Killer Mountain

by Peter Pinkham

  “I’d have asked you the same if it had been my parents. Your father works for the UN doesn’t he?”

  “Yeah. Started as a translator. The last year or two he’s been working from their office in Switzerland. This was to be their first vacation in over a year.”

  “Is there a glimmer of hope the events up our way aren’t connected?”

  “Sure, the Bartlett episode may have just been a random home invasion that’s now over. And the St. Petersburg head-knocker may have only been after money just as we thought. There may be no connection at all…”

  “Yeah, those are the disclaimers.”

  But neither believed it, and the drive home for Hudson was longer than the way down.

  His wife received a little stronger hug than usual.

  “Hmmmmm.” After a minute she pushed him back to look in his eyes. “Okay, something’s wrong. What did John say?”

  “Offered sympathy. Suggested it might have to do with drugs. They’re spreading out from the Boston area. He said he was surprised we hadn’t seen them up here before. Drugs aren’t his field, but he said he’d pass the word along to those working in it.”

  “Those men weren’t after drugs, Hudson.”

  “I know. So I told him. Probably house jackers, if there is such a thing.”

  The silence sat while he took off his coat. Then Cilla said softly, “So we’re on our own if they decide to return.”

  “We’ve been there before.”

  They went into the living room. “I just got in myself. I butted heads with Kurt today, and Gail wanted to talk about it.”

  “Break his leg?” An inside joke. Cilla had training the equivalent of a black belt in tae quon do, and a hardened outlook on men and life brought on by the murder of her Indian mother and rape of herself at age fifteen. Her intensity in practice had, in one case, accidentally broken the leg of her best friend and fellow practitioner.

  “Better.” Comfortable on the couch, she told him the Bale Out story.

  Hudson, listening, felt a glow of almost paternal pride - though he wouldn’t have been enthusiastic about that adjective. “Good girl. I’m surprised Kurt made it as close as he did, the way he attacked the trail.”

  “Me too. He’s almost as strong as you.”

  “Got stronger legs anyway. Just as you must have.”

  “Something in me has gotten stronger. I’ve made a decision to get the quad.”

  Hudson nodded. “Still in time to get it up for next winter.”

  “Barely. God, have I procrastinated over this. I should have decided a month ago, Hudson, but I just wasn’t sure.” She covered his hand with hers. “I know how you’ve hated the idea of putting more skiers on the trails.”

  He took both her hands. “I’m selfish. I’d love to have a mountain to us. You’ve got to look at it as a business.”

  She smiled and took her hands back. “Sitting at my desk after the race with Kurt I suddenly felt it was time I started running Great Haystack. Up to then I felt like a kid in school. Today was final exams.” She shook her head. “Silly, isn’t it? The foolish race has nothing to do with what I’ve learned about ski area operation.”

  “No different than electing as class president the guy who throws a rope on the football field. It’s about confidence and leadership. And you’ve started to get them together.”

  “Bob Gold called. Andre still hasn’t gone back to work, and he and Bob and I are climbing Frankenstein Gulch tomorrow.” She grinned. “You are, of course, invited.”

  “Thank you. I’m already booked to jump off Cathedral Ledge.”

  Hudson was feeling a little extra glad to see her. The conversation with John Krestinski troubled him more than he’d admitted to himself. Up in their bedroom lying on the bed, he watched her take off her sweater and then go into the bathroom, closing the door before further disrobing. He shook his head, bemused. The trauma of a decade ago had made her a very private person. From the rape attack at the age of fifteen to four months ago, her vision was that men carried disgusting weapons hidden in their pants, and during that period had arranged her life to never encounter them. She still could not bear having a man touch her in any way. And, with the exception of her cousin, Kabir, with whom she’d been brought up and who was “family” not a “man”, and Hudson, none put a hand on her shoulder or took her arm in traffic. During her dark ages she’d buried a sylph-like body under baggy jeans, corduroys and heavy checked shirts, and rolled waist-length hair into an enormous bun over a cameo locket face that made one wonder - should anyone look, and few did - if her long, slender neck could hold it all up in a high wind.

