Storm Peak

by John Flanagan

  His breath coming in huge clouds in the frigid air, he made his way back to the Yamaha. The spreading, red stain of fuel underneath the machine looked like blood. There was a steady rain of drops coming from the little machine. He unsnapped the engine cowling clamps instead, letting the side panel drop clear of the engine.

  His heart sank as he saw the damage the .38 caliber slugs had done. The gas lines were cut, of course. He’d already realized that from the flood of gas running into the snow. The other damage was more serious.

  One slug had smashed the single spark plug to shards. Another had savaged the carburetor and a third had blown a section of the finned combustion chamber away. The snowmobile wouldn’t be going anywhere without major repairs.

  He cursed once, then set about cleaning the Colt while he tried to think of his next move. He brushed it clear of snow, dropped the magazine out and worked the action, catching the chambered round as it spun clear. He held the slide back with the lock safety and peered into the chamber, blowing into it violently several times and checking to make sure the barrel was clear of snow. Satisfied, he replaced the magazine into the butt and tried to shove the gun into his jacket pocket. It struck against something hard and unyielding. He replaced the gun in its usual positon, in the back of his waistband, and felt in his pocket. His fingers closed over the radio Lee had given him.

  Mentally, he kicked himself. In his rush to get up the mountain and find Abby, he had clean forgotten that he had the radio on him. He groaned softly as he realized he could have reported seeing Abby and Mikkelitz from the gondola.

  He checked that the radio was switched on, then thumbed the transmit button quickly, several times. No answer.

  He tried again, knowing the action would cause an insistent beeping on any other communications unit tuned to the frequency he was on. This time, he heard a crackle, then Lee’s voice, recognizable even through the tiny built-in speaker of the set.

  “This is Sheriff Torrens.” There seemed to be a lot of static on the connection, like a roaring background noise, he thought. He thumbed the talk button again.

  “Lee, this is Jesse. He’s got Abby and he’s heading for Storm Peak. He shot out the motor on my snowmobile. I have no chance to catch him. It’s up to you.”

  “I’m on my way,” Lee told him. “We’ve got Ray Newton’s chopper here. I’ll be there directly, Jess.”

  Maybe it was the events of the last ten minutes or so that affected his thinking, but he didn’t realize that she meant it literally—that she was already in the air, and only a few minutes away from the top of Storm Peak. He assumed she meant that she was leaving the office.

  “Just get here as fast as you can, Lee.” He switched off the radio and dropped it back into his pocket. An idea was beginning to take form in his mind.

  He jerked open the carry pack at the rear of the Yamaha. The snowmobile was outfitted for use by the ski patrol and it had a certain amount of rescue gear packed in there. Along with an extensive first-aid kit and a harness for manually unloading passengers from the chair was a coiled, fifty-foot length of braided nylon rope. It was for use in case a skier went over a drop and rescuers had to reach him from above.

  He slung the coil of rope over his shoulder, then scrabbled through the fiberglass cargo canister, tossing thermal blankets, bandages, and inflatable splints into the snow. Finally, his hand lit on a filled canteen of water. He hefted it experimentally, satisfied with the weight, then set off at a run, following the hard-packed access trail through the trees.

  He could hear the hum and rattle of the Storm Peak Express chairlift getting louder as he ran. He’d realized that the access trail he was following cut right under the path of the chair. And, from the top of the bank above the trail, the moving cable was not much more than fifteen feet above the snow. Farther up the mountain, the contours of the ground fell away and the height of the cable reached twenty or thirty feet. But here, where the trail had been cut and the bank piled on the uphill side, was one of the points where the chairs were closest to the ground.

  He was breathing heavily when he reached the cleared path under the chairlift. He scrambled awkwardly up the bank and paused for a few seconds, his chest heaving. Quickly, he passed one end of the rope around his upper body, tying it in a quick release knot and looping it around his chest. Then he gathered the other end and quickly tied in half a dozen figure eight knots, spaced about five feet apart, and starting around ten feet in from the end. Finally, he looped the end through the sling of the water bottle and quickly tied it off. All the while, the chairs passed above him in succession, fifteen seconds apart. It wasn’t a lot of time for what he intended, but it would have to do. He realized he should have brought the K-bar knife from the rescue pack on the Yamaha in case things went wrong. But there was no time now to go back for it. He’d have to trust dumb luck.

