Killer Mountain

by Peter Pinkham

  She sighed. “You’ve got your generations mixed, Kurt. Right now I’m going to finish these checks and then I’m going to the hospital. We’ll discuss this later.” She bent forward over her desk and started signing.

  Momentarily taken aback, Kurt opened his mouth as if to speak, thought better of it, did a right about face and closed the door a little more firmly than necessary behind him.

  Cilla looked up at the sound. There was a showdown coming with Mr. Britton. She hoped she wouldn’t have to let him go. He was really good at his job, and the men who worked the snowmaking and the grooming of the slopes and trails followed him enthusiastically. If he went they might too.

  Ruth, the ski area receptionist, rang her line. “There’s a man named Andre Adams who’s coming by to see you this afternoon at one o’clock. I’m sorry, Cilla, he didn’t give me a chance to say `hold it’, just said he’d be here and hung up.”

  “Any idea what he wants?”

  “He said he was from Silent Spring, whatever that is.”

  “Isn’t that the environmental group that gave Skiway such a hard time with their expansion some years ago?”

  “Yes! That’s right! But that’s because Skiway wanted to use some National Forest land, isn’t it? We’re not on National Forest.”

  “No, we’re just a neighbor. Thanks, Ruth. I’ll see what Mr. Adams wants.”

  As it happened, a flat tire at lunch in the village made her half an hour late. Ruth greeted her at the employee entrance.

  “Where have you been?” Her chubby body quivered under a hastily donned ski jacket.

  “Sorry. Car troubles. Happened on the way back from the hospital, so I couldn’t call…don’t look at me like that. I didn’t have my cell phone. I take it Adams has arrived.”

  “I put him in your office. The way he chewed my head off he may eat the furniture.”

  “I’m sorry to put you through that. He’s a bear, huh?”

  “Who’s not hibernating. How’s the little girl?”

  “Not so good. She’s still unconscious; I’m going back later.”

  The bear had his back to the door, gazing out the window at ski lift operators getting ready for the day’s crowds, as she entered saying, “Mr. Adams, I do apologize…

  “Mrs. Rogers, you are obviously not aware of the seriousness of the situation…” He turned to face her, a lecturing finger raised. And stopped. “You… you’re Mrs. Rogers?”

  “Yes, and I was saying… Are you all right?” Adams indeed looked as though he’d hit a plate glass door that had suddenly materialized between them.

  “I… Yes… Yes, of course.” He gained control. Cilla saw a slim, well-built man in his mid to late thirties with rimless, octagonal glasses and a pointed face that right now carried a look of astonishment. “You took me by surprise. You look very much like… another person I know. You don’t have a sister…? No, of course not. At least Loni doesn’t.” He took a breath. “I seem to be babbling, don’t I. That’s not like me. May I sit down?”

  “Of course.” Cilla indicated a two chair grouping around a coffee table and took one herself. A strange start. This Loni must be someone special to him.

  Adams saw her look. “Loni is, or rather was, an important person in my life.” He peered at Cilla more closely. “Yes, I can see the differences. But you could be twins.”

  Cilla waited.

  “But of course that’s not why I’m here.” He rustled papers. “There is a report of the sighting of an animal here on your premises, an Indiana Bat, protected under the Endangered Species Act - the animal is protected, not the premises. The actual sighting took place nearly a year ago. I wrote a Mr. Carr, who was listed as Chief Executive Officer.” He referred to one of his papers. “Wrote him several times in fact. He has not chosen to respond. At least we have no record of a letter from him. I see you have the title of President at Great Haystack; is Mr. Carr still around?”

  “No, I’m also CEO. Mr. Adams, the ski area has been under new ownership since the end of the year. I found one of your letters from last year in the files after receiving the one yesterday. I am unfamiliar with the situation beyond that. What is this Indiana Bat? And who saw it?”

