And be stranded here, with no hope of reaching Abby in time. Then he knew there was no choice. His muscles cracked as he began to haul himself hand over hand up the rope, gripping with his feet, reaching with his hands and hauling. He was spinning faster now, his own movement adding to the lack of stability. As he rotated, he could see from the corner of his eye the massive steel structure of the tower looming closer and closer.
He was inches from the chair now. He stretched. His hand brushed the metal of the footrest, fingers clawing. He touched again, then got a solid hold. He thanked his years of working in the mountains for the fact that he’d tied the rope around his chest in a quick-release knot. He tugged the end now and felt the rope fall loose. He tossed it away from himself, and grabbed for the footrest with his free hand.
He hung there now, swinging from the inverted T of the footrest. He jackknifed his body, legs searching for the other footrest, finding it, and coiling around it to take some of the weight.
Then the chair was bumping and clanging over the tower, and he could see the rope whipping up and over the cable, hoping it wouldn’t catch and jam up the cable, bringing the chairlift to a halt.
It didn’t. It slid smoothly over the greased steel, its end flicking in ever smaller arcs as it got closer to the top, then dropping away to lie coiled and lifeless in the snow below the cable. The chair, with Jesse hanging under it like some gigantic possum on a branch, sped up the hill toward Storm Peak.
He hung there for a minute or so, regaining his composure. Slowly, his breath and heart rate, which had accelerated alarmingly as he’d struggled to get the rope clear of the tower, dropped back to somewhere near normal. The strain on his arms was a lot less now, as his weight was shared by arms and legs. He felt he might be able to improve his position on the chair a little.
He heaved up and got a good right-handed grip on the safety bar above the footrests. He shifted his position so that his feet gave him some purchase on the footrest, and with a convulsive heave, hauled himself up and over the safety bar, to sprawl along the four-seat length of the chair.
The chair swayed alarmingly, the plastic bubble canopy rattled back and forth with the movement and he breathed a silent prayer of thanks for the automatic mechanism that tilted the bubbles back as the chairlift came into the loading area. If the canopy had been down, he’d never have got into the chair. He would have had to hang precariously below it all the way up the mountain.
He scanned to the left, trying for some sight of the Polaris. But the pines on either side of the chairlift loomed higher than the cable, effectively blocking his view. And it was then that the significance of Abby’s shouted message struck him.
“I’ll always remember skiing the bumps with you,” she’d said. Yet Abby, in spite of the fact that she was an excellent skier, hated mogul skiing. Hated skiing the bumps. The only time he’d tried to teach her, when they were first married, she’d lost her temper with him and the mountain after the first fifty yards, and skied out of the mogul field to find a groomed run down the mountain.
He’d been teaching her in the Chutes—a series of narrow black diamond runs out on the limits of the ski area, just below the old weather station. And then, it all fell into place. Mikkelitz, Jesse was sure, was planning to head out into the wilderness area beyond the ski boundary. Yet he hadn’t been carrying any of the equipment he’d need to survive there: cross-country skis, a pack, some kind of tent, food and survival clothing. So he must have stashed them somewhere at the top of the mountain.
At the weather station building. That was what Abby had been trying to tell him. That was where they were heading.
He reached into his jacket pocket for the radio. His fingers closed on nothing. For a moment, he felt panic as he searched the pocket, then the other side pocket of his jacket. Then he realized what had happened. The radio must have dropped out when he’d been hanging half-upside-down below the chair. There was no retaining flap on the pocket, nothing to stop the little radio sliding clear, unnoticed, and dropping into the snow. Come the spring thaw, he thought grimly, he’d have to come back up here and look for it.
It’d probably be here, along with the hundreds of poles, skis, gloves and personal items that the mountain crew found under the chairlifts every summer. More than once, he knew, crews had found brassieres, boxer shorts and panties. He took his hat off to people who could manage such acrobatics on a chairlift.
The top of the lift was in sight now and he knew what he was going to do. His gun was still firmly jammed into the back of his waistband and the deputy sheriff’s star was secure in his shirt pocket. One or the other would be all he’d need to get a pair of skis and boots at the top of the chairlift.
The chair slid onto the slow speed circuit now, rocking as it decelerated down to an easy walking pace. He tossed back the safety bar that had served him so well, and came off the chair, hitting the snow at a run and moving to the right where the lift attendant was watching him through the window of the hut.
To one side, a ski patroller was also in position, monitoring the people on the chairlift as he’d been told. He frowned slightly at the sight of someone running from the chair, not wearing skis, then recognized Jesse.
“Hey, Jess,” he began, a little puzzled at the deputy’s grimly determined expression. “What’s going down, man?”
Jesse could see the other man’s Atomic slalom models thrust base down into the snow beside a tree. He pointed to the man’s feet, began shucking off one of his own battered running shoes as he made his way toward him, hopping on one foot.
“Your boots,” he ordered. “I need them. And your skis. Quick, Harry, get them off.”
Harry grinned foolishly, convinced this was some kind of elaborate joke.
“My boots, Jess?” he asked, shaking his head, waiting for the tag line. He actually recoiled a few paces as Jesse’s anger flared.
“Your fucking boots! Now!” the deputy yelled. A few skiers crossing toward Buddy’s Run and the Flying Z stopped to stare at the sudden commotion. Still Harry didn’t understand.
“Jesse—?” he began, but Jesse was in no mood for long-winded explanