Winter of Secrets (24 page)
Molly Smith jumped off the chair lift. A thump beside her told her that her companion, a member of ski patrol named Gareth, was on his feet as well. A round, fat full moon hung in the western sky, bathing the snow in a milky-white glow.
The resort’s security guards were posted at the bottom of the runs, waiting for Wendy to come down. Outdoor staff had been told to look out for the woman in yellow while doing their regular sweep.
“What now?” Gareth asked.
“She isn’t a good skier. This hill is no place for her.” The official name of the major run was Black Powder, although the locals called it Hell’s Vestibule, or just The Vestibule. Even the lesser runs that left from this spot were various degrees of challenging.
Other than the wind and the almost silent movement of the chair lift, all was quiet. A gust of wind lifted a breath of snow off a tree and tossed it into her face.
Smith skied to the top of the closest run and looked down. Impossible to distinguish one set of ski tracks from all the others that had been laid down during the day. She turned toward the out-of-bounds area. The traces of a few skis broke away from the mass of tracks, showing where people had walked to the edge to look at the view. Branches creaked and snow drifted off dark green needles.
A single line of skis, the snow on either side punctuated by the round imprint of poles, skirted the out-of-bounds signs and went under the rope. The tracks wobbled, looking as if they’d been laid by someone not too skillful, and snow hadn’t begun to fill the depressions.
“Jerk,” Gareth said, and Smith started, thinking for a moment he was calling her names. “There’s always someone too clever for his own good.” He pointed at the tracks. “There’s a reason this area is posted. It’s dangerous ground out there.”
“She’s got what, about a fifteen-twenty minute lead on us? She’s not a good skier, but this section’s pretty flat. What’s it get like further in?”
“Heavily forested. It’s never been used for a run, mostly because if you take a left there’s a heck of a cliff.”
“Molly, you there?” Radio.
“I’m here. She’s gone into the backcountry behind Black Powder.”
“Not good,” Stockdale said. “That area’s under an avalanche warning. Mountie with the dog’s here.”
She let out a grateful puff of air. “That was quick.”
“Says he was nearby. He’s getting a machine and coming up. Says for you to wait there.”
“Will do.”
***
Skiing wasn’t so bad, once you got away from the crowds and the clumsy little kids and teenage show-offs. There was no groomed trail here, no tracks laid down by earlier skiers. There was a rough sort of path cutting through the trees, used by deer and elk perhaps, and it went down at a gentle angle. That wasn’t so bad either, not like the terrifying drops Jason and Ewan seemed to think she could be goaded into trying.
Wendy had fallen in a pile of soft snow almost as soon as she’d taken her first step past the boundary rope, and been afraid she wouldn’t be able to keep on her feet long enough to disappear. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing: to flounder around up to her waist in a pile of snow, like a fish flipped into a boat, and be rescued by some stuck-up, know-it-all ski patroller.
After only a few feet of careful going, she entered the woods. A solid line of trees uphill kept the snow from blowing too deep here. She no longer had to struggle in the powdered snow that everyone else seemed to love.
She had never heard such silence. Blissful silence. Not a sound but wind moving through the trees and snow settling on the branches. No one nagging her to do better in school, to work harder, to start saving some money, to ski faster. To keep up. Keep up with her mother the surgeon, her father the professor. With Jason, the prodigy. Jason the Perfect.
The cold winter moon lit up the path in front of her.
They heard the two-stroke whine of snowmobile engines coming toward them, and moments later two machines broke out of the trees. Adam Tocek was driving the first, large and bulky in the protective suit. Norman was tucked into the seat in front of him, protected by the driver’s arms, wearing an orange avalanche-dog vest. They pulled up in a spray of powder, and Tocek lifted his visor. Another member of the ski patrol was driving the second snowmobile, which pulled a first-aid toboggan.
The driver tossed a pair of boots toward Smith. “Don’t know if these’ll fit, but we figured you’d be better off without your ski boots.”
Smith caught the footwear. “Glad you could make it, Adam.”
“What you got?”
“Woman on skis. We’re pretty sure she went that way.” Smith turned and pointed her pole toward the solid line of snow-wrapped trees. “She’s involved in the Wyatt-Yarmouth and Williams deaths, you know about that?”
Tocek nodded.
Norman showed everyone his large pink tongue.
“She’s not too good on skis, and she isn’t out for a pleasure jaunt.”
“Trying to run?”
“Not thinking, most likely. I spoke to her less than an hour ago and she was drinking heavily and close to a breakdown.”
“Can you operate one of these things?”