  “The Indiana Bat is a small creature about the size of a mouse, whose habitat - as its name suggests - is generally the Midwest. This is as far east as one has been observed. Only a handful are known to still exist. They have thus been designated an endangered species, and the Federal Government is charged with taking all measures necessary to preserve them. This one was seen by a skier last April 13.”

  “I understand it was seen in the Isis Cave area. That part of the mountain wasn’t available for skiing then. We are just now opening it up.”

  “Precisely. That work will of course have to cease at once. As will all activity within a radius of a quarter of a mile of the cave.”

  “You can’t be serious. That would take in almost the entire ski area!”

  “Four fifths of it to be exact.”

  “You plan to shut us down?”

  Adams put down his papers and looked at Cilla for a long moment. “That is the scenario the way it is supposed to be played out. However, I am not an employee of the Federal Government and thus have a certain latitude unavailable to those who are.” A wry grin. “What I am is human, though if the word gets out it will make my job impossible. The secret of any success I’ve had is in scaring the shit out people, if you’ll excuse the language.”

  “As you did with Ruth.”

  “She the girl outside?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s not disturb her view of me as a monster. Unfortunately I can’t continue the performance while facing a woman who could be the one I lived with for two years, and would have for longer had she…” He snapped his file shut. “I’ll tell you another secret; I’m not a bit convinced an Indiana Bat made it all the way to New Hampshire. My real interest is in protecting the National Forest. Great Haystack is right on the edge, but indeed doesn’t impinge on it. Were you utilizing even a few feet of Federal land…” he shrugged and left the thought unfinished. He put the file in his briefcase and turned to shake Cilla’s hand. “I understand you and your husband are friends of Bob Gold. Perhaps we could all get together to do a little ice climbing. Bob tells me Cathedral is in great shape. Do you climb?”

  “Years ago.”

  “I’ll ask Bob to set it up. Though not for Cathedral. Maybe something milder. And remember, I’m dangerous.” He opened the door. Ruth was at her desk just outside. Adams turned for a long look at Cilla. Then gave a slight shake of his head and closed the door behind him.

  After a few minutes on the telephone, Cilla knew a lot more about her visitor. Silent Spring, obviously named for the book by Rachel Carson that warned of the catastrophic consequences of inattention to human damage to the environment, had come into being sometime in the early nineties. Its Executive Director, Andre Adams, had made a name for himself as one of the leading environmentalists in the Northeast. His organization, headquartered in Boston, was responsible for new Clean Air laws in Massachusetts and Vermont, and his research on wind-carried acid rain had smokestack industries in the mid West quavering.

  In recent years Adams had turned his attention to the White Mountain National Forest and he had appeared at hearings on such projects as the Appalachian Mountain Club’s request for extension of its permit, the Forest Service arrangements for clear cutting of timber and Skiway Mountain’s plans to expand its ski area further onto National Forest land.

  Those she reached called him brilliant, tough and determined. Though a confirmed tree hugger herself, Cilla got the idea Adams could also be an executioner, depending on which side of the table you sat on.

  Bob Gold, a former Navy Seal who had retired to the Valley, often worked out with Hudson in the weight room at Cranmore Sports Center. Cilla’s phone call caught up with him there. His take on Adams was straightforward: a good guy, enthusiastic about his work. Sure a bit of a f
anatic, but probably had to be to get his point across in the world of big business.

  “He’s been staying with me for a few days. Have to throw him out tomorrow, though; the crew is coming to put in a walk-in freezer that’ll take part of the room he’s staying in.”

  “Starting a restaurant in Dundee, Bob?”

  “No, no. The freezer’s just for me. Cooking’s my hobby, you know.”

  “You ever meet a friend of his named Loni?”

  “No, but I’ve heard all I want to about her. They lived together a couple years until she walked out on him a few months ago. The guy has bent my ear about her the whole time he’s been here.”

  “Never saw a picture of her?”

  “Nope, why the interest?”

  “Adams said he wouldn’t close us down cause he couldn’t do it to someone who looks like her.”

  “That would be you?”

