Killer Mountain

by Peter Pinkham

  In any case, there was nothing she could do. She had been promised her own monster. Frank. Was he really what they made out? She remembered his inhumanly dispassionate voice as he’d spoken of killing Hudson. Her shiver had nothing to do with the heating system in the building. A television set suddenly was loud.

  “...ninety-five minutes ago. Though no incident has occurred that has been officially attributed to the Nutcracker, a pall hangs over the six state region, which resembles a war zone in the wake of a victorious enemy. Smoke is rising from uncounted accidents on major highways and fires in commercial and residential property that firefighters are unable to reach. Storefronts are being demolished by looters in otherwise empty cities, whose streets are clogged by silent vehicles abandoned by frustrated drivers. Colonel Mark Silton of the Maine National Guard has issued a call for calm. `There is no reason for panic. Stay off the streets. Those who are near rivers should remain inside with their windows shut. But...’” The sound clicked off.

  “Don’t even need the pods,” Crow’s voice came from downstairs. “Shit! Don’t pull the finger off!”

  “Well hold it still.” Cabral. “The pods are essential. They’ll get through this panic, go back to how they were. A couple of weeks or a month, when everyone’s back at work as though nothing had happened, warm breezes will come in from the south, and they’ll start dropping like flies.”

  “You planned it this way all along. You never expected them to pay,” There was a tone of admiration in Crow’s voice.

  “Mmmhmm. This isn’t a battle Crow, it’s a campaign. You got to hurt an enemy before they surrender. Note number two will be on TV tonight so they remember us when it happens. Note three will arrive after the pods do their work. Then they’ll pay. When they sit and think about the family and friends they’ve lost and say to themselves `they are all gone into the world of light and I alone sit lingering here.’”

  “What?”

  “Henry Vaughan.”

  “Sure.” Ex-private first class Crow wasn’t comfortable when Sergeant Cabral got weird. “Where’d we get those pods anyway?”

  “Frank.” He lowered his already whispering voice so Cilla could barely hear him, even with her good ears. “Think I’d keep him around otherwise?”

  Crow sounded concerned. “Is he really...?”

  “Worse. You remember we used to have guys like that in the Army. Killing’s okay once you get used to it, but those guys like it. And Frank’s got it all screwed up with sex.”

  “Jesus. Carving initials on women...”

  “Right across their chests. The ones who live never wear bathing suits or low cut dresses.”

  Do they know I can hear them, Cilla thought. Feeling particularly vulnerable - as they obviously intended - with her arms and legs tied wide apart, she grasped at the idea that this was all for her benefit. A way to frighten her into doing...What? That was the ravine she couldn’t bridge. What use was she to them? No matter how she searched for a hidden asset, some reason for them to keep her alive, her mind kept sliding back to...“fun time”. She’ll be an amusement for a while. Then Gil will have his wish, and what was left of her dropped from the plane. It was not a warm room, but drops of perspiration stood out on her forehead and ran down her cheeks.

  “...in the desert. I sent him plane tickets and a recognition code.” Cabral.

  Desert! Damn, what had she missed?

  “So you didn’t know him before?”

  “Hell, he’s not my brother. My family’s all normal.”

  The unconscious irony was probably lost on Crow.

  The telephone rang.

  “Shit,” whispered Cabral. The phone was picked up. “Carlos, for Christ’s sake, don’t call me on this phone! Scared the crap out of me. Use my cell. You made delivery?...Yeah, where did he put them?...Jesus, Carlos, you should have insisted he tell you. Never give anyone complete control. Even him...A big one?...More snow won’t hurt. The winds could slow us down though...Lucky bastard, here I am freezing my cojones.” The instrument went back on its cradle.

  There was silence for a moment, then Crow, “The TV this morning showed troops hunting up and down rivers for those tanks.”

  “They never read Lear.”

  “Lear?”

  “It’s the lakes that are important.” Cilla was aware on some level of a pleased chuckle in his voice. But her head wouldn’t clear, and the awkward position she’d been strung-up in was sapping her remaining strength. When she relaxed aching arms, the cord bit into her wrists cutting off circulation. Cramps were starting in her upper legs; her body was wet with strain. She closed her eyes, repeating the familiar mantra, Om namah shivaya, om namah shivaya. Gradually her mind receded, a combination of exhaustion and deep meditation. Blessedly, consciousness went.

