Killer Mountain

by Peter Pinkham

  Om namah shivaya, om namah shivaya, om namah shivaya. She repeated the mantra over and over. Slowly her mind cleared; the horror and despair of the past few days receded. The sound of the falling water soothed her. An hour passed. Then another. And more. She was one with the center of all things, from where the life force emanates. Trickles and flows to spread throughout the universe. Like the brook wending its way to the Saco, flowing, merging and growing on its way to other places, other lands and eventually the sea. And yet...She blinked. The falls were louder. She shivered. With awareness returning so did the cold of the night. She pried her frozen legs apart and let life flow back into them. Frozen. Of course. She took a handful of snow and rubbed her face with it. Then, leaving her bedding where it lay, she hurriedly made her way back to the cabin, stepped into skis, and recklessly hurtled down to the car through scarcely-seen trees illuminated only by the faint light of distant stars. Ten minutes later she was in her office at darkened Great Haystack base station, pouring over maps. She took a pencil and drew a circle on one. Then picked up the phone and dialed. The FBI number had no information on the whereabouts of John Krestinski, and how could they be expected to at this hour? She looked at her watch. 2:30 AM, March 16. She’d been at the brook longer than she’d thought. Thirty-three and a half hours to noon. She couldn’t wait for John; she’d take her cell phone. There was barely enough time if she started now...But she couldn’t do it alone. Not only didn’t she know the terrain in winter but she’d be no match for whoever she found there. If she found them. Who...She pushed the button, her address book opened to Kurt Britton.

  “Britton.” The voice was alert, might never have been asleep.

  “Cilla. I need you Kurt. And I need a third who knows the Presidentials in winter. Suggestions?”

  “Todd Seaver.” There was no hesitation. “He spends a lot of time in the back country.”

  Of course, she should have thought of him herself. Even in school while other kids were sliding their boots into alpine ski bindings, Todd was strapping on snowshoes to explore a new peak.

  “What’s happened?”

  “We’re going to climb Mt. Washington.”

  Silence. “In winter?”

  “Today. As soon as it’s light. If I can get Todd, we’ll meet here at the ski area in two hours.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Todd’s voice was heavy with sleep. It took a while to convince him she was serious, but once the idea took hold she could hear his excitement building. But first his cautions. Did she know what she was getting into? The Presidential Range has weather like no other in North America. Nearly a hundred and fifty people had died on Mt. Washington. Unpredictable was the kindest word used for winter weather on top of the Presidentials. High storms sweeping in off the Atlantic encountered no obstruction until they crashed into these peaks, often without warning. The valley below might be pleasant, even sunny, while up there bitter-cold, hurricane-force winds were whipping snow and ice and cutting visibility to a few feet.

  She stopped the flow. “You have enough equipment for three?”

  “Sure. Goggles, ice axes, MICRO spikes. You want snowshoes or skis?”

  “Both.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “We’ll be hunting.”

  “What?”

  “Killers.”

  Chapter 33

  Lion Head Trail is the preferred winter route up Mt. Washington, beginning and ending on the famous Tuckerman Ravine trail, trod by thousands of spring skiers climbing to try their skills on the Ravine’s famous Headwall, after commercial ski areas closed for the season. But avalanche danger was still high, and the three were alone as they made their way from the Appalachian Mountain Club lodge in Pinkham Notch. They moved along quickly, skis and packs on their backs, snowshoes on their feet, all in top physical condition, stopping only for a cold breakfast at the Harvard Hut shelter. And explanation. The pace of their climb had not encouraged conversation, but now...

  “Okay, give.” Todd said it first. “Kurt’s got a rifle. Who or what are the `killers’ we`re looking for? Do you know, Kurt?”

  “It has to do with The Nutcracker, doesn’t it?” The blackmail story had been out for 36 hours, and only a hibernating bear would have been unaware. The collective name given the extortionists was now common, and fit people’s’ feeling about what was happening to their lives.

