The Gold Dragon Caper: A Damien Dickens Mystery (Damien Dickens Mysteries Book 4)

by Phyllis Entis

He shook his head. “Afraid not. You might want to check with your office though, Miss Susan. The man might have let something slip when he spoke to your secretary.”

  Zeb joined us, his arms loaded with outdoor gear for me. “Best get a move on, Damien. We only have about four hours or so of daylight left. Sun sets early this time of year.”

  Chapter Six

  I felt a jerk as the gondola lifted out of the loading hut to begin its graceful glide to the top of Spruce Peak. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a map I had taken from a stack next to the restaurant cash register. Designed for tourists, it showed the winter slopes on one side of the sheet, and the summer hiking trails on the other. One of the trails appeared to run quite near to the top of the ‘Upper Main Street’ ski run, the one Gerson had said was shut down for maintenance.

  “What’s this hiking trail?” I asked, pointing to a fuzzy brown line winding through the cartoon-like trees.

  “That’s Long Trail,” replied Keith, the Ski Patrol member who was accompanying Zeb and me. “It’s not used during the winter.”

  “Where does it lead?”

  “It’s part of a hiking trail system running the entire length of the state from the Massachusetts border all the way up to Canada.”

  “Artie and I hiked a small section of the trail last summer,” Zeb interjected. “We took the Taft Lodge gondola to the top of Mansfield, followed Long Trail across the Mountain Road at Smuggler’s Notch, and went as far as the ridge overlooking Sterling Pond before cutting through the forest and taking the Upper Main gondola back down the hill. The trail is pretty rugged in places. Runs along the spine of the Green Mountains. The map’s not to scale, by the way, Damien. Long Trail is farther from the top of the ski run than it looks to be on the map.”

  “And you say it wouldn’t be passable this time of year?”

  “I didn’t say that, exactly,” Keith replied. “It’s not maintained in winter, but someone who knew where to find it could make use of the trail, if he’s in decent shape. It wouldn’t be an easy walk.”

  The gondola arrived at the debarkation hut with a gentle thump, and an attendant held the car steady as we stepped onto the platform. Hershey, who had spent the entire ride in a semi-crouch, his tail curled between his hind legs, was the first one out. He ran out of the hut and sat politely just outside the door, waiting for the rest of us to catch up. Zeb and Keith stepped into their ski bindings with the ease of long practice. I fumbled with my snowshoes until Zeb slid over to show me how to secure the bindings, and how to trigger the quick release mechanism. The three of us agreed that Zeb and Keith would zig-zag their way down the slope, while Hershey and I worked our way around the perimeter, where the forest impinged on the groomed hill. Keith handed walkie-talkies to Zeb and me, and demonstrated their use. Reminding us the gondola would shut down at sunset, he suggested we meet at the foot of the hill at 5:00pm to compare notes.

  The eastern perimeter of the ski run, the side nearest to the gondola, was in the open. The northern and western edges were fringed with forest. I trudged to the tree line north of the gondola hut, and started to work my way around. It was slow going until I got the hang of walking with the snow shoes, but I didn’t mind. I was scanning for any small disturbance in the snow beneath the trees. Any sign someone had been laying in wait for a chance to snatch Artie. After a few minutes of slogging, I reached the small cabin I had spotted on the wall map at the command post. There was a cleared path to the front of the structure, and the snow around its perimeter had been packed down. I circled the cabin, but found nothing more than some crumpled candy bar wrappers. Returning to the front of the cabin, I tried the door. It was locked.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I spun around at the sound of the voice, almost losing my balance as my snowshoes stayed put while the rest of me swiveled. The gondola attendant was glaring at me. “You have no business in there.”

  I identified myself as a member of the search party, and asked him who would have a key to the door.

  “Ski Patrol,” he replied with a grunt. “They store first-aid supplies and rescue equipment in there.”

  I nodded my thanks and looked around for Hershey, who was sniffing at something a few hundred yards ahead of me. He responded to my whistle, but not until after he had marked the area that had caught his attention. I reached inside my jacket for a plastic bag containing one of Artie’s t-shirts. Opening the bag, I held it out for Hershey. He shoved his head inside, sniffing at the contents, his tail quivering at stiff attention. “We need to find Artie,” I told him. “Go find Artie.”