  Chapter 42

  She woke with a start, realizing she’d been out for more than just a few minutes. Something brushed her hair and was tugging at her arm. A hand with a knife appeared over her shoulder! Frank! She tensed her muscles; almost could feel the blade entering her back. Suddenly the cord tying her right arm parted, and the knife was sawing the cord that bound her left. With both hands free, she started to twist her body around to confront her attacker when she heard the door close and feet on the stairway. Bending, through her legs she could see the room was empty. Her fingers refused to obey as she fumbled at the knots on her feet. Hurry. Returning circulation sent daggers up her arms, but she got her legs free. Who?

  Crouching at the head of the stairs, on legs that wouldn’t yet hold her weight, she listened for sounds from the living areas, her mind racing from confusion, physical exhaustion, and hope. Finally satisfied, she tiptoed down the top flight. There was no one. All on the first floor? Or outside? What had to be Frank’s bedroom was the closed door at the end of one corridor. Someone wanted her to get...away? A trap maybe. For what purpose? Rubbing wobbly legs she forced her mind to consider. Could Crow have been so disgusted with Cabral’s description of Frank’s hobby that he sneaked back to set her free when the Nutcracker was out? Almost as unlikely as Cabral doing it himself. Then who? Frank? She had to get to Frank in any case, somehow make the monster tell her where Hudson was. She gazed longingly for a minute at the stairs down; freedom lay just beyond. Then shook herself and searched for a weapon. Nothing useful. A dull table knife would be no more effective than her hands, still aching like her legs, but their operation close to normal. Taking a breath, she quietly moved down the corridor to the North bedroom. Wasn’t that where the ghost dwelt? She remembered stories that the souls of those who had died on the mountain were in that bedroom. The knob turned easily; she edged it open. The room was empty, no sign of a ghost. There was a Bible on a shelf on her left. In memory of the departed? Or for them to read? Then she saw another door beyond. Again her muscles tightened as she slowly opened it. Beyond was complete dark, no window. She had to edge open the door all the way and let her eyes adjust to see in. It was a small bedroom, and empty. Damn. She stood, uncertain. Voices, coming from downstairs, made the decision for her; she ran back down the corridor and down the stairs, pausing at the bottom. The voices were coming from the other end of the building. She moved to the door she’d been brought in, grabbing her parka and gloves that had been thrown in a chair when they looked at her scar. How had Cabral known about that? When she opened the door to the outside, it was all she could do to keep the wind from blowing it wide. She shrugged into her clothes. Peering around the corner of the doorway she saw the helicopter, its blades winding down and two men standing outside it. Her quick glance told her they were neither Todd nor the wounded Kurt.

  If she could just make it to the Observatory building! The helicopter was between her and...sanctuary. Or would even that substantial structure nestled in the northeast face protect her? They didn’t hesitate to kill; would they not just wipe out those inside? But if she could reach there unobserved and get to a telephone she could at least reveal the Nutcracker’s plan. They hadn’t dropped the
pods yet; there was still time.

