by E. R. Torre
I swore and pounded the steering wheel. I should have told Carol to call the police. They needed to be there at the mountain. Hell, I still had time to turn, to drive through Viktor and tell them myself.
But the image of Karl Walker lying dead returned to my mind.
Judith was with Karl’s killer.
I pressed even harder on the gas.
The mountain slopes loomed in front of me like an ancient relic, dark and mysterious.
I sped through the entrance of the parking lot and skidded to a stop in one of the many free spaces. There were only four other parked vehicles. One of them had to belong to Judith. One of them I recognized as Nick’s subcompact.
I leapt out of my SUV and slipped on the icy parking lot floor. My left ankle twisted and I screamed in agony. I held on to the side of the SUV and forced myself to ignore the pain and move forward. Judith and Nick were close by. I had to get to her before Nick did anything else.
I had a long way to go.
Slowly, too slowly, I made my way to the Concession Building. When I finally made it inside, I desperately scanned the room for Judith and Nick.
Neither Judith nor Nick was there.
The place was empty except for one table populated by a trio of skiers. They drank their chocolate or coffee and laughed as they recounted their morning’s exploits. I ignored them and hobbled to the concession stand. The same teenager who sat behind the counter two short days before was there, this time without the company of her high school friends. She was bored, but smiled politely as I approached.
"Hello," she said. The smile vanished when she remembered who I was. "Say, weren’t you the guy who fell the other day? Are you OK?"
"Nick Jones, from the ski patrol. Where is he?"
She pointed at the window and up to the top of the mountain.
"He's got king of the mountain duty today. He’s manning the emergency radio."
"Was he with anyone?"
She nodded.
"Judith Robinson?" I asked, dreading the answer.
"Yes."
"Call the police. Tell them Robert Towne is at the top of the mountain. Tell them I know who killed Karl Walker."
“What are you talking about?”
"Call the police!" I yelled. She grabbed the phone and dialed out.
I looked around the room. The skiers were no longer laughing. They stared at me in silence and watched as I headed for the exit and the ski lifts beyond. At the exit door, I stopped.
"Stay here,” I told them. “All of you. Don't go up there."
I looked at the teen behind the counter once again. She held the phone to her ear.
"Please, tell the police to hurry," I said.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The ride up the mountain took just under five minutes. I stepped off before the lift swung around for its return trip. Down below were the trails. I caught a glimpse of the one John Robinson and I had taken six years apart. I could see the sharp curve and the spot where he died. The tree he impaled himself on was no longer there. No doubt it was cut down after…
My eyes drifted away. I looked farther down and at the concession building. From this height it was little more than a small, snow covered square block. The parking lot behind it remained mostly empty. A lone silver colored vehicle drove in and came to a stop. I focused on Viktor, to the south and west of the mountain. It was little more than a series of dots on the landscape. But even from this distance I could make out the flashing lights headed this way.
The police were coming.
I turned away from the slope and stared at the mountain’s peak and the wooden cabin that lay before me. It was where I first spotted Nick Jones. It was also where, in all likelihood, John Robinson spent his last living moments confronting his son.
I mashed my teeth together and started walking to the cabin. As I approached, I heard voices coming from inside. Two voices.
Nick and Judith’s conversation was emotionally charged. Nick’s speech was low, volcanic. Judith countered with a series of loud sobs.
At least she’s still alive.
I took a deep breath, grabbed the door knob, and entered the cabin.
The place was larger on the inside than it appeared from outside. There was a large living room area. A door, probably to a bathroom, was closed and on the opposite end of the room. Sophisticated radio equipment lined the wall opposite a stone fireplace. Between the two items was a sofa, and on it were Nick Jones and Judith Robinson. Both of them stared at me as I entered.
"Get away from her," I said. My bravado was blunted by fatigue and pain.
"What?" Nick said.
"His father," I said as loudly as I could. "Was John Robinson."