  Hershey bounded off, returning to the spot he had marked. He barked three times and ran back to me, nudging me with his muzzle. I could almost hear him thinking, ‘Hurry up, slowpoke,’ as I trudged along on the snow shoes. Again and again, he ran back to his mark, then returned to me. I don’t know whether or not it was deliberate, but his back-and-forth runs tamped down a path through the snow, enabling me to pick up my pace. At last, I reached the spot that had claimed Hershey’s attention.

  Telling the dog to stay put, I examined an area of disturbed snow at the edge of the woods. The snow could have been churned up by an animal rooting around for food, but I didn’t think so. There were swaths of bare vegetation just inside the woods, where dense clumps of trees had sheltered the forest floor. I suspected an animal would have chosen the easy meal rather than digging through a couple feet of snow. Removing my snow shoes, I leaned them upright against a tree before taking a few steps into the forest. I thought I could make out an occasional footprint in the patches of snow that dappled the forest floor. I returned to the edge of the ski slope and peered down the hill. Zeb and Keith were weaving slowly back and forth in a tight, crisscross pattern. There was no point in interrupting their search for what might be a wild goose chase. I offered Hershey another sniff at the t-shirt. “Go find Artie,” I urged.

  With a sharp bark, Hershey bounded off into the woods. Deciding the snow shoes would be more hindrance than help on the uneven terrain of the forest floor, I left them behind to mark the spot where I entered the forest. Hershey’s nose was in the air, and he was sniffing hard as he loped along in an easy stride. I did my best to match his pace, but kept falling behind. As though he realized my limitations, the dog paused from time to time to mark a tree, allowing me to close the distance between us. We must have been weaving between the trees for thirty minutes or more when he stopped in his tracks in a small clearing. It took me a moment to realize the rumbling sound I was hearing was a low-pitched growl.

  I bent over to get a closer look at what had caught the dog’s attention. It was a man’s white ski glove, half-buried in the snow. I told Hershey to back away, and crouched down to examine the area. From the way the snow was churned up, there looked to have been some sort of scuffle. A scattering of dark specks in the snow caught my eye. Blood? Not a large wound, though, I realized. There were just a few drops, perhaps from a scratch or a skin scrape. I lifted the glove and examined it more closely. There was a dark stain at the opening that might have been blood. I didn’t have a clean bag with me to hold the glove, so I simply placed it into an empty zipper pocket of my jacket.

  Hershey was pacing back and forth, whining. “Okay, boy,” I said, “let’s find Artie.” That was all the urging he needed. With a bark, he bounded ahead of me, this time with his nose to the ground. The snow was deeper here, and I didn’t need Hershey’s sense of smell to tell me someone else had passed this way. I could see the tracks, and paused to get a better look at them. The tracks had been made by two overlapping sets of bootprints. Hershey’s frantic barking brought my head up with a snap. I ran over to where he was standing, and fell face-first into the snow when he moved to block my way. Rising with a curse, I brushed myself off while Hershey resumed his barking.

  “Enough!” I rested my hand on his head to quiet him. “What’s with you?” He replied with a single ‘woof’ and backed away. Taking a step forward, I realized we were on a ridge lin
e and, had Hershey not stopped me, my momentum would have propelled me right over the edge.“Thanks, boy,” I exhaled. Cautiously, I approached the lip of the ridge and peered down at a body lying in the snow some fifty feet below.

  Chapter Seven

  It wasn’t Artie lying face-down in the snow. Even from this distance, I could tell it was the body of an adult, not a boy. And the clothes didn’t fit the description I’d been given, either. According to Zeb, Artie had been wearing fitted black ski pants and a red jacket when he left the house. The body lying fifty feet below me was clad in a yellow jacket with baggy white pants.

  I cupped my hands around my mouth and hollered, “Hello. Are you hurt?”

  The person rolled over and raised an arm with a feeble flutter. I took the walkie-talkie out of my pocket and keyed the Talk button. “This is Dickens. Can anyone hear me?”

  “This is Keith,” the Ski Patroller’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Is that you, Mr. Dickens?”

  “Yeah. I’m in a clearing in the woods at the top of the hill. I found something. Where are you and Zeb?”

