  “Whoa, whoa, I got you.” Clamping a hand onto her left elbow, he held her steady as she regained her footing. “Are you all right? God, I’m so sorry.” He nodded toward the unfolded newspaper he still had in his right hand. “I figured I’d read my paper and, you know, stand guard until you were done to keep other guys from walking in until you had—”

  “I’m all right, thanks.” Her head ached, and her tongue hurt, though they couldn’t compete with the embarrassed flush prickling her neck. Scooping up her cell, she said, “I should’ve been watching where I was going. I hate it when people do that, too, you know?” She was babbling but couldn’t help herself, she was so mortified. “Zombie-walking when they ought to be paying attention to—”

  “You’re bleeding.” He made an abortive moment as if to thumb something away from her mouth then stopped. Reaching around to a hip pocket, he tugged out a packet of tissues. “Here.”

  “Thanks.” Tweezing out a tissue, she blotted and peeked then wrinkled her nose at the spot of blood. “I’m sorry. That was very sweet of you, but I’m late, and I really have to go. I’m headed that way,” she said, taking a step back and hooking a thumb over her shoulder. “I don’t want the pilot to leave without me.”

  “Me neither.” He waggled his cell. “Got another nastygram.”

  “You—” Oh, this is just perfect. She ought to give Nora Roberts a jingle. With this kind of meet-cute, she was destined for her own series. Maybe Renèe Zellweger would star. Although she’d already jumped to the third film in the series, hadn’t she? “You’re going to Montana,” she said, flatly.

  “As it happens.” Showing that grin again, he stuck out a hand. “Will Shirer.”

  He had a nice grip, too, and his palm was warm, though a little calloused, as if he was outdoors a lot. From the looks of his pack, this was probably true. “Emma Gold.”

  “Nice to meet you, Emma.” He broke contact first. “Guess we’d better hustle before the pilot takes off without us.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Guess we’d better.”

  Chapter 7

  In retrospect?

  They should’ve missed the damn plane.

  On takeoff, the way ahead had been relatively clear, but things went south about an hour into the flight. Anvils of glowering clouds pressed down as the turbulence built, morphing from gentle swells to a fast, stomach-churning slalom. There was no escape, either. The clouds towered too high for them to clear, so the pilot had been forced to go lower, which sucked because that meant the mountains, which before had been distinct snowy ridges and crinkles in the Earth and no more consequential than a rumpled bed, suddenly grew fangs.

  There was a roar and then a shimmy as another huge wave of turbulence broke against the plane. The fuselage shook, the window to Emma’s left buzzed, something overhead bawled, and her seat creaked.

  “Holy…!” It was Scott. Of course, it was Scott. It would be just her dumb luck that Scott, Rachel, Mattie’s grandfather, and Mattie were on the same charter. The seats were odd, too, with the two immediately behind the cockpit facing out and so, because Scott was strapped in behind the copilot, she and he had no choice but to actually make eye contact. (Earlier, when she and Will wandered up, Scott’s face had screwed into a murderous clench. If looks were daggers, she ought to have bled out on the spot. His hostility was so obvious Will had turned her a puzzled look.)

  “Jesus!” Scot shouted as the plane stuttered, so the word came out Gee-hee-hee-hee-sus. “You trying to crash us or what?”

  “It’s only air.” Mattie was across the sliver of aisle to Emma’s right. The pilot had put her and Emma in the last two seats in front of a locker and the rear cargo hold because they were both lightweights. As the plane swooped again, the girl pressed her book to her chest and closed her eyes. “It’s just bad air, Scott. Bad air can’t hurt you.”

  “Hell you say.” Already sickly, Scott’s pallor had gone fish-belly white with a touch of green under the gills. One hand gripping an air-sickness bag, Scott leaned against his headrest and swallowed, the knuckle of his Adam’s apple rolling up and down his throat. “Blows hard enough, we’re gonna end up pancakes.”

  “Flew worse in ’Nam. This isn’t anything worth getting worked up about. Besides, I’m almost positive the pilot would like to get there in one piece.” It was Mattie’s grandfather, who hunkered in a seat behind the pilot and directly opposite Rachel’s mother. His breath came in chuffs because, while Burke kept the windshield clear, he hadn’t wanted to tax the engines by pulling heat away for the cabin. Like the rest of them, the old man was swaddled in cold-weather gear—in his case, an olive-green parka with a fur-trimmed snorkel he’d pulled up and then zipped as soon as Burke took off. In the cabin’s gloom, his face was a pale, indistinct glimmer, something from a bad detective novel where the body’s found floating face-up at the bottom of a well. “Take it from me, complaining won’t do a damn bit of good or get us there faster. You’d do best to relax there, Scott.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll relax when I got both feet on the ground again.” Leaning forward with a groan, Scott let his head hang between his knees. “I should never have let you people talk me into this.”

  Out of the corner of an eye, Emma saw Mattie open her mouth but then closed it as if thinking better of whatever she’d been about to say as Rachel, whose seat was in front of Emma’s, shot her daughter a warning frown. Rolling her eyes, Mattie flopped back in her seat and returned to her book.

  Having finished her Times and decided trying to drink her tea meant she’d likely be wearing it, Emma was bored. She’d considered Ben’s much-read, dog-eared copy of The Waste Land. Yes, she was being morbid, but somehow Eliot’s poem felt so right. She hadn’t taken out the book, though. The book was a talisman, really, and how would she explain if someone…Will, for example, who was a row up and immediately in front of Mattie…asked? Well, yes, it’s all about fear and people caught in limbo, neither here nor there, and you know, the way Eliot says April is cruel because that’s when life springs forth only for death to follow? Well, three guesses when Ben died…uhm, when he killed himself…er…when he was murdered to make sure he stayed quiet and his investigation went nowhere, the investigation that was my fault because I suggested it. I sniffed out a nugget of a story that
everyone says isn’t true.

  Yeah. That would’ve gone over like a lead balloon.

  Instead, cinching her shoulder harness down another notch, she pushed aside one half of a set of blue fabric curtains attached to brass rods top and bottom in front of her window then gasped as the twin-engine Chieftain suddenly porpoised, rising and then dipping then rising again. Listen to Mattie, Emma thought as her stomach dropped to her toes. Her butt tried levitating for the ceiling, and she grew momentarily weightless. Her hands hooked her armrests in a death grip. It’s only air, bad air. Air can’t hurt you.

  For a giddy second, there was the disorienting sensation of having nothing but air beneath her feet. Her shoulder strap dug as the plane fell the way a car plunges from the top of a rollercoaster. Rivets squealed; the entire fuselage squeaked; the prop’s grumbles swooped in a decrescendo. If there’d been interior lights, they’d probably have winked. She heard the slosh of avgas stored in two inflatable bladders which were secured, along with their luggage in the cargo hold behind her seat. There was a third empty bladder and, when she asked about it, Burke tipped her a wink: Well, if we get stuck and we maybe want a bunch of hot water for a bath or something. A second later, the twin engines surged as the plane rebounded and they leveled.

  Man. Slamming back down into her seat, Emma let out a grunt. Maybe it was a good thing she didn’t have anything on her stomach. On the one hand, this still wasn’t as bad as a chopper ride she’d taken in Afghanistan when, on his approach to base, the pilot had violently jinked the helicopter right and then left and then right again before diving because, as she later discovered, the insurgents who lay in wait with Stingers were really, really good.