First Tracks

by Catherine O'Connell

  He was a handsome man with a strong jaw and tousled brownish hair. There were pictures of him in his skintight jumping suit and pictures of him as a child on skis. Finally, the album turned to the page of his wedding day, he a smiling proud groom in a suit, she in a white dress with flowers in her hair. And there was the proof, clear as Rocky Mountain air on a crisp winter day.

  Somewhere along the line, Inga Lena Bergstrom had become Inga Lena Mayer had become Zuzana McGovern.

  Back at the B&B I paced my room, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. And then, even though it would cost me a fortune, I set my phone to roaming and placed a call to the Welcome restaurant in St Moritz. The noise level told me the restaurant was busy, après-ski in full swing. I cringed at being on hold at international rates while I waited for Christina to come to the phone. When she finally picked up, I could tell she was harried. I reminded her of our meeting the day before and asked if she might answer a couple of quick questions.

  ‘Yes? What is it?’

  ‘Where is Inga Lena Mayer buried?’

  ‘She is buried somewhere on mountain,’ she replied in accented English, omitting all use of a and the as Eastern Europeans are prone to do, the use of the article being unnatural for them. ‘They never find body.’

  ‘But they found Werner’s?’

  ‘Yes, he is buried in local cemetery.’

  Her exasperation with all my questions was coming across the line. But the ton of bolts was beginning to make sense and I couldn’t let it go now. ‘I’m sorry. I know you’re busy, but just a couple more things. When you lost your passport, was it around the time of the avalanche?’

  ‘I lose it couple weeks before,’ she said, astonishment coloring her voice. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Just a weird guess. One more question, my last I promise.’ I could sense her frustration over the line. ‘What is your middle name?’

  ‘Zuzana,’ she replied.

  I hung up, thinking that while Zuzana McGovern had a pronounced Czech accent, unlike most Eastern Europeans she always employed the articles a and the.

  FORTY-SIX

  My mind was so caught up with my discovery the entire flight back to the US, I hardly noticed that I was squished in a middle seat between two people who hadn’t missed a meal in like a thousand years. The one-way flight to Aspen via New York and Denver cost the better part of the halfway mark to Everest’s 29,029 feet summit, but there was no choice but to lay out the dough if I wanted to get home quickly – which I did. Along the way I worked out exactly what to do and only hoped I could pull it off. While I was no closer to filling in the remaining blanks of what had happened the day the wall of snow pounded me twice, I felt closer to getting the answer to what Warren McGovern and I had been doing out of bounds that fateful day.

  Then there was that other matter taking up space in my brain: Dr Duane Larsen. After my solitary meditation during the cold night in the forest, I was certain he hadn’t killed Kim Woods. I owed him an apology and the promise of support. But that was going to have to wait until after my first task was out of the way.

  I landed in Denver at three p.m., which was eleven at night on my body clock. My connection to Aspen didn’t leave until six, so I found a seat in a deserted boarding area and tried to catch a little shuteye. But I was so wired that sleep evaded me.

  I turned on my phone for the first time in days. There was a call from Judy in Palm Beach asking about my trip and one from the sheriff asking me to call him. I ignored both messages and lobbed in a call to Neverman to check my status with patrol. I could tell from the noise that he was in the hut, could hear Reininger in the background telling one of his bad jokes. There was a communal moan as he hit the punch line.

  ‘Westerlind, is that you? Where in hell are you?’

  ‘Denver. Waiting for a flight to Aspen.’

  ‘Hell, there’s no way you’re getting in here tonight. It’s snowing like a mother. Flights are all cancelled.’

  That’s the thing with Aspen and Denver. It can be perfectly sunny in one and blizzard conditions in the other. I stood up to check the board behind me, and sure enough my six o’clock flight had been cancelled. As well as every other flight to Aspen for the rest of the day. I call it Aspen roulette.

  Usually when there is a weather situation, the airline books you out the next day for free. And while they aren’t responsible for putting you up for the night, they hand out discount slips for a local hotel. My problem was that, discount slip or not, hotels cost money. As do rental cars if I wanted to drive. In the wake of my recent European travel, to include the obscenely expensive lunch with young Richie for which I would probably never be reimbursed, my credit card was maxed out.

