Devil's Run

by Frank Hughes

  Easy Street was also the right of way for the chair lift, and I began using the green metal pylons like slalom gates, cutting around them in increasingly sharper turns. My muscles remembered what to do with no awkwardness or hesitation, and the skis themselves seemed to anticipate my needs. I only had to roll my ankles and they responded. Feeling confident, I pointed straight down the hill and dropped into a tuck to pick up speed. I soon caught up to the others.

  After a quarter mile the narrow passage opened into a broad meadow, the trail marked only by the groomer’s corduroy. This part of the mountain was completely exposed to the sun, and I had a sudden rush of feeling, like nothing I’d felt in a long time, reveling in the glorious day, lost in the feel of the snow beneath the skis, and the sheer joy of physical effort.

  Boyd was still in the lead. He stopped in a showy spray of snow near the other side of the meadow. The others joined him, coming to a halt in a staggered line. I skied past them and stopped alongside Boyd.

  The wind was strong in the open. A steady stream of snow particles blew across the meadow, about a foot above the ground. My clothing kept me warm, but any exposed skin froze up quickly. I adjusted my goggles and balaclava to cover some bare spots on my face.

  “Easy Street, we stay to the right,” said Boyd, obviously considering me illiterate, since there was a sign. “Those other two are intermediate runs, and you can still cut into Devil’s Run,” he pointed to the west end of the meadow, “over there.”

  “You’ve got kind of a hard on for this Devil’s Run.’

  “I like to challenge myself.”

  “Don’t let me stop you.”

  “Anyway,” he said, “all these trails cross Mountain Road about three quarters of a mile down. That’s the outermost trail of the main area. If we take this blue trail here,” he pointed with a pole, “Upper Mountain Road, we have a nice long run to the mid-lodge at Spanish Mountain.”

  “We’re going into the main area?”

  “We’ll have to,” said Cory.

  “All of these trails.” said Boyd, “bypass the chairlift station, except for Easy Street. You have to go into the main area and take the express gondola up the center there, and then take a couple of trails to our chairlift.”

  “Seems inconvenient.”

  “For now,” said Boyd. “If the need arises we just task a Sno-Cat to running guests up and down. We’re putting in our own gondola next summer, once we get the permits worked out and the Greens off our back.” He planted his ski poles. “What’ll it be?”

  “Let’s do the blue, if it’s okay with the others,” I said, turning to them.

  “No problem,” said Cory, pushing off ahead of everyone, catching Günter a little by surprise. He skated after her, Canfield and Randolph close behind.

  “Ready?” said Boyd.

  “Yes.”

  The slope dropped away at a slightly sharper angle than the trail we’d been on. Boyd ate it up, showing off his considerable skill by passing Cory and taking a distant lead. I soon passed Canfield and Randolph, and then Günter and Cory, realizing that all those years skiing the narrow, bumpy, and usually icy slopes of Vermont and New York made me well equipped to handle this sort of thing. I could only imagine what Easy Street must have been like, because Upper Mountain Road seemed mild for an intermediate run, so broad and undulating I was chafing for something more challenging within a couple of hundred yards. Boyd seemed to know, because I came over a rise to find him waiting in the middle of the trail. I slid to a stop next to him, while the others stopped above, staying in their pairs, which I found a little odd. At the very least, Canfield should be skiing with his wife.

  Cory whipped out her camera and snapped some pictures of us.

  “Feel like a little fresh powder?” said Boyd.

  “Sure.”

  “Then come on.”

  He skated over to the side of the trail and then into the trees. The deep powder parted like surf around his knees. I followed him in, only to have my skis dive like twin submarines and stop suddenly. The bindings released and momentum carried me on. I turned slightly to avoid hitting face first and landed on my right shoulder. The waist deep snow exploded around me like a sugary hand grenade. The rest of the world was momentarily blocked out by this mini blizzard.