“Been driving snow machines a lot longer than patrol cars.” She released the bindings of her skis and stepped clear before planting the skis toes first into the snow. While Gareth supported her by one arm, she changed boots. “What’s happening down below?” she asked, bending over to tie the laces.
“John Winters is on his way, and the helicopter is on standby. Norman and I were heading to the office when I heard the call.”
“Tracks are visible as far as I followed them. She fell at least once. If we’re lucky, she’ll give up and wait for us.”
“As long as that moon stays out, we can find her. Let’s go.”
Smith told the woman who’d come up with Adam to remain here and direct other searchers if needed. Then she pulled a helmet out of the snowmobile’s storage compartment, put it on, swung her leg over the snow machine, and settled into the driver’s seat. Gareth clambered on behind her. Smith dropped the visor, and reached for the controls to rev the engine. A low mumble came from the row of mountains ahead of them.
“Snowpack’s moving,” Tocek said. “Over that first ridge. Should be well beyond any ground our target can cover.” His machine edged forward.
They went slowly and lay low to duck under the ropes. Tocek gave the engine a bit more gas, and they headed into the wilderness.
The moon threw the tracks of Wendy’s skis into deep relief. Tocek tried to keep to one side of the trail, to preserve the track in case they needed to backtrack, but the trees soon closed in leaving them without much room to maneuver. Wendy’s trail started off wobbly, veering off in all directions, rounding trees, turning back on itself, but it soon settled into a more-or-less straight line.
Smith watched Norman. The long hairs at the ruff of his neck and around his ears stood up under the force of the wind, and his nose was constantly twitching as he sniffed the air.
Adam Tocek had to go slowly, keeping his eyes on the trail. He came to a near stop and gave Norman a push. The dog jumped off the machine, gave himself a shake, and fell into pace to lope beside them. The moonlight was good but the forest was full of fallen branches and snow-covered boulders and deep shadows that could conceal a fallen skier.
Norman came to a sudden stop. He lifted his big head and barked. Just once. Darkness swallowed the lights of the snow machines. Ahead, there were no more trees, no more snow. Nothing but blackness. Smith pulled up beside Adam as he dismounted and got off her own machine. Her legs were heavy and the snow was deep beneath her ill-fitting boots. She could feel Gareth moving beside her.
They joined Adam and Norman at the edge of the cliff. The ski tracks didn’t waver, they simply disappeared over the edge. Smith reached for the dog’s head and felt Adam’s glove. He turned his hand over and took hers. They stood together looking down. The side of the mountain had been cut away as smoothly as a knife slices off a piece of cake. It was at least a hundred feet, probably more, to the bottom. The remains of the ancient rock fall showed jagged black edges above the snow.
Far below, a tiny patch of yellow lay across the boulders, broken, twisted.
“Call for a helicopter,” Adam said at last. “This isn’t a rescue anymore, it’s a recovery.”
Red lights lit up the deep winter night. A stretcher was guided down the ramp and loaded into the back of the ambulance, and a man climbed in after it. It pulled into the street, sirens warning cars to get out of the way. Two police officers watched. A light snow was falling, but there was no wind and the night was calm.
“That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” Molly Smith said.
“Yup.”
“Do you get used to it?”
“Never,” John Winters said.
It hadn’t taken long for the helicopter rescue team to descend into the crack of the mountain and bring out the body of Wendy Wyatt-Yarmouth. Winters had joined Smith and Tocek at Blue Sky, before going back to town to break the news to Wendy’s parents. Smith, overwhelmed by what she saw as her failure to protect the young woman, accompanied him.
Mrs. Wyatt-Yarmouth had, at first, simply refused to believe them. She insisted that the police had made a mistake. Winters gently persisted and offered to drive the couple to the hospital, whereupon Patricia had screamed and flown at him, ready to blindly take out all her rage and grief. Winters grabbed her hands, and spoke to her softly, until she was spent. Then he’d laid her on the bed and called an ambulance to take the inconsolable woman to the hospital. The entire time her husband stood at the window, looking out at the street lamps in the alley. Smith pressed her back against the wall, and felt useless.
“My wife has made friends with Mrs. Wyatt-Yarmouth,” Winters said, fishing in his pocket for his cell phone, as the ambulance doors slammed shut. “She’ll want to help, if she can. Can I give you a lift somewhere Molly?”
“No, thanks. I need to walk for a while.”
He watched her walk down the street. At first she moved slowly, her head down, her hands stuffed into her pockets. She kicked at a lump of dirty snow. As she waited at the corner for the light to change, she straightened up, lifted her head and held her face to the falling snow. Then she punched the air with her fist, once, and dug into her pocket for her own cell phone. When the light was green, she ran across the street with a wave to a passing pedestrian.