  She’d developed weapons of her own, as Hudson discovered when he had innocently triggered them. A little like dealing with a hand grenade, he’d thought after that episode; any boyfriends - and at the time the thought never occurred to him he might someday be in that category - better be careful pulling the pin. But it hadn’t turned out that way. By the time sex was brought into their relationship, she’d been the one who’d done the bringing - awkwardly, fearfully, yet determined that phobias not prevent her from pleasing the man she loved. An old fashioned attitude that delighted Hudson with its fresh innocence, yet along with it a fierce emotion that awakened the same in him. She was a one-man woman, and the man hadn’t gotten away.

  How precious she was to him. He couldn’t allow anything to happen to her. The sudden loss of his well-loved first wife, not even a year ago, heightened his apprehension. The European trip was the first time he and Cilla had been apart since their marriage. A sudden surge of desire tightened his groin. But Cilla was not someone - even yet - for whom the mere mention of an interest in sex was automatically followed by turning down the sheets. It had to be approached just right.

  Yet Cilla had another talent, one Hudson sometimes forgot. When it concerned her, she knew what he was thinking almost at the same time he did. The bathroom door opened; she was wearing a nightgown, one he hadn’t seen, undoubtedly for summer it was so airy and light. And she paused for just a moment with the light behind silhouetting her body, obviously diaphanous. Long, slender legs with smoothly rippling muscles. Slim, almost boyish hips encased what he knew was a taut flat stomach. His eyes had made it to her waist, when the garment slipped to the floor and she stood naked in the doorway. He lay very still, suddenly unable to catch his breath. She could do this to him as could no one else, even Sylvia. Long, dark hair caressed her shoulders over impossibly firm, porcelain breasts. She shivered, and he knew posing like this was scary for her, never done or even contemplated for the first twenty-five years and eight months of her life. But it was also exciting, and when he reached out for her she pulled him to his feet and wrapped herself around him, allowing the vulnerable feeling of her nakedness and him fully-clothed to possess her. Their lips finally parted, and he pushed her from him so he could again see all of her. She smiled hesitantly and self-consciously dipped her chin toward her shoulder with a barely visible shaking of her head. He kissed her neck, cupping her breasts in his tanned hands. Then, with a sudden movement, scooped her into his arms and brought her to the bed. She was as aroused as was he, but where another might have pulled at his clothes to hurry things along, she lay back on the pillow and waited, an impish smile at his fumbling, pulling jockey shorts down over a suddenly awkward profile.

  Intimate touching was still frightening; her breath came in tiny pants at the feel of his hardness on her thigh and she trembled as his hands ran over her body. By the time the closing scene began she was shaking all over. Part ecstasy and part the terrifying sensation of being run on a sword, forced a sound between a scream and a gasp from her lips.

  Swallow Hill Road was oblivious to the climax of nature’s oldest drama.

  Chapter 13

  It was just after eight when Hudson found Wally Carver at his door.

  “You’re out early.”

  “I’m a senile old fool, Hudson.”

  “Too far gone to hold a coffee cup?�
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  Carver plopped himself at the kitchen table without taking off his heavy overcoat. “I do not know what possessed me. Black.”

  Hudson poured him coffee and himself tea and sat down opposite Carver. He waited.

  “Do you remember a man named Preston Sturgis?”

  “Three or four years ago. You got him through bankruptcy.”

  “He tried to get his money back overnight. In drugs, I don’t know how far in. Showed up at my door a couple of weeks ago wanting me to hide him.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, I did.”

  “Where?”

  “In the cabin across the river. I’ve had it fixed up from last year. Heat, electricity and running water. Still no palace, but it can get through winter.”

  “So…?”

  “He’s gone. Went down to bring him some food this morning. Yes, I’ve been supplying him. Place was empty. No car. I’d told him if he wanted my help not to leave. I didn’t want him wandering around town getting shot at.”

  “Would it come to that?”

  “They blew up his apartment on Beacon Street.”

