TWENTY-NINE
There were rumors going around and he didn’t like them. He also had decided that he didn’t like Deputy Jesse Parker either.
He’d heard the rumor that the damned deputy was looking for someone who wanted revenge on the resort. That made him mad. More than mad. It made him thoroughly pissed. Revenge, after all, was his specialty.
Dr. Rawlings had learned that. So had Sonny Voigtlander, lead hand of the construction crew he worked with in Utah one summer. Sonny had taken an instant dislike to him and delighted in bossing him around. He reserved the worst and dirtiest jobs for him. If he complained, he knew he’d be kicked off the crew, and he needed the job. It was the old story. Sonny had the authority. The foreman would take his word over that of a wandering laborer.
There was a girl he was interested in and he knew she was interested in him too. But Sonny stepped in and she betrayed him. He had his revenge on the pair of them. It had been easy. Just a few loose nuts on the front wheel of Sonny’s motorcycle had done the trick. He and that two-timing bitch had spent three months in the hospital after the front wheel came adrift at sixty miles an hour on the interstate.
That had been his pattern since the long-ago events at his boarding school. If somebody trod on him, they got stung. If they offended or slighted him, they suffered. And, up until now, the cops had never seen any connection in a series of deaths and violent “accidents” stretching from the Rockies to the Eastern seaboard and back again. Nobody had ever connected them. Nobody had ever realized that it was simply one man claiming his revenge.
Nobody, that is, until this hick deputy in a sleepy northwest ski resort. It was dumb luck, of course, nothing more. It would be typical of someone like him to luck out and chance upon the answer, without ever knowing the full facts behind the matter.
The deputy was definitely becoming a pain in the ass. Him and his fucking rules! People had been shoving rules in his face all his life simply because they felt like it. Do this. Don’t do that. Keep your nose clean. Watch where you tread. Do as we tell you.
Now this damned deputy was the latest. Parker had made it impossible for him to kill that girl in the Silver Bullet. It was at his insistence that the “No two people to a gondola” rule had been enforced. Now the same rule was being applied to the chairlifts as well. One person alone, or three or four to a chair. No doubles unless they knew each other.
He’d discovered that fact the day after he’d missed out on the gondola. Reluctantly, he decided that he’d have to abandon the gondola from now on and that really irritated him. He loved the sense of mystery involved in leaving a dead body in a seemingly locked cabin, with no sign of another person having been on board. He loved the thought of the frustration it must cause the cops investigating the murder as they tried to piece together their theories as to how it had been done.
He loved the thought that, even if they guessed right, the knowledge did them no good at all.
The killing on the chair had been fun, he had to admit. But somehow, it lacked the drama and the mystery of the gondola.
Now he couldn’t use the gondola and he was really, really pissed with this Jesse Parker and his fucking rules!
Well, rules were made to be broken and he was just the person to break them. He was uphill from the base of the Storm Peak chair once more, resting idly on his stocks, watching the lift line moving through as the attendants enforced the rule. He’d decided that today he’d kill again. On the chair again. Just to show jesse fucking Parker that he could come and go and kill as he pleased. All he needed was the right situation—a few empty chairs, then a pair of skiers going up together, with a lull in the crowd behind them. He’d ridden the chair four times already without getting the right conditions. Now, as he watched, the lines had thinned out as skiers went in to eat lunch. Now would be the time when his opportunity came.
Two skiers hissed past him, heading for the roped-off races at the base of the chairlift. They stopped fifty yards below, exchanged a few words, then took off again.
This was it.
The lift race was empty now. A few singles were loading, going up by themselves, in solitary splendor on the high-speed four-seat chair. But the pair who’d just passed him, a man and a woman, would be the only people boarding the lift for the next few minutes.
Unless he joined them.
He pushed off, skiing fast and effortlessly down the hard-packed slope above the lift. His turns were fast, short checks, barely costing any speed as he went straight down the fall line. He was gaining on the pair already.
They skied into the lift line, slowing down and poling up the gentle slope to keep themselves going. He slowed a little, not wanting to get too close too soon. Then he accelerated again.
They were at the right turn onto the final section of the lift line as he entered the back of the race, still moving at high speed. He didn’t need to pole, letting the speed wash off as he coasted up to the right end of the race, then skidded to the right, now only a few yards behind them.
They paused at the automatic gates as an empty chair swung up and away, then the flimsy gates flicked open as the next chair detached onto the slow-speed bullwheel and tripped a circuit to open them. The couple poled forward, moving into position to wait for the chair.
He followed them, using the last of his momentum to glide through the open gates and slide to a halt on the left-band side.
The man was now on his right. He looked up, a little startled by the sudden appearance of another skier alongside him. Then his attention was taken by the chair approaching behind them and the three of them sank back, legs swinging as the chair moved away from the loading point.
The other two let out small sighs of relief as they took the weight off their legs. The man nodded a greeting to him as he reached up to lower the safety bar, bringing the footrests with it.
“Thank God for footrests,” he said, with obvious relish, hoisting his feet, awkward with the weight and length of the skis under them, onto the rest. The woman did likewise.