  The two heading away from the plane decided it. She closed the door behind her and crept toward the chopper. She’d almost reached it when a figure came out its door! Gil. He saw her just as she did him, but he wasn’t expecting trouble; she was. With both hands she grabbed his parka close to the neck and, putting a foot in his midsection, fell backwards, sending him flying over her to land hard on the icy rock ground; his breath exploded out of him. She kept her hold on the jacket and used his momentum to flip herself over him, landing astride his chest. A side-of-hand blow to his already wounded neck, and he was still. Bouncing to her feet, she ran toward the Observatory as quickly as she dared, battling both strong gusty winds and icy, treacherous ground. She’d reached a grimy Snowcat parked outside the Observatory entrance, when the first shot came, ricocheting off the cat’s treads. Damn! She ran behind the vehicle, protected for the moment. Could she make it to a phone before...? Another shot. No way, she’d only get the staff killed. She climbed on a tread and opened the door. The key was in the ignition! She slipped behind the wheel and had the engine running almost without thinking; Snowcats were familiar vehicles to her, she’d often driven them at the ski area, grooming slopes and trails and transporting supplies. A pile of cross country skis and poles fell off one of the facing benches in the rear and rattled around the floor as she moved out. The Auto Road - used by passenger cars in summer but now under twenty feet of snow - was the only vehicle exit from the summit. Someone was shooting from beside the helicopter. The plane. It was still light; they could easily hunt her down with it. Slouching low in the seat, she brought the cat to full speed directly at the helicopter. A bullet buried itself in the seat beside her. Two more shots and the Cat was on the shooter. With a crunch, vehicle and plane collided. The helicopter was pushed into a tilt; the Snowcat engine died. Frantically she tried to re-start it. No. Another man came out of the Yankee building. Reaching behind the seat she pulled out a set of skis and poles and, with them in-hand, ran slipping and sliding over wind-scoured ice toward the stairs that lead to the parking lots and the Auto Road. Another shot, a pistol this time, she thought. Did the tipped plane put anyone out of action?

  She reached the head of the stairs when she heard the sound of an engine being started. The plane? No, smaller. Snowmobile. She quickly slipped boots into bindings, tightened them and poled off down the snow-covered stairs that in summer were trod by thousands of hikers and sightseers. Could the shots have been heard inside the Observatory? Unlikely. The living quarters were on the floor below ground, and the fierce wind dispersed noise.

  The snow on the Auto Road had been packed down by the passage of Snowcats; for her it would be a novice trail to the base. Which was the problem. She couldn’t outrun the snowmobile on the gentle grade; it wasn’t steep enough for gravity to make the difference. And she was stuck with it.

  The cone at the top of Mt. Washington is sprinkled with rocks, lining the sides of the Auto Road and limiting access to it. Constant winds keep them scoured clean, and it takes a very good snow year for these rocks on the lee face to be covered. This hadn’t been one of those years. There was no way for skis to get through; they were confined to one narrow track on which she could be overtaken. Another shot, this one the louder bark of a rifle. The snowmobile had started after her. If she were hit it wouldn’t matter where she skied or how well; a wound of any kind that hampered her physically would eventually prove fatal, as they’d be able to hunt her down. Somewhere underneath was the awareness that failure on her part would also be fatal to many thousands of others, and with this understanding came the pressure of time. They hadn’t yet spread the pods. Her actions might move them to act faster, and once the beast was out of the bottle…

  Her mind went swiftly over what she knew of the mountain. If skis couldn’t navigate through the field of ice-covered rocks, neither could the snowmobile. Once through those on her right she would be in the upper snow fields and… There was a chance! She was about five hundred feet from the summit when she stopped, slipped out of the skis - noting their metal edges with relief - and with them in hand, started clambering through the jagged stones. A giant hand of wind pushed at her back. A shot ricocheted off a chunk of ice. She bent low, darting from side to side. The whine of another shot, but the sound of the snowmobile was fading. There was no way they’d be able to follow in that machine. She heard them starting over the rocks on foot and focused on keeping a fast pace without falling. She was breathing hard when she reached covering snow and stepped into the skis again. A deep breath and she was off; she’d escaped!

  She headed in the general direction of Lion’s Head, the trail they’d climbed the previous day, but her goal was Tuckerman, the awesome ravine with 55 degree walls, whose Headwall is the Mecca of springtime skiers - expert daredevils who carve check turns down the precipice, now closed to them until the end of avalanche season. Beyond the base of the Ravine is its bowl and a rise called the Little Headwall from which the Sherburne Ski Trail sinks below tree line. Once in the evergreens, she’d have cover all the way to the Appalachian Mountain Club center, a bustling complex with guides, winter hikers and service personnel on New Hampshire’s Route 16. And telephones. That would leave the men following little time to dump their deadly tanks; maybe so little they’d be forced to make a run for it.