  “Yes, Kurt, it does. I couldn’t tell you sooner, but if we don’t find them before noon tomorrow it won’t make any difference to a lot of people.” And Hudson. She restrained the urge to get climbing again. Todd and Kurt had to know what they were looking for.

  “The Nutcracker, here?” Todd was incredulous.

  “Let me tell you why I think so.” She told them what the Governor had learned of the frozen pods, and rivers as their delivery vehicle. “There are troops spread out along all major New England rivers looking for dispensers. They don’t expect to catch someone dumping pods in a river; they feel there must be equipment on the banks ready to spew them out, pretty sophisticated devices, cause they’ve got to keep the pods frozen until they’re released. But even if it’s there, the chances of finding it in time are zero.”

  “And you think they’re here?”

  “Do you remember why the White Mountains were made a National Forest?”

  “Sure, the Weeks Act,” said Todd. “Because they’re the headwaters of New England’s rivers...” His voice faded out. Then, “So we’re looking for high tech dispensers!”

  “Not high tech. One of the oldest dispensers on earth.”

  Kurt nodded slowly, “Snow.”

  “That’s right. Melting snow. The germ is harmless as long as it’s frozen. The pods can be spread on the snow around the headwaters and float downstream when the snow melts.”

  “Wouldn’t the pods melt at the same time the snow did and release the germ...here?” An uncomfortable thought.

  “From what I’ve gathered, the temperature of the water has to be a little higher than the ice water you get from melting snow. I don’t suppose they know just how far downstream they’d get warm enough to melt.”

  “Or care,” said Kurt.

  “True. Another hundred thousand people more or less won’t make a difference.

  “Maybe it wouldn’t melt at all, go all the way to the ocean. How do they know that won’t happen?”

  “Because they tested it in the Saco.”

  “The deaths we’ve had!” Todd whistled soundlessly.

  “Amanda Russell,” said Kurt.

  “The little girl who died. But she wasn’t near the river.”

  “She spent her day eating snow, snow we’d just made from Saco River water.”

  Todd had been staring out at the snow-covered mountain. “Maybe it’s already here.” He turned to Cilla. “Why couldn’t they have spread the pods weeks ago?”

  “Suppose they were paid the six billion. Sure, there’d be a major effort to find them, but nothing compared to the pressure if a half million people died afterward.” A small unspoken doubt. Would there really be much difference in the pursuit? Unproductive thinking. “Maybe there’s some significance to the date, March seventeenth I don’t know. I just think they’ll wait until noon tomorrow to start spreading.”

  “But they could be anywhere in the mountains,” said Kurt. “Why here?”

  “For widest distribution from the smallest area. Look at the map.” She unfolded it and spread it out so all three could read. “Streams originating on Washington flow not only into the Saco and down through Maine, but the Pemigewasset which, see...” she traced it with her finger...“becomes the Merrimac down here through Concord and Manchester and on into Massachusetts.”

  “And the Ammonoosuc,” exclaimed Todd.

  “But it flows north, toward Canada,” said Kurt.

  “It’s deceiving. Follow it further. It actually turns south and empties into the Connecticut, and that, of course, is the big one.”

  Todd’s
finger moved across the map. “Yeah! That hits both New Hampshire and Vermont, then the middle of Massachusetts and Connecticut. So right from here on Mt. Washington they can infect five states.”

  “Several times,” said Kurt. “With three major rivers carrying presents.”

  “So let’s get moving,” said Cilla, shouldering her pack.

  “I’m having trouble visualizing how they’d spread it,” said Kurt as they started off.

  “A back-carried sprayer like a flame thrower,” suggested Todd.

  “Which would only carry a small quantity of the pods. I picture something like a lawn sprinkler,” said Cilla.

  “With hose connected to what?”

  “A pod tank.”

  “Why not dump it from a plane?” said Kurt.

  “Didn’t you hear?” put in Todd. “All private planes are grounded. The TV said they’d shoot down any unauthorized.”

  The trail got steeper, exertion cutting off conversation. But Cilla couldn’t get rid of the feeling that something had been said that had more meaning for her than the actual words spoken. Something important.