  Since I had essentially fallen into the equivalent of a thick feather bed, I was uninjured. However, when I tried to stand up, I found there was nothing to grab onto. I floundered around for a few moments widening and deepening my little foxhole until I was finally able to get to my feet.

  Cory was about fifteen feet above me, leaning on her poles and snapping pictures. Günter, beside her, looked as if he was posing for Mt. Rushmore. Canfield and Bryce were above and behind them, both smiling broadly.

  “You okay?” said Cory.

  “I’ll live.”

  “Don’t ski pow-pow much, do you?” said Cory.

  “Where I come from, powder is something you put on a baby’s butt. I miss my ice.”

  “Those aren’t really deep powder skis,” yelled Boyd from below. “Try sitting back a little and keep the skis closer together. Helps keep the tips from burrowing.”

  “I’ll make a note.”

  I noticed that Günter, the actual ski instructor, was not offering me any tips. Well, perhaps he had a rule about being paid. Or maybe he just wanted to see me hit a tree.

  Canfield skied down closer. “Don’t put pressure on your downhill ski when you turn,” he said. “You’ll only throw yourself off balance. Make turns by pointing both feet in the direction you want to go. Always keep your body facing downhill, and lift your weight off the skis at the end of each turn.”

  “I’m writing as fast as I can.”

  “Just trying to help.”

  I half swam, half climbed back to my skis, and dug them out. Boyd watched with a mixture of amusement and impatience. When I started skiing again, Boyd and Canfield’s advice proved sound. Sitting back a little did make the powder easier to navigate. I tried to stay close behind Boyd, but he soon disappeared. The others passed me, each finding their own virgin stretch of powder. Soon they too were gone, leaving only curvy bluish trenches to mark their passage.

  I really didn’t mind being alone. The sun was fully up now, and the sky was the sort of deep, pollution-free blue you almost never get in the city. Lower on the mountain and deep in the trees there was less wind and I was beginning to feel a bit warm. I was surprised at the added effort powder skiing required, but I began to understand its allure. Floating soundlessly on the nearly invisible skis was absolutely sublime, although moving at speed without the constant grinding sound I associated with skiing was just a tad unsettling.

  It was impossible to get lost, since I had only to follow the fresh trails of my companions. A few minutes later, I was out of the trees and back onto a groomed trail where the others were waiting in a little cluster, except for Boyd, who was standing off a little ways talking on his cell phone. Cory snapped pictures of me as I approached.

  “How’d you like it?” said Canfield.

  “Cool,” was all I could get out. Now that I had stopped, I realized I was huffing and puffing.

  Canfield smiled. “Once you get the hang of it, it gets a lot easier.”

  I leaned on my poles and did my best to slow my breathing and bring my heart rate down. I motioned towards Boyd with my head. “What’s going on there?”

  “We don’t know,” said Cory. “Jeff got a call.”

  Boyd had his back to us, but he looked agitated, gesturing occasionally with his free hand. Finally, his shoulders slumped and he nodded twice. He snapped the phone shut, put it in his pocket, and skated back to us.

  “Everything okay, Jeff?” said Canfield.

  “Yeah. No. Yeah, it’s fine.” He pointed at me. “It’s just that something’s come up. I’m afraid Craig and I have to leave.”

  “Is it about your son?” said Cory, her face showing deep concern.

  Boyd looked at m
e, then back at her. “Yes, it is.”

  36.

  Boyd’s chalet sat on an acre of land just above the main resort lodge, close to the slopes but screened off from the peasants by a thick line of trees. The big A-frame was perched over a multi-car garage. From inside his study, which faced the valley below, I had the impression that, except for the roof, the place was made entirely of big sheets of glass.

  We’d skied as a group down to Mountain Road and into the public resort. Just above the mid lodge, Boyd and I left the others, following a narrow trail through a smattering of McMansions to his humble abode. We’d left our skis in the rack outside the mud room.

  “Drink?” said Boyd. He was standing by the bar.

  “Scotch rocks,” I said, just to be sociable.

