THE PRICE SHE'LL PAY: For the secret she never knew she had...

by Cara Charles

  He scanned the weather radar. A clear patch was to follow. If the cornices were allowed to build anymore they’d create an avalanche that would kill people on the road far below.

  Working out of the back of his aged Jeep, Chris carefully checked and re-checked the pockets on his avalanche jumpsuit then placed the dynamite charges in his backpack. No Howitzer today.

  Chris left his pee mark by the back of his old Jeep as the snow shower blew by. He grabbed his coffee, poles, and skis, then walked over to the Eagle Express gondola disappearing into the falling snow.

  He was underway as the last pink strands of Dawn hit the sky like cotton candy. This is the moment he loved. He looked at the snowfall below him, sipped his coffee, and visualized his plan.

  ‘This was going to be a lot of f-ing work. He should have forced Mango to come with him. Doing this alone was damn dumb.’

  AS CHRIS’S gondola disappeared from view, throwing off their snow camo tarp, two guys got into Chris’s Jeep and headed out, back to town, one used his phone then keyed his walkie twice.

  Chris was sure he heard his old Jeep start up, but he talked himself out of it, ‘who would want my old rust bucket?’

  ON LEG TWO, Chris would have to ski over to Cloud Nine Express gondola, ride that up to the top, then he’d ski past Beyond The Edge to blow cornices in the out of bounds then work his way backwards to the runs below him.

  They all wanted to avert a repeat of the 2006 Climax avalanche disaster.

  ‘An ounce of prevention,’ Boss Hal had said.

  Everyone agreed. They never wanted to lose anyone ever again.

  It was obvious now the Howitzer would have been faster. He’d just blow the out of bounds to re-open the road below it, then come down and have the guys prep the big gun as he came in.

  ‘Ya that’ll work.’

  Chris took a long draw on his coffee and rolled his shoulders and neck. Then he stretched. His “Never Fail” hangover smoothie hadn’t kicked in. His head felt heavy, his legs belonged to his Grandmother. His Grandfather still could out ski him, the former Austrian Olympian God.

  Chris sipped his coffee, lost in the memories of last night.

  “Maybe the new thirty is not the new twenty,” Chris said out loud, as he conquered his O.C.D. impulse to re-check his charges again for the sixth time.

  ‘Not being able to shake a hangover were the first signs of your liver is crying, Uncle,’ EMT pal Dave had said.

  Maybe it was the flu. He’d never felt this bad after a night of partying. But God, she’d worn him out, like no other broad. Chris had worn out many women, young and seasoned, playing his, “filthy house boy in need of much punishment” game, but not this one. When he tried washing any of his women more than two times, make them change the sheets right away, or clean the shower after they’d just finished in it they’d get pissed, look at him and say “you are a fucking weirdo” then stomp out, but not this one. Hiding his O.C.D. with silly sex games was at a crossroads. Chris never knew why five was his magic number.

  When Mariam his pharmacist mom came to visit, she always brought him a four hundred day supply of his meds, low dose aspirin for the family history of early heart disease, and condoms. He’d lied and told her he had enough meds. This year he had more than enough condoms. One of his girls had stolen his meds care package. Mom was cool. But it was wearing thin.

  Last week, he’d dropped the last of his free pills down the sink, fumbling with the child protector cap Mom insisted on. His fingers were too big to handle those damn caps. He felt too stupid to call and say he spilled them again. He’d get his meds today and pay Mango back.

  Chris had been saving his paycheck money for April’s airline ticket when ski season was over, he’d have to beg for a job to tied him over until the first snows of next Fall or fly to his spring-summer bartender job in Cabo.

  For many summers, he’d tried biking since Mammoth was the summer mountain biking capital of So Cal, but he found his knees killed him all winter long, if he did bike tours.

  El Nino years would bring drought. The season would be four months long.

  He hadn’t saved enough money for following the snow south to South America.

  ‘Portillo would have to wait, again.’

  He really liked being warm and tan. He was never without a fresh batch of Spring Break college girls, tan and naked, hot for action. He was like a horny snowbird now. Following the frisky trim that headed for the beaches of the world every April, his “get it together” month when he got his O.C.D. under control to please Mom, he’d clean the condo to be the respectable son she thought she had.