She pulled up a stored number. “Hey,” she said, “it’s me.” He’d given her his number earlier, in case she needed to talk. She didn’t need to talk, not about Wendy Wyatt-Yarmouth and grief and sorrow. Enough sadness in the world; time to get back to living. “I haven’t celebrated the New Year yet, and I’m starving. What time do you get a break? It’s late so pretty much everything’s closed, but we can probably get a sandwich at the Bishop. Want to meet me? Dinner’s on me.”
“I’d like that, Molly,” Adam Tocek said. “Give me half an hour.”
Molly Smith came through the front doors into Alphonse’s Bakery, and he smiled to see her. “Happy New Year, Molly.”
“Happy New Year to you. I’d like to put in an order.”
He lifted his eyebrows.
“For tomorrow,” she said. “I’m on days, working until three, but I’d like to get a fresh baguette, maybe two, and some of that great cheese. Could you save some for me?”
“Having a friend over?”
She grinned. “Yeah, I am.”
“I have one chocolate croissant left just for you.” He rummaged behind the counter for the pastry.
As she’d closed out her shift, Winters had called her into his office to update her on the results of the forensic search behind the Glacier Chalet B&B. Ray Gavin and his team had found Wendy’s leather glove in the woods. They had also found a rock with traces of blood on it right about where Molly had told them to look. Beside the rock there were some partially burned logs.
“A group of women,” Winters said, “had a bonfire in the clearing not far from there to celebrate the solstice. Without getting a permit, I might add.”
“I assume my mom was one of them. She’s not a big one for bureaucratic regulations.”
“No kidding. Not mentioning any names, but one of the women told me that when they’d extinguished the fire, they kicked the logs around and covered them with snow before leaving. The wind probably uncovered some of the wood, and Ewan Williams fell onto them. Thus the traces of singed wood and ash Doctor Lee found in his head wound.”
It was all rather moot now, but had to be done.
Clutching the bag of baking, Smith went out the back of the bakery and ran upstairs to her apartment with a light step. After taking off her uniform, she lay down on the bed, just for a moment, to think about what she could make for dinner tomorrow. The cheese and French bread would be a good start. Adam looked like he was a big eater; he’d probably like a steak and baked potato with all the trimmings. And a big green salad tossed with Lucky’s secret dressing.
Adam. She’d enjoyed his company the other night at the Bishop and Nun. Just a quick burger in the back of the bar before he had to get back to work, but she’d had fun. More fun than she’d had in a very long time.
No more sadness. It was time to say goodbye to Graham, knowing he’d always have a special place in her heart, and move on. She fell asleep with a smile on her face.
When she woke up, it was dark. The clock at her bedside said it was only eight o’clock.
She’d fallen asleep thinking about what to have for dinner, and was ravenous. As usual there wasn’t much available, so she’d head for Trafalgar Thai and get a take-out.
She dressed quickly in jeans and T-shirt, pulled on her winter coat and gloves, stuffed her feet into her boots and ran down the stairs. She felt just great. Adam was working tonight, but starting tomorrow they were both off for a couple of days. They were going to take it easy, let things go where they wanted.
She threw open the front door and stepped into the alley.
It was snowing, again, and fat flakes drifted through the night. Someone was standing just outside the circle of light cast by the street light. It was a man, and she knew who it was. He watched her, but made no move to approach.
She slipped her key between her fingers and stepped into the alley.
“She’s not here, Charlie. Which is too bad or I could arrest you for breaking parole conditions.” She stopped, keeping herself out of striking range.
He spat into the snow between them. “If you mean Chrissie, I’m not interested in her. Guy wants to be friends and she freaks. What a bitch. Don’t know why she thinks she can be so fuckin’ fussy. It’s not as if she’s all that much to look at, and she sure doesn’t have any money.”
“Glad to hear it. You’ll be leaving town, then. Nothing to keep you here.”
“There is one little thing.” His voice was low, the tone threatening, if not the words. Smith held her keys tighter.
“Chrissie didn’t put me in jail. You did that, Molly. The way I see it, you and me have unfinished business.”
His hand shot out and she flinched. But he punched only snowflakes and wind.
“Be seeing you around, Molly.”
She watched him saunter away. He reached the street corner and turned to look at her. He lifted his right hand and held out his forefinger, the thumb holding the other three fingers, and pointed to the sky. The hand came down and aimed straight between her eyes.
And, with a grin, mean and ugly, he was gone.