  He figured he should have plenty of that.

  His eyes narrowed with concentration as he held the water canteen ready for an underarm throw. He swallowed twice, realizing, incongruously, that his mouth and throat were dry, and he had the means to take care of that in his hand. Then he threw, arcing the weighted end of the rope up, trying to lob it over the moving cable above him.

  And missed.

  The canteen, with the knotted rope trailing behind it like a banner, dropped back in the snow. He stumbled forward and retrieved it. He was conscious now of skiers on the chair peering down at him curiously. There weren’t many of them. Most of the chairs were empty—further evidence, if any were needed, that Mikkelitz’s reign of terror was having an effect. He waited till another chair passed by above him, tossed the canteen again.

  This time he made it. The canteen lobbed up and over the cable, dragging the rope behind it. He glanced frantically at the next chair as it seemed to rocket up the hill, suddenly moving faster than he thought possible, as he heaved in on the end of the rope, tightening it, feeling it biting into his body under his armpits. The chair was almost up to him now. In a second or two, it would snag the rope looped over the cable and begin dragging it up the mountain. He pulled as much slack out of the rope as he could, then sprang high, driving with his legs, and stretching to catch the rope as far above his head as possible.

  His hands closed around the smooth, thick-braided nylon. He started to slide down, then managed to obtain a proper grip at one of the knots. At the same time he was frantically jamming his feet together on the rope, searching for the purchase of another knot. He found it and hung, suspended from the cable. The rope stretched as the last of the slack went out of it and he sagged back down toward the snow. Then the chair caught the looped rope and suddenly he was dragged uphill from the bank where he stood and the contour of the mountain dropped the ground away from him by another ten feet or so.

  Dangling and twisting like a fish on a line, holding desperately to the rope with his hands and feet, Jesse sailed up the hill, some fifteen feet below the chairlift.

  Incongruously, he realized that he was now pursuing Mikkelitz using the reverse of the murderer’s own original technique, dangling below a ski lift on the end of a doubled rope.

  The thought didn’t remain long at the forefront of his consciousness. Very quickly, his world became the agony of his shoulders and forearms and calves as he clung to the rope. He twisted one arm through it to give himself a little relief. But even with that extra purchase, he didn’t know how long he could hang here. His shoulder muscles screamed with red-hot pain and his forearms were already beginning to cramp. Dully, he realized that they were the muscles that had taken the brunt of the work as he’d fought the snowmobile up the mountain. Now they were being asked to do double duty.

  Vaguely, he heard someone shouting, realized it was a passenger. God alone knew what the people on the chairlift thought. Probably thought the Mountain Murderer was climbing up to get them. He spun slowly in the wind, the snow-covered pines sliding past him on either side. As he came around to face uphill, he saw one of the chairlift towers
looming closer, and felt a sudden chill.

  The chair was designed to pass over the tower, as it was suspended from one side of the running cable only. The rope, looped over both sides, would jam as soon as it reached the point where the cable passed over the tower top. He had to get rid of the rope. Had to throw it loose. And he had two choices. Up or down. Get up to the chair above him, hang on to it and drop the rope, or slide back down to the snowfield below him.

  And be stranded here, with no hope of reaching Abby in time. Then he knew there was no choice. His muscles cracked as he began to haul himself hand over hand up the rope, gripping with his feet, reaching with his hands and hauling. He was spinning faster now, his own movement adding to the lack of stability. As he rotated, he could see from the corner of his eye the massive steel structure of the tower looming closer and closer.

  He was inches from the chair now. He stretched. His hand brushed the metal of the footrest, fingers clawing. He touched again, then got a solid hold. He thanked his years of working in the mountains for the fact that he’d tied the rope around his chest in a quick-release knot. He tugged the end now and felt the rope fall loose. He tossed it away from himself, and grabbed for the footrest with his free hand.

