I don’t have any clear recollection now of that second trip up Mount Rose, except that I made it, lurching and skidding, in what seemed an age-long time and was considerably less than I’d ever dare do it again . . . knowing now that Death rode up there with me, silent and hollow-eyed at my side, and maybe even smiling as we got out of the car together by the corral behind the chalet, gleaming white against the sapphire blue of the mountain-girdled lake.
I hurried across the grass and the red-tiled terrace. The door was open, but nobody was in the pine-panelled room where the planes of golden sunlight streaming through the windows turned to scarlet as they reached the red leather chairs and sofas. But in another room I could hear Wu Lung’s high-pitched voice.
I called “Judy! Judy!” and ra