  “Sounds good.” He grabbed some ice cubes from the ice bucket on the bar and tossed them into two crystal highball glasses. For the hundredth time I wondered who it was that kept putting fresh ice in rich people’s ice buckets.

  Boyd poured two generous portions and handed one to me. We tipped glasses.

  “To luck,” he said.

  “What kind?”

  He turned away and walked to the window. “Good, I hope.”

  “Who was that phone call from?”

  “One of my credit card companies. A charge was red flagged.”

  “And it had something to do with Ken?”

  “Yes,” he said, without turning. “I think I found him.”

  “And?”

  “He might be in Mexico.”

  “Mexico? Where?”

  “Some drug rehabilitation clinic. In Ciudad Juarez.”

  “Juarez? You’re kidding.”

  “Why? Even Raviv said these kids run off to Mexico.”

  “Yeah, to Rosarita Beach or Acapulco, not Ciudad Juarez. Rambo would be afraid to go there. It’s drug war central.”

  “Well, as I said, it does appear he’s in a drug rehab clinic.”

  “You said Ken didn’t use drugs.”

  “I didn’t think he did.” He looked at his drink. “I guess I didn’t know him as well as I thought.”

  “Wait. Raviv checked all his credit cards, remember? And you said you cancelled them.”

  “I did.”

  “So how can he or anyone else be using them?”

  He shook his head. “It wasn’t his, wasn’t Ken’s card. It was mine.”

  “Yours?”

  “Yes. While Ken was still in high school, I was away a lot. I added him to one of my MasterCard accounts. I wanted him to have something for emergencies. They issued a card with his name on it, but the charges are billed to me and show as mine. I’d forgotten all about it.”

  “Did you call the clinic? Is he there?”

  He shook his head. “I called, but they won’t tell me anything. Doctor patient privilege.”

  “It’s Mexico,” I said, “pay somebody.”

  “I don’t know anybody down there.” He put his glass down on a table so hard the ice cubes jumped. “I want you to go.”

  “It’s probably a wild goose chase. Look at the time lapse. Now, all of a sudden, he starts using the credit card?”

  “Maybe he’s been living on that cash he withdrew and it ran out.”

  “If he was doing drugs hard enough to end up in rehab, he’d have run out of money long before now.”

  “Maybe it’s not him,” said Boyd, angrily. “Maybe it’s the girlfriend and he’s trying to get her, whatchamacallit, clean.”

  “It’s more likely somebody stole Ken’s wallet.”

  “I’ve got to know,” he said. “And I can’t get away now. There’s too much going on.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t like a little something like a missing son to mess up your plans, now would we?”

  “I don’t like your tone.”

  “And I don’t like your whole set up. Something’s very wrong here. This place, that fire, that Gestapo grandpa you have running the place. What’s really going on here, Boyd?”

  “We’re trying to get a business going in difficult economic times.”

  “Oh, bullshit. If this operation is legitimate the business plan must have been cooked up in the drunk ward at Bellevue.”

  “Enough! You’ve put me in a serious position here. I told you to stay away. Your accusations about my son can have serious ramifications for my business dealings.” He pointed at me. “I made a contract with Peled for your services.”

  “And now he’s dead.”

  “That means nothing. You were hired to find my son.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to do. And the last place anyone saw him was here, the night of that fire.”

  “One person, who’s conveniently dead.”

  “A lot of people are conveniently dead. Including Raviv.”

  “That was terrorists. It has nothing to do with my son.”

  “You don’t really believe that fairy tale, do you?”

  He seemed genuinely perplexed. “I have no reason not to.”

  “Really? Like everyone else in this growing pile of bodies, someone thought he might know too much about whatever you and your friends are into.”

  “We’re not into anything,” he said, perfunctorily.

  “I think the Feds are suspicious of Verdugo Enterprises and this place in particular. I’m told Imperatrice is pretty wired in and if he thinks they have someone trying to penetrate their operation he might think that person is me.”

