Winter's End Read online

  “If I could just manage to — how can I put it? — overpower him,” Milos had whispered.

  “Overpower him?” Helen had replied. “You think you’re on a wrestling mat or something?”

  For the rest of the night, the two fugitives had kept quiet, sometimes dropping off to sleep for a few minutes, but always woken by the cold. Toward morning one of the two dog-men turned and looked at them for a long time, vacant-eyed. His pale, expressionless face looked as if he had just emerged from a nightmare. Helen almost screamed.

  Now they themselves were hard on the heels of the pack, and the climb was beginning. Up above, the autumn sun was bathing the crest of the mountains in color.

  “Nice day for an outing!” said Milos. “Know any good walking songs?”

  Mills, Pastor, and their dogs went rapidly ahead for two days. It was a forced march, and they ran when the terrain was good enough. Whenever they could take a shortcut, Mills didn’t hesitate to lead his pack along steep or overgrown paths. They came to the mountain refuge on the second evening, scratched and grazed, exhausted, stupefied by the open air. Pastor could go no farther. The dogs were starving. As for Mills, he was in seventh heaven as he kicked the door of the refuge open and went in.

  “Hey, take a look at this little love nest, will you? They went at it right here on this mattress! Bet you it’s still warm!”

  “Could be,” grumbled Pastor. “But they’ve burned all the wood, the vandals! I’ll go and find some for the night. Ramses, Chephren, come and help me, you lazy brutes!”

  The two dog-men followed him. The others lay down on the floor, waiting for their master’s next orders.

  “Move over, will you?” Mills snapped at them. “I can’t get by.”

  They looked at him as if he’d spoken in Hebrew.

  “Move, I said! It’s not that difficult to understand!”

  They didn’t budge. It made Mills feel vaguely uneasy, and he left the room until Pastor was back. Raising his eyes, he saw that the weather had changed within a few hours. Low gray clouds covered the sky.

  That night snow began falling, heavily and steadily, and it didn’t stop. It wrapped the hut in silence, like cotton balls, and soon they felt a long way from civilization, as isolated as if they were in the middle of the ocean. From time to time Mills went out on the doorstep and came back at once, covered with snowflakes.

  “We’ll leave tomorrow at dawn. Just think how infuriating it would be if they freeze to death before we catch up with them.”

  They lit a fire, ate some bread, and drank a little of the spirits that Pastor had brought. The big dog-handler would have liked the snow to prevent them from going on at all the next day, but you couldn’t count on Mills agreeing to that. He would track his prey as far as hell itself, even at the risk of his own life. The two men lay down side by side on the mattress, fully dressed. Mills had merely hung his jacket on the hook behind the door. The dogs slept on the floor a little way off. Mykerinos seemed to be galloping in his dreams; under his jeans, his thin legs jerked convulsively.

  For the first time since they had left, it occurred to Helen that she shouldn’t have gone with Milos. She had ventured on this crazy expedition, and now they were going to freeze to death a hundred yards from a refuge with a fire burning in it. A hundred yards from its door, and they couldn’t knock at it. She had lost all feeling in the fingers of her left hand. She’d blown on them, tucked them inside her shirt. Nothing helped. And now she couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering. Milos, kneeling behind her, was holding her close and trying to warm her by rubbing her with his own large hands, but he wasn’t in a much better state himself. He was shivering all over too, and he didn’t know what to say to cheer her up.

  They had approached the mountain refuge as night was falling, exhausted, and the smoke coming from the chimney told them that the hunters were already there. They had hidden behind rocks, then it began snowing. The cold, their discouragement . . . what could they do? Move away from the refuge and lose themselves in the night? That would mean certain death. Knock on the door and ask for shelter?

  “Don’t expect them to feel sorry for us,” said Milos. “No chance. They’re barbarians, and don’t forget it.”

  They had seen Mills appear in the doorway three times to breathe in the night air, and then go back to the fire that was keeping them all warm in there, men and dogs both.

