Storm Peak

by John Flanagan

  “Then, all of a sudden, there he was in the doorway! A big feller, comin’ right at me before I had a chance to think!”

  “Big, you say?” Lee interrupted gently. “How tall would you guess?”

  The elderly man stopped, considered for a second. “Huge,” he insisted, after thinking about it.

  Lee tried again for a little more specific information.

  “Huge, tall? Or huge, heavy build?” she asked. Again, he thought about it. She noticed that the whites of his eyes were very round and she could see them clearly, all the way around the iris. She wondered if this might be the effect of delayed shock, thought that it probably was.

  “Both,” the elderly man decided, at length. “He was a mountain of a feller, coming right at me. I didn’t even get a chance to draw the hammer on the old 12-bore here.” He gestured to the shotgun that Tom Legros had gently taken from his hands when they arrived, and leaned against the display window of the gas station office.

  “Knocked me clean over, Sheriff. Knocked me clean over on my ass.” He hesitated, bobbing his head in deference to the fact that Lee was a woman. “Begging your pardon for that, Sheriff,” he added, a trifle embarrassed.

  Lee gestured that there was no offense.

  “But you did get a shot off?” she asked, and the bald-headed man nodded several times, emphatically.

  “Hell, yes!” he said. “I was rolling here in the snow while he high-tailed it to his car, so I snapped a cap at him right enough. Would have hit him too if it weren’t for that goddamned pump.”

  The metal body of one of the gas pumps was scarred and scoured by the blast of small lead pellets. The perspex window that covered the gauge had several small holes in it as well.

  “Only bird shot, mind you, Sheriff,” he added. “I never keep a heavy load in the gun. Just bird shot to frighten them away, you understand.”

  “I understand, Mr. Cooley,” Lee said, in her best understanding voice. “So, did you get a good look at this guy when he came out?”

  Cooley screwed up his eyes, concentrating. “Other than to see he was huge … not really. Apart from that he was kind of”—he searched for a word, finally found it—“average.”

  Lee and Tom exchanged a gloomy look. Mr. Cooley, they both knew, was not going to be what the law described as a reliable witness.

  “So,” drawled Lee, “huge in an average sort of way, I guess?”

  And Cooley nodded. “That pretty well sums it up.”

  “Hair color?” Lee prompted. Ned Cooley unconsciously ran a hand over his own inadequate cover.

  “Sort of … I don’t know, brownish, I guess?” he said uncertainly. Then, convincing himself, “Maybe he had a hat on. Fact is, I’m sure he did.”

  Lee resisted the temptation to catch Tom’s eye again.

  “What kind of hat would that have been?” she asked, going through the motions.

  “Unh … well, maybe it was one of those there Navy watch caps,” Cooley said uncertainly. “Yeah, that’d be it, I guess. And he had on … dark clothes …”

  Lee tried again. “Jeans maybe, or overalls?”

  Cooley looked at her unhappily, went to answer, stopped and said in a dejected tone, “Truth is, Sheriff, I just don’t know. I’m not even sure about that goddamn hat either.”

  Lee nodded. “Sometimes these things happen too fast,” she offered, and he seized on the explanation.

  “That’s it! I mean it all just happened at once! One minute I’m standing here saying ‘Who’s there?’—and you know, I didn’t really expect there was anyone going to be there-then I’m flat on my ass in the snow.” He shrugged an apology again and she waved it away. “And that damn gun went off and blew all hell out of my gas pump. I never even meant to fire it at all. It just went off when I went over.” He looked at the two of them, miserably. “I’m sorry about this, Sheriff. I never noticed too much. I’m not even sure how big the guy was. Chances were, he was just normal size.”

  He paused, thinking back, and said softly. “He sure seemed huge at the time though.”

  “That’s the way of it,” Tom said soothingly and Cooley looked at him gratefully.

  “I’d surely like to be more help to you, but—” he shrugged, defeated and admitting defeat. Lee closed her notebook, slid it back into the back pocket of her jeans.

  “Well, Mr. Cooley, if you can’t remember details, it’s best if you tell us rather than try to make them up. Saves us going off on wild-goose chases.”