His legs weren’t feeling any strain at all. He ignored the footrests, letting them dangle above the snow that was now whipping past below them as they sped up Storm Peak. They entered a cutting between the pines and the wind, cold and sharp on his face, dropped away as the chair stayed below the top of the trees.
As ever, his features were largely obscured by goggles and the hood of his parka. He also had a scarf wound around the lower part of his face. He huddled now, not speaking to his companions on the chair. He smiled to himself. He’d figured how to use the jigger again, in spite of Deputy Parker’s security measures. In spite of the watchers at the top of the chair. He moved his right arm and felt the reassuring hardness of the wooden handle under his parka. All he needed was a few minutes of confusion at the top and he’d be away clear again.
Then let Deputy Parker explain how his precautions had proved to be useless!
They were halfway up the mountain now.
He unzipped his parka a few inches, let his left hand steal inside and close around the butt of the jigger. The couple beside him were talking in those low tones people use when they know a stranger can overhear every word. Apparently they were moving on to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, the following day. He grinned a little wider. You’d like Jackson, he told them silently. I killed a man there once. Pity you’ll never get to see it.
As they talked, the man had turned slightly away from him, which suited his purpose perfectly. He couldn’t see what was happening behind him, and his body obscured the woman’s view as well.
Perfect.
He eased the jigger out, keeping it half-concealed in the folds of his parka. He was carrying the 7.63 mm Walther automatic as well, just in case he needed extra backup.
He glanced ahead. The lift attendant was in the wooden hut beside the bullwheel. There was a ski patroller leaning idly against a stanchion at the top of the lift as well. He’d been watching their schedule and knew the man had been on duty for almo
st three hours. He was due to be relieved in ten minutes. That was part of the plan too.
After three hours of standing in the cold and the snow, stamping his feet and buffing his arms to keep warm, a man tended to lose his edge of alertness. When nothing has happened for three hours, you assume that nothing will happen in the next ten minutes.
Forty yards to go. Just about right… now!
Left-handed, holding the jigger close to his body, he reached it across to a spot just inches from the exposed underarm of the man beside him and hit the trigger. just half a second too late.
With forty yards to go, the man had decided it was time to prepare to dismount. Just before the razor-sharp blade slashed out of the jigger, he turned back in his seat, sitting back as he lowered bis feet from the footrest. The blade, instead of piercing up into his unprotected ribs, hit the solid muscle and tendon in his left arm biceps instead. And hit it at a moment when the man was still turning.
With a shrill scream of pain, the man doubled forward, the blade of the jigger locked in the muscle as he involuntarily spasmed and doubled his arm over, tensing the muscle. The sudden movement tore the handle from the killer’s grasp and all hell broke loose.
The man looked down at his arm, his eyes glazing in pain, saw the wooden handle dangling from his biceps, turned back toward him.
“You bastard!” he gasped. At the same moment, the woman had reacted to his scream of pain.
“Randall?” the woman said shrilly. “What is it?” Then, seeing the weapon embedded in her husband’s upper arm, she started screaming to the patrolman, now only fifteen yards away.
“Help! Help us!” she screamed. “He’s killing my husband!”
He realized what was going to happen just in time, as she screamed the first two words, he joined in, drowning out her cries with his own shouting.
“Heart attack! Heart attack!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. And kept shouting it, over and over again.
He snatched at the handle of the jigger, ripping it loose from the man’s arm. But he didn’t have a secure grip and the sudden, agonizing flash of pain made his victim jerk upward. His arm hit the jigger, knocking it free from the killer’s grasp. It tumbled end over end before disappearing into the deep, ungroomed snow beneath the chair.
The woman was screaming for help still, but his own cries were blocking her out. Then the killer threw the safety bar up, got a hand behind the wounded man beside him and shoved him forward, out of the chair.
“Heart attack!” he yelled. “Help us, for God’s sake! Get medics! Help us!”
He and the woman were both screaming at the same time, both screaming for help. To those who could hear them, it sounded as if they were together, trying to get care for the injured man. There was a flurry of activity at the top of the chairlift as the lift attendant and the patrolman hesitated, not sure what to do. Several skiers nearby stopped to watch, attracted by the shouts.
The wounded man fell six feet to the snow below the chair and doubled over, groaning. Then the chair was swinging into the unload point and the two people on it were still screaming, drowning each other out.
The patrolman had started down toward the fallen body, then he hesitated, turning back to the top of the chairlift.
The woman came off the chair at the same time the killer did. Realizing that no one had made any sense of her cries, she grabbed at him now to try to stop him before he could get away. Setting his skis, he shouldered her away violently, sending her sprawling, adding to the confusion of the moment. As she fell, her fingers grasped the goggles and the scarf wound around the lower part of his face, dragging them down.
He could see the patrolman skating back up the slight slope, only a few yards away. But the woman was sprawling on the snow between them and he knew he had a good head start for the trees down the Triangle 3 run. He set his poles and skated at the same time, picking up speed almost immediately. He turned to see the patrolman, tangled with the woman’s skis as she rolled over, trying to rise to her feet again. His eyes met the patrolman’s and he saw the puzzled look of recognition there.