I expected a reaction, but got none. Judith buried her face in her hands and continued crying. Nick reached out, to comfort her, but stopped.
“She knows,” he said. “I just told her.”
“It can’t be,” Judith sobbed. “It can’t be. Why? How?”
"I didn’t know," Nick said. "I thought Lewis Sinclair was my father. I didn't find out until...until afterwards. You have to believe me."
I hobbled toward the radio equipment. In front of it was the only unused chair. I leaned against it.
"You broke up with her right after John Robinson died," I said. The implication was clear to Judith.
"You bastard!" she yelled. For years she refused to believe her Grandfather was murdered. No longer. "You killed him!"
Nick shook his head. I expected him to lash out, perhaps run through me and make his getaway. Instead, a calm settled over him. It lasted only a second or two. Tears streamed down his face as he too began to cry. He reached forward and delicately held Judith’s shoulder.
"I didn't kill him," Nick said.
"Bastard," Judith repeated. She fell back on the sofa. Nick shook his head and wiped away his tears. He rose from the sofa and walked toward me.
"I called the police," I warned him. "They'll be here in a few moments."
"I've done plenty of things to be ashamed of, but John Robinson's death was an accident. I know it was."
"He came up here that morning six years ago to see you. What happened?"
Nick's features sunk. His head hung low.
"I might as well start from the beginning. It'll make more sense that way."
He took a quick look at Judith, then back at me.
"I didn't know I was adopted until I cleaned out my parent's -my adoptive parent's- basement some ten years ago. There, among their documents, I found the adoption papers. It was…it was a hell of a shock. My life was a lie..." his words trailed and he took a moment to collect himself. "I ran away. I haven’t talked to them since. I took the documents with me. They were from the Manville Adoption agency. That’s where I began the search for my real parents."
"I landed a janitorial job in the night shift at the agency. In time, I made duplicates of some keys. I searched their confidential records. In time I found my file and in it I discovered two vital pieces of information: I was born in Viktor, and my father was listed as Lewis Sinclair. I moved here, intent on finding the man I thought was my real father. But his phone number was unlisted, and he was very elusive. I was nearly broke by that time, so I took this job. One day I bumped into Judith. We dated…we fell in love.”
Nick Jones let out a sad laugh.
“Would you believe that at that time I didn't even know who John Robinson was? What's more, I didn't know her grandfather was a friend of Lewis Sinclair. In time, I found out all about them. It surprised the hell out of me, but I looked upon it as good luck. I was one step closer to getting in touch with Lewis Sinclair. Little did I know..."
Nick paused to catch his breath.
"When I met Sinclair, I was cautious. It was at a big party. I didn’t want to make a scene, so I talked to him for a bit, you know, to size him up. Only the more I knew of Lewis Sinclair, the less I liked him. He was a devious, hateful man and after meeting him I was all confused. I wanted to
know my real parents and have them know me. But I didn’t want to spend any time with this man. I needed to talk to someone, to get some advice on what to do. I thought about talking Judith, but I didn't want to burden her."
Nick's eyes narrowed. A single tear ran down his face.
"In the end, I decided to tell my story to someone I knew would listen and give me good advice. Someone I grew to respect and value. I decided to talk to John Robinson."'
His face reflected unimaginable pain.
"His reaction was unexpected, to say the least. When I told him Lewis Sinclair was my father and had put me up for adoption at the Manville Agency, his face went white. He broke down in front of me and begged forgiveness. I didn't understand. Then he told me the truth. That he, not Lewis Sinclair, was my real father."
Judith's crying died down. Her face remained buried in her hands.
"But his sadness gave way to anger. He was furious at Lewis Sinclair. And me. He forbade me from seeing Judith. He didn't have to. Had I known the truth, I never would have…I never would have seen her. John Robinson demanded I leave and never return to his estate. I did as he asked. I got back to my post in Viktor's mountain and planned to pick up my belongings and resign. Unfortunately, by the time I got to the mountain my boss was gone, so I had to wait for the next morning to tell him my intentions. Then came the call."