  “It’s the other one I need,” Milos said at last. “The other man, the dog-handler. He has to come out eventually.”

  “Suppose he does? What will you do to him?”

  “I’m not too sure. But it’s our last chance. I’m going to leave you alone for a few minutes. If I can’t manage anything, I’ll come back to you and then — well, too bad, we’ll knock at the door. OK?”

  “OK,” said Helen. “But be careful. Promise!”

  “I promise,” he said. He hugged her, dropped a kiss on her hair, and went toward the refuge, skirting it and going around behind the building.

  Helen wondered what Milos was planning. In spite of the cold and her fear, she couldn’t help smiling when she saw him reappear on the roof three minutes later. Milos must have been a cat in a former life.

  Pastor got up to throw a log on the fire and watched it burn, brooding, sometimes stirring the flames with the poker. All around him the room looked like a battlefield after a defeat. The sleeping dog-men lay about on the floor like corpses. He noticed, with amusement, that Ramses had moved close to Mills and laid his muzzle against his master’s hip. Pastor crossed the room, taking care not to tread on the bodies lying there, stepped over Amenophis, put on his sheepskin jacket, and opened the door. The cold hit him full on. Snow was still falling, though perhaps not quite as hard as at the beginning of the night. Good thing we brought snowshoes, he told himself, looking at the thick layer that had settled.

  “Where you going?” grunted Mills, who was only half asleep.

  “For a piss,” said the dog-handler.

  “OK, but close the door after you. It’s freezing.”

  Pastor shut the door and took a step out into the snow. Then he walked a little way along the wall to his right and stopped to urinate. He took his time. When he had finished, he did up his fly and yawned. A snowflake landed in his mouth, and then another. They melted at once on his warm tongue. It was a pleasant, delicate, tickling sensation. He kept his mouth open on purpose to go on with this little game. Like a kid! he thought, laughing. I’m playing like a kid! Hey, if Mills could see me! That was the last thought he had before the shock hit him.

  Crouching on the edge of the roof ready to jump, Milos knew that he couldn’t do it. To drive the blade of his knife into the back of the man standing motionless six feet away was beyond him. So what could he do? He still held the opened knife in his right hand, just in case. Then he concentrated on the two things that his life and Helen’s depended on: knocking Pastor out at the first blow and next, at all costs, preventing him from alerting his dogs. They were sleeping only a few yards away, and their keen ears would pick up the slightest hint of a groan. He was lucky that Pastor had positioned himself just below him. In spite of the darkness, he easily recognized the man’s thick sheepskin jacket. Now he must make up his mind to jump.

  Never, not even before his toughest fights, had Milos felt a quarter of the tension flooding through him now. He realized that all he had ever experienced so far on the wrestling mat was just a game. Yet he had entered into it entirely, body and soul; he had trained hard. He’d never given up the sport in spite of suffering hard blows, sprains, and broken bones. Over the last year he had defeated all the other boys he faced, even fifth-year and sixth-year opponents who were older and heavier than he was. But this time it wasn’t a matter of winning or losing. It was a matter of life or death.

  How would his stiff muscles respond when he told them to jump? Would they let him down, for the first time ever? This man Pastor seemed rather thickset — he was massive. Milos guessed he must be about t
wo hundred twenty pounds. Quite a weight difference when he, Milos, fought in the under – one hundred forty-five pounds category! And his opponent was still warm from the fire, and had probably had something to eat.

  Frozen and feeling sick inside, Milos still hesitated. Now! Now! he urged himself. In a moment that fat lump is going to turn. He’ll see you, and he’ll shout, and then it’ll all be over. Jump, Milos, jump!

  The snow giving way under his feet made his mind up for him. He began sliding and couldn’t stop by holding on to anything. He had no choice now. He gathered all his energy together and launched himself into the void.

  His knees hit Pastor’s backbone with violent force. Pastor collapsed in the snow headfirst, and Milos flung himself furiously on the man. He got his right arm around Pastor’s neck under the chin and locked the hold with his left arm. The armlock was banned in wrestling. No strangling. All his trainers had said the same to him ever since the day when, still a little boy, he had first put on a wrestler’s uniform. No strangling.