  Chapter 34

  The trail followed the north wall of Tuckerman Ravine, and they climbed with crampons on their feet and skis secured on their backs. In a little over an hour Todd said they were crossing the Alpine Gardens Trail, and a half hour later they rejoined the summer Tuckerman Ravine Trail.

  “We’re at Cloudwater Spring,” Todd announced.

  Kurt took the rifle off his shoulder.

  Todd surveyed the mountainside with field glasses. “There’s no one here.”

  “Yet,” said Cilla.

  “They’d have to be by now.”

  “Why?”

  “Set up time. The tanks wouldn’t be easy to get up here.”

  Todd took off his watch cap and rubbed his head. “You know, there are a number of little streams off this mountain. How do we know we’re checking the right ones?”

  “We don’t have to go to every one. I figure we swing around to Crawford Path. It runs along the ridge of Monroe, Franklin and the other peaks. We can see any activity on either side, if the weather holds.”

  The wind had strengthened by the time they looked down at the Lakes of the Clouds nearly a mile away. From high above it looked as if they could reach them with a few giant jumps. Cilla could see no one through her field glasses, but as she watched, the two little ponds and the AMC shelter were being rubbed out by a chalky bank of snow carried on a stiffening breeze.

  “Uh oh.” Todd had stopped.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Cilla.

  “Just above that AMC hut down there is a sign telling hikers climbing up to stop. It’s to make them think twice about going on. It reads that this stretch of terrain between us and the hut has the worst weather in America. And it looks like we’re about to get a demonstration.”

  “What’s our option?”

  “Climb up to the Observatory and wait it out.”

  “We haven’t the time, Todd.”

  He looked at her for a moment, then nodded and started down. The northwest face of the summit cone had been scoured clean by winter wind that blew hard in their faces. That, along with the treacherous ice that clung tenaciously to the rocks and the diminishing visibility, slowed their descent to a cautious hobble.

  A third of the way down, Todd motioned to the others it was time to put on facemasks and goggles. “I’m afraid we’re in for it,” he shouted above the gale. “We have to make it to the hut.”

  “Won’t it be closed up?”

  “Yes, but there’s a refuge room that should be open.”

  Suddenly, the full force of the wind hit like a fist. Cilla was knocked off her feet. Kurt tried to get her up and slipped down himself.

  “Rope!” yelled Todd.

  It was in Kurt’s pack. Todd crawled over to him, and Kurt turned his back so Todd could get at it. Tied together they inched their way down, only the piled-rock cairns indicating the trail. Cilla, tied behind Todd, could barely make him out just a few feet ahead. The wind became a howling monster, screeching over their heads and battering their bodies like a wild sea against cliffs. She fell again on the icy rocks. It was no consolation that the others did as well. Finally Todd stopped.

  “I’ve lost it,” he shouted. “Hunker down and wait for a clearing.”

  “Let’s go on,” yelled Kurt. “It can’t be much further.”

  “No way. There are major drop-offs around.”

  “He’s right,” shouted Cilla. “We just have to wait.”

  They huddled together against the piercing wind; Cilla’s legs were numbed. But as cold as they were, colder still was an icy spot that grew in her stomach. For one of the few times in her life she felt completely powerless. The three were glued to those rocks until nature released them. Time was slipping by, and they were no closer to finding any of the Nutcracker’s installations. Or Frank. Who could lead her to Hudson. What was she doing in this blizzard in northern New England when her very life was draining away in the deserts of Arizona? She felt a tug on the rope. Todd.

  “It’s let up a bit.”

