ICEBOUND By Dean Koontz

“But I’ve figured out how to make everything hand together in the narrative. I’ve got my theme.”

Rita winced and shook her head sadly. “So you’re too far gone to respond to reason.” She helped him get his right foot into the sealskin boot. “What is your theme?”

“Heroism.”

“Heroism?” She grimaced as she worked with the laces. “What in the name of God does heroism have to do with the Edgeway Project?”

“I think maybe it has everything to do with it.”

“You’re daft.”

“Seriously.”

“I never noticed any heroes here.”

Brian was surprised by her apparently genuine astonishment. “Have you looked in a mirror?”

“Me? A hero? Dear boy, I’m the furthest thing from it.”

“Not in my view.”

“I’m scared sick half the time.”

“Heroes can be scared and still be heroes. That’s what makes them heroes—acting in spite of fear. This is heroic work, this project.”

“It’s work, that’s all. Dangerous, yes. Foolish, perhaps. But heroic? You’re romanticizing it.”

He was silent as she finished lacing his boots. “Well, it’s not politics.”

“What isn’t?”

“What you’re doing here. You’re not in it for power, privilege, or money. You’re not out here because you want to control people.”

Rita raised her head and met his gaze. Her eyes were beautiful—and as deep as the clear Arctic sea. He knew that she understood him, in that moment, better than anyone ever had, perhaps even better than he knew himself. “The world thinks your family is full of heroes.”

“Well.”

“But you don’t.”

“I know them better.”

“They’ve made sacrifices, Brian. Your uncle was killed. Your father took a bullet of his own.”

“This will sound mean-spirited, but it wouldn’t if you knew them. Rita, neither of them expected to have to make a sacrifice like that—or any sacrifice at all. Getting shot or killed isn’t an act of bravery—any more than it is for some poor bastard who gets gunned down unexpectedly while he’s withdrawing money from an automatic teller machine. He’s a victim, not a hero.”

“Some people get into politics to make a better world.”

“Not anyone I’ve known. It’s dirty, Rita. It’s all about envy and power. But out here, everything’s so clean. The work is hard, the environment is hostile—but clean.”

She had never taken her eyes from his. He couldn’t recall anyone ever having met his gaze as unwaveringly as she did. After a thoughtful silence, she said, “So you’re not just a troubled rich boy out for the thrills, the way the media would have it.”

He broke eye contact first, taking his foot off the bench and contorting himself in the small space in order to slip his arms into the sleeves of his coat. “Is that what you though I was like?”

“No. I don’t let the media do my thinking for me.”

“Of course, maybe I’m deluding myself. Maybe that’s just what I am, everything they write in the papers.”

“There’s precious little truth in the papers,” she said. “In fact, you’ll only find it one place.”

“Where’s that?”

“You know.”

He nodded. “In myself.”

She smiled. Putting on her coat, she said, “You’ll be fine.”

“When?”

“Oh, in twenty years maybe.”

He laughed. “Good God, I hope I’m not going to be screwed up that long.”

“Maybe longer. Hey, that’s what life’s all about: little by little, day by day, with excruciating stubbornness, each of us learning how to be less screwed up.”

“You should be a psychiatrist.”

“Witch doctors are more effective.”

“I’ve sometimes thought I’ve needed one.”

“A psychiatrist? Better save your money. Dear boy, all you need it time.”

When he followed Rita out of the snowmobile, Brian was surprised by the bitter power of the storm wind. It took his breath away and almost drove him to his knees. He gripped the open cabin door until he was certain of his balance.

The wind was a reminder that his unknown assailant, the man who had struck him on the head, was not the only threat to his survival. For a few minutes he’d forgotten that they were adrift, had forgotten about the time bombs ticking towards midnight. The fear came back to him like guilt to a priest’s breast. Now that he had committed himself to writing the book, he wanted very much to live.