  “I thought you’d been out of that for years.”

  “I was and I wasn’t. Imperatrice implied he knows more about me than he should. Raviv was tight with the Feds. One thing old Rich and I have in common is we don’t believe in coincidence. It wouldn’t be unreasonable for him to think I was part of some deep cover operation and they used Raviv to get to you. After all, it can’t be easy to initiate an investigation when a popular and well-connected U. S. Senator is so deeply involved.”

  “If they think you’re investigating them, why would they ask me to bring you up here?”

  “Makes perfect sense. I showed up here, asking questions, which probably made them more convinced I’m a fed. So they give me the mink glove treatment, the guided tours, the fancy room. ‘See, Nick, we’re just a nice getaway for rich bastards. Nothing to see here’. And thanks to Cory’s camera habit, there’s a photo album of me being chummy with all of you.”

  He looked as if he would argue, then shook himself and picked up his glass. He went to the bar and poured himself another stiff slug, knocking half of it back with one swallow. Then he put the glass down and placed both hands on the bar. He stood that way, his back to me, for at least two minutes.

  “Look,” he said finally, without turning around. “Just do this for me. It won’t take half a day. I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars.”

  “The FBI pulled my passport. Getting into Mexico might not be a problem, but I couldn’t get back in the country. I’d be arrested if I tried.”

  He turned to face me. “They don’t need to know. We can fly you in. A private airfield.”

  “We?”

  “Verdugo. It’s only about six hundred miles. You’ll be in and out in a few hours.”

  “I thought you didn’t know anyone in Mexico.”

  “I don’t, but Verdugo has a subsidiary down there, a chemical plant with its own airfield. The pilot tells me they jump the border all the time.”

  “I still don’t like it. Some of these rehab centers are fronts for the cartels. They use them as hideouts and recruiting stations. What if Ken’s working for them? Or, worse, they’re holding him for ransom?”

  “I’ll pay it. Just go and find him.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I’ll pay you twenty-five thousand dollars. Cash.” When I hesitated, he said, “Over and above what I already owe Raviv’s company.” He looked at me pleadingly. “I need to know about my boy.”

  We stared at each other for a long time. It didn’t feel right, but rolling the dice might be the best way to sh
ake things loose.

  “Alright,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

  “Good.”

  “But, you can keep your money.” I pointed at his chest. “My price is information. I do this, and you tell me everything you know.”

  He sighed, but did not speak. Then he nodded and said, “It’s a deal.”

  “And if you’re smart, you won’t double-cross me.”

  “Why would I?”

  “You think you’re indispensable to this bunch, but you’re not. If they think I’m a fed, then they’ll consider the possibility you’ve been rolled. If I were you, I wouldn’t go skiing alone.”

  We stared at each other some more. Then he said, “I’ll get you some cash.”

  37.

  It was after dark when I got off the chairlift at The Retreat and I was dog tired. Klaus was waiting patiently at the ski check. All the other lights in the shop were off.

  “Mr. Kohl asked that I give you a message when you returned,” he said.

  I laid the skis on the counter. “Yeah, what was that?”

  “He would be pleased if you would join them for dinner in the main dining room.”

  “My compliments to Mr. Kohl, but I’m taking a shower and climbing into bed. Been a long day.”

  He smiled. “I understand. I will tell him.”

  I trudged through the tunnel and took the little elevator to my room, heading directly up to the bathroom where I jumped in the shower and stayed there for almost fifteen minutes. It was heavenly, and just what I needed.

  After I toweled off, I put on one of the white, fluffy robes hanging by the shower and went into the bedroom. The lights, which I had left on, were now off. A faint odor of perfume hung in the air. The small fireplace in the bedroom burned with a low flame, its flickering light revealing the outline of a woman beneath the single sheet, with shadows and highlights in all the right places.

  “Hi, Nick,” said Cory.

  “Why Mrs. Canfield, did the men abandon you for brandy and cigars?”

  “I find them boring. You seem much more interesting.”