  “Yes. He seemed kind of squirrelly, was all hot to lower the boom on us when he came in.”

  “He can do it, Cilla, I’ve seen him operate. But he’s really a nice guy underneath. We’ve made a couple of trips into the backcountry this winter. Up until this Loni business he was interesting to talk to. In fact, I’d think you in particular would get along well with him.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, you’re kind of a flower person, aren’t you?”

  “What’s with you guys? Kurt gave me the same line this morning. Is it so crazy to want a clean home?”

  “Home?”

  “The earth, dummy. Where we live. You’re always out in the woods; you want to wander around it in smog?”

  “Yeah, that sounds just like him. We’re going up Dracula Divide tomorrow before he heads back to Concord. Why not take a few hours off and join us? You’ll never get Hudson to take you ice climbing.”

  “No, he’s not much for heights. I hated to ask him to fly to Europe.”

  “I miss him in the weight room. He keeps me at it; without him I’d probably sit home and veg. Hasn’t he been gone longer than he expected?”

  “Yes.” She wrinkled her forehead. “Back the day after tomorrow, I think. He took a side trip to Russia. You remember John Krestinski?”

  “Sure, his FBI friend. Met him and his wife last month when they were visiting you.”

  “John’s parents made their first visit back to St. Petersburg since they immigrated to the US back in the fifties. They were supposed to call John from there two weeks ago. They didn’t and they’re not at the hotel where they were staying. John asked Hudson to go to St. Petersburg and see what he could find out.”

  “Why Hudson? Doesn’t the FBI have counterparts in Russia? Like whatever came after the KGB?”

  “John doesn’t want to make an official case of it. I probably shouldn’t be telling you about it. So forget I did. Hudson speaks Russian; John doesn’t.”

  “Isn’t that a little backward?”

  “John was born in this country, and his parents wanted him to speak only English growing up.”

  “But hey, the FBI’s the expert on disappearances, isn’t it?”

  “I think John’s background has been a sensitive point in his job in the past. You know, an FBI agent with a Russian heritage in the days when we were fighting communism. I don’t think he wants that spotlight again. Where did you say you’re climbing tomorrow?”

  “Dracula Divide at seven AM.”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  Chapter 4

  Ice climbing in the White Mountains as a sport goes back many years to a couple of students at Dartmouth who made a newsworthy ascent. Never a widespread activity, it was on an up tick of popularity with young athletes of both sexes, looking for new ways to work off energy and create manageable dangers. Along with the increasing numbers to enter the sport, came advances in its equipment. Boots, jackets, technique had all evolved.

  Bob Gold had heard more about Adams’ visit to Great Haystack. “I understand your ski area has gone batty,” was his greeting to Cilla.

  “Bob’s level of humor is only slightly higher than that of the mammal he’s referring to.” Andre unloaded rope from his crossover. “I brought along one of the new ice axes I thought you might like to try.” He handed it to Cilla.

  “My role is cook,” said Bob, “and I have the finest P B & Js to be found in the Valley of the Saco. Stretched my abilities, but the occasion seemed to warrant it.”

  “He’s actually quite a chef,” said Andre. “He made duck a l’orange last night that was as good as any I’ve tasted.”

  “That’s why he’s not married. He wouldn’t let a woman in his kitchen,” said Cilla.

  “Not true,” said Bob. “I spend too much time in the woods to interest a woman.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Cilla.

  “Those with Native American heritage excepted,” Gold put in hastily.

  “I hear you’re getting evicted for a freezer,” said Cilla to Andre, testing the weight of the ice ax

  “The contractor thinks it’s pretty funny, a walk-in for a one-person household.” Bob tightened his bootlaces.

  Andre looked up at the mini glacier. “The usual ascent is to the left. You ready?”

  Thirty minutes later they reached a small island of scrub trees on the cliff face some two hundred feet above the valley floor, where climbers often paused for a rest. The three of them were all in excellent condition so kept climbing. Andre was in the lead, Cilla between him and Bob.

