Chapter 38 Into the Storm
Into the Storm
In addition to fight or flight, Sam’s therapist had once told her, there was a third option: freeze.
Which was what she seemed to be doing now. She was backed up against William’s desk, hyperventilating, listening to William
come down the basement steps saying “I’ve exercised heroic restraint, Simone, but since you obviously can’t stop yourself
from defying me, I’ll have to do it for you,” staring through the dark at the study door, waiting for it to swing further
inward—
!!!!GO!!!!
Sam didn’t know whether the voice was hers or all the dead writers, but she ripped her hands off the desk with such force
she was surprised there was no Velcro sound. She dove for the door—not the one to the basement but the one to the bulkhead.
The door to outside.
She yanked it open. She’d done a polar bear plunge one New Year’s Day when she was with Hank. He sat on the lake shore in
his parka, cheering, You got this, Ms. Vetiver! Report back! Sam was unable to report back. The shock of the cold had rendered her unable to breathe.
This was going to be like that. Except there was no Hank waiting with a towel and a thermos of coffee. This was going to hurt.
But whatever William had planned for her would hurt more. Sam had no doubt of that.
Even on the covered steps leading up to the yard, the cold was an assault.
Sam cinched her sweatshirt hood tight and pulled the sleeves down over her hands.
Thank God she’d slept in all her clothes, even if she had no hat or gloves.
William’s big boots were next to the door, and Sam thrust her feet into them, gasping.
They were full of snow and eight sizes too large, like clown shoes.
Sam flopped up the stairs as fast as she could.
The instant she reached the top, the wind scoured her face. It was like being sandblasted. The snow was not flakes at all
but millions of grains of ice. Sam’s exposed skin burned, then went numb. She instinctively screwed her eyes shut, then opened
them and cried out in pain. The snow scraped her lids, her cheeks. The gale sounded like walking into the world’s biggest
blender, with gusts that punched her and made her stagger. She extended her arms and shuffled forward blindly, not sure where
she was going. The physical onslaught made it hard to think.
But it was preferable to dying in the house. Sam was a baby about pain. She had to take Valium just for a tooth cleaning.
William had so many weapons in there: knives, fireplace poker, awls, mallets, his axe. That axe! There was nothing more terrifying than a sharp blade, no negotiating with it. Freezing to death, in contrast, was supposed
to be pleasant. Like going to sleep. The body just shut down—
Okay, Sam. Nobody’s going to die here. Okay? Just find shelter. Hide. Sam turtled her chin and kept staggering forward, palms out, like Frankenstein. She couldn’t go to her car, even if she
had any idea where it was. It was the first place William would look for her, and he was probably much better prepared than
Sam was for these conditions. Equipment. Ski goggles. For all she knew he had an infrared scope. Orion the mighty hunter.
All the better to track you with, my dear. Sam could see or hear nothing behind her in the roar and scream of wind. But if he found her, she’d fight. She’d make it
hard for him. And then she’d hope he’d make it quick.
But first she’d try to save herself. And that meant heading for cover.
The woods! Could she walk across the lake?
Where even was the lake? Sam cracked her eyes a slit and saw nothing but white.
She literally could be upside-down and she wouldn’t know.
There was no darker stripe where the forest might be.
Still, she kept moving, not lifting her feet but shoving them along in William’s boots as if she were on her cross-country skis.
As William had taught her to do. If she got to the trees, she might have a chance.
She might be able to see a little better.
Could bundle some boughs. Crawl beneath them.
Try to stay warm. Try to wait it out. Unless, of course, she wandered in the wrong direction, farther out onto the ice, and died of exposure.
At least she’d probably freeze, not drown or be cut—
Her right foot slammed into something and she lurched forward. Yelped in surprise.
She slid her left foot. Thud. Something solid. She flailed her hands. Felt the object press against her knees, her thighs and belly. A structure—she’d
walked into something waist-high. The tailgate of her Jeep? The hot tub?
Jesus, that meant she’d gone only a few feet from the house. The hot tub was next to the deck. Near the basement door. Sam
had been walking in circles the whole time. What if William was right behind her, lifting the axe—
He’ll probably chop you up in little pieces and make you into soup in his hot tub.
The hot tub!
Sam began to huff. Pulling the Arctic air into her warm, tender lungs. Which seared with ice, making her cough. It hurt. But
the oxygen gave her the strength to do what she needed to do, which was sweep her arms like horizontal windshield wipers,
pushing enough snow off the hot tub lid to expose the icy canvas. Then try to lift it. The lid was hinged so half of it could
be opened at one time, and it was almost too heavy for Sam under normal circumstances. She hooked what she thought were her
fingers beneath what she hoped was the lid and pulled up. Nothing happened. She tried again, grunting, straining, streaming
tears of effort that hardened instantly on her cheeks. Don’t fucking cry. You’ll freeze your eyelids shut.
She felt the lid give. Lift a few inches.
Sam pushed and pushed and got her shoulder under it and pushed more.
The water was not superheated, of course.
William set it to a hundred degrees before they got in and turned it off when they got out.
But they had been in it last night, and the water would still be temperate, maybe even tepid, certainly warmer than what surrounded Sam now.
If she could last only a little longer, maybe the snow would let up, maybe William would mistakenly chase her into the woods, maybe she could get back into the house, maybe she could take her car or his and batter through the drifts on the causeway somehow, maybe maybe maybe .
. . Maybe was better than nothing. Maybe was a shot.
Sam hoisted her legs over the side of the hot tub and plunged in.