Haze

by E. R. Torre

  “Most part?”

  There was a look of expectation on Mrs. Borg’s face. Sitting alone made her thirsty for human interaction of any kind.

  “One of the actors, the villain of the piece, caught the tail end of the movie,” I said. “Afterwards, I met Robinson’s granddaughter. We hit it off pretty well, I thought. The end wasn’t quite so good. I upset her.”

  "How so?"

  "I made the mistake of bringing up the subject of her grandfather’s death. The conversation turned pretty sour after that."

  Mrs. Borg was silent. She pulled out her receipt book and silently wrote up my payment. Despite her thirst for human interaction, she got quiet really quickly.

  "Is the subject of John Robinson's death strictly off limits in this town?" I finally asked.

  Mrs. Borg ripped the receipt from the book. She handed it to me.

  "Mr. Robinson’s death happened a while ago,” she said. Her tone was cautious, as if tip toeing barefoot through a field of broken glass. “Unfortunately, it remains a very fresh wound. Particularly to Judith."

  I folded the receipt and tucked it into my wallet.

  "May I ask why? Please forgive my ignorance, but I don't want to offend anyone, and I certainly didn’t want to offend her."

  "What are you?" Mrs. Borg asked. Her tone became suspicious. Almost as suspicious as Judith’s. "A reporter? Another fan turned investigator?"

  Investigator?

  “Hell no,” I said, trying to hold back a laugh. “Back home I’m one of several dozen faceless and, frankly, boring office workers that fill out databases and make sure the raw numbers sent my way leave the office looking nice and neat and add up in all the right ways."

  Mrs. Borg looked me squarely in the eye as if judging my honesty. After a few seconds, her features softened.

  "Every year since John Robinson's death we’ve had several people come into Viktor convinced they can find the 'truth' about his death," she said.

  "There’s doubt about how he died?"

  “Only in the mind of those people. John Robinson was killed while skiing down Viktor Mountain. I don’t wish to be graphic, but his manner of death was rather sensational. The police found him impaled on a sharp, rotted branch of a tree. He must have lost control and strayed from the course."

  "Why is there doubt?"

  "Fantasy and suspicion get the best of otherwise good people. In his time, John Robinson was a beloved figure here, and his death was so abrupt, so senseless.”

  Mrs. Borg’s voice trailed and her head came down. She pulled her glasses off and rubbed her eyes.

  “The first group of fans arrived at his memorial. Most of them were there to pay tribute, but that’s when the first group of them started asking questions. They couldn’t accept the finality of Robinson’s death, I suppose. Even more of them showed up afterwards. They asked ignorant, innuendo filled questions about Mr. Robinson’s death and about us.”

  “Questions?”

  “‘Wasn’t John Robinson a professional skier?’ they’d say, while conveniently forgetting he was an elderly man and most certainly far from his peak athletic shape at the time of the accident. ‘Did he have any enemies in town?’ they ask, as if having any trumps the fact that the police found no proof of foul play. They saw dark conspiracies where there were none. They point fingers at us and accuse decent people of the unimaginable. All while ignoring the fact that many people die in skiing accidents every year. The only difference between them and John Robinson is that he was a celebrity.” Mrs. Borg sighed. “Is it so hard to accept the fact that he might be another victim of just such an accident? Is it so very improbable?"

  "I guess not."

  "The people of Viktor lost one of their most beloved citizens the day John Robinson died. All of us have fond memories of him. We do not want to relive his death to every stranger that walks into town. My mother used to tell me never to stir up old ghosts, that doing so can only lead to tragedy. Not a day has passed since Mr. Robinson's death that I don't think about how right she was."

  "I understand," I said and, in a way, I really did. The pain on Judith’s face made sense, and I felt shame for what I did. “Thanks for clearing this up. I'll be more careful with what I say to others from now on."