  “I guess,” the bald man replied. He still looked deflated. The adrenaline was dispersing now, Lee thought, and she turned as the radio in her Renegade crackled to life. She heard her name called.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the gas station proprietor, and made it to the Jeep in three long-legged strides. She reached in through the open door and unhooked the mike, depressing the send switch.

  “This is Sheriff Torrens,” she said, then released the switch so that the base station could reply. She recognized the voice as Denise’s. Sometimes she filled in on the radio net when the normal operator was having a break.

  “Sheriff? There’s been another killing up on Storm Peak?” Somehow, Denise contrived to turn the statement into a question, as if she couldn’t believe the bad luck herself.

  Lee swore softly under her breath, then pressed the button again.

  “Is this our boy again?” she asked. It was unlikely that someone else might have started murdering people up on the mountain, but she guessed it was always a possibility.

  “That’s right, Sheriff,” said Denise. “Tried to kill one man with that stabber thing he’s been using, then shot a ski patroller who tried to catch him—Walt Davies.”

  Lee let the microphone drop to her side, leaned against the cold metal of the Jeep. She knew Walt—and his wife and their twin baby daughters.

  “Jesus,” she said softly. She noticed that Tom Legros and Ned Cooley had moved closer to the Jeep, listening in to the conversation. Tom looked stricken at the news about the ski patroller.

  “Sheriff? You there?” said the radio and she thumbed the switch again, said tiredly, “Yeah. I’m here, Denise. What’s the situation?”

  “They’re bringing Walt down here, Sheriff. They’re on their way now. The other guy, he’s a tourist. They’ve taken him to the hospital. He was cut in the arm but Opie says he’s in no danger.”

  “Okay,” Lee replied. “We’ll head on back from here. Have you contacted Jesse yet?” she asked.

  “He’s out of radio range, Sheriff. He went over to Breckenridge this morning, remember?”

  Lee nodded now. Jesse was chasing up another lead. One of the names on his list had rung a bell with the mountain management people in Breckenridge. Jesse had gone to talk to the Police Chief there. Lee glanced at her watch. Chances were he was still there.

  “Phone him, Denise,” she said. “He’ll be with the Breckenridge PD. Tell him what’s happened and tell him to get back here.” She paused. That last order was unnecessary. “Just tell him what’s happened,” she said. Once Jesse heard the news, he’d waste no time at all getting back. She made a mental note that she’d have to issue Jesse a cell phone. He was one of the few people she knew who never carried one.

  “Okay, Sheriff. Anything else?”

  “No, Denise. That’s about all she wrote. We’re heading back.”

  She re-hooked the microphone, turned to meet the two sets of eyes fixed on her. She shook her head sadly at the thought of Walt Davies.

  “Jesus Christ,” she said bitterly, “we’ve got to stop this sonofabitch.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Lee left Tom Legros at the gas station to finish taking Cooley’s statement, then she barreled the Renegade back along Highway 129 to the Steamboat Hospital.

  She was in no mood to take her time, so as she came into the outskirts of the town, she hit the siren and kept her foot hard down on the gas. She wailed up Lincoln, traffic scattering hurriedly in front of her, slammed the Jeep into a
sliding left-hander at 7th Street and accelerated again, heading for Park Avenue.

  She brought the Renegade skidding to a locked-wheel halt in the grounds of the small hospital. The siren wound down as she killed the ignition and swung down out of the car, slamming the door behind her and half running to the double glass doors that led inside.

  Randall Hollings, the man who’d been stabbed, was in a private room on the first floor. This information was volunteered by the receptionist as Lee shouldered through the doors. She nodded an acknowledgment and, without breaking stride, headed for the broad staircase leading to the next level.

  She saw one of Felix Obermeyer’s town cops outside a door and figured, correctly, that was the room she was looking for. Inside, the small, one-bed room was a little crowded. There was a doctor, two nurses, Felix Obermeyer, Opie Dulles from the ski patrol and the Hollingses—Mr. and Mrs.