  He hung there now, swinging from the inverted T of the footrest. He jackknifed his body, legs searching for the other footrest, finding it, and coiling around it to take some of the weight.

  Then the chair was bumping and clanging over the tower, and he could see the rope whipping up and over the cable, hoping it wouldn’t catch and jam up the cable, bringing the chairlift to a halt.

  It didn’t. It slid smoothly over the greased steel, its end flicking in ever smaller arcs as it got closer to the top, then dropping away to lie coiled and lifeless in the snow below the cable. The chair, with Jesse hanging under it like some gigantic possum on a branch, sped up the hill toward Storm Peak.

  He hung there for a minute or so, regaining his composure. Slowly, his breath and heart rate, which had accelerated alarmingly as he’d struggled to get the rope clear of the tower, dropped back to somewhere near normal. The strain on his arms was a lot less now, as his weight was shared by arms and legs. He felt he might be able to improve his position on the chair a little.

  He heaved up and got a good right-handed grip on the safety bar above the footrests. He shifted his position so that his feet gave him some purchase on the footrest, and with a convulsive heave, hauled himself up and over the safety bar, to sprawl along the four-seat length of the chair.

  The chair swayed alarmingly, the plastic bubble canopy rattled back and forth with the movement and he breathed a silent prayer of thanks for the automatic mechanism that tilted the bubbles back as the chairlift came into the loading area. If the canopy had been down, he’d never have got into the chair. He would have had to hang precariously below it all the way up the mountain.

  He scanned to the left, trying for some sight of the Polaris. But the pines on either side of the chairlift loomed higher than the cable, effectively blocking his view. And it was then that the significance of Abby’s shouted message struck him.

  “I’ll always remember skiing the bumps with you,” she’d said. Yet Abby, in spite of the fact that she was an excellent skier, hated mogul skiing. Hated skiing the bumps. The only time he’d tried to teach her, when they were first married, she’d lost her temper with him and the mountain after the first fifty yards, and skied out of the mogul field to find a groomed run down the mountain.

  He’d been teaching her in the Chutes—a series of narrow black diamond runs out on the limits of the ski area, just below the old weather station. And then, it all fell into place. Mikkelitz, Jesse was sure, was planning to head out into the wilderness area beyond the ski boundary. Yet he hadn’t been carrying any of the equipment he’d need to survive there: cross-country skis, a pack, some kind of tent, food and survival clothing. So he must have stashed them somewhere at the top of the mountain.

  At the weather station building. That was what Abby had been trying to tell him. That was where they were heading.

  He reached into his jacket pocket for the radio. His fingers closed on nothing. For a moment, he felt panic as he searched the pocket, then the other side pocket of his jacket. Then he realized what had happened. The radio must have dropped out when he’d been hanging half-upside-down below the chair. There was no retaining flap on the pocket, nothing to stop the little radio sliding clear, unnoticed, and dropping into the snow. Come the spring thaw, he thought grimly, he’d have to come back up here and look for it.

  It’d probably be here, along with the hundreds of poles, skis, gloves and personal items that the mountain crew found under the chairlifts every summer. More than once, he knew, crews had found brassieres, boxer shorts and panties. He took his hat off to people who could manage such acrobatics on a chairlift.

  The top of the lift was in sight now and he knew what he was going to do. His gun was still firmly jammed into the back of his waistband and the deputy sheriff’s star was secure in his shirt pocket. One or the other would be all he’d need to get a pair of skis and boots at the top of the chairlift.

  The chair slid onto the slow speed circuit now, rocking as it decelerated down to an easy walking pace. He tossed back the safety bar that had served him so well, and came off the chair, hitting the snow at a run and moving to the right where the lift attendant was watching him through the window of the hut.

  To one side, a ski patroller was also in position, monitoring the people on the chairlift as he’d been told. He frowned slightly at the sight of someone running from the chair, not wearing skis, then recognized Jesse.

  “Hey, Jess,” he began, a little puzzled at the deputy’s grimly determined expression. “What’s going down, man?”