  If it had, she couldn’t tell. Her goggles crusted and nearly covered with ice, Cilla made out no signs of a trail, but Todd started the party moving. A ski pole in each hand, they leaned into the demon whose huffing and puffing threatened to blow them off the mountain. They fought for every foot. She figured at the rate they were going it would take a solid three hours to ease down the half-mile or so to the cabin. It felt even longer before its dark shape loomed in front of them. Todd led them to a door, solidly encased in ice. Kurt and Todd got to work and had them inside in twenty minutes. It was a tiny ten-foot square enclosure, only to be used in life-threatening situations. Cilla had no question this was one, as each collapsed on one of the three double-decker bunks, the long battle against hurricane force winds taking its toll. She slept; later she woke to undiminished howling outside. And too dark to continue even if the storm had abated. They’d have to wait for daylight, and just a handful of hours to spot the Nutcracker’s work. And find Frank. And get to Hudson. It wasn’t snow that blurred her eyes. She closed her mind to pictures. And soon again her eyes.

  When she next woke it was quiet. She opened the door to look at her watch. It was too dark to read it, but she felt it must be morning. She searched for her cell phone. Gone. It must have come out when she fell on the way down. It would be light enough to travel soon. She looked back in the refuge room, that Todd called the ‘dungeon’. He was sleeping soundly. Kurt was missing. She could see one pack other than her own, which she’d used as a pillow. She pulled it to her and reached a hand inside. It closed on a small box, safety matches. She lit one and peered in the pack. On top was a long wallet, which she picked up. Kurt’s. She was about to put it back when a folded paper fell out. She lit another match and scanned it, an article on foreign substances found in snow. She heard footsteps outside and hurriedly put everything back, lying down and feigning sleep. Kurt. He lay down quietly. But Cilla’s mind was working furiously. Kurt knew what they were looking for before being told! Was he one of them? She was becoming paranoiac. But…

  If he was part of the Nutcracker’s gang why was he here, helping her? Keeping an eye on her? Making sure she didn’t find the snow sprayers? But he hadn’t tried to change their course; he didn’t show concern where they went on the mountain. That could mean they were on the wrong track. Even on the wrong mountain. She found she still had the matches in her hand. Quietly she reached in her pack, then opened the door and went out. Though a kitten to last night’s tiger, the wind was still stiff and cold. She moved to the opposite side of the cabin from it, sat on her gloves leaning against what must be the hut’s propane gas supply in season, and unfolded the AMC map of the Mount Washington Range she’d taken from her pack. The matches wouldn’t stay lit. Fortunately, a glow was beginning behind the mountain’s rocky cone. As her eyes became used to the light she could make out th
e lines and words.

  She realized something had been bothering her about Mount Washington. People. There were too many of them. Not only was there the Observatory staff at the summit, in addition there were the hikers, those young enough or foolhardy enough to challenge ‘the Big One’ in winter. On a rare sunny day there could be several dozen pairs of eyes on the mountain. Would The Nutcracker take a chance with that kind of a crowd? Then what?

  Was there any other place like Washington itself? Any other mountain with headwaters for five states? Monroe, Franklin, Eisenhower and Pierce didn’t, and they were all part of greater Mt. Washington, and as such, might have climbers. Others? The problem was if you got south of that ridge water couldn’t reach the Connecticut River; north of it and you rule out Maine, central New Hampshire and eastern Massachusetts. East of it and the Connecticut is lost again. West it could only be Mt. Tom, Mt. Field or Mt. Willey, all three across Crawford Notch in Grafton County. And in the town of...the letters were spaced out to cover a large area and difficult to read...B...E...T...H...L...E. Bethlehem? The village of Bethlehem was fifteen or twenty miles away But towns are a lot bigger than the villages that provide their names. She didn’t need the map for any more. She knew which one of those three mountains was the killer, supplying water for five states, for three rivers bearing deadly gifts. Probably the only one in the White Mountains, more the source than even Washington.

  I’ve been stupid, she whispered to herself. Oh, Hudson, I’ve let you down. I was so sure I had it right. If I’d just taken a few more minutes with the map. She closed her eyes. It had been three days he’d been in the desert, perhaps hurt. Was he really still alive or only so in chambers of her mind. She shook off the moment of weakness. There was still time; she had to believe that.

  She pulled open the refuge room door.

  “Todd! Kurt! Time to get moving.” It was 5:30 AM, March 17.