Nick took another deep breath.
"It was John Robinson. He was drunk and angry, but he had mellowed a bit. He asked me for forgiveness. He realized this whole mess was his and Lewis Sinclair's fault and not mine. Then he told me all about Sinclair and the things he had done over time. He told me Sinclair was a parasite, and that he would get his, that he had it coming to him for a very long time. Robinson said he’d come to the mountain to see me, and that together we would fix this whole situation."
"But he didn't come, at least not that night," Nick continued. "I stayed up in this cabin for hours waiting for him. It wasn't until early the next morning that he showed up. He was sober, but his speech was still slurred with anger. He continued his tirade against Lewis Sinclair. Then he showed me the gun."
"Yeah, he had a plan for fixing this situation all right," Nick said sarcastically. "He was going to find Lewis Sinclair and, as he put it, blow his fucking brains out."
"I told him that wouldn't solve anything. But he insisted. Lewis Sinclair had gone too far and it was time for him to get what was coming. By that time Robinson was waving his gun around, and I was afraid it might go off. I agreed with everything he said, in the hopes that he would run out of steam and I’d be able to take the gun from him. It didn’t happen. After a while, John Robinson stormed out of the cabin and headed for the slopes. I followed him down but, because of the gun, kept my distance. When he reached that turn, he was going too fast. There was nothing I could do to save him."
“What about the avalanche?"
"It snowed the night before, so the only ski tracks on the slope were John Robinson's and mine. I was...I was afraid people would find out about my relationship with him and think I had something to do with his death. I was so scared, both for myself and Judith. I set off the avalanche to bury my tracks."
"Why did you stay in Viktor?"
"I didn't want to," Nick replied. "But Judith...I knew we could never be together, but neither could I leave her alone right after her Grandfather died. She was so sad...If I had just left..."
"Instead, you stayed for six years?"
"One day dissolved into another. After a while the months, and even the years, did the same," his voice choked and more tears rolled down his cheek. "I love her. God damn it, I love her!"
Judith’s sobs filled the air. Nick gasped for air while even more tears rolled down his cheeks. I felt sorry for them. Only one question remained.
"Who killed Karl Walker?" I asked.
"I did."
The voice came from behind me. It was a very familiar voice. I turned and, standing at the entrance of the cabin and holding a shiny silver hand gun, was Mrs. Borg, the Green Manor's Innkeeper. Her pleasant features were replaced by something far colder. Her friendly eyes were distant and black. I tried to make some sense out of it, but couldn't.
“Why?” I asked.
"You're his mother," came the answer. The voice was Judith's, and the last piece of the puzzle clicked into place.
"Yes," Mrs. Borg admitted. Her burning gaze was on me.
“Your husband died when you were young,” I muttered. “When you were young…”
“And alone,” she said. She was available at the time, as was John Robinson.
"I warned you not to stir up old ghosts, Mr. Towne," she said bitterly. Despite the chill in her gaze, her eyes watered. "It only leads to tragedy."
I could have laughed. I didn't stir up any ghosts. They had stirred me.
“John Robinson was so good to me,” she continued. “He sent flowers and candy. He took me to his estate and showed me his riches. We became best friends, then lovers. But it ended the moment he found out I was pregnant. His career wouldn’t have survived the scandal and Lewis Sinclair was only too willing to clean it all up, for a price. He arranged the adoption. I didn't want any part of it, but John convinced me it was for the best. He was such a sweet talker, despite his selfishness. Sinclair took me to Manville, to a very discrete doctor who delivered the baby. He kept John Robinson and my name out of any documents related to Nick's birth. The birth mother was listed as deceased. The father was listed as Lewis Sinclair."
"You killed Karl Walker because he found out?"
"People were suspicious enough about John Robinson's death. My life was destroyed. I didn’t want my son’s life destroyed, too. Besides, Karl Walker was another parasite, another gossiper. The world is better off without him."