  ‘Shoot,’ I said in reaction, really meaning that stronger and similar sounding word. What this all meant was I’d most likely be spending the night on a chair in Denver International. I turned the discussion back to the true reason for the call. ‘I just want to know if I can come back to work.’

  Neverman paused in that way I was so used to, the way that told me something had irritated him. His tone of voice confirmed it. ‘You’re off suspension. It seems some higher-up intervened with the owners on your behalf.’

  It didn’t take much noodling to figure out who the intervening ‘higher-up’ might be. Well, I guess there was something to thank Pablo Alvarez for aside from the ride in his fancy plane. I hoped the suspension wouldn’t be reinstated after I had that little conversation with him about Carlos. ‘And actually, we could use you ASAP. We’re short. Cole broke his leg when some yahoo ran into him at the bottom of Spar and Meghan’s out with the flu.’

  ‘Cole broke his leg?’ I couldn’t imagine anything worse than being housebound during such an epic season. ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘Just be glad you’re not his wife. Can you imagine putting up with him on the couch all day? Anyhow, we could use you tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll be there the moment I get in,’ I promised.

  The jet landed on Sardy Field’s solitary runway nearly twenty-four hours after my departure from Stockholm. My neck had a huge kink in it from sleeping curled up in an airport chair, but otherwise I was no worse for wear. I saw a guy I know from the Bugaboo at the baggage pick-up and he gave me a ride home. Needless to say, I was much relieved to round the bend and see the A-frame still standing.

  It was a balmy forty degrees inside my house, the thermostat having been left at just above freezing while I was out of town. I changed into my patrol duds as quickly as I could and went out to fire up the Wagoneer. She didn’t want to start at first after a week of rest, but finally came around. I drove straight into town, parked in my usual place and headed to the gondola. A woman on a mission, my adrenaline was pumping so hard I didn’t even notice my lack of sleep.

  Since it was already mid-morning, the first tracks mob had already dispersed and I rode the bucket up alone, my preoccupation taking away from the usual pleasure of the magnificent view. I got off up top, put on my boards and slid over to the patrol hut. Singh was out front, just clicking into his skis. He smiled when he saw me.

  ‘Hey Greta. You back in good graces?’

  ‘Appears that way.’

  ‘Glad to know it. I’ve missed you. Word was out you took a pretty nice trip.’

  ‘It was OK,’ I said, racking my skis and heading inside to check in with the boss. Most of the patrol was out on the mountain, but Reininger, Lucy and a few others were in back, drinking coffee in front of the fireplace. They all offered hearty greetings of ‘welcome back’ except for Reininger who was still probably pissed about me nearly blowing us all up. Or maybe it was because I didn’t laugh at his jokes.

  Neverman sent me out to mark some obstacles and the hours dragged as I waited for the morning to pass. I should have been enjoying the hell out of myself – the snow was sublime and it was great to be back on familiar turf. But my stomach was churning in anticipation of the confrontation that was soon to be executed.

>   And then finally the lunch hour was upon us. And I knew exactly where she would be.

  One o’clock is the time the fancy people all hit the Mountain Club. They hang their expensive parkas and trade in their ski boots for slippers. The women head to the ladies’ room to fix their helmet hair, as do some of the men. The sweaters and the ski pants are all elegant and perfectly fitted, the size of some of the women’s diamonds so close in size to a bird’s egg, it’s a wonder they fit them in their gloves.

  Non-members are forbidden from going any further than the entry desk without a member, even ski patrol, but luckily the restrooms are just inside the door, before the desk. There’s a cloak room outside the bathrooms, and so I parked myself on a bench over a row of ski boots attached to boot warmers and waited.

  I didn’t have to wait very long. She waltzed into the room, hooked her green parka on to one of the hooks and went straight into the ladies’ room without noticing me. I gave it a few minutes and then followed her inside. She was standing in front of the mirror putting on fresh lipstick when I came up behind her, positioning myself so that I was over her shoulder in the mirror. Her focus flicked from her own image to mine and then back to hers again. The look on her face was that of someone who has just seen a ghost – which is what I am sure she wanted me to be.

