Chapter 5: Whiteout!

"She was looking out at the bay the last time I saw her," Ruth said as she refilled Myles' cup. "She asked if I needed any help, and I told her I was working on lunch just then, so she could just relax for awhile. I suspect she went back up to your room to rest a spell."

"That's probably where she is then," Myles replied. But he couldn't shake a twinge of worry starting in his gut. What was she doing downstairs, anyway? She was supposed to be watching Jones. He drained his coffee and stood up. "Ruth, thank you very much for the coffee. I think I'll go see if I can rouse her, so she's awake for lunch." He nodded to Cal and headed upstairs.

The room was quiet and immaculately neat; even the pillow she'd tossed at him earlier was back on the bed. "Tara?" he called, not too loudly in case other ears were nearby. He tapped on the bathroom door, but there was no answer.

Very carefully, he opened the door just slightly and called her name again, thinking perhaps she'd opted for a soak in the tub and had fallen asleep. Not like her to do that in the middle of a surveillance, unless Jones took off somewhere. But in this weather?

But there was no one in the bathroom, either. The knot in his gut was tightening. Where is she?

Just then, he heard a cell phone ring. Looking around, he spotted Tara's phone on the window seat. He noticed Jack's ID on the screen and answered the call. "Jack?"

"Myles. Is Tara back yet? Did she find anything?"

"Back from where, Jack? I just got finished helping Cal get a load of wood in. The last I knew, she was watching Jones and calling you. That was over an hour ago."

Jack paused slightly. "She did call me earlier. While we were talking, she said Jones was crossing the property line toward a small shed about 150 yards from the inn. It seemed suspicious, so I suggested she check it out."

A flutter of panic settled in his chest as Myles looked out at the storm blowing. "She did tell you we're in the middle of a blizzard, didn't she?"

"She said there was a storm due to come in this afternoon. When she said that, I suggested she wait until you got back."

Myles ran a hand over his face and hair; sometimes, Jack, you really haven't got a clue. The fear in his heart was rising further, the frustration overshadowing any thoughts of the propriety of yelling at his unit leader.

"Jack, you should know better by now than to imply she can't handle something and to leave it to the guys. She went out there, in this snow, and the storm closed in faster than we expected. You remember your Midwest blizzards? Well, up the humidity about tenfold. The cold goes right through you like a knife. And the snow's piling up at the rate of about three inches an hour – heavy, wet snow." His voice rose in pitch as an image of what she was facing shot through his mind. "She's got a fleece jacket and ankle-high boots, Jack; it's not enough for weather like this. She'll end up soaked, in this wind; the chill's headed for about –15 degrees or worse!"

There was silence on the other end of the line for a long moment. "I didn't know, Myles. I'm sorry."

Myles sighed. "I know you didn't know. And she should have known better. I'll yell at her when I get her back in here. I'll call you."

He hung up, still staring out at the storm. Over an hour. Tara, what am I going to do with you? He headed back downstairs, wondering how on earth he was going to explain this to Ruth and Cal if by some accident he ran into them.

He didn't allow himself to think of what the worst case could be.

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Never in her life had she been so cold.

She was grateful for the steady strength of the fence rail in her hand; it was the only steady thing in her life right now. The snow was long past the tops of her boots, and was heavy enough that she couldn't just push through it. Her jeans and her coat were soaked, and with every step snow fell off her hat and down her neck. The wind seemed to drive the water right through to her skin; she could feel her back muscles seizing up from the intense chill. It made walking even harder.

To make matters worse, the wind was also doing its level best to tear her from the safety of the rail; she knew that if she let go, it could shortly be impossible to get her bearings, since she could barely see three feet in front of her.

Each step was becoming harder; she could feel the icy wind freezing the water in her jeans, could feel the ache in the bottom of her lungs. She fervently wished she'd bothered to count the fence posts on her way to the shed; then at least she'd have an idea of how much further she had to go. Lifting each foot felt like the high setting on the weight machine.

Stupid. Always have to prove you can do what the guys can. Myles would've just told Jack it was too dangerous. But no, Williams, you have to go play Wonder Woman on three hours' sleep and a handful of popovers. You're gonna get yelled at.

