Free Ice Claw by David Gilman Page B

them had been, his friend’s snoring now scared him even more. He couldn’t escape without Sayid’s help.
    The transom, hinged at its base, pivoted outwards and offered far too narrow a gap for Max to squeeze through. He extended an arm as far as he could and tossed one of his boots at Sayid.
    Bull’s-eye! It hit the side of the sheet exactly where Sayid’s head should be. A sudden gasp of breath was the response. Good! That should do the trick. No sooner had Max felt the gratifying sense of success than the gasp settled once again into a rhythmic, nasal snore.
    Sayid was out for the count.
    Max was trapped.
    Bobby Morrell sat in the van about three hundred meters from the hospital. The road was on a slight incline, so he had a good view of the hospital, both front and back. The two other snowboarders were already tucked up in sleeping bags on the mattress in the back. This was taking longer than Bobby had anticipated. He was about to jump out of the van to try and find Max and Sayid when two men came out of the shadows from the back of the building and walked to an unlitcorner of the hospital’s parking lot. They climbed into a black Audi that Bobby hadn’t even noticed was parked there. He ducked as the blue-tinged lights swept across the van when they drove off.
    Dude. Those are mean-looking guys. They don’t eat Sugar Puffs for breakfast .
    Maybe it was better to wait in the van after all. Just in case they had friends.
    There was no way Max could ram open the door with the trolley and there was no other door out of the freezer room. If he could get his weight onto the transom and force it down, smash it from its hinges, he could probably crawl through. But even if he succeeded, shards of glass might rip his legs when he wriggled through, and if he cut the femoral artery in his groin, he would be dead within minutes—even though he was in a hospital. Medical help just wouldn’t reach him in time.
    Sayid’s unabated snoring irritated Max like a persistent, troublesome wasp as he fingered the window, hoping to find a weakness, maybe a loose hinge that could be wrenched away. It was solid. Layers of gloss paint over the years had sealed the hinges into the woodwork. Only the hinges’ barrels remained oiled, allowing the window to be opened and closed. Then Max noticed the small corkscrew-like ratchet threaded with cord, used for opening and closing the transom.
    He tugged gently, but it was obvious the window was at its maximum opening. If he could cut the cord and make a small loop he could lean out of the window and snag the bolt head.
    Max wrapped the cord through his hands and tried to snap it, but it was too tough. He saw, though, that where the cord had gone through the ratchet it had frayed with constant use. He eased the cord down until he could get a firm grip with both hands—and yanked. The cord snapped. With the single length he formed a quick slipknot so that when he snagged the bolt it would tighten. He tried to reach out through the transom, but because he’d narrowed the gap he couldn’t get his shoulders and arm out at the same time.
    He peered down. The head of the bolt was about a meter below. Dangling the cord through the gap, he worked blindly, fishing with his mind’s eye, trying to get the loop to catch hold. After half a dozen attempts he felt it snag. Keeping the cord in his fingers, he pulled his arm out of the gap, peered down again and saw the noose was tight around the bolt. Easing his arm back through the gap again and pressing his face against the edge of the transom, he yanked sideways as hard as he could. It didn’t budge. The bolt was pressing firmly against the door and its frame. It would take an earthquake to rattle that thing free. OK. Earthquake time.
    Still balanced precariously on top of the trolley, he pulled his socks onto his freezing feet and laced up the remaining boot. Knowing the bolt was just below the door handle, he steadied himself with one hand, gripped the