  ‘I didn’t know you were a member, Greta,’ she said as she continued putting on her lipstick.

  ‘Oh, I belong,’ I said, my face a perfect deadpan. ‘But I’m not so sure about you,’ adding after a perfectly timed pause, ‘Inga Lena.’

  Her recovery was more challenged this time. Her eyes flashed from privileged to terrified before they managed to regain privileged again. The way she stared at me in the mirror was like she wished she could will me away. But having to will me away wasn’t necessary. I was going.

  My plan was to drag it out of her over time. To drop the information I’d gathered slowly, bit by bit. Mention the Bergstroms’ small house. Magnus’s death. Christina at the Welcome restaurant. I’d torment her until she came clean about who she was. Or until she left town. I really didn’t care which. I didn’t know what she had done or how, but I did know she was the enemy.

  I backed out of the restroom leaving her gape-mouthed with her lipstick in her hand.

  The rest of the day kept us busy. With so much snow, we were seeing our share of maimed knees and dislocated shoulders. One skier had torn his Achilles tendon and was writhing in pain until I administered a healthy dose of ketamine. I thought of Achilles the warrior, so invincible until he wasn’t. And his mother who knew he was doomed to die in battle, a result of dipping him into immortal waters with her hand covering the very tendon that was giving the fallen skier so much grief.

  It was getting near to the end of the day and I was back at the top of Ruthie’s, near the scene of the crime, putting some equipment away in the shed that patrol keeps there. Reininger came skiing up as out of breath as I’d ever seen him.

  ‘Don’t close that,’ he huffed. ‘We need a sled. Just got a radio call about an injury on Traynor’s.’

  ‘Traynor’s? Is it even open?’ I queried.

  ‘Nope. Some ying yang ducked the rope and he’s down. Called from his cell. Sounds like an AFK. Neverman told me to get you.’

  Instead of being irritated by the late-in-the-day rescue, I was stoked. Traynor’s was the most difficult terrain on Aspen Mountain, the only part of the area rated ‘extreme’. The steep, rock-studded part of the mountain was named Traynor’s for the mine it sat upon. This part of the mountain was seldom open and even when it was could be a challenge to the best of skiers. The rescue promised to be a greater challenge than usual. The good news was, it wasn’t a heart attack. The injury was just another run-of-the-mill torn anterior cruciate ligament.

  Reininger pulled out the sled and headed down the catwalk adjacent to Ruthie’s. I followed right behind him to the Traynor’s entrance. Sure enough the ropes were up in addition to signs warning that it was dangerous terrain.

  ‘Damn poachers,’ said Reininger, watching me untie the rope so the toboggan could pass through. We entered the closed area and proceeded cautiously along the trail. There hadn’t been any avi work done in days, though luckily the area was heavily treed which limited the risk of a slide. Still the terrain was tricky with the tight trees and we moved carefully in the deep snow.

  ‘Was he able to tell anybody where he is?’ I asked, as we skied towards the far end of the ridge.

  ‘Yeah. He said he was at the north end and hadn’t gone down too far, so he’s got to be somewhere in here.’

  It had started snowing hard again, and the visibility was limited as we stared into the falling white.

  ‘Don’t see any tracks,’ I said. ‘I hope he’s conscious. Maybe we should call for some back-up to sweep.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Reininger, pointing towards a stand of trees further down the hill. ‘I think I see something moving over there.’

  ‘Probably a rodent,’ I said, skiing ahead of him through a glade to get a better look. I stopped at the edge of the glade and peered into the stand. I was ready to call out that I didn’t see anything when the snow in the stand started to move like an eruption coming to life. First the shape of a white arm followed by a white leg. And then a white mound that could have been a head. The experience was otherworldly, as if the injured skier had been absorbed by the mountain and was being spit back out. Little by little the skier took shape with his back to me. He was small and dressed entirely in white, which was why I hadn’t seen him in the first place. And then the white fur hood turned toward me and icy blue eyes glared at me from within.