  She wasn’t sure what happened next. Though she’d done no ice climbing for many years, she’d gradually gained confidence as they ascended. Both men were obviously experienced climbers, and she liked the feel of the new ax in her hands. They’d gone several feet beyond the oasis when the rope yanked her off the ice, and, without warning she found herself sliding down the cliff! She swung her ax into the ice, but it didn’t hold. The island! She grabbed for a tree, but it was pulled out of her hands. Suddenly the rope tightened, and she found herself dangling in space. She grabbed at the ice for a hold, but couldn’t reach it. She looked up. Andre was hanging from the clump.

  “I’ve got you!” he yelled. “Hang on! I think I can…” he grunted with the effort as he wound the rope around a clump of small trees, then gradually pulled her up to the island. Bob had managed a hold on the ice and climbed to join them.

  “Boy, that was close,” breathed Bob. “Good work, Andre.” Then, “What’s wrong?”

  Andre was bent in pain, clutching his right arm.

  “You’re hurt. What happened?”

  “My shoulder,” Andre gasped.

  “Sprained?” asked Cilla.

  “I don’t know…” A spasm of pain. “It feels out of place.”

  “We better get you to the hospital,” said Bob. “Think you can rapelle down?”

  Andre gave a nod. “My left arm’s OK.” And with Bob’s help on the ropes, they were on horizontal ground in twenty minutes.

  Dr. Jim Evans at Memorial Hospital pronounced it a dislocation, but had more difficulty getting the shoulder back in place than he’d expected; by the time he was finished, his patient was bathed in perspiration. He met Cilla and Bob in the waiting room.

  “I’ll want to see him again in a few days. He shouldn’t be driving until then. He says he’s on vacation, where does he have to go?”

  “He’s been with me,” said Bob, “but I haven’t got space for him any more.”

  “I do,” said Cilla. “What’s he need?”

  “Rest. Gentle exercise.”

  “I swim a couple of days a week at the Club. He can go over there with me.”

  Andre didn’t like the idea when told. “I’m not a very social creature. It’s midweek, there are plenty of motels with rooms open.”

  “Are you allergic to a cat?” asked Cilla.

  “No. I’ve two of my own, but…”

  “Then it’s settled. It was my fall that wrenched your shoulder. The least you can do is let me help while it mends.” There were
more protests, but Cilla had made up her mind.

  Chapter 5

  February 16

  The last rays of daylight lengthened Hudson Rogers’ shadow on the snow in front of him as he began long swooping turns from one side of the trail to the other. Referred to in early days as “the Narrow Arrow”, The Needle had gradually been widened in order to, it was said, suit the tastes of contemporary skiers. Perhaps as likely it was the desires of ski area operators to accommodate more traffic on the same number of trails. For his taste he preferred the narrower trails, spiced with imaginative twists and turns, opening up crisp, white sculptures around each corner. He was almost finished ribboning White Snake, a new back-of-the-mountain trail scheduled for cutting come spring. It would justify its name.

  He jumped a mogul, spreading his skis wide, then bringing them together just before landing. Galendesprung. He hadn’t heard that word in years, though it used to be one of the compulsory forms in early freestyle competitions. Years later some of the mogul runs had come here to Mt Washington Valley. Hudson learned freestyle in his early teens and loved letting it all out: snaking through the powder at trail’s edge, spinning a 360 off a bump, fitting himself to the mountain’s contours. Wasn’t that what skiing was about, each run custom designed by you and the mountain? Today’s freestylers had lost touch with that.

  He reached the lip and stopped. His head throbbed from the jump. Perhaps he should have Jim Evans check it. Maybe the inquisitive doctor could restrain his curiosity for once. He himself had been surprised to find a houseguest on his return from Europe. Particularly a male houseguest. Cilla was wary of men - no, that wasn’t strong enough, she just didn’t like men - and would never consider giving one houseroom. An exception had been made for one who saved her life.