  Hudson said gently, “Let’s go take a look.”

  The cabin had to be approached by a quarter mile driveway from Route 302. The snow covered woods road wound around and under trees. If there hadn’t been tire marks, it would have taken more than casual observation to tell what was road and what was just another space between hemlocks.

  “No car.”

  The door was unlocked, and there was no one in the cabin. Outside, boot holes in the snow led down to the Saco River. There were several sets, as though one person had made the trip several times, or a number once. The stream was edged with ice, but showed no signs anyone had tried to cross it, or walk along its bank.

  “Could he be just out for coffee?”

  “Clothes are gone.”

  Hudson opened the small refrigerator. There was a solitary milk carton. “Whew. This has gone.” He emptied it into the small sink and started to run the water. Something fell out, something wrapped in cellophane. He picked it up, inside was a piece of cardboard. He unrolled the thin wrapping. “He left you a note.” With the cardboard smoothed on the counter, they read:

  Might as well live in a cave as here with my angst.

  Try to turn things around. Going back to Mass.

  Thanks for your help.

  Preston

  “Angst,” said Wally.

  “Apprehension, insecurity. He probably had all that.”

  “Yes. But an odd word for Preston.”

  “A note at the bottom of the milk so you’d find it? Others might not?” Hudson gazed about the cabin. “Let’s go back to my place.”

  Neither spoke a word until they were taking off coats at the Rogers’ house. “Good riddance. The man was…” He was stopped by the look on Hudson’s face.

  “Sit down, Wally. There’s more to this. Our house was invaded by a couple of thugs a while ago. John Krestinski feels there’s a good chance they’re part of a drug ring.”

  “Jesus.” He stared at Hudson. “You said `invaded’. You mean robbery? You were there at the time? Why didn’t I hear about it?”

  “I came home in the middle of it. It looked like they wanted to take Cilla with them.”

  “Kidnap her?”

  Hudson nodded. “We had no idea why. But now…”

  “You think it has to do with Sturgis?”

  “Drug people are after him.”

  Carver pursed his lips. “Hudson, I’ve made an error in judgment. I should have left Sturgis in the snow.”

  “I think John should know about this.” Hudson brought the kitchen phone to the table and dialed. Krestinski was in the building, they’d page him. Hudson pictured the FBI offices in City Hall Plaza; his friend wouldn’t be happy to hear more problems from him so soon. He came on the line.

  “John, does the name Preston Sturgis mean anything to you?”

  “Should it?” The FBI man sounded tired.

  “Maybe not. He’s someone in drugs.”

  “Hold on.” He was back in over a minute, the exhaustion gone from his voice. “What’s happened?”

  “He was a client of Wally Carver’s a few years ago when he went through bankruptcy. He appeared at Wally’s door a couple of weeks ago, saying both his car and his Boston apartment had been bombed and asking Wally to hide him. Wally did…”

  “Like a damn fool,” muttered Carver to a table lamp.

  “…without telling anyone. This morning he’s gone; left a note saying he was going back to Massachusetts. Is he wanted?”

  There was silence for long enough that Hudson thought the connection had been broken “I’m coming up. Can you book two rooms someplace?”

  “Yes.”

  “You and Wally both be there this afternoon?”

  “Sure. You sound serious.”

  “At three o’clock.” The call disconnected.

  Chapter 14

  Frances Ingalls was in her late thirties, Hudson guessed, and carried herself like an athlete. She had the soft bounce to her stride of one of the big cats that roam the African plains, her calf muscles well-packed sausages under her suit skirt, firm and rippling with each step. Curly brown hair was close-cropped around a round face. She was an FBI agent, and sat with Hudson, Wally and John Krestinski in the Carver living room. Wally wouldn’t hear of them staying at a motel.

  “Frances has been working on the Sturgis case,” John began, “along with the Boston Police. He is indeed into drugs; he’s not one of the top players; they’re trying to find out who is.”