  ‘Zuzana,’ I uttered, too shocked to call her Inga Lena, puzzled as to why she was in Traynor’s and why she had called for help.

  ‘Hello Greta,’ she said in a voice as icy as her eyes.

  ‘I was right. It was a rodent,’ I called back to Reininger.

  And then, like a bolt of winter lightning crackling down a gulley, my memory came back.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  I was in the ski patrol shack at the top of Ruthie’s. Neverman had sent me over to clean up the mess made by abandoned markers and coils of rope. It seemed he always gave us women the clean-up details. I had just finished getting things perfectly arranged and was locking up the shack when I saw Warren sliding off the Ruthie’s chair by himself.

  Since the normal route would take him past me, I raised my arm to wave hello. But he seemed distracted and didn’t even look my way. Instead he skied up to the rope that marked the area boundary. He stood there for a minute peering down into the Castle Creek Valley, and then, to my absolute horror, he ducked the rope and skied out of sight.

  I yelled at him to stop and was over there faster than a mother bear protecting its cub. It was snowing hard and from my vantage point at the ski area boundary I could see him below making his way across the mountain. He appeared to be looking for somebody, stopping every so often to call out a name. Then his figure shrunk in the storm.

  I wondered if he’d lost his mind. The aspect he was skiing was dangerous enough under normal circumstances, but considering the present conditions the danger was amplified. The pattern of melt and freeze and winds racking the open terrain followed by more snow and melt and freeze made the layers like concrete on ball bearings. But what could I do? Watch him ski to his death? My heart was on that hill with him. If I caught up to him at least I could direct him into the trees where the likelihood of a slide was lessened. I ducked the rope myself and followed him into the chute, staying light on my skis, praying with every turn that the mountain would hold.

  I was halfway to him when he stopped and I called out his name as loudly as I could. He turned at the sound of my voice and then raised his arm to point at something behind me. I heard the crack and turned toward the sound. And there she was, standing atop the fracturing snow. Dressed in white she blended into the landscape as the snow below her crumbled into a wave.

  Even though my
goggles were down she must have read the revelation in my eyes, because her lips curled and her cheeks rose in a facial shrug. ‘Now you remember,’ she said. ‘It’s really so sad that you decided to follow Warren that day. And now it’s too bad that you decided to kill yourself over him, all alone on an isolated ski run.’

  ‘Kill myself? Are you crazy? I have no intention of killing myself.’

  ‘That’s what they all thought until they found your body.’

  The absurdity of the situation wasn’t lost on me. Here was a woman who had intentionally triggered an avalanche to kill her husband, and she was telling me I was going to kill myself. Right. In front of Reininger, a fellow ski patroller.

  ‘Yeah? And how am I going to do it? The snow in here isn’t about to slide.’

  ‘You’re going to shoot yourself, Greta.’

  The voice I was hearing wasn’t Zuzana’s. It came from above, a man’s voice. My head wheeled round and one final image from the day of the avalanche slipped into place, completing the picture. A tall, dark figure with bowed legs standing on the upside of the fracture beside her. I turned back to the woman I knew as Zuzana. She was holding a gun, smiling with all the attraction of Medusa.

  ‘You two?’ I didn’t need to finish the sentence. I thought back to the day early in the season when Zuzana had turned her ankle on Silver Bell and took a toboggan down. Reininger was the patrolman on the scene. Had they been in cahoots before or had they started up then? ‘I just hope you can handle the bad jokes.’

  ‘I’m not worried about his jokes,’ said Medusa and without missing a beat she pivoted and shot Reininger right through the forehead. His face seemed to explode in his helmet and blood began to seep out even before he crumpled to the ground, his hands still on the grip of the toboggan.

  Right then I started to take her seriously. My natural defenses jumped into gear as my mind quickly assessed the situation. It didn’t take much to figure out that I was in the grips of a murderous woman, a sociopath with absolutely no concern for anyone but herself. I knew sociopaths were chronic liars, but they also had huge egos and were eager to prove themselves.