  His upper arm was heavily bandaged and he lay back against the pillows on the bed, his face ashen with shock and loss of blood. Idly, Lee noticed the bloodstained parka that had been cut away from the wound and discarded on the floor. So far, nobody had thought to clear it up. She guessed Randall Hollings to be around forty. He was thickset, with a powerful build, and he looked as if he worked out regularly. His arms, left bare by the hospital gown that he was wearing, were well muscled.

  Mrs. Hollings looked five years or so younger than her husband. She was blond, pretty and had the sort of figure that comes from a lot of time and money spent in a gym. She’d discarded her parka and was wearing stretch ski pants and a pullover. Her eyes were wild and her hair was disheveled. Lee recognized the nervous, jerky movements and the wide-eyed stare as the first signs of incipient shock.

  Jeff Hardy, the young intern who’d been on duty when the Hollingses were brought in, looked up as Lee pushed the door open and entered the room.

  “Sheriff,” he said, and stood back from the bed to allow Lee to approach.

  Felix nodded a greeting as well. She returned it and stepped forward to the bed, studying the injured man critically.

  “So, put me in the picture,” she said briefly.

  Dr. Hardy glanced briefly at the chart in his hand and summarized. “Puncture wound to the left upper arm … extensive laceration and internal tearing. Could be some nerve damage. There’s definite muscle damage there. Lost a lot of blood but he’ll mend okay.”

  Mrs. Hollings stepped forward now, grabbing at Lee’s arm. “Are you the sheriff?” she demanded. Then, before Lee could answer, she continued. “You’ve got to do something about that man! He could have killed my husband! He tried to, sure as hell! Somebody here has got to do something about him!” Her voice was rising to a hysterical edge and the grip on Lee’s arm tightened. She turned to face the overwrought woman, considered prizing her hand loose, then decided against it.

  “Mrs. Hollings,” she said, in a calm voice. “Your husband is going to be just fine, all right?”

  The blue eyes, already wide, widened even farther.

  “Just fine? That maniac tried to kill him, don’t you understand? And someone has got to do something about it! For all anybody seems to care, my husband could be dead!”

  The grip was really tight now. Lee gripped the woman’s arm at the wrist, squeezed it firmly.

  “Ma’am,” she said, “as I understand it, one of our people did try to do something about it, and he is dead.”

  The woman stopped mid-sentence. She tried to say something further, failed. Tried again, failed again. Her eyes swam with tears. Finally, when she spoke again, her voice was barely more than a whisper.

  “Oh, I know! That poor, poor man! I’m so sorry … I just didn’t …”

  Her hand released Lee’s arm now. Lee maintained her own grip on the other woman’s wrist and moved her to one of the visitors’ chairs in the room.

  “Why don’t you just sit down here, ma’am. I just have to ask you a few questions.”

  Jeff Hardy stepped closer to the two of them now.

  “She’s in shock, Sheriff,” he said softly. “I wanted to sedate her but Chief Obermeyer here thought it would be better to wait till you’d spoken with her.”

  “Thanks, Felix,” she said, looking briefly at the chief of the town police. Felix was a stuffy, difficult man at times, but beneath it all he was a good cop. He nodded. She looked back to the young doctor again.

  “I just need to ask her a few questions,” she said. “Then you can give her a shot. I guess you’ve already sedated the husband?”

  Hardy nodded. “Had a bit of stitching to do in that arm wound,” he said. “Had to knock him out for that. Lucky for him he’s in good shape. The blade of that damn thing got caught up in the muscle of his arm. It saved his life, I’d say.”

  Lee nodded absently, then turned back to Mrs. Hollings, who was now sobbing softly. She bent at the knees to bring her face down to the same level as the other woman, took both her hands gently in her own and brought them down, away from her face.

  “I’m sorry to do this, Mrs. Hollings,” she said softly, her deep voice having a calming effect on the woman. “But I have to ask you a few questions.”

  Mrs. Hollings nodded, took a deep, shuddering breath in to stop the sobbing and managed to compose herself.

  “I’m sorry” she said. “I’m okay now. I’ll be fine.”

  “That’s great. Now tell me Mrs. Hollings, do you remember anything about the man who attacked your husband?”