  “Near the base of the upper slope. We have the lower branches still to check.”

  “What have you found, Damien?” Zeb broke in.

  “There’s a man at the foot of a cliff. He’s alive, but he may be badly hurt. Better send a rescue party equipped with ropes and a stretcher.”

  “Where, exactly, are you?” Keith asked. “We’ll meet you there.”

  “I marked my entry point into the woods by leaning my snowshoes against a tree. You should be able to follow my tracks easily enough.” I looked at Hershey pacing back and forth, whining. “I still have my ski poles with me. I’ll plant one of them in the snow on the ridge-line above the fallen man. Hershey and I need to keep looking for Artie while there’s still some daylight left.”

  Pocketing the walkie-talkie, I signaled Hershey to take up the search once more. He bounded ahead, nose to the ground, pausing every couple of minutes to look back at me. The scent trail led through the woods and up onto a windswept ridge marking the crest of Mount Mansfield. I was getting winded, and called out to Hershey to stop for a moment while I caught my breath. We stood side-by-side on the ridge as I looked south across the valley to the Stowe Pinnacle. Turning, I scanned the horizon to the north, and fancied I could see all the way to the Canadian border. Looking down the slope, I saw a snow-blanketed clearing, which I identified from the map in my pocket as Sterling Pond. A series of interwoven lacy trails connected Sterling Pond to the Smuggler’s Notch Ski Resort.

  My walkie-talkie crackled, and I pulled it out of my jacket pocket. “Dickens,” I said.

  “This is Zeb.” His voice faded in and out through a background of static. “We’re at…ski pole….man…base of cliff…responsive. Ski Patrol….rescue…stretcher.”

  “Zeb, you’re breaking up. If you can hear me, I’m at the top of the mountain overlooking Sterling Pond. Hershey and I have been following what I believe to be Artie’s trail.” I looked at Hershey, who was sniffing and pawing at the ground, eager to continue the search. “I’m leaving my remaining ski pole here for you to find. Hershey and I will press on ahead.”

  I pocketed the walkie-talkie and waved Hershey forward. He barked a single, sharp ‘woof,’ and trotted ahead. The trail he was following traced a switchback pattern down the steep, north-facing slope of Mount Mansfield. As we descended, a scattering of trees provided some shelter from the chilling wind that buffeted the peak. Between the trees, patches of snow revealed an occasional ski-boot print, reinforcing my confidence in Hershey’s nose. We broke out of the woods into the snow-covered clearing. The trail was unmistakable now, even without the benefit of the dog’s tracking ability. Hershey broke into a run, and I followed as best I could, stumbling through the knee-deep powdery snow. The terrain leveled out, and I realized we had reached the pond.

  Abruptly, Hershey skidded to a stop a couple hundred yards ahead of me and began to circle, sniffing hard, nose alternately to the ground and high in the air. When I finally caught up, he was standing stock-still, head down. I realized his problem immediately. The trail we were following ended in a roughly circular patch of packed-down snow. Leading away from the area was a wider, deeper trail, which appeared to have been made by someone who was carrying a heavy burden. I followed the new trail for fifty feet or so, until it ended at the telltale tread-and-ski pattern of a snowmobile.

  I called Hershey over and pointed him at the snowmobile track. “This is what we’re following now. Let’s go!”

  He replied with a sharp bark, and bounded off, hot on the trail. Soon, the snowmobile track we were following was overrun with similar ones made by other machines. But Hershey was undeterred. He kept his nose to the ground, tracking the scent across the pond and down the hill without hesitation. At last, the trail led us to a parking lot near the Smuggler’s Notch Lodge, just off Highway 108. The surface of the lot had been plowed, but a layer of hard-packed snow remained. Hershey trotted over to a spot near the south edge of the lot and stood motionless, waiting for me to catch up.

  I had a pretty good idea of what had taken place. This was a two-man job: one man to make the snatch, and an accomplice to handle the getaway. When the boy arrived alone at Sterling Pond, the accomplice must have improvised. He either lured Artie or grabbed him, and ferried him by snowmobile to the Smuggler’s Notch parking lot. Once there, he loaded the boy into a waiting car and drove off.

