Something slippery brushed against his leg; he kicked it away before thinking it might be Nina.
Forcing himself to sink deeper, he searched the blackness. Thought he heard voices far away. His lungs were stretched tight, screaming in pain, but he couldn’t leave her down here. Wouldn’t. Where are you? WHERE?
He let out a bubble of air, his gaze trying to pierce the impenetrable black. He saw white fingers…a hand…he reached for it, then realized it was his own numb fingers waving in front of him. The weight of the lake was crushing him, his lungs bursting, when he felt another light brush against his leg. What was it? What the hell was it? Nina? Or…or what…he couldn’t think, unconsciousness tugging on him, his lungs about to burst.
He let out his breath and kicked hard, shooting to the surface.
Bam!
His head cracked hard against the ice.
Air escaped his lungs.
Oh, God, he was trapped!
They both were.
Air bubbles pouring from his mouth, he slid beneath the surface, feeling with his hands, trying to find a rift in the layer of frozen water. Blackness swirled around him. He gasped and water filled his lungs. Flailing wildly, he heard the groaning crack again and then the ice above him split.
Coughing and gasping, snorting, he rose, throwing up water, holding onto the sharp edge of the clear, frozen crust splintered across the lake.
He heard voices…distant voices…angels…or demons? His mind was spinning, the voices muted and far away.
And then the scream. A wild screech that ripped up his spine and bored through his brain.
He spewed up more water, and then, just as he saw pinpoints of light bobbling toward him, the blackness that had tugged at his mind gave a final, angry yank.
He was certain he was going to die and gave himself up to death willingly.
But God had let him survive. Somehow he’d been spared.
Now, standing in the swirling sleet, a glaze of rime upon the branches of the gigantic fir and the floor of his blind, he felt the same darkness, the rage, that had been with him for the ensuing years.
Why had he survived?
Why had Nina died?
He’d woken up in a hospital bed and soon realized that he’d been blamed for Nina’s death. He’d seen it in his mother’s unhappy gaze, watched the play of emotions on the officers and counselors who had talked to him.
Though not convicted of nor charged for the crime, he was forever silently accused by all who knew.
As he was by himself.
Had he not lured her out there?
Had he not wanted her for himself?
Had he not felt a thrill, just a little tingle of excitement, at the thought that because of him, because of her love for him, she’d lost her life?
Could he have saved her?
Probably not.
But when those small fingers had brushed against his ankle, and now he was convinced that it was her touch that he’d felt, why had he surfaced rather than reached down? What would two more seconds have cost him?
His life?
He knew better.