  The rest of his body had instinctively gone into the on-top position, which prevents the other wrestler from disengaging. Legs, hips, pelvis — he had brought them all into action without stopping for a moment to think about it. The hundreds of hours he’d sweated out on the training mat came from concentrating on a single swift, sure, precise move. Up to this point, he was sure, Pastor had made no sound at all. And it must stay that way. It must stay that way at any price. And those words really meant something. Milos braced himself, consolidated his grip, and then tightened his hold.

  Bombardone Mills, about to drop off to sleep, felt as if he had heard a muted thump somewhere outside. Had poor old Pastor thrown a snowball? Or had he slipped and fallen flat on his face? He was tempted to get up and go out to take a look, but the feel of Ramses nestling against his stomach overcame any idea of moving. He patted the dog-man’s long head with the back of his hand. Without opening his eyes, Ramses growled faintly, as if in thanks. Mills closed his own eyes. He had to get some sleep. Tomorrow would be a tough day.

  Helen had seen Milos launch himself off the roof and land on the man. She immediately forgot the cold and her exhaustion and fear. There was nothing over there but the shape of the two motionless bodies. The snow was already beginning to cover them. What was Milos doing? Surely he wasn’t going to —? Through the window of the refuge she could see dancing shadows thrown by the flames on the hearth. A cruel man and six dogs were sleeping there only a few yards away, ready to tear Milos to shreds if they found him. Perhaps they weren’t even asleep. And he had gone to face them alone, armed only with his big hands and his courage. “I never get caught!” he kept saying cheerfully. But suppose they did catch him all the same. Suppose they did catch him.

  How long does it take to strangle a man? Every time Milos relaxed his armlock, even very slightly, his opponent shook faintly but convulsively and groaned. The sound might rouse his companions. Milos braced himself again to keep the man silent and immobile. The muscles of his right arm were beginning to seize up under the strain of his intense effort.

  Suddenly he saw Pastor’s large hand begin to move, slowly creeping closer to something shining in the snow. My knife! he thought. The knife I dropped. The knife I opened myself! He’s going to grab it! His first impulse was to free one of his arms to block Pastor’s hand, but then he thought better of it. Relaxing the stranglehold for a single second would allow his opponent to call out, and that meant certain death. Unable to do anything to prevent it, he saw the hand groping, reaching, finally grasping the handle of the knife, and picking it up. For a few seconds Milos was vaguely aware of the effort Pastor was making to move his arm underneath his body, and then he felt a burning pain in his right thigh. He managed not to cry out, and with a defensive reflex action he tightened his stranglehold even more.

  The knife stabbed again in the same place, and he couldn’t suppress a groan. He managed to move his leg slightly to immobilize Pastor’s arm and prevent him from stabbing a third time. Unable to draw the knife back to strike again, Pastor dug around with the blade in the wound he had already made. The pain was excruciating. Milos knew he couldn’t endure it much longer. He had to finish this. Very slightly, he shifted his position. His head was now jammed against the dog-handler’s; the man’s dirty hair stank of sweat. Their two bodies, welded together, were a single entity.

  Milos tried to think of nothing but Helen, who would die if he failed, and of Bart whom the dog-men would tear to pieces without a moment’s hesitation. He imagined them sinking their pitiless fangs into Milena’s flesh. These are barbarians, he told himself again. The man pressing so close to me that I can feel the warmth of his body is a barbarian.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, without knowing whether the other man could hear him. “I’m sorry.” And with the aid of his shoulder he began twisting Pastor’s neck. He put all his strength into it until he heard the cracking sound he was waiting for. His opponent’s body gradually seemed to relax. Milos maintained his hold for another ten seconds and then slowly let go. Pastor’s body subsided, inert as an enormous doll. Milos lay there beside it for a moment, almost fainting with pain and exhaustion. No strangling. His eyes blurred with tears. Shame and disgust nearly made him throw up. Strangleholds are banned. Then why hadn’t the referee stopped him? And what were the spectators doing? He’d won, hadn’t he? They might give him a little applause!