  Jesse could see the other man’s Atomic slalom models thrust base down into the snow beside a tree. He pointed to the man’s feet, began shucking off one of his own battered running shoes as he made his way toward him, hopping on one foot.

  “Your boots,” he ordered. “I need them. And your skis. Quick, Harry, get them off.”

  Harry grinned foolishly, convinced this was some kind of elaborate joke.

  “My boots, Jess?” he asked, shaking his head, waiting for the tag line. He actually recoiled a few paces as Jesse’s anger flared.

  “Your fucking boots! Now!” the deputy yelled. A few skiers crossing toward Buddy’s Run and the Flying Z stopped to stare at the sudden commotion. Still Harry didn’t understand.

  “Jesse—?” he began, but Jesse was in no mood for long-winded explanations. He balanced on one foot, the other one now shoeless, and got a hard grip on the ski patroller’s parka.

  “Harry, I need those boots. I need your skis. And I need them real fast. Now, for Christ’s sake, give them to me!”

  The urgency communicated, even if the man could see no reason for it. Shaking his head, he knelt, unclipping the fastenings on his right ski boot.

  Jesse realized that he’d removed his own left shoe. He gestured to it. “Other one first,” he snapped.

  There was nothing to gain by having to stand in the snow in nothing but his socks.

  Harry saw the sense of it. He removed his left Koflach and exchanged it for Jesse’s beat-up sneaker. Jesse jammed his foot into the ski boot. He’d need it to fit the skis on. The ski bindings wouldn’t attach to a normal walking shoe, of course. The boot was a little tight in the fit but he wasn’t planning on wearing it long. He hurriedly snapped the lever fastenings into place. By the time he’d done it, the still puzzled ski patroller had the other ski boot ready. Jesse shucked off his shoe, tossed it to the other man and shoved his foot deep into the ski boot.

  “Thanks, Harry,” he said breathlessly, grabbing the skis from where they were rammed upright into the snow and dropping them flat beside each other. He stepped into the bindings, clamping his heels back down to lock them. The ski patroller had the stocks ready for him. He grabbed them gratefully.

  “T
hanks,” he repeated quickly. “I’ll explain later. Wait in the chairlift hut.”

  Then he shoved off with the poles, at the same time skating the skis, digging the edges in for purchase, and went gliding quickly across the firm packed snow toward the trail that led to the weather station.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  For the first quarter mile or so, the slope was slightly downhill. Jesse continued to skate and to pole hard, building his speed as much as he could for the point where the trail started uphill again.

  There were a few people out skiing. He passed them quickly. For the most part, they were taking their time, planning to turn off down Buddy’s Run, or maybe to begin dropping down the slope a little as they worked their way over to the Ridge and the Crowtrack, the black runs that wound their way down through the trees to the flatter expanses of Big Meadow. One or two of them glanced up at the lone skier who whipped past them, working arms and legs to build his speed across the groomed snow. A computer programmer from Dallas grinned at his companion, a honey blond doctor’s receptionist from Ohio whom he’d met the night before. He jerked his head in the direction of the fast-moving figure who’d just passed them.

  “Extremist,” he drawled. The blonde cocked her head curiously.

  “Now where’s he going in such a hurry?” she asked. Her companion shrugged.

  “Guess he’s taking the tough runs down through the trees,” he said with a trace of envy in his voice. Those runs were way beyond his meager ability on skis.

  None of this was noticed by Jesse. He’d hit the uphill slope now. The momentum he’d built up kept him moving easily for the first sixty or seventy yards. He was glad that the skis had been waxed recently and the snow itself was firm, without a trace of slush. Head down, he continued to pole and skate, creating a classic herringbone pattern in the snow as the pitch of the trail increased and he needed to set his edges out to the side to give him increased purchase. He moved his skis in a wide V-shape, stepping rapidly from one to the other. There was no longer any forward gliding motion in his progress. He was walking now, using the spread skis to gain purchase. His breath came in short, sharp explosions of mist in the cold air. A snowflake drifted down, swirling uncertainly past his lowered eyes as he plowed up, head down.