  I pulled the walkie-talkie out of my jacket and tried to contact the rest of the search party. But I was out of range. After telling Hershey to wait, I walked into the Lodge and telephoned Captain Laporte. “This is Dickens. I’m at Smuggler’s Notch Lodge. Hershey and I have tracked the boy as far as the parking lot.”

  “Wait there, Mr. Dickens,” Laporte replied. “I’ll send a team to investigate. Don’t disturb anything.”

  “Understood. I’ll wait in the parking lot for your men.”

  The Smuggler’s Notch pass at the peak of Mt. Mansfield is closed during the winter months. Laporte’s men would have to drive the long way around from Stowe. It would take them a half-hour or more to reach me, I figured. Before heading back outside, I grabbed a grilled chicken sandwich, a doughnut and a cup of coffee from the deli in the lobby.

  Hershey was waiting with alert impatience where I had left him. As I approached, he began to bark and whine, pacing back and forth, stopping periodically to paw at something in the packed snow. I walked up to him and crouched down to see what had attracted his attention. It appeared to be a piece of cardboard or stiff paper torn from an airline boarding pass. Removing my glove, I tried to pry the paper loose with my bare fingers, but I couldn’t make a dent in the ice-encrusted snow. I reached into my pocket for my key ring, and used the tip of my house key to dig around the paper, freeing it from the ice. The ink on the boarding pass was smeared. Although I could make out a flight number, the letters identifying the airline had washed away. The pass was dated February 12th.

  I unwrapped the chicken sandwich, discarded the bread, and handed the meat to Hershey, praising him for a job well done. He lay down on the snow a few feet away, and devoured the chicken in three bites. I downed my coffee and doughnut almost as quickly, then used the empty paper cup to fetch some water for him.

  The sun had set, and darkness was closing in by the time a squad car from the Lamoille County Sheriff Department turned into the parking lot. The vehicle pulled to a stop a few yards away, and two deputies stepped out. I briefed them on what had led us to the parking lot, and showed them where I believed the getaway car had been parked. Coleman, the senior deputy, asked me to walk back up to Sterling Pond with them, but I declined. “Hershey and I have been out searching for several hours,” I said. “The trail is clear as long as you have a flashlight. You can follow it yourselves. My dog is cold and tired, and so am I.”

  Coleman glanced over to where Hershey was lying in the snow, using his teeth to pull ice balls out from between his foo
t pads “Let me call in,” he said, walking over to the squad car. I was kneeling in the snow next to Hershey, using my bare fingers to remove some of the worst of the ice balls, when Coleman tapped me on the shoulder. “I have instructions to bring you and the dog to Copley Hospital. Captain Laporte will meet you there.”

  Chapter Eight

  Laporte was waiting at Copley Hospital’s ER loading dock when we arrived. I put Hershey on leash and followed him inside. The clerk at the Admissions desk opened her mouth to protest, but Laporte grunted, “Service dog,” and she closed it again with a snap. Commandeering an empty examining room, he invited me to sit, and rooted around in a cupboard until he found a large, disposable specimen container. He filled it at the sink and placed the container on the floor for Hershey before pulling a thermos of coffee from an inner pocket of his parka. “Careful with this,” he cautioned as he poured steaming coffee into a couple of disposable Styrofoam cups. “There’s a little something extra in it.”

  The coffee was laced with rum. I could feel it burn its way down my throat and into my stomach. The heat radiated outward, warming me, taking the edge off my fatigue. Laporte leaned back in his chair, giving me a few minutes to relax before beginning the debriefing. He listened without interruption as I described how Hershey had found and followed the trail from the top of the Upper Main ski slope through the forest to Sterling Pond and then down the north side of Mt. Mansfield to the Smuggler’s Notch parking lot. “One thing I don’t understand,” I said, after I had finished my narration and had answered all of his questions. “There was no sign of Artie’s skis and poles.”

  “We found them. The boy’s and the perp’s both. His abductor must have picked the lock to the Ski Patrol shack at the top of the hill. There were two extra sets of skis and poles left inside. One set was rented gear, belonging to Spruce Peak resort. Mr. Hegarty identified the other pair of skis as belonging to Artie. They were a Christmas present, and were monogrammed with the boy’s initials.”