“What happened?”
"He came to me that day, out of breath and all excited. He showed off the files on that damned computer of his. It was all arranged so neatly. He was so proud of recovering the adoption records and realizing that Nick Jones was 'really' Lewis Sinclair's child. He thought he was so damn clever when he told me how Lewis Sinclair and my dear son had arranged John Robinson's death, their purpose being to get Nick married to Judith, and thus get their hands on the Robinson estate. If I wasn’t so terrified, I could have laughed in his face."
"Karl Walker was wrong, but not by much. Had he revealed what he knew, the truth would have come out. I couldn't do that to my son, or to you Judith. Karl's big error, like yours Mr. Towne, was failing to question who Nick's mother was. That made what I had to do easier. I followed Karl into the parking lot and pulled out this gun. I shot him in the face and I knew he was dead. I then took his computer and as many of his papers as I could and burned the lot of them. I thought everything would be fine, until you asked me about the phone calls Karl made. I don't know how you figured it out, but I knew I needed to get rid of you. I couldn't kill you at the Inn. That would have been too suspicious. I followed you to Judith's estate, then all the way here."
Horror filled Nick Jones’s face.
"No, mother. You can't do this," he pleaded.
The gun in Mrs. Borg’s hand did not waver.
"The police are coming," I said.
“They won't find you. I'll make sure of that.” She looked at her long lost son. “We’ll make sure of that.”
“They won't help you,” I said. “They’re not like you.”
“Of course they will,” Mrs. Borg replied. “We're family. Families take care of each other.”
She lifted the hand gun.
"Good-bye, Mr. Towne."
Mrs. Borg pressed down on the trigger. I raised my hands to my face. It was a hopeless reflex. From the corner of my eye I spotted movement. Nick Jones jumped in front of me. He yelled as he leapt, but I couldn’t hear what he said. His words were drowned out by the roar of the gunshot.
His body fell into mine and both of us landed on the floor. A warm sensation spread from my right arm and down to my fingers
. Blood.
But, apart from the twisted ankle, I felt no pain. I opened my eyes and found Nick Jones lying beside me. Blood flowed in spurts from a hideous hole in his neck.
Mrs. Borg stood paralyzed, shocked by what she did to her son. The gun became a terrific weight in her hands. It dropped noisily to the floor and Mrs. Borg ran to her son's side. She wrapped her arms around her Nick's head and rocked him gently, as if putting a child to sleep.
I crawled away and got to my feet. I grabbed the still smoking gun and looked back at the interior of the cabin. Judith remained in her chair. She was no longer crying. Vacant eyes stared out into oblivion. Mrs. Borg and her dead son were on the floor. Nick’s blood spread around them like a dark halo.
I turned away and hobbled out the cabin door. Cold wind blew in from the valley below, rushing past me and off toward the west. A group of police officers were coming up the ski lift. In moments they’d arrive. They were too late for John Robinson or Karl Walker. They were too late for Nick Jones and Judith Robinson. They were too late for Mrs. Borg. They were too late for us all.
I could no longer stand. I sat down on the snow.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
When they brought us down from the mountain, I spotted Lewis Sinclair’s silver Mercedes in the parking lot. It gave me a very bad feeling.
“How did Mrs. Borg get here?” I asked Sheriff Chandler. Chandler didn’t answer. After all that happened, he didn’t want to talk to me at all. “Did she have a car?”
Chandler and Livingstone looked at each other and then at Sinclair’s Mercedes. They found his body in the trunk. Sinclair’s skull had been crushed with a blunt object. The murder weapon was never found.
When they asked Mrs. Borg why she killed him, she refused to say. But most knew that Sinclair was desperate for money. He couldn’t squeeze any out of Judith Robinson and probably tried to blackmail Mrs. Borg. The only thing he could use against her was her affair with John Robinson and the subsequent adoption, yet it was doubtful he knew anything about Nick Jones.