Devil's Run

by Frank Hughes

  “You’re not an idiot, Boyd,” I said. “The minute the trouble with your son started, they began looking for alternatives to whatever you cooked up for them. When they have a new pipeline for that piece, you’re a dead man. Your son and his friends cost them too much in personnel and money.”

  “Fucking environmental whackos.” He shook his head. “Eco warriors, they call themselves. How they got Ken to go along, I’ll never know.”

  “A honey trap, a cute girl willing to go to bed with him. He was a gift from heaven, someone with intimate knowledge of The Retreat, money to burn, and a jones to show his daddy he wasn’t a spineless wimp.”

  He gave me a look of hatred. “You son of a bitch.”

  “Too bad Ken didn’t know the truth about Daddy’s friends. Epstein and Roger thought they were the ruthless ones. They were bush league compared to this bunch.”

  His face softened and took on a beaten look. “I had no idea he had anything to do with the fire. I just knew he’d gone missing from school.”

  “Of course you didn’t. Your friends made sure of that. They covered up his involvement. Took the van back to Seattle and sanitized it. Wiped his computer clean and stole the girl’s laptop, just in case there was anything incriminating on them. Ask yourself, why did they keep his involvement in the fire a secret from you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do. Because if you knew he was in danger from them you might go to the Feds and cut a deal. So they kept you in the dark. But, that had an unexpected consequence. You hired someone to find him.”

  “They were worried you were a Fed, and this whole private investigator thing was a cover, especially after the FBI released you in New York.”

  “So they kept me alive, not wanting to kill a federal agent.”

  “Right.”

  “But, they don’t think I’m a fed anymore, do they?”

  He looked away. “From what I heard, Imperatrice never believed it. He wanted to kill you along with those people in Vermont, but the boss said no. He figured if you were a fed killing you would bring too much heat.”

  “He? Who is the boss?”

  “I don’t know. I heard his voice for the first time the other day, on a speaker phone.”

  “Was Canfield there?”

  “No it was just me and Kohl and Richard.”

  “Could it have been Canfield?”

  “I don’t know. They’d done something electronically to disguise the voice.”

  “And that’s when I became expendable?”

  “Imperatrice’s contacts in Washington finally confirmed you were on your own. That’s when they decided to get rid of you in Mexico. There was already something planned. You’d be just one unidentified body among many.”

  “And so you set me up.”

  “What choice did I have? They said it was a test of my loyalty. It was you or me. And that they wouldn’t hurt Ken.”

  “Tell me, how does the laundering scam work?”

  He was startled by the change in tack. “What does it matter?”

  “Indulge me. Besides, that was our deal if I went to Mexico.”

  He shrugged. “We smurf the dirty money into the charity.”

  “Must take an awful lot of smurfs.”

  “You don’t need too many, really. I use a computer program that creates individual records from schools, conventions, street corners, convenience store jars, mostly cash donations. The dirty cash is mixed in with the clean. The money flows through the charity, which takes a percentage off the top for expenses.”

  “This is about mosquito nets, right?”

  “Yeah, to prevent malaria in Africa and parts of Asia. We claim it takes five dollars to manufacture and another fifteen for packing, shipping, and distribution of each net, plus the cost of advertising and public relations for the charity. The money goes to a shell company that jobs the nets out to small manufacturers in various African countries.”

  “Also shell companies, I assume?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do any of these companies actually do any manufacturing, packing, shipping, and distributing?”

  “No. Of course not, except for some distribution. We buy the nets in bulk from a company in Nigeria for eighty-seven cents apiece.”

  “And if I somehow followed the tangled trail of those shell companies back to where the cash ends up, I’d find Verdugo, wouldn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very cute. You must be proud of yourself.”

  He said nothing.

  “They killed your girlfriend, you know.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “It never occurred to you? Your secretary is murdered and the efficient Ms. Ricasso magically appears to take up the slack?”

  “That’s insane.”

  “Is it? Was that about the time you were setting up the laundering operation? Think that’s a coincidence? They wanted someone in place to keep an eye on you, so your girlfriend dies and Ms. Ricasso takes her place.” I leaned in towards him. “They murdered the woman you loved, just to protect a business investment. Do you really think they’d stop at your son? Or you?”

  He looked haggard. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “You’re getting me in.”

  “In?”

  “The Retreat. I need to get into those administration offices.”

  “You’re going up there? You’re insane. They’ll kill you.”

  “I’ll kill you if you don’t help me. Besides, it may be your last chance to save yourself.”

  He weighed his options for a few moments.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  That was a little quick. My antennae went up a little, but the gondola was approaching the terminal.

  “I’ll tell you after we get off.”

  The attendant helped us out of the gondola, which continued marching along while we retrieved our skis.

  “Where to?” he said, after we’d walked out into the storm.

  “Deer Trail.”

  He followed my lead. Once we were out of sight of the gondola terminal, we stopped.

  “What now?”

  “I need your parka and your access key.”

  “My what?”

  “Your white card. Your security key. And the password.”

  “I don’t know it. Access is tied to the individual card holder and I have to be escorted into the secure areas. So I don’t know the code; only that it’s changed every day.”