  Chris had to focus, so he shook the thoughts from his heavy head. He had to throw a lot of dynamite charges on the south slope alone because Mango had partied hard, and asked him to and because Chris had had ‘scissors.’

  Mango had the fucking rock, again. His girl had crawled in bed with Mango, now the winning stud. Women only loved a winner, something in their DNA. And Mango had smiled ear to ear. Chris read his mind, ‘Tough luck man. I scored twins! And they’re all mine.’

  Chris sipped his coffee, clearing his mind of that irritation. He took a deep breath that hurt, visualizing his tear down route. Shit. He was really late. He hoped the boys below weren’t getting super pissed.

  The Pineapple Express had dumped four feet of new powder with more wet snow on the way. The tear down couldn’t wait. The snow shower was blowing by. It was Chris’s turn to man-up anyway.

  His twin had given him a cold. She had education and class, but she acted like a pro with an accent she couldn’t hide. He’d been with enough women around the world while on the circuit, to notice it. Guessing had become their game. She had never given it away. He hoped she’d be back for the first snows of next season.

  Chris closed his eyes. ‘She was more like a sexual artist doing things he’d never imagined. Ya. He was tired out this morning. She’d be a good memory.’

  MINUTES LATER CHRIS’ watch alarm woke him up, the ride on the long leg one was ending.

  He skied over to Cloud Nine.

  ‘We’re just scruffy locals with faces and personalities thrill-seeking women love, with nice mountain tans and hard bodies with funny stories and cool jobs. Maybe they were slumming. Something was definitely off about those two. Thoughtful of her to make him coffee.’

  Chris rode Cloud Nine up to the top and napped.

  Minutes later the ride was over. Chris stepped out to get ready to get on with it.

  Chris put his face in his hands, taking his super-charging Yoga breaths intended to warm his body. Today the exercise hurt his lungs. He only got to thirty-five. Instinctively, he didn’t want to force himself to get to one hundred. Not smart to drive the flu bug deeper.

  Chris stepped into his skis, adjusting his pack of explosives. He took deep breaths, pulsing fresh oxygen to every cell and pushed off for Beyond The Edge, bummed he couldn’t shake the feeling he had.

  “No reserves today bro. Let’s get this done. I wanna go cuddle.”

  The demanding L.A. crowds didn’t care how hard his avalanche patrol worked. Hell... skiing was so damn expensive. The days of bumming and living on a shoe string were long gone, unless you had a trust fund or resorted to breaking into those expensive vacation homes, like he’d heard a few of the local guys did.

  He could borrow money from the trust-fund gals who sometimes stayed all year to find themselves in pottery, designing luxury handbags or writing screenplays on Daddy’s dime. He’d lived with a few in his time. Be trustworthy. That’s all any woman expected. He kinda hoped he’d hook up with some relaxed beauty from the “funded.”

  On his scout yesterday, he’d caught two “funded” young Turks out on Beyond The Edge, far into the Out of Bounds.

  ‘Lucky, they didn’t start the avalanche, themselves. The little fuckers.’

  They had closed the roadway about twenty minutes ago to clear the snow, if it made it that far. Any minute now Howie or Ben would be nag
ging at him. Mommies and their little kids were relying on him.

  Chris loved pretty young moms. So devoted, so strong, part of what made Earth beautiful and immortal. The chase wasn’t that fun anymore. He needed his own woman, burnt meals, and rug rats waking them early on weekends, droopy diapers and all.

  ‘I wonder if she’d be into five kids. Naah. Five was too many for the planet.’

  Chris keyed his walkie, “All right Howie, going in.”

  “About fucking time. We saw you partying last night, but we got here on time!”

  “Moving a bit slow this morning. Feels like I’m fighting a bug.”

  “More like the love bug. But hey, we just love freezing our nuts off for ya.”

  “Five minutes, tops.” ‘Hell. I’m officially ready to find a Wild One and settle down.’ “Damn Skippy,” he said out loud as he passed the trees at China Grove, their favorite ‘tokin’ a fat one’ hangout.

  ABOUT THREE HUNDRED yards in the Out of Bounds, Chris saw fresh tracks, again.

  ‘Shit. Those cocksuckers, pushing the safety of me and my crew!’

