Contingency Plan Read Online Free PDF Page A

forearmed, my grandpa once said.
    The weather was my friend. It had been unusually warm for March. Temperatures had nudged above freezing. Snowmelt from the mountains swelled the streams. The lakes were on the verge of channeling at the edges before break up. But the ice was still almost a meter thick in places. Sometimes daredevils snowmobiled until the end of April. Not this year. Everyone jokes about snowmobile soup, but it’s a sad fact of northern life. Usually alcohol is a factor. And speed.
    I’ll say one thing for Joe. He had taught me to plan.
    We had our flotation suits. And I’d added a pair of emergency ice picks, to be worn on a leather thong around the neck. Without them, you couldn’t climb back on the ice. It would keep breaking until you lost consciousness from hypothermia. Five dollars saved your life. Ounces of prevention. Those who called them “sissy” were fools. When seconds counted, precision was important. I thought about Jack London’s story “To Build a Fire.” Stranded in the bush, a man used his last match to light a life-saving blaze.
    He didn’t count on the snow falling from a branch far above.
    Flame out. Game over.
    This was not going to happen to me.
    Sounds funny, but a fast sled can travel over water as long as it keeps going at top speed. That was the irony. My safe old machine went far too slow. I was counting on that. And on Joe’s triumph in catching me.
    I almost laughed when I remembered what Bonnie had said. “You chase after a man until he catches you.”
    Had she really died in her sleep? Without suspicious circumstances, there had been no autopsy. Her heart had stopped.
    Stopped? I wondered now. Or been stopped?
    No time to think about it.
    Holy Cross Lake was about 32 kilometers by 16. The last ice hut had been hauled off two days ago. Only the tracks of the sled skis remained.
    My vehicle was waiting at the head of our road. I left a few things on display. A familiar sweater, scarf, paperback mystery. For sweetening. I could imagine the feral growl he would give upon seeing them. Then he’d notice that there was no way to drive in the final 5 kilometers.
    At the dealership he would rent the best and largest. No one needed lessons on those machines. Pull off the kill switch. Push-button start. Snowmobiles had no gearshifts, regardless of their size and speed. Brake handle on one side, a strong thumb on the other.
    But he was no bushman. Overconfidence and unfamiliarity with the rules would be his weaknesses. So I hoped.
    I undid my faithful Ski-Doo from the tree I’d chained it to and chugged my way to the cabin. Hill after hill. Untouched fresh snow showed that he hadn’t come yet. Some innocent person at the post office or library would have helped this smiling man. They’d tell him where I lived. A woman alone and a young girl. Arrived not long ago. How many of us could there be? Would he be carrying a wrapped present, a “surprise” for my birthday? He was good at surprises. But so was I.
    I parked the sled behind of the house, checked the oil and gassed up. Then I went inside and grabbed something to eat. A can of tuna, a chocolate bar. My stomach was knotted and protesting, but I shoveled in the fuel anyway and gulped hot tea.
    I checked my watch. Six and dark already. When the clouds scudded aside, the full moon illuminated the paper birches. The lofty spruce and pine stood sentinel.
    I knew exactly where to take him. The weak spot on the lake where the creek comes in. It had been gurgling since the beginning of the melt. Fresh snow dustings made it look pristine. All I had to do was get him to follow me. Instead of fleeing, I was leading him to his death.
    I waited a long time. Jane would be in bed at her friend’s by now. They’d planned to watch scary movies after dinner. The trust Jane had placed in me kept me from screaming my rage to the heavens. I blamed myself for sending us into the clutches of this calculating monster. What good was guilt now?