  Like Viktor’s mountain, my SUV was covered with fresh snow. I wiped it away from the front and driver side windows before walking to the rear of the car. As I did, I noticed my next door neighbor sitting in his car, the beat up 70's Nova. He was reading several loose sheets of paper and was oblivious to my presence. Or at least he seemed to be. I was wiping away the snow when he said:

  "Hey there."

  I turned.

  "I didn’t mean to sound so stand-offish back there,” he said. “It was a hell of a long night and you caught me half-asleep.”

  I swallowed my surprise. He felt like he was being stand-offish?

  “I wasn’t all that awake either,” I countered. “There probably isn’t anyone in a twenty mile radius that got much sleep last night.”

  “That’s for sure,” he said. “But if it was my work that kept you up, I’m genuinely sorry. I’ll work on the other side of the room from now on."

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. If you can still hear the keyboard, knock on the wall or the door and I’ll take my stuff to the bathroom.”

  “Let’s not get carried away,” I said and laughed.

  “OK,” he replied.

  He laid the papers in his hand on top of the black briefcase on the passenger seat and turned the key in the ignition. The car started up immediately, its powerful V-8 catching fire like a low yield nuclear bomb. Given the weather and the car’s shape, this surprised the hell out of me. The wrecker was used to this cold. My neighbor backed out of the parking lot and drove off.

  I finished scraping the snow off my truck before getting in. Unlike my neighbor’s wrecker, it took a few tries before starting.

  Once started, I headed off to Viktor's mountain.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Road signs, along with a very visible target, made the twenty or so minute drive to Viktor's mountain easy. The parking lot at the mountain’s base was almost completely deserted. I parked and looked up.

  From the ground, the place was very impressive. Morning fog partially hid the west side of the mountain’s peak. A couple of skiers lazily descended the snowy trails and for a moment, just a moment, my thoughts returned to John Robinson.

  I shook my head and exited the truck. I headed to the small concession booth and paid the entry fee. To my left was a large, glass-enclosed restaurant and rest area. The smell of hot chocolate and pancakes drifted from there and tried its best to lure me in. But I didn’t feel like eating breakfast. At least not yet.

  I walked past the entrance and to the ski lifts. A few feet beside them was a small wooden booth manned by a couple of teens. The sign above the booth read “Ski Rentals”. Below and to the right of the sign were the rental charges as well as a long “we cannot be responsible for any accident or injury” statement.

  I approached the booth and told the teens the size of my feet. After a quick search, they brought out a pair of skis and boots. I tried them out and they felt right. I removed them and paid the rental fee. After signing all the required waivers, I was ready to go.

  “Have you skied much?” one of the teens asked before I left.

  “Now and again,” I replied. “Don’t worry, I’ll work my way from the bottom up. Nothing but the bunny slopes first.”

  “Take it easy out there.”

  His tone was indifferent. The very same words were likely said so many times to so many people that they probably meant nothing to him anymore.

  As promised, I stuck to the easy slopes. At least at the start. With each run, I gained confidence and progressed to higher and higher elevations. Along the way, I forgot all about breakfast. After a while, I felt confident enough to take the ski lift to the intermediate slope. By late in the morning, I was con
templating the mountain’s top.

  When I finally got there just before noon, I spotted a beautiful wooden cabin some seventy feet away from the end of the lift. A flag flapping above it read “Station One.” Just behind the flag was a large silver antenna that rose at least seventy feet into the air. It was a Ski Patrol outpost, probably manned by more teenagers. In the quiet times, it was probably a real good place for college students to party.

  I turned from the station and looked down the mountain and at Viktor. From up here it looked like a child’s toy. Beyond the town were large fenced off properties that were most likely off limits. I could see what appeared to be homes within the properties. Perhaps one of them belonged to Lewis Sinclair and another to Judith.

  I checked my skis and adjusted the goggles. As I did, a lone figure stepped out of the Ski Patrol outpost. He wore a bright red jacket and carried his skis on his shoulder.