“Mike?” said the ski patroller. “Is that you?”
Cursing, he turned away again and accelerated into the first steep drop among the trees.
He ran straight down the fall line in the deep, ungroomed snow. There were moguls—ungroomed bumps—under the fresh cover and he let his legs go loose to absorb them automatically. He checked once, turned right to miss a pine, ducked low under the outstretched branches that it flung at his face, then threw in three quick turns, still keeping in the fall line.
The goggles dangled uselessly around his neck. Eyes slitted against the wind and the glare, he could sense the other skier somewhere behind him. Not too close, but not far, either.
An access trail cut through the trees before him. He let his knees come up under him, then straightened his legs like pistons, sailing high over the trail, landing in an explosion of powder snow some five yards on the other side, his knees almost up to his chin to absorb the shock of landing.
He came upright again, maintaining his balance and speed. Check, check, check. He set his edges with lightning speed, one side to the other, his knees pumping as the bumps hammered up at him. His breath whipped away in steamy wisps in the cold air. He let his skis go where they wanted, concentrating on continuous movement and staying in the fall line, as far as the undisciplined stands of pines allowed him.
He came off another bank, soared briefly, exploded into the snow again, nearly lost it, recovered, regained speed. He heard a cry behind him, risked a quick glance and saw the patroller tumbling in a welter of arms, legs and skis as he missed his landing.
It allowed him to increase his lead even further. But, as far as he could see, the other man hadn’t lost his skis in the fall and he’d be up and skiing in pursuit within seconds. An expert skier could often simply roll out of the fall and come back upright almost instantly.
And he knew Walt was an expert skier.
And there was the real problem of the day. He’d recognized the patrolman. Walt Davies. And he’d been recognized himself. Walt had called him by name. So, even though he could outdistance Walt down the mountain and lose himself in the tangle of trees and different runs on the lower slope, that simply wouldn’t solve the problem anymore.
There was a stand of pines ahead. Thick and close together, with widespread branches reaching almost down to ground level. There was no way through them, so he slewed to the right to go around them.
He skirted the grove of trees until they thinned, then threw in a high-speed check turn to the left, reversing direction and heading into the shadows they cast.
Then he threw his skis sideways, ramming the edges hard into the snow, fountaining the soft powder up in a huge drifting cloud as he hockey-stopped in a few yards.
He jump-turned to face back the way he’d been coming. Letting his stocks dangle, he unzipped the parka, reached inside for the Walther and slammed back the action, pumping a round into the chamber. He breathed deeply to steady his hand. He could hear Walt coming, throwing in that same high-speed left turn to come around the grove of pines. He’d have no trouble seeing the way to come. The snow was carved deep with the marks of his own turn.
He saw a flash of blue and yellow between the trees, then Walt sped out into the clear, hunched low, knees pumping.
And saw him standing, waiting.
It was inevitable that Walt would come to a stop. Possibly he thought that his quarry had decided to surrender. Maybe he thought he was injured. But it was instinctive for him to stop as soon as he could. He skidded a little farther down the mountain, finishing four or five yards away.
The Walther wasn’t a big gun. The slugs were not much more than a .32 caliber. But four of them were enough to kill anyone.
Walt toppled slowly, his expression one of deep disbelief. He simply knew that this couldn’t be happening to him. He was still disbelieving it when he died.
THIRTY
Lee was out on Highway 129 toward Hahn’s Peak when word came through about the shooting.
There’d been another breakin-this time at a gas station a few miles south of the Peak. And this time, in broad daylight.
The gas station had seemed deserted. With the recent falls of snow, the owner had expected little traffic to be coming through to the Peak and had closed down around three o’clock. To the passerby, the station would have appeared locked and deserted. But there was a storage room at the rear, where the owner had kept his pickup parked under cover, to save the tray from filling up with snow. And there was also a small, cramped office where he did his accounts and correspondence.
The side door of the gas station had been forced with a crowbar, just like the previous breakins. And the register had been rifled, although in this case, there was little money in it. The owner had emptied the register when he’d closed up. The cash was with him in a locked steel strongbox in the rear of the building, where he’d been catching up on some paperwork before going home for the evening.
Obviously the burglar didn’t realize there was still someone on the premises. Alerted by the splintering sound of the crowbar on the doorframe, the owner had come around the side of the building to investigate.
And he’d brought with him a single barrel Winchester 12-gauge.
Lee was studying him now. He was an elderly man, balding, with a few strands of hair still combed over the crown of his head, as if inviting the missing locks to return, and marking a place where they’d be welcome.
“I called, Sheriff,” he was saying now, in an excited, slightly high-pitched voice. “I called and said, ‘Who’s there? who’s in there?’ But he never said nothing back. Not a word!”
Lee nodded, encouraging the man to go on with his story. There was still a good deal of adrenaline flowing, she realized, evidenced by the way the man was rattling his words out like a machine gun, and the higher than normal pitch of his voice.
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