  Ingalls took up the story. “One reason we’re interested is we’re not the only ones looking for Preston Sturgis. Some others who play pretty rough have been asking questions. The part about his car being bombed isn’t common knowledge. His daughter had it not him. She wasn’t in the car when it went off, so she’s OK, at least physically. But she saw it happen and is scared. She knows what her father’s been doing and wanted to get away from him. We agreed to help, and she is now in a secure place.”

  She looked at Krestinski. He gave a slight nod.

  “The ones looking for Sturgis are members of the mob he worked for. A Russian mob.”

  There was silence for a moment. Then Hudson asked quietly, “So the ones at my house were only after Sturgis?”

  “What do you mean `only’?” barked Wally. He turned to Krestinski. “If they suspected Preston would come to me, what were they doing at his place?”

  A knock at the back door. “That’s Cilla.” Hudson went through the kitchen to the door. Frances Ingalls took the break to refill her coffee cup.

  Cilla stomped snow off her boots. “Found your note to come over here. What’s going on?”

  “Hello, love. John Krestinski is here with another agent from his Boston office. We’re in the living room.” Hudson smiled into gray eyes as he bent to kiss her. There was a crash behind him. He turned quickly.

  “Jesus Christ!” Frances was frozen, with coffee running down her skirt, the cup in pieces on the floor.

  “Frances, what’s wrong?”

  The FBI woman was reaching for words. “This… this is Mrs. Rogers?”

  “Sure is,” said Cilla with a puzzled smile. “You the FBI agent?”

  “Yes. Yes I am.” Frances offered a hand, then dropped to her knees to pick up pieces of broken china. “I’m so sorry.” Wally and John Krestinski came from the living room. “It’s just that….” She stood up and looked intently at Cilla. “God! You’re a dead ringer for her.”

  “For who?”

  “Alexandra. Alexandra Sturgis, Preston Sturgis’ daughter. We’re supposed to have her safely tucked away. And you… you could be her twin.”

  Cilla looked at her husband. Then back to Frances, “Who’s this Sturgis?”

  “A crook,” growled Wally.

  The FBI man was studying the Rogers. “I saw that. This isn’t the first time you’ve heard of Alexandra.” />
  “A man named Andre Adams, who was staying with us,” said Hudson. “He said the same thing about Cilla having a double.”

  “Andre Adams is Alexandra’s fiancé,” exclaimed Frances. She lowered her voice. “He’s here?”

  “Not any more. He moved back to Bob Gold’s house.”

  “Adams doesn’t know what happened. We wouldn’t let Alexandra tell anyone we were hiding her. Tough on him; he’s probably pretty worried.”

  “No, he thinks she dumped him. But he was talking about someone named Loni.”

  “Same person,” said Krestinski. “Let’s go sit down.” In the living room he continued. “A few months ago she came into our Boston office, saying someone was trying to kill her father, Preston Sturgis. I wasn’t personally involved and didn’t get up to speed until this morning. She had seen his car blown up and was frightened. We had a file on him that linked him with a drug group. Nothing definite and nothing he could have been charged with in any case. But we knew enough to take her story seriously.” He leaned forward, putting his hands on his knees. “We suggested she indeed might be in danger and to stay away from him. She was living with a man in North Andover, this fellow Adams. On our advice she moved out to a safe place.”

  “If you want to know what she looks like, stand in front of a mirror, Cilla,” said Frances.

  “Sturgis was a client of mine,” said Wally, “who turned up on my doorstep two weeks ago asking me to hide him. I did until this morning. He’s skipped.”

  “Which is why those men were in my house, looking for Sturgis and thinking I was Loni?” Cilla was skeptical. “Doesn’t make sense. So there’s a resemblance; a lot of people look like each other. Why would anyone think he was my father? There’s no…” She stopped.

  “There’s more to it than appears,” said Krestinski. “There’s reason to believe that this isn’t just a squabble over drugs. In fact I have some other agents on the way up here.”

  Hudson raised his eyebrows. “The little I know about the FBI tells me you don’t have so many agents you can just call up a gang of them. Are they to find Sturgis, protect people here or for some other reason?”