  “Good morning,” he said. He was a little younger than me but much older than the teens in the concession stand. He had a lean and muscular build. He’d been up and down this mountain plenty of times and could see I was a virgin.

  “Take it easy,” he added, echoing the teen that rented me the skis. Maybe that was the Viktor mountain mantra.

  “Nice and slow,” I replied. I turned and examined the trail before me.

  Piece of cake.

  With a smile I could no longer contain, I pushed off and began my descent.

  Incredibly, I was alone. While other slopes might be more scenic, Viktor’s mountain offered solitude and tranquility. I leisurely sloshed down the mountain while taking deep breaths of the cool fresh air. My eyes were all over the trail, enjoying the sight of blue sky and white, powdery snow. To my side were skeletal trees. Their leaves were long gone; their branches swaying gently. A crop of rocks extruded off to the side.

  I was gaining speed.

  It was quite some time since I felt this calm. My legs worked the trail with ease. All my anxieties melted away.

  I gained more speed.

  My arms lazily guided my body. I took another deep breath of fresh air and stared up and to the right as a solitary cloud hovered over the valley.

  More speed.

  I noticed it then, as a taller tree whipped past the cloud. I was going too fast. I wasn't skilled enough to handle it. I looked forward. I was approaching a sharp turn.

  Too sharp. Too fast.

  Cold sweat beaded on my forehead. It took effort to control the rising panic. I lurched wildly to the side, hoping this would slow me down. It didn’t. The turn was coming.

  Got to regain control.

  In a span of no more than three seconds I must have repeated these words a hundred times. But I was out of control and the turn was way too sharp.

  In desperation, I leaned back and let my body to fall on the hardened snow. I kept loose and hoped nothing would break. The trail turned away, but I slid forward, hitting and rolling through the softer snow.

  I was still going too fast.

  I slid wildly and one of the skis caught a rut. I was flipped end over end. The other ski hit hard against something and broke away with a loud, sickening snap.

  That could have been your leg, I thought.

  Or your neck.

  My body hurled past a sturdy tree; my head missed it by inches. Waves of fresh snow slammed against me. I was in the middle of chaos, yet in a moment of crystal clear lucidity, I recalled the words of Mrs. Borg.

  People die in skiing accidents every year.

  What followed seemed like a lifetime of this chaos as I flipped over and over. Then, just as abruptly as it began, things slowed down. It took another lifetime before my body came to a stop.

  When it did, I lay in place, stunned and unsure if it was wise to move. Was I in one piece? Was there anything broken?

  In those long seconds I managed to catch my breath. The world around me slowly stopped spinning. After a while, I opened my eyes. My head felt heavy and I didn't think I could stay conscious for much longer.

  I closed my eyes tight. After a few seconds -or was it an hour?- I slowly opened them again.

  And that's when I saw it, right in front of me.

  The tree that John Robinson impaled himself into. An aspen, skeletal white and thick with age.

  It had to be the tree.

  I knew it was the tree.

  Why? Because John Robinson's body, clear as day, was hunched over it, as if embracing the instrument of his death. His head lay limp against his chest. A small trail of blood ran from his lifeless eyes and down the side of his face. More blood poured from his mouth. A jagged tree branch ripped through his body and exited out of the middle of his back. Pieces of Robinson’s torn clothing and flesh coated the branch’s surface. His blood was everywhere.

  The snow itself was red...

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I awoke gasping and in an unfamiliar place. I was in a small white room. A counter and an old porcelain sink stood in the corner. Above the counter was a window overlooking a snowy plain. A skier appeared on this plain and headed in my direction. He was happy to be there and looking forward to his run.

  He skied off to the right and approached the ski lift. Moments later he was up and gone.

  I turned from the window and found I was lying on a hard green vinyl cot. Next to it was a simple night stand and just beyond and pushed up against the wall was a large cabinet filled with what looked like medicines and first aid equipment.