  He used his forearms to haul himself up to a kneeling position. The silent snowflakes were falling lightly and gracefully all around. He was on a wrestling mat, yes, but it was a mat made of snow. There were no seats for the audience, just a few black spruce trees, hardly visible in the night. There wasn’t even a towel for him to wipe away his sweat.

  And his opponent was dead.

  He picked up the knife, rose to his feet, and put a hand to his leg. His jeans were drenched with blood. He’d see to that later. Taking the doghandler’s body by the collar of his jacket, he dragged it, with difficulty, toward the rock where Helen was waiting.

  Bombardone Mills woke with a sudden start. A branch, probably full of resinous sap, had just exploded on the hearth with a sound like a firework going off. He turned over and saw that his colleague wasn’t back yet. Some of the dog-men opened an eye. Ramses yawned.

  It wasn’t like Pastor to go for a stroll in the middle of the night, with snow falling. It wasn’t like anyone, come to that. Mills gently moved Ramses’ head and got to his feet. As he went out, he bumped into Teti’s left leg. The dog-man showed his teeth.

  “That’s enough,” growled Mills. “Don’t overdo it.”

  Snowflakes whirled in the beam of his flashlight, but too densely for him to be able to see more than thirty feet ahead. The police chief followed Pastor’s half-covered tracks to the right and found a place where the snow was packed down strangely flat.

  “Pastor! Hey, Pastor!” he shouted.

  No reply. Looking more closely, he saw a trail beginning here, leading toward the rocks. More than that, he saw drops of blood tracing a scarlet dotted line in the white snow. He didn’t like this at all. He was about to follow the trail when he realized that his boots were nowhere near tall enough to cope with this snow. He hurried back into the refuge to put his snowshoes on, but his glance fell on the travel bag with Bartolomeo’s boots in it. They’d come higher up his legs.

  Leaning back against the room partition, he put on the first boot and then the second. They were a little large for him, but supple and comfortable. As he straightened up, he was surprised to see Cheops standing in front of him. The dog-man had risen without a sound and was glaring at him.

  “What do you want?” asked Mills uneasily. “Are you thirsty?”

  Cheops let his eyes wander slowly down to the police chief’s feet. His muzzle was quivering, and a vicious light gleamed in his eyes.

  “Oh, I see!” Mills laughed. “It’s the boots. So you think they’re —”

  Teti too came over and sniffed the air near t
he boots. A low growl rose from the depths of his throat. It made Mills shudder.

  “They’re not my boots, you morons!” he said, and swore at them. “It’s not me you’re looking for. We’ve been on the march together for three days — don’t you recognize me? Are you thick or what?”

  He walked around the two dogs, making for the door. But now Amenophis, lips curling back to show the white ivory of his teeth, barred the way.

  “Let me by, idiot! Your master’s out there. He’s in danger.”

  The dog-man took a step forward, and Mills had to retreat. He stumbled against the mattress and fell over backward.

  “I’m taking them off, look! Here, watch, I’m taking them off!”

  His heart was thudding. He sent the boots flying through the air to the far end of the room, but the three dog-men took no notice. A very simple line of reasoning was forming in their poor, deranged brains: they’d been given a scent to follow, and the man lying on the mattress in front of them carried that scent. They didn’t need to know any more.

  “Pastor!” bellowed Mills at the top of his voice. “Pastor, for God’s sake!”

  Then he looked for Ramses, who had taken refuge in a corner of the room and looked utterly dazed.

  “Ramses, here! Defend me!”

  The three dog-men were suddenly transformed. Their eyes were bloodshot; their fangs were bared. In a few seconds they became hatred personified. Chephren and Mykerinos, who had been given Milena’s scarf to sniff, let the heat of the moment carry them along and joined the others.