  Two skiers waited for him. Jumpsuits of red on black, black on black. He’d had enough of the “funded” creating massive rescue efforts. The two skiers pushed off.

  Pissed, Chris gave chase for sixty seconds.

  They were good. Chris was gaining on them. He was better.

  His effortless style slowly faded, his legs threatening to cramp, fatigue hit him like a wall.

  ‘Fuck you guys.’ Chris stopped. ‘Must be too many power squats yesterday.’ “Hey! Skiers!” He cupped his hands. His voice carrying in the thin air, “this is the Avalanche patrol from yesterday. Come back. Avalanche danger! Avalanche danger! Keep going and face arrest or death! There is no way out! I’m here to blow the ridge you’re fucking with!”

  Immediately, his chest hurt from the yelling and his head felt light. His jaw tightened more and within seconds felt like it was going to explode. He looked down at the cornice he was on. It was cracking right before his eyes. Well, he wasn’t going to die chasing these two. They heard him. Yell anymore and it could bring the mountain down on him. Better yet cancel, and go home. Hal would be pissed though, spending all that money for prep.

  ‘But Hal, the Funded can’t be stopped, sometimes.’

  He’d get Hal to go to the other side and arrest them. He keyed Hal.

  “Hal? Come in Hal. Can’t blow the ridge. Go to the backside of Beyond The Edge and wait for those two assholes I told you about yesterday, black on black and black on red jumpsuits. They just ran from me going toward the back door. Hal? You copy? Hal? Come in Hal?”

  Reception should be excellent. Hal didn’t respond. Chris was counting on them not knowing the other way out. His chest was tighter.

  Chris turned and skied back the way he came. He glided toward the trees at China Grove to call Hal again, then Howie. Maybe they’d come out after thinking it over. Being a hot shot is one thing, having an arrest record, another. He’d never called anyone from the Tokin Tree.

  ‘No,’ he corrected. He had called the guys from here with this very phone, last year. ‘Now I’m not thinking clearly. What the hell is wrong with you?’

  He wasn’t going to play their ‘catch me’ game. Something told him that was what they wanted him to do.

  Chris glided to a stop, got out of his skis, and sat on his tokin’ log, removed his backpack, got out his space blanket, choosing to sit on the ground, using the log as back support.

  ‘Hal will get the chopper after them. That’ll fix em.’

  He keyed his walkie. Nothing. Geez, his chest was starting to hurt.

  ‘It can’t be dead. I just talked to Howie. Shit, if I’d kept up with those dicks I woulda keeled over. Get up and go to the gondola, stupid.’

  Chris got to his feet. He almost fainted and plopped back down. Chris was scared now. He was hoping they’d come back to taunt him so he could get help. He felt like the mountain had rolled onto his chest. Chris got out his spare Nextel phone, keyed its walkie.

  Again he tried to get back in his skis. He fell on his ass. He took his skis off.

  “Hal, it’s Chris. You copy?”

  Something garbled came.

  “Hal? It’s Chris! Do you copy?”

  “Here, man. What’s up? What’s the matter with your walkie?”

  “Busted. I’m here in China Grove, our tokin’ spot. I feel like the mountain is sitting on me. I’m in a cold sweat. I’m having heart attack and I can’t fucking believe it! You copy that?”

  “Where are you? I didn’t copy after the ‘mountain’ part?”

  “China Grove, the Tokin Tree Log where we smoked a few days ago. I’m having a fucking heart attack! Copy Hal? Hurry man. Please! I don’t want to die today.”

  “Take your aspirin! Four of them! You’d better have your aspirin damn it, or I’ll kick your ass. I’m coming man! You hang the hell in there, you hear me? Chris? I’m coming! I’m bringing Dave and Kane.”

  Hal didn’t have the heart to tell him the chopper was out on a run to Lone Pine.

  “Come kick my ass cuz I don’t have any aspirin on me today. Wish I did. I’m out. Hal, listen up. Those same two skiers I told you about yesterday are here, now. They ran from me in the OB three hundred yards from China Grove on Beyond The Edge, each wearing black on black and black on red. Get the fuckers, will ya? Copy that? Hal? Hal? Hal? Fuck!”

  The Nextel wasn’t working again, but it had a red light. Maybe Hal was out of range. Maybe he heard him, but Chris couldn’t hear his message. God, he needed to talk to somebody. He was scared.

  “Howie? Howie? Come in. What the fuck? This isn’t right.” ‘You assholes, that’s what you wanted me to do. Damn! How cold is that!’

  He grabbed his walkie radio, tried all the channels, then his Nextel. His chest pains was crushing the life out of him.

  “It’s Chris. Anyone copy? Anyone copy?”

  Crushing chest pain hit Chris again like his full back buddy had hit him during their practice game, prepping for the State Championship against Marin County’s Terra Linda High School. He remembered Ron knocking the wind out of him so badly he couldn’t catch his breath.

  ‘Maybe a loose wire inside,’ he banged it.

  It was not dead. He couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t right. He’d checked it. He looked at his emergency GPS. Its light was on. He tore the back off. It looked different. Then he tore the back of his walkie off. That looked different. Then calmly, Chris put the backs back on, put them in their proper places so not to alarm those that tampered with them. Chris had put it together.

  ‘Assholes.’

  Chris looked out to where they had gone, feeling them.

  ‘They can buy dynamite anywhere. Shit, they want me and the dynamite.’

  Hal would be closer than Mango and he’d be here in about ten minutes. Ten minutes. Chris doubted if he could hang on that long, as he felt the next wave of chest pain building like a set. He tried to call his Mom, Grandma, and Grandpa, but it was futile. He just wanted to say good-bye… to someone.

  Off in the distance, Chris thought he heard sirens.

  Chris knew Hal was breaking all the speed limits to get to him. He listened for the chopper.

  Now came an African bull elephant. Ron invited him in like a bullfighter and smiled, as it slammed into Chris’ chest. He was experiencing symptoms he’d learned since he was seventeen, when he couldn’t save his own Dad because he didn’t know CPR even though he tried until they found them. Like his Dad, he was too young to go out this way. This was someone’s dirty trick.

  His arms were lead, his pulse irregular, and slow. Then he saw them. The fuckers were a hundred yards away, waiting, watching him die.

  ‘There are no coincidences,’ Dave said one night on a drunk together.

  Chris dug a little hole under his left palm with his fingers, as his strength slipped away. He took out his spare GPS from his thigh pocket, an easy reach for his heavy left
hand.

  ‘No Girls Get Wild. No burnt meals or rug rats. I would have liked that. Forgive me for all my sins. I’ve had a good run. But damn! I don’t want to leave the party.’

  He still had the phone in his hand. He knew the memo function by heart and changed the phone to it so it would record the fuckers’ voices.

  With the last of his strength he whispered, “I want to say goodbye. I love you Mom, Pops and Grandma and always you Coach. Go get these guys on this tape.”

  Hal needed to know. “Those women from the bar Hal… But why me?”

  Chris covered up the hole, even though he could no longer lift his left arm.

  His fingers still worked. Chris took deep breaths to get precious oxygen into his dying heart, trying to buy time. He could hear them coming, even though everything was fading. Within reach of his left fingers, were some dried pine needles. With every last ounce of strength left, he gathered them without making it obvious and let them fall from his fingertips.

  They were closing fast, as he struggled to bury the GPS with his right hand. He didn’t want them to see him moving. All he felt under his right palm now was snow, as the skiers skidded to a stop beside him.

  The Nextel walkie was in his lap. Chris forced his eyes upward and his last thoughts were of his Grandpa and Hal who raised him into manhood.

  Someone was pushing him backwards, taking off his jumpsuit. Chris was coming out of his body, he was fighting back. Fighting hard.

  “Jesus, he’s still alive.”

  “Just get him out of the suit. He doesn’t have long.”

  Chris’ arms felt like those wind shapes, flapping. The snow was so cold.

  “Come on this is cruel. There’s lots of life left in him.”

  “He’ll be spent in a minute or two. Move it.”

  ‘Sorry Mom, sorry Grandma, sorry Pop,’ he said in a whisper to the trees above him, as if they’d carry the message through the sky to them. ‘They will get caught. I love you...’

  Chris forced his eyes to look at the hole in the clouds opening for him, a brightening corn blue winter sky beckoned. He noticed how ‘the snow on the tree limbs glistened like a billion tiny stars.’