  She wished for her own skis, something broader than the narrow cross-countrys. And better edges, these weren’t made to grip Tuckerman’s sheer walls. She was almost at the Ravine when there was the sound of another engine, and above the noise, rifle fire! It couldn’t be from the snowmobile... The helicopter! Damn! Mt. Washington has a bald head, no sanctuary tree clumps in which to hide. She could only keep going and hope the swaying of the plane hampered their aim, feeling the wash of its blade as she reached the Headwall. She crested the lip, her whole being suddenly alive to the breath-taking thousand foot drop that opened before her, but straining to focus on just the first few feet for a turning spot. A volley of fire followed her over the edge.

  Then an ominous groan from the mountainside. Cilla had heard that sound before. Her one trip abroad, skiing in the Alps. And she never wanted to again. They’d lost a member of their touring group that day to an avalanche that had swept down the side of the mountain taking everything in its path. She herself had been buried for over an hour when they dug her out. This time the shots had started it, or the plane. There was no looking for a place to turn; it was head to the bottom and pray.

  Over a half century before, a daring skier had won himself a race and a place in history by taking the Tuckerman Headwall without turning. No other racer had done it, or come close. Oddly for a run over frozen ground, the race was called the Inferno, and had been abandoned until recent years. But the name Toni Matt would never be forgotten in skiing lore. She knew his skis had been wider and more supportive than those she was wearing. Her only hope lay in modern ski technology, that hers might be stronger. She spread her legs wide for balance, and crouched low over the skinny ‘boards’. Behind her was growing thunder. A flash of relief; she’d apparently come over the lip at a good point. Under the snow, lurked giant boulders. If one lay in her path and the snow wasn’t deep enough it was all over, for there’d be no way to turn. Apparently none did. Her speed continued to increase; she was blind from tearing, would have cheerfully sold her soul for a pair of goggles. The thought flashed through her mind that perhaps she already had, for the devil was behind her, and this was her inferno. She hurtled down the mountainside with speed closing on eighty miles an hour, hands holding poles locked close to her skis, reaching the Ravine’s floor almost at the same instant as the cloud bearing hundreds of tons of snow and ice. A clod hit her back staggering her as she shot up the Little Headwall, but she regained a measure of control and crested it as the avalanche settled with a WHOMP that shook the ground around her. At her speed there was no way to quickly stop the plastic boards under her feet, certainly no genuflecting turns, the sort usually emp
loyed with that type ski. She risked a quick swipe at her eyes with a frozen glove in an effort to clear them, then bolted into the Sherburne Trail, gradually gaining enough control to slow her speed. She’d made it! The thought had no sooner appeared in her mind than her right ski caught on a projecting chunk of ice, and she flew through the air, tumbling down the trail, ending up in a gnarled hemlock. For the second time that day she lost consciousness.

  Chapter 43

  “The place has become a hospital annex,” growled E. Wallace Carver, from the bed he felt he’d left a year or two ago.

  “Your family keeps my work interesting,” agreed Dr. Jim Evans. “There’s nothing wrong with you though, that a few days in your own bed won’t cure. You’re exhausted. When did you last get some sleep?”

  “On the plane. Damnit, Jim, don’t fuss around me like an old woman. Take care of Loni.”

  “Her leg’s fine. You wouldn’t be if she hadn’t insisted you get back home. Think you’re still in your twenties?”

  “Seductive female. Cilla had to call the governor to get on a military plane. Loni cozied up to a colonel.”

  “You made it hard for her. She tells me it took two airmen to drag you onto the plane.”

  “Jim, Hudson’s out there somewhere, in the Arizona desert. The body they found wasn’t his. I should be there.”

  “To do what? Sit in the desert waiting for him to come by?”

  “What the hell am I contributing here? I...” Suddenly the lights in Carver’s upstairs bedroom went out.

  “Oops. Must be the storm,” said the doctor.

  “Storm? Just a few flurries. There’s a candle and matches on the bureau behind you.”

  The doctor fumbled his way across the darkened room. “No, there’s a blizzard headed our way. Up to a foot and a half expected; a couple inches on the ground when I arrived.” There was rustling from the bed. “You stay put, Wallace Carver. I’ll see to the folks downstairs.”