The change was sudden and immediate. One moment, the snowmobile was growling over the ice; the next, the light swept heavenward as the heavier treads at the rear plunged into open water. The engine’s hornet-scream cut out. Beyond the headlight, he made out the men, dark as seals. One was already in the water. The guy in front was scrambling over the windscreen onto the fairing. The snowmobile slewed left, and then he heard a ferocious splashing sound and screams: “I’M CAUGHT I’M CAUGHT IT’S PULLING ME UNDER IT’S PUL—”
The sled listed again and the voice cut out. A second later, the light slid from view.
Tom lowered the rifle. His breath came hard and fast. His pulse thundered. Behind, he felt the sled shift as the dog pushed to its feet.
The other man was still railing, his voice reedy with shock: “Please!” The guy sounded old, too. “Please, I know you’re out there! Help me, please, help me, please! Please, you can’t just let me die!”
Oh, but I can. These men had killed Jed and Grace. The cabin was gone. This was the enemy.
“Please.” More splashing. “I can’t … I can’t feel my legs and—”
Tom clambered out of the sled. “Stay,” he said to the dog, and then he was loping across the ice. The break was a good fifty yards away, so he didn’t go far—maybe fifty, sixty feet. Shucking his parka, he dropped and spread himself over the snow and ice, taking the rest in a low crawl. It occurred to him, only belatedly, that the hunter might have a pistol, but he figured the old guy probably wasn’t suicidal. Pop Tom and he would still drown.
“I’m coming. Keep talking.” He felt the ice change under his body, listened for telltale pops and cracks. He squirmed forward as fast as he could. “Talk to me.”
“Oh, th-thank Ch-Chr-Christ. H-h-here.” The old guy was winded, out of breath; his voice stuttered with cold and fright. “C-ca-can’t g-get ou-out of m-my c-coat … duh-duh-dragging m-me …”
“I’m almost there.” Tom heard the slop of water over ice, and then his right hand was suddenly wet. Close enough. Four inches would hold a person’s weight. Three might. Two would not. With no light from that sickly green moon and not even the glow from the blazing cabin to light his way, the night was pitch-black. He had no idea if the guy was even on his side of the break. “Move toward my voice. Can you move?”
Splashes, and then the old guy said, “Y-yuh.”
Coming from his left, and very close. “Hold on,” Tom said—
And then he made his first mistake.
Digging in with the toes of his boots, he twisted, using his belly as a pivot point, but he wasn’t paying attention, hadn’t thought through how his body was now parallel to the rift—on a thin lip of rotten ice.
“I’m going to toss you my coat,” he said. “As soon as you feel it, grab on and—”
Two things happened at the same time.
Tom let out a surprised grunt as the old guy’s hand swam out of the dark and clamped down on his right wrist. Before he could pull away, he felt the drag on his arm as the old hunter tried scrambling out of the water, using Tom the way someone might climb a rope ladder.
“Hey, no, stop!” Tom shouted. He tried yanking back, but the guy’s fingers dug into him like talons, and Tom had no leverage. He felt himself slipping sideways, and then there was water around his legs, and he was still sliding—
That was when he made his second mistake—the precisely wrong move at precisely the wrong moment—because he was scared.
As soon as the icy water swirled around his legs, Tom let out a yell and tried rearing up onto his knees. His center of gravity shifted.
The ice let out a high, animal-like squeal. There was a pop as crisp as a gunshot, followed by a groan and—
CRACK!
And then Tom was in the water, too.