Deep Freeze (West Coast 1)

More bad news.

He slid into his Blazer and frowned as he thought again of the last time the falls had frozen solid. He’d been sixteen at the time. Sixteen and a teenaged idiot.

His jaw clenched as he backed out of the garage, his tires crunching on the fresh snow, the windshield fogging. In his mind’s eye, he was looking up at Pious Falls, the cascading water having frozen in thick, icy plumes that tumbled over a hundred feet to the frozen river below.

“Let’s do it,” his best friend, David Landis, had said eagerly. David’s face was red from the cold, his eyes bright with the challenge as he’d squinted up to the top of the cliff, the spot where the frozen creek started its free fall.

David and Shane had been friends from the first day of elementary school.

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” David had already been putting on his crampons, his ice pick was tucked into his belt—ropes, harness, and carabiners attached to his jacket. “It’ll be fun.” He’d cast an amused look over his shoulder. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid. Shane Carter, ace downhill racer, extreme rock climber, and what? Ultimate chickenshit? Pussy-to-the-max?”

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.” As if to add emphasis to his words, the wind had screamed down the gorge, rustling the dead leaves and rattling the brittle branches of the surrounding trees. Thick ice coated everything, glistening in a clear, cruel glaze.

David had been undaunted. Fearless. As ever. He’d adjusted his ski mask. “You never think it’s a good idea,” he’d taunted as his breath fogged the air. “I’m tellin’ ya, man, this is a chance of a lifetime. When does it ever get cold enough to freeze the falls? By tomorrow this place and Multnomah Falls will be crawling with climbers. Today, we climb alone.” With that, he’d tightened the strap on his helmet and slid goggles onto his face. Once again he’d looked up at the tumble of ice columns that rose to the cliffs high above, so high that they were lost in the low-lying clouds. David’s smile had stretched wider, his enthusiasm palpable. “I’m going with or without you, Carter, so make up your mind…”

Now, twenty-odd years later, Carter squinted through the windshield as the wipers slapped snow from the frozen glass. The Blazer slid and whined until he reached the highway, where the road had been plowed and sanded, but new snow was already piling over the older icy mounds.

Where was Sonja Hatchell?

He feared the worst. From the diner to the Hatchell place, the road wound up the foothills, crossing three or four bridges over swift-moving creeks. He only hoped she hadn’t hit a patch of ice, swerved off the road, and ended up trapped in her little car while icy water flooded the interior.

Don’t even think that way.

Sonja’s probably fine.

Maybe she and Les just had a fight and she decided not to go home…

Carter didn’t believe it for a second, but he didn’t want to think about the unknown. Not yet. Because it scared the hell out of him.

At 9:30 Jenna pushed open the door of the theater with her hip as she balanced two cups of steaming coffee drinks she’d picked up from the local espresso bar. She made her way to Rinda’s office and announced, “One large, sugar-free caramel latte with extra foam and sprinkles for you.” Placing one of the cups on the corner of Rinda’s desk, she added, “And a skinny double mocha grande with whipped cream for moi.”

“You’re a lifesaver.” Rinda picked up the solitary chocolate-covered espresso bean balanced on the lid of her cup and plopped it into her mouth. “I needed this. It’s freezing in here, the furnace is threatening to give out, and the copier is on the fritz. And that’s just for starters.” She touched the rim of her paper cup to Jenna’s. “Here’s to things improving.”

“Amen,” Jenna said and settled into the faded, overstuffed chair in the corner that was often used in productions.

The door to the theater banged open and a few seconds later, Wes Allen ambled into the room. Despite the near-zero temperatures, he was wearing jeans and a fleece pullover with a hood. No jacket, coat, or hat. “What is this—the theater’s new coffee klatch?” he asked, parking one hip on the side of Rinda’s desk.

“That’s the espresso klatch,” Rinda said, brightening at the sight of her brother.

“Froufrou drinks.” He snorted. “Give me the real stuff anytime. Black coffee—nothing added.”

Rinda laughed. “A real he-man’s drink.”

“If you say so.” He winked at Jenna and she forced a smile she didn’t feel. What was it about him that bothered her so much? He was Rinda’s brother, for crying out loud! But he always seemed to stand an inch or so too close, was quick to touch her shoulder, or, like now, wink at her conspiratorially, as if the two of them were in on some private joke.

Chill out, she told herself. She was still a case of nerves, that was all.

“So—what are the dire circumstances that made you insist I get out of bed at the crack this morning?”

“The furnace and copier, to begin with. Also, Scott said one bank of lights keeps shorting out—he was fussing with them last night and couldn’t fix them.”

“That’s because he’s just a kid. I, on the other hand, am a pro.” He rotated his hands skyward as if expecting applause.

“Yeah, right. I seem to recall you were trying to fix that short just the other day.”

“Point taken. Now, what about your problem?” he asked, swiveling on the corner of the desk to stare Jenna straight in the face. “Your pump?”