  “I just need to get inside. That card gets me on the chairlift and into the tunnel, right?”

  “Yes, but you won’t get far.”

  “You let me worry about that.”

  We stared at each other for a long moment. Then he took off his jacket. Before handing it to me he tried to take his phone.

  “Leave the phone,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “If they’re tracking you, I don’t want them to see me as you in one place and your phone in another.”

  He hesitated, then put the phone back in the parka and handed it over. I gave him my jacket.

  “Card’s in the right hand pocket,” he said.

  I found it and took it out to confirm what he said.

  Boyd watched while I put the card away. “You’ll never get out of there alive.”

  “I may surprise you,” I said.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Stay out of sight. Ski as long as you can. Go to a bar. Just don’t go home.”

  He nodded.

  “Go on,” I said.

  Boyd pushed off down the trail. I followed him for a time, but when we came to the fork I took the branch towards The Retreat’s private chairlift. In a quarter mile, I was there. The little plastic gate opened as I approached. I skied into position. The attendant came out of his shelter to slow the chair.

  “You best hurry, Mr. Boyd, the weather’s moving in fast.”

  I waved an acknowledgment as I sat down. I glanced bac
k down at the lift station to make sure the attendant wasn’t doing anything suspicious. He wasn’t, but two skiers in orange parkas were speeding down the trail I’d just used. When they reached the lift station they spoke to the attendant, who pointed at me. The two hurried onto the lift.

  Somehow they were on to me. Maybe I’d missed a tail, or Boyd had a second cell phone. Whatever the reason, I had to assume I was headed into a trap and a reception committee was gathering at the top.

  I had to get off the chair, but how? I leaned forward against the safety bar and peered down. The snow beneath my skis looked far away. I looked at the chairs ahead. The distance to the ground varied somewhat depending on the terrain, but I estimated it was never less than fifteen feet. If I jumped from that that height, with or without skis, I would probably break a leg.

  I thought about getting to one of the pylons. The green metal cylinders had ladder rungs welded to the uphill side and the chairs passed about four feet away. It might be possible to jump from the chair and grab the rungs, maybe even get down to the snow before anyone got a clear shot. But there was no way to do it without removing my skis and boots, which would hardly escape the notice of the two guys following. I’d probably be still hanging from the rungs as they cruised by, making me an easy target. That’s if I made it to the pylon in the first place. The chair was moving fast and bound to give way as I pushed off. I might miss completely and fall on my face.

  I watched the chairs in front of me again. About a hundred yards ahead a pylon stood near a hillock that slightly decreased the distance between the chairs and the snow. That gave me an idea. I snapped my poles together and got ready to move.

  The watchdogs behind me were indistinct shapes in the thickening ice storm, so I would be a blur to them as well. I was about to start wriggling under the safety bar when I noticed a lone figure on the slope above. He was on skis in the center of the chair lift right of way, a rifle with a telescopic sight cradled casually in his arms. His head moved as I passed, slowly pivoting to follow me.

  Then I was past him, past my intended jumping off point, entering the meadow below The Retreat, now totally exposed to the ice particles driven by the wind funneled through Diablo Canyon. The chair swayed sickeningly. My clothing, already frosted like a glazed doughnut, took on even more ice.

  The forest at the far side of the meadow gradually appeared. At the end of the lift line loomed the ghostly mass of The Retreat, its brightly lit windows like predator’s eyes. I decided to make my move once the chairlift entered the trees, the same Easy Street trail I’d skied on a bright sunlit day that seemed ages ago.

  The wind dropped, blocked by the trees. I flung my poles to the side and slid partway under the safety bar until my skis were below the foot rest. Then I turned on my stomach and grabbed the rear of the chair seat to catch myself. I slipped under the rest of the way and transferred my grip, one hand at a time, to the footrest, a little more aggressively than I had planned. The chair began bouncing. I lowered myself the full length of my arms, bobbing like a children’s toy, but the drop to the snow was now reduced by eight or nine feet.

  My friends had not been idle during my gymnastics. One was on a phone or radio, the other was taking something out of his jacket. I saw the muzzle flash and heard the first shot, but I wasn’t an easy target. I looked down at the snow, trying to ignore the gunfire. Stretching out until only my fingertips bore my weight, I pointed my skis slightly down and dropped towards the snow.

  46.

  I hit the snow upright, both skis flat, but I had misjudged the pitch of the slope. I fell backwards and started going downhill sitting on the skis. Praying the bindings would not release, I struggled to a semi-upright position, using my arms like a tightrope walker.

  Where were the damn poles? I spotted them, black lines against the snow below and to my left. Now in something approaching proper skiing position, I snatched them up as I went past. Several bullets churned up the snow nearby. I veered off the trail, prepared this time for powder, headed for the only trail available to me, Devil’s Run.

  After three minutes or so, I broke out of the trees and did a hockey stop just above the trail. At this point, Devil’s Run was no more than fifty feet wide, winding and steep. A triple diamond would be difficult for me on a clear day. In this kind of weather it was insane, but I had no choice. Better skiers, armed skiers, were no doubt already on the way to stop me. Outmatched and unarmed, my only hope was to put some distance between them and me.

