Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [118]
Dieter was facing away from me, John toward me. Seeing me struggling, he yelled, “Hurry up, can’t you?”
I always knew that mouth of his would get us in trouble. Dieter risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Apparently he didn’t like what he saw. His next move caught John off guard; he turned and pelted back toward me, leaving John beating the empty air with his remaining ski pole.
Dieter was after the gun. The snow was wet and heavy; the hole where it had sunk out of sight was clearly visible to him as it was to me. I had marked the spot, since I meant to head straight for it as soon as I was free. Dieter got off one shot before John tackled him. He wasn’t aiming at John; the bullet hit the ground less than a foot from my shoulder.
They went rolling and tumbling across the graveyard, Dieter trying to escape his opponent’s grasp long enough to aim and fire, John trying to prevent just that. Dieter squeezed off a few more shots; I gathered that they missed, since John continued to press him back. The echoes rolled from hill to hill, and as they faded I heard another sound, the sound of distant thunder. That was strange, I thought. The skies were clear, there wasn’t a cloud in sight….
Looking up, I saw it begin—a small puff of white, so innocent and harmless, at the barren summit of the Witches’ Hat. It wasn’t a cloud. It was a mass of snow. By the time it reached the bottom of the slope, it would be studded with boulders like raisins in a pudding, with snapped-off branches and whole trees.
The cloud expanded. It was coming straight down the ski slope, the path of least resistance, but it would not follow the curve of the slope. By the time it reached that point, it would have gained enough momentum and mass to continue straight on down—into the cemetery. Perhaps the trees would stop it or minimize its impact; perhaps they wouldn’t. All these years the surrounding forest had protected the church, but the ski run had changed that. Herr Müller had been so right—fools, tampering with God’s work for their sport….
One of the pegs came out, but I was still tethered, like a goat, by one foot. The two men were perilously close to the edge of the drop, on their feet, clinging like lovers. Dieter’s raised rigid arm strained to free itself from John’s desperate grip. I don’t know whether Dieter was even aware of the dreadful thing roaring down toward him. John was; but he couldn’t run for cover unless he let go of Dieter, whereupon Dieter would probably shoot him in the back, or else lie low until the avalanche had passed—and then shoot both of us.
It happened so fast. John’s taut body gathered itself for a final effort. Dieter’s feet went out from under him. The small of his back hit the top of the low wall, and for a split second he hung there. I heard him scream, even over the mounting roar from the slope; but it was a scream of rage, not terror, and he never let go his hold on John or on the gun, though if his hands had been free, he might have saved himself. They went over together.
I had about six seconds in which to decide what to do. That’s longer than it sounds. It didn’t take any time at all. I found myself on my feet and running like a madwoman, the broken stake flopping. On the top of the wall, I could see two pale patches that weren’t snow. Slowly a head rose up between the grasping hands. I was close enough to see every detail; in fact, I felt as if I were looking through binoculars, everything was abnormally clear and sharp. His eyes opened so wide the pupils looked like cabochon sapphires set in milky mother-of-pearl, and his lips shaped words. I couldn’t hear him but I knew what he was saying. Good advice, but I went on running, throwing myself flat when I reached the wall and reaching out with both hands. My fingers weren’t broken, they worked just fine; all ten of them clamped around John’s left wrist.
I didn’t look over my shoulder. I figured the sight would just depress me. It sounded like an express train,