The thought of Myles tearing into her in exasperation warmed her a little; but then the frightening thought that she might not even make it back to the inn to get yelled at settled in her heart. Suddenly, this was about much more than a little cold; she knew she could be in serious trouble.

Don't think about it. Just keep moving.

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He'd hung the "do not disturb" sign on their door and slipped downstairs, continuing down to the cellar to retrieve the heavy parka he'd worn earlier. The storm outside was still gaining strength, and he knew Tara's fleece jacket would be of little use to her in wind and wet like this. He didn't have much time.

As he edged around the corner of the inn, the wind caught him full in the face and just about knocked him over. They'd been a bit sheltered where they were loading firewood; now he caught the full force of it.

Of all the stubborn, bullheaded… But he couldn't keep the rant going; the truth was, he was scared witless for his colleague, his friend, and the possibilities of the condition he could find her in were like cross-fire in his head.

Myles stood at the end of the fence by the inn; he knew Tara would have enough sense to follow the fence, but where along it was she? 150 yards, 6 feet between posts…75 fence posts. He pulled his scarf up over his face, placed a hand on the rail and, bending his head against the wind, started counting.

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She went down, hard; it wasn't the first time it had happened, but it was the hardest to get up from. It was getting difficult to even think straight; she focused solely on her grip on the rail, and putting one foot in front of the other.

Suddenly, a fierce gust of wind caught her off-guard, and for a single moment her grip was torn away. Fighting panic, she leaned back into the wind with all the energy she had left, until her nearly-numb fingers touched the rough beam again.

Tara wrapped both arms around the rail this time; it was the only lifeline she had left. Got to keep…moving. Even her thoughts were starting to feel like they were freezing. one…step…one…more…

The ground beneath her was freezing as well, and slick spots had become her plague. She felt her feet go out from under her again, but barely felt the impact that jarred her. The rough edge of a fence post sent slivers of pain into her cheek, though she had no idea how she could have felt it.

The edges of a warm euphoria were starting to wrap their tendrils around her, and she couldn't gather the energy to get to her feet again. Burying her face against the rough wood to shelter it from the wind as much as possible, she clung to the post, not wishing to inflict such cold on anyone else, but praying someone would find her before she gave in to it completely.

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25… 26… Myles' worry grew with every post he counted. Thirty-five would mean she hadn't even gotten halfway, and that could be fatal for her. The human body's core temperature could only take so much before it just shut down; hypothermia was a dangerous condition, and the core temperature would continue to drop even after he managed to get her inside. Speed was of the essence.

28… A memory plagued him; when he was 15, the Scout troop he belonged to had done a winter hike/campout during his break from prep school. It was his grandfather who had pushed Scouts; his parents could have cared less, though once he joined they made sure he knew they expected great things from him. But even getting his Eagle a year early hadn't seemed to be enough.

The hike had started out well enough; they were having a marvelous time. Then one of his troop-mates, a good friend, had started acting strangely. He couldn't seem to walk straight, and was becoming increasingly disoriented. To top it off, he was shivering violently, and didn't seem to be able to stop. Myles had dropped back to check on him, and had been shocked to realize that Aaron wasn't wearing boots; he was hiking through the snow in his tennis shoes.

Further inspection revealed Aaron hadn't dressed as warmly as they'd been instructed to. Myles had quickly gotten the attention of one of the leaders, who had recognized the symptoms of hypothermia almost immediately. They were high in the mountains, and there was no way to get medical help.

They'd had to make do on their own; the troop stopped right where they were and got a fire going; it hadn't snowed in several days, so there was semi-dry wood available. Mr. Boone had unrolled a couple of sleeping bags, and the boys had taken turns holding Aaron, trying to get his core temperature back up. They'd melted snow and mixed it with just a little sugar, then tried to get Aaron to drink it.

But it hadn't been enough; by the time someone from the ranger station at the bottom of the mountain got to them with a helicopter, Aaron was dead. The whole troop had been devastated.

And there hadn't even been a storm that day; just cold… Myles shook off the memory fiercely, and sped up. 30… 31…

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