  I tossed Boyd’s phone and my two burners into the snow. No sense making things easy for them. Then I pushed off and started down the trail.

  I once talked to a top downhill racer and asked him how, moving at such high speeds, he maintained control. He laughed, and said he didn’t. The secret was not to panic when you lost control. “Fight the snow snake too hard when it grabs the ski and you’ll lose,” he said. He simply focused on not overcorrecting. “The skis, they want to keep going, too,” he said. Wrestle with them too much and you are sure to go down.

  Well, I was certainly following the skis on this run. Some of the time I was a little proud of myself, but mostly I was fighting for balance, rocketing, or so it seemed to me, down the deliberately difficult terrain. I navigated a succession of steep drops, the odd mogul, and sudden narrow chutes. The toughest part was not tightening every muscle in anticipation of a crash.

  I was grateful when I finally hit a relatively level section that turned towards the canyon. I ran into a steady blast of wind and didn’t just stop, I began moving backwards. Rubbing away the ice encrusting my goggles, I saw the rim of the canyon dead ahead. The trail went right up to the edge before curving back into the trees.

  I crouched low and used the poles to help me skate forward. Once around the bend, the wind had the opposite effect, propelling me like a schooner. The assist lasted until the next turn, where the wind dropped and I was on my own again, working terrain that was once again steep and unpredictable.

  I was just getting into a rhythm when the left ski suddenly veered off on its own and was wrenched away. The binding let go like a champ. The other ski and I continued downhill, both of us airborne. The remaining ski’s tip caught on the snow and snapped off, leaving me to fly on solo. I hit chest first and slid several more feet, coming to a stop with my face in the mound of snow I’d plowed.

  Nothing felt broken, but you can never be sure. A serious injury causes shock, and shock is a funny thing. I got slowly up on my hands and knees. Everything seemed to be working, and there was no serious pain. I still had a death grip on my ski poles, and I used them to help me stand. My skis sat rather forlornly about fifteen feet apart. I stumbled up to the closest one. As I bent to retrieve it, movement above caught my eye, a flash of muted orange through the driving ice. Someone was catching up.

  It could only be the sentry from the meadow, the man with the rifle, moving to intercept me. I was in the middle of the trail, with nowhere to run or hide. Had he seen me? I knelt below his line of vision. Chances were that between the storm, my crust of ice, and Boyd’s white parka I was nearly invisible. I dropped my poles and grabbed the ski with both hands just below the binding.

  When I saw his head, I stood up. It must have looked as if I rose right out of the ground. He went to his right, only to find my other ski in his path. He instinctively veered back.

  I was already swinging the ski at his head. The edge took him in the throat as he passed. I was knocked back on my ass. He hit the snow on his back, leaving a bright red smear as he slid a few feet. When he came to rest, blood continued to fountain for several seconds from the gaping wound in his throat.

  I grabbed my poles, and headed up to my other ski. It would be nice to have a gun, but first things first. I laid the skis crosswise on the slope and stepped into the bindings. Just as the second boot snapped into place, several bullets stitched a line in the snow.

  I took a quick look as I turned and pushed off. There were two of them. One had stopped to fire fro
m a stationary position, the other was continuing on towards me. I cursed myself for not going for the gun first, but it was too late now. I pointed straight downhill and just let myself go.

  A short burst sent snow spurting head high all around me. The speed and the rough terrain allowed for almost no accuracy. We entered a narrow section with dramatic, uneven sides, and the firing stopped.

  I stole a look over my shoulder. He was now focused on skiing, concentrating on closing the distance. His superior skill was showing, despite the burden of the gun. If he got too close, I was a dead man. A pistol would be problematic, even at close range, but with a submachine gun he was almost sure to hit me.

  Ahead the trail widened and curved again towards the canyon. I ran a glove across my goggles to clear the ice particles. The branches near the turn were straining back towards the mountain, pushed by the same steady wind I’d encountered above.

  He was much closer now, maybe twenty feet back. I sank into a crouch and tucked my arms against my sides, going for as much speed as possible. My pursuer did the same. When I turned the corner, I stood upright and flung my arms wide. The blast of wind brought me almost to a halt. Still in his tuck, my pursuer caught right up to me. I thrust a pole between his thighs. His skis crossed and he flew out of the bindings, tumbling head over heels.

  I kept going, skating hard against the wind and stinging ice particles, switching my remaining pole from side to side like a gondolier. Bullets striking to my left told me the third man had not stopped to render first aid and was closing. I was running out of bright ideas, not to mention stamina. I was short of breath, severely dehydrated, and my quads were on fire. If these bastards chased me long enough, they wouldn’t have to shoot me, I’d die of a heart attack.

  I took the next bend, into the trees and out of the wind. Picking up speed, I checked behind me. There was no one I could see. Why had he stopped? Then again, why look a gift horse in the mouth? I was not interested in meeting any more people with guns. Most likely they were sending people on snowmobiles to cut me off at the bottom of Devil’s Run. My best bet was to get off the trail and angle my way back to the main resort. The ice storm would make me hard to follow, which is why it seemed odd that last guy wasn’t at least keeping an eye on me.