“That’s right!” Stella’s imagination had been fired no less. “Brontosauruses. Absolutely. Sure was kind of Mr. Reynolds to fix our tour. And to ask us to supper.”
“Don’t mention it.” Corinne tried out the deprecating smile she had been cultivating. “We all like having visitors — makes a change. You’ll enjoy meeting Mary Reynolds, too. Now, let’s see if the boss is ready to leave.”
She buzzed the intercom and announced that the ladies were back. Over the loudspeaker they heard him say, “Fine — I’ll be through in a minute.”
“Be right with you,” she said. “All set?” She tidied her desk, locked the drawers, put the keys in her handbag and pulled on a fetching, roly-poly combination suit of powder-blue quilted nylon, as well as a pair of blue fur-topped boots. A moment later Reynolds himself came through the connecting door, similarly muffled in navy blue and white.
“Evening, ladies,” he said pleasantly. “Had a good tour, I hope. Not too dull?”
“Not at all!” Jean had no trouble sounding enthusiastic. “It was wonderful. Fascinating.”
“Good.” He turned to Corinne. “Where are our strong-arm boys, then?”
“Waiting for us in the lobby.”
“Great. We’d better not leave them behind, or your fattoer’ll give us hell.” He winked at Stella and ushered her through the door.
Terry Brinckman, Sanmobiles security chief, and his deputy Jorgensen were hovering in the entrance hall. As the party approached the two men opened the outside door and let in a blast of the Arctic evening. Out on the tarmac one of the firm’s yellow-and-black-checkered mini-buses stood ready, with its engine running. Reynolds opened the passenger door, helped Jean and Stella into the front seat, nipped around to the driver’s side and slammed the door, cursing the knifelike wind. Corinne hopped into the back seat between the two security men.
As they cruised down toward the main gates Reynolds called up the guard on his two-way radio and identified the vehicle, to save the man coming out into the cold. At the bus’s approach the high weld mesh gates began to roll open, driven by electric motors. A few snowflakes drifted fast through the blaze of the arc lamps that illuminated the perimeter fence. Reynolds gave a couple of toots on the horn to signal his thanks, and a moment later they were out in the open, with the headlight beams boring into the frozen darkness ahead.
The bus was warm and comfortable. The journey would take only twenty minutes. Yet Corinne somehow felt uneasy. Her boss had been on edge all day, and although she had maintained a sunny enough exterior, she wasn’t looking forward to the evening. It could be sticky. Maybe they could get a bit of a concert or singsong going — that would help. She leaned forward and asked Stella if she could play guitar.
“Why, sure — if no one else is listening.”
“Ah, come on! I thought we could maybe have a singsong.”
“Course she can play,” Jean said firmly. ‘Tick up any tune you care to sing.”
“That’s great.” Corinne settled back between her two solid escorts. The bus had left the inhabited outskirts of the site and was winding through the low hills that separated the tar sands from Fort McMurray. Reynolds drove smoothly, without violent acceleration or braking, for the surface of the road was dusted with the ever-traveling snow, which flashed and glittered in the headlight beams.
They had just passed a sharp corner which Brinckman said was known as Hangman’s Turn when Reynolds did jam on his brakes. He cursed as the bus slewed to the left, then corrected the skid. Ahead, the road was blocked by a black truck which had also skidded sideways-on.
“Look out!” Corinne shouted. “There’s someone on the road!”
The bus shuddered’ to a halt a few yards short of the huddled figure lying face down. The flying snow cleared for a few seconds to reveal another body, also on its belly, but moving.
“Oh, my God!” Jean cried from up front. “There’s been an accident!”
“You ladies sit tight,” Reynolds ordered sharply. ‘Terry, go see what’s happened.”
Brinckman opened his door and got out. Corinne felt the blast of air hit her from the right. Then she saw another figure running, or rather staggering, toward them from the stranded vehicle. The man had his hands up, as if to shield his eyes from the minibus’s lights. He was limping and lurching; she thought: he’s been badly hurt.
Corinne felt Brinckman yank the first-aid box out from under the back seat. Next thing she knew, he was flat on his side, his feet having gone from under him on the ice. He got up at once and advanced more cautiously, with his feet apart, apparently to the aid of the injured man.
What happened next was so fast that Corinne afterward wondered a hundred times whether or not she had remembered it right. Everything seemed to go into a blur. One moment Brinckman was advancing to meet the crippled figure. Next second the cripple seemed suddenly to shake off his injuries: he stood upright and let fly an expertly timed blow that felled Brinckman like a tree. The instant the man lowered his shielding hand, Corinne saw he was wearing a stocking mask.
Stella screamed, “Back up — quick!” Corinne also shouted something. But before any of them could move the attacker was at Reynolds’ door. In a second he had wrenched it open and thrown in something that hissed.
Instinctively Corinne threw herself down flat on the floor in the back. From the front she heard stifled screams and ghastly tearing noises as people struggled for breath. Then the gas got her too, and she found herself fighting and choking as if for her life,
In spite of her distress she became aware that the people in front were being dragged out into the snow. She crouched flat on the floor, struggling to control her stinging throat and eyes. Then she heard a man shout, “Where’s the other chick? We’ve only got two.” In the next second she felt someone seize the hood of her combination suit and drag her bodily out onto the road.
Without knowing why, she pretended to be unconscious. Somehow it seemed safer. She felt herself sliding easily along the icy surface, being dragged like a sack of potatoes. Her backside skidded smoothly over the snow. As she was pulled around the front of the minibus, into the headlights, she noticed that the supposedly injured men had vanished. The bus’s engine was still running, but the vehicle blocking the road had started up as well. Suddenly she was hoisted and dumped in the open back of the truck.
For the first time she felt afraid — not of being kidnapped, but of freezing to death. In spite of her thick suit she was shivering already, and if they were going to be driven miles in an open truck, the cold would soon kill them all…
Her fears on that score proved groundless. After a rough, bumpy drive of only a few seconds the truck crunched to a halt. The noise of its motor was suddenly swamped by a far louder, heavier roar that burst out all around and over them. Corinne opened her eyes in terror and saw that they had pulled up beside a gray-white helicopter. Even as she looked up one of the rotor blades moved past her line of sight.
She felt she should scream or run — but would it do any good? Even a second’s hesitation was too long. She felt herself grabbed by shoulders and ankles and swung aboard, again like an inert sack.
The noise was terrific. The engine-roar increased to a furious pitch, but through it she could hear a woman screaming and men yelling. She saw a bundle she recognized as Stella struggling frantically with one of the men in stocking masks, rolling across the bare steel. Another of the men slid the door in the side of the fuselage nearly shut, but he kept his head stuck out through the gap, bellowing at someone still on the ground.
The engine-note rose and fell, rose and fell, as though the pilot was having mechanical difficulty. Then it went up and stayed up — but only for a few seconds. Again it dropped. Corinne had never been in a helicopter before and did not know what to expect. She didn’t know whether the pilot was going through his normal take-off routine, or whether he had some problem. What she did notice, however, was that the man who’d been shouting to his colleague on the ground had failed to close the door properly: It still stood a few inches ajar. A desperate idea flashed into her head: At the moment of takeoff, whenever it came, she would dart to the door, drag it open, and fling herself out.
Before she’d had time to evaluate the risks, she felt the floor tilt — they were off already. Then came a heavy bump. Down again, she thought. Next time they did lift. It was then or never.