  The woman frowned in concentration. She shook her head. “He came up from behind us,” she said, thinking back to the sequence of events. “My husband was between us. I didn’t get a clear look at him until we were off the chairlift.”

  “Tall? Short? Slim? Well built?” Lee prompted.

  “Tall … ish. I’d say around six feet … it’s hard to tell in ski boots,” she added apologetically. “And well built but not bulky … you know?”

  “Did you get a look at his face?” Lee asked. “They told me on the radio that you pulled his scarf off.”

  Mrs. Hollings shook her head. “I did, but I didn’t get a chance to see anything. He’d knocked me off my feet at that stage and I was falling. The other man though, he knew him.”

  Lee dropped her hands as if they were red-hot. She looked quickly at Felix Obermeyer and Opie. They were both staring at the woman too.

  “He knew him?” she repeated. “What other man?”

  “You know … the one who was-the one who—the man who tried to help us.”

  The tears were flowing again and she buried her face in her hands again as she thought of Walt Davies’s death. Lee exchanged another glance with Felix, then tugged the woman’s hands away again, gently, but firmly.

  “Mrs. Hollings, I’m sorry, but this is very important. You say Walt”—she corrected herself. Mrs. Hollings wouldn’t know the name of the ski patroller who had died. “The ski patrolman who tried to help—you say he knew the man?”

  Mrs. Hollings nodded several times. “He recognized him. I was on the ground. I’d grabbed at his scarf because I wanted to get a look at his face. Then he shoved me and I fell, holding the scarf. And then the other man, the patrolman, he said his name. He said—” She hesitated, trying to remember the name.

  “His name?” Lee said, with a good deal more urgency than she intended. “He knew his name?”

  Again, the woman nodded, her forehead furrowed with the effort of trying to remember that one elusive little detail. That one vital little detail.

  “He said, ‘Is that you … Mac?’ ” she said doubtfully, trying out the last word, not sure how it sounded.

  “Mac,” Lee repeated. “He called him Mac? You’re sure of that?”

  The woman’s eyes were troubled. She knew there was something wrong with what she’d said. Something didn’t sound right. Then all doubt disappeared from them. It was like the sun coming out and dispelling a light morning fog. She actually smiled as she remembered.

  “Not Mac, Mike. He called him Mike. ‘Is
that you, Mike,’ he said.” She met Lee’s gaze now, one hundred percent confident. “Mike. That was what he said. I’m sure of it.”

  Lee released her hands again and very slowly straightened up.

  “You’re sure?” she said, but she’d seen the certainty in the woman’s eyes. She was sure, all right.

  “Absolutely,” Mrs. Hollings replied.

  Lee let go a long breath herself. She felt a hand on her arm. “If you’ve got no more questions, Sheriff, I really ought to give her something,” Dr. Hardy said.

  Lee made an affirmative gesture. “You go right ahead, Doc,” she told him. Then, to the woman, “Mrs. Hollings, thank you. You have been a great help.”

  The medical staff moved forward to take charge. Lee caught Felix’s eye and nodded to the door. Opie followed the two of them into the corridor outside. The cop on duty stepped aside as the three of them came out.

  “The name Mike mean something to you, Lee?” Felix asked.

  She nodded. All of a sudden, Wilson Purdue from Ketchum, Idaho, had been relegated to second place-by a long way. Now her prime suspect was the one Jesse had felt was too obvious, too easy because it was the first one that had come to light. Mike Miller, ex-ski instructor, fired for beating up a client’s husband.

  Miller had threatened to get even when they fired him, according to Jesse’s notes. He was violent and unstable. And now, by God, they finally had a make on him.

  “A guy named Mike Miller,” she said, “is one of our suspects. Right now, he’s gone to the head of the list.”

  Felix whistled softly between his teeth. “Looks like you might have just got one hell of a break on this, Lee,” he said.

  “I hope so, Felix. At least now we know who we’re looking for. All I’ve got to do now is find him.”

  The young cop who had been on duty outside the door stepped forward apologetically. He didn’t like interrupting his own boss and the county sheriff. But he thought that what he had to say might be important.

  “Sheriff?” he said uncertainly. “You talking about the Mike Miller who was on the ski school one or two years back?”