Face of Evil

CHAPTER EIGHT

November 19, 2010

The original lodge at Mammoth Peaks was essentially a massive log cabin with several stone chimneys. It was the only authentic building in the resort. The stores, restaurants, and condos mimicked the look of the lodge, with facades of fake stone and artificially weathered timber that might not have seemed so artificial if the real thing wasn't right next door.

Matt and Rachel were staying in the lodge, surrounded by the natural, rustic warmth of that aged timber, in a room with a huge fireplace and a bed made of carved wood that was eerily similar to the one in Matt's cabin.

Rachel didn't know that, since she'd never been in Matt's bedroom, and thought his discomfort was the lingering result of the embarrassing "mix-up" in their reservations that meant they now had to share a room.

"I am so sorry about this," Matt said. “I really did reserve two rooms."

"You don't have to keep apologizing," she said. “I honestly don't mind."

Especially since she'd dishonestly canceled the reservation herself and was relieved when the desk clerk told them the hotel was entirely booked up.

"You can take the bed," Matt said. “I'll be fine on the couch."

She stepped close to him and draped her arms around his neck. “I want to sleep with you."

Rachel could feel him stiffen up, but not in the way she would have liked. His shoulders got tight and he pulled ever so slightly away from her. She responded by pressing herself against him and giving him a deep, tender kiss.

She could feel him relax, and his hands found the small of her back. He didn't move away.

"I don't know if I am ready for this," he said.

Rachel never knew a man who wasn't ready for sex, and yet here he was, going so achingly, frustratingly slow. In a way, it was sexy, like the longest foreplay ever. But she was ready for it to end.

"All I'm asking is for you to hold me close, to let me fall asleep in your arms, and to let me wake up beside you in the morning," she said. “Does that really sound so awful?"

"No, it doesn't." He kissed her softly. “It sounds very nice."

Rachel resisted the temptation to suggest that they take a little nap right now, which was smart, since it wasn't even eleven a.m. yet.

She smiled and broke away from him.

"Let's hit the slopes," she said.

They took the lift up the peak, and then Rachel led Matt away from the crowds to her favorite spot, far from the day-trippers from King City, to a secluded, double-black-diamond run that was pure virgin powder.

Chopping wood was how Matthew Cahill got in tune with himself and the world. For Rachel, it was skiing. The mountain was her church, and skiing was her form of worship.

When she was skiing, she became one with the mountain, the snow, and the earth.

Within moments of beginning their run, she shot ahead of Matt and her rhythm of skiing became fluid and instinctive. It was almost as if she'd fallen into a trance, her body perfectly tuned to the changing terrain beneath her skis. She wasn't even aware of the motions that went into what she was doing-some unconscious part of her mind was doing that. Instead, she simply reveled in the invigorating speed, the cold air whipping at her bare cheeks.

It wasn't the same for Matt, who trailed far behind her. Skiing required his complete concentration. He was good at the sport, but he was acutely aware of each decision and move, of how fast he was going and how one mistake could send him flying smack into the trees that lined their narrow path.

The run was full of sudden drops and big air, offering Rachel the giddy sensation of flying into the sharp, blue sky, before landing again on the snow and rocketing on down the glade.

For her, catching air was pure freedom and unadulterated joy, comparable to nothing else except, perhaps, the body-quaking climax she fully expected to have with Matthew Cahill when they got back to the lodge.

For Matt, the leaps were more terrifying than exhilarating, the joy more from the relief that he'd landed safely than from the thrill of momentary flight.

But Matt marveled at Rachel's grace, how she somehow seemed connected to the landscape and yet was totally free. Her happiness, her soaring spirit, was conveyed in every natural, flowing movement that she made.

Maybe if he could let go, and stop thinking about his skiing instead of just doing it, he might experience the same wondrous freedom that she was.

Let go.

God, the idea was appealing.

What would it be like to just relax, to do something without thinking, to allow himself the risk, and perhaps the exhilaration, of making a mistake, of getting hurt?

Let go.

What was the worst that could happen?

And that's when he noticed, for the first time, just how formfitting Rachel's ski suit was and how good the form was that it fit.

She was beautiful.

How could he not have noticed that before?

And he knew she genuinely cared about him, that there was depth to her feelings beyond mere attraction.

So why was he denying her the affection, the tenderness, and the intimacy that she obviously wanted?

Why was he denying himself?

They could be good together, if he could just…

Let go.

Rachel would have been gratified to know how something as simple as skiing, how just being herself, was allowing Matt to really see her, to finally appreciate all that she was offering him.

But at that moment, she was so lost in her personal reverie, her unity with the mountain, that she wasn't thinking of him at all.

Rachel didn't realize how far ahead of him she was until she heard the thunderous crack.

Matt felt it more than heard it, a deep rumble as much in the air as it was under his feet. He looked over his shoulder and saw the mountain shear apart, a massive, roiling wave of snow rushing up behind him.

Avalanche.

He looked ahead and saw Rachel looking back at him in horror.

"Go! Go!" he yelled.

She hunched down and shot forward, and so did he, trying to build up speed but knowing there was no way he could escape what was coming. He could feel the enormity of it, building in strength, chewing up snow, snapping trees, blasting cold air and ice against his back.

Rachel put everything she had into her arms, into her poles, into skiing faster than she ever had before.

There was a ravine ahead of them. If they could leap over it to the other side, they stood a chance of survival.

Matt saw what she had in mind and knew she'd make it. He glanced over his shoulder, and there it was.

The mountain.

Right in his face.

Rachel sailed over the ravine, knowing as she shot through the air that she was alive, more so in that moment that she'd ever been before.

And she knew that she would survive.

She hit the ground and turned to face what was coming, which she hoped would be the sight of Matt arcing through the air ahead of the avalanche.

But he was gone, lost in tons of cascading snow and trees and rock that spilled into the chasm with an earthshaking roar that was so loud, Rachel couldn't even hear her own scream.