In the Bleak Midwinter

She dropped to her knees and shoved both hands underneath him, flipping him with a grunt. She tugged her gloves off with her teeth and unsnapped the big pockets on his thighs, digging frantically for keys to a car, a truck, a snowmobile. At his waist the pockets had zippers with freezing cold tangs that bit into her fingers as she yanked and wiggled and pried them open. Nothing. The zippers on his arms were the same way, sticking tight, either frozen shut or jammed. She gave up trying to open them, instead compressing and sliding the fabric between her fingertips, hoping for something small and metallic. One pocket held a pencil or pen inside that rolled under her thumb, the other was empty.

Clare squatted back on unfeeling heels, her wet pants clinging to her thighs. Whatever he drove, the keys must still be in it. She pulled her gloves back on. She would have to make her way back to the junction of the camp and mountain roads. He had to have parked somewhere within walking distance of where he first assaulted her. He had to. She breathed deeply, striving for calm.

She looked about for the gun. The flashlight was lighting up a snowbank halfway down the hill, but she didn’t see a weapon anywhere. She stood up and circled around her opponent, casting about for a hole in the snow that could hold a firearm. She bounded loosely down the hill, retrieved the flashlight, and played the light over the snow while she hiked back to the unconscious body. Nothing. She blew out a breath in frustration. She was zero for zero. No, that wasn’t true. She was awake, on her feet, and had the flashlight. That put her way on top, for the time being.

She crouched at his head and tugged at the ski mask covering everything except his closed eyes. It was a long one, the dark wool disappearing into the zippered and snapped neck of his snowmobile suit. It stretched slightly, but stayed on. She tugged harder. It obscured his eyelids as it slid, then pulled up tight against her grasp. It was either caught in the zipper or fastened inside somehow. Clare tugged again, harder, and his head tilted. He moaned.

She leaped to her feet, raising the flashlight as if to club him senseless again. Except there was no way to ensure that hitting him on the head hard enough to put him out wouldn’t also kill him. She didn’t want to kill him. She didn’t have to kill him. He breathed out, a sigh. All she had to do was make sure she got to his vehicle before he did.

She circled around him and crouched just below his feet. He wore leather and rubber hunting boots, the kind LL Bean made, tucked beneath the elastic opening of his snowmobile suit. Clare pushed the padded nylon up his calf. His boot was laced and knotted tightly to a good five inches above his ankle. She yanked her gloves off again, stuffed them into her pocket, and picked at the double-knotted bow on top. It fell apart under her fingers. She hurriedly unhooked the laces from the endless series of hooks on either side of the tongue, then undid another double-knotted bow. Cradling the heel and toe between her hands, she wrenched the boot off. She wrinkled her nose at the sour smell. He moaned. Louder than the first time.

Clare shoved the other snowmobile suit leg up out of the way and tore at the top knot of his left boot. He moaned again. His leg twitched. She unlaced as quickly as she could down the rows of hooks, her fingers clumsy with tension and cold. She heard his head shift slightly. She scrabbled at the second knot, her fingernails shredding, her heart thumping in her ears. She loosened the knot a few inches before it caught and tightened again. She dug her hands into the boot’s tread and yanked, getting her legs under her. She landed on her backside, boot in hand.

Her assailant cried out something unintelligible. Clare dropped the flashlight into one of her cargo pockets, tucked a boot under each arm, and scrambled downhill, slipping and sliding. It took her several seconds to find the false trail she had laid down. Night was no longer imminent, it had arrived, and details that had stood out in the twilight blueness were completely obscured by the darkness and the relentlessly falling snow.

She jogged off at a fast shuffle, headed for the spot beneath the ridge where she had started her ambush trail. If she had kept the relative directions straight in her mind, that ridge should lead toward the mountain road. The flashlight in her pocket banged heavily against her thigh. Useless for finding a way to the mountain road through the trees and the storm. She would use it only as a last resort, if she had to retrace her route all the way from here to the spot on the camp road where the man had tried to shoot her. Otherwise, it would only make her an easy target. She hugged the boots more tightly under her arms. Not that she thought he’d be able to catch up with her now.