CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I rose to my feet, dusting snow off my pj's. My mind waded through a black fog of shock, but on some deeper level, I mechanically processed my next crucial moves. I needed to keep dry. I needed to find shelter.
I eyed the edge of the dark forest, where the towering wall of trees swayed in the wind. The woods seemed alive, haunted; they seemed to be stirring uneasily.
My palms were scraped and bleeding from my fall. I stared at them blankly, thinking they couldn't be my hands. This couldn't be happening to me. I couldn't be out in the cold again, facing death. Calvin would not hurt me this way. I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them, trying to flush out the fog and return to reality-because this couldn't be my reality.
I gazed up at Idlewilde. Seen it from the outside, it had transformed. Instantly, it had become as sprawling and foreboding as the mountains around it, as cold and impenetrable as a castle carved from ice. I pounded my fists on the windows, gazing hungrily at the warmth inside while the wind whipped through my pj's and the cold boards of the porch sucked heat through my soles.
I could not see Calvin. My eyes traveled to the door at the top of the stairs. The door had been open when Calvin threw me out, but it was closed now. All at once, reality did return. Behind that door, Calvin was giving Jude his options: Reveal where the map is hidden. Or let Britt freeze to death.
I'm going to freeze to death, I thought. Jude won't tell Calvin where the map is. He wants Cal to go down for his sister's murder. He's willing to give up his life, and mine, for it.
The gravity of this thought startled me out of my paralysis. Jude would not come to my rescue. I was alone. My survival depended solely on me.
I didn't know how long I had. An hour at most. My internal temperature would continue to drop, and I knew too well what would happen next. I'd lose the use of my hands and feet. If I walked, my steps would be slow and uncoordinated. Then the hallucinations would start. With no accurate picture of my surroundings, I would begin to see things that weren't real. I would dream of a roaring fire, and sit contently by it to warm myself, when in reality I would be lying in the snow, slipping deeper into a sleep that I would never wake from.
Clenching my teeth against the icy burn of the snow melting through my socks, I ran across the front yard. I rounded the cabin, the wind immediately blasting me. My eyes watered and my brain screamed in shock. Ducking my head, I struggled forward toward the ditch.
The ditch. It was as much a part of Idlewilde as the cabin. Korbie and Calvin had introduced me to it on my first visit, years ago. Mr. Versteeg had installed a footbridge over the deep ditch that ran along the back edge of the property, creating a shady nook beneath the trestle that Calvin had christened, unimaginatively, "the ditch."Dragging a large square of carpet into the basin of the ditch, Korbie had given the ditch a touch of warmth, and Calvin had nailed flanks of wood to make a ladder to hoist us safely in and out. The last time I'd come to Idlewilde with the Versteegs, Korbie and I had discovered Calvin's cache of cigarettes and adult magazines hidden under a flap of the carpet. In exchange for our silence, Korbie and I had blackmailed Calvin for fifty dollars apiece. What I'd give to go back and rat him out.
As I climbed down into the ditch, my heart sank to find it offered almost no relief. The carpet fibers were stiff with frost, and the wind could not be fooled; it surged after me, tormenting me with wintry gusts.
It hurt to draw breath, every inhalation washing me in a deeper wave of cold. I felt completely alone. I could not call my dad for help. I couldn't drag Ian to my aid. As for Jude, he was tied to a bed and suffering through torture by Calvin. I had to build a fire, but the enormity of the task overwhelmed me. If I failed, there was no one to save me. I was utterly and truly alone.
Leaning back against the ditch, I began to cry.
While I cried, a strange memory unfolded: I was very young, and dashed outside barefoot one wintry day to play tag with Ian and his friends. My feet felt blisteringly cold on the sidewalk, but I couldn't bring myself to leave the game even for a minute to go inside for shoes. Instead, I pushed the cold out of my mind and played on. I wished I felt that way now. Absorbed in any distracting task that took my mind off the raw, penetrating, relentless cold.
Dig for dry twigs around the trees. I heard Jude's voice slip into my thoughts.
I can't, I thought back bleakly. I can't walk on the snow; I have no shoes. I can't dig in the snow; I have no gloves.
Pine pitch. It burns like gasoline, remember? Jude's voice persisted.
And waste what little energy I have hunting for it? I returned.
I ran my trembling hands over the rigid carpet fibers, wondering how long it would be until I was like them. Frozen solid. It was while staring despondently at them that the idea pushed into my mind: Cal's cigarettes.
I peeled back the edge of the carpet. There, nestled into a matted patch of brown weeds, were a carton of cigarettes and a book of matches from Holiday Inn. Cold, but dry. There was a chance they'd light.
This small victory propelled me to act. As agonizing as it would be to run over the snow to find kindling, I had to. I threw together a hurried plan before I talked myself out of it.
I could build a platform using the firewood Mr. Versteeg kept stacked near the kitchen door. I'd seen a fallen bird's nest under one of the trees; it could be broken down to form kindling. Pine cones and tree bark too. And I would scrape pine sap from the trees with my fingernails.
Gritting my teeth against the cold, I climbed out of the ditch and staggered into the wind. It slapped me with each icy blast. Stumbling forward one soaked foot at a time, I constricted my focus, until my thoughts consisted of only one thing: I would gather what I needed for a fire, or die trying.
I stopped battling the intolerable cold. I was freezing, and I accepted it. I put my energy into clawing my brittle fingers into the snow drifted around the trees, scavenging for bark, pine cones, twigs, and dry needles. Stuffing every treasure into my pockets, I paused only to shake feeling back into my fingers. Then I went back to work, scraping, clawing, digging.
With my pockets full, I ran in broken steps to the ditch. My hands and feet worked slowly. Even my brain lagged, churning thoughts like it was a rusty gear grinding reluctantly into motion.
I knew building a platform was the first step, but picking out the proper pieces from my scavenged resources was immensely difficult. I could feel my concentration slipping away. Shivering, I used my fists to nudge the larger logs together.
I was growing tired quickly. My hands trembled with cold, and with great deliberation and frustration, I tried to prop the twigs into a tepee. After several minutes, I'd successfully braced six or seven of the twigs upright. I broke apart the bird's nest and carefully wedged the tinder between the wobbly legs of the tepee. My knuckles bumped one of the sides, and the structure collapsed. With a cry of despair, I sank forward on my knees, sucking on my fingers to thaw them.