  The fog in my head cleared. I was in an infirmary room at the base of Viktor’s mountain. The pleasant smell of hot chocolate and coffee was in the air. It came, I figured, from the concession building which lay beyond the only door leading into –and out of- this room. Above the door was a clock. It read 1:47.

  I was unconscious for close to an hour.

  I gave the infirmary another look. In a corner by the door was the rented ski equipment. One of the skis was snapped in two, leaving irregular and very jagged splinters of wood.

  I shivered. That could have easily been any one of my bones.

  I rose to a sitting position despite the fact that every muscle in my body cried for me to remain still. My left side flared up as if it were pressed against a flame-thrower. I peeled back my shirt and found the perimeter of a huge red welt barely covered by a large white bandage. I had no desire to see what lay under it.

  I got to my feet and fought back a wave of dizziness. After a few moments, it lifted.

  “So far so good,” I muttered.

  I took one step and felt another wave. This one wasn’t quite as bad. I took another step and slowly moved to the skis. After what seemed like maybe five hours of effort, I finally reached them. I inspected the shattered ski. Up close, the damage looked even worse.

  “Better you than me.”

  I headed back to the bed and sat down. What a close call that was. Though the trail was wide and clear, the turn that fouled me up was unreasonably sharp. How many others had—

  In a flash, I could see him again, hugging the tree as if he was in some nightmarish cartoon. What I saw was a hallucination. It had to be. I must have been unconscious the moment I hit the snow…

  "Mr. Towne?"

  The door leading out of the infirmary was open and a young man, the same one I saw at the top of the ski lift, leaned into the room. Now that he was close by and dressed light, I had a clearer view of his features. He had light blonde hair and a rugged, tanned face. His eyes were clear blue and his body was even leaner and more athletic than it appeared on the mountain’s summit. His demeanor was cool and very easy going. He was probably the type of guy who had to fight off all the girls.

  Poor bastard.

  Behind him was his polar opposite, a short and pale middle aged man. His nose was flat like putty and his eyes were a dull brown. His hair was gray and thin.

  "My name is Nick Jones,” the young man said. He pointed to the window. “I found you up on the mountain.”

  “Thank you,” I responded.
The words tumbled out of my mouth as if exiting from deep within a cave. My throat was incredibly raw, as if I had been screaming. Perhaps, during the fall, I was.

  Nick Jones pointed to the man behind him.

  “This is Dr. Porter, Viktor's favorite physician. He's here to look you over."

  "It will only take a few moments," Dr. Porter said. He pulled up a chair and sat beside the green cot. "I came by when they first brought you in. There were no broken bones, but we feared you sustained some kind of head trauma. You told us you only hit your side.”

  “I did? I don’t remember.”

  “Not surprising, given the events. You were reasonably alert at the time of the examination and showed no signs, either physical or mental, of a concussion. However, you told me you were tired.”

  “I suppose.”

  “You haven’t slept well?”

  “Not last night.”

  “Ah yes, the storm,” Porter said. “After our initial meeting was done, you leaned back in that bed and, before we knew it, you were fast asleep.”

  “How embarrassing.”

  “As you no doubt know, you took the worst of it on your side, but even that was nothing more than a few deep scrapes that didn’t require stitches. Your ribs are bruised but otherwise intact."

  Dr. Porter began his examination. He checked my ears, eyes, as well as head. He asked me what was today’s date and what month we were in and what year it was. He then asked me to name the current president and followed that up with some simple math and logic problems. The answers were easy enough, but because of my raw throat saying them proved difficult.

  Dr. Porter realized my predicament and offered a glass of water but continued the questioning. After a few minutes, he nodded in satisfaction.

  "Everything appears fine, Mr. Towne. Nonetheless, you should take it very easy for the next few days."

  He took down my medical insurance information and, after some very minor chit chat, shook my hand and left. Nick Jones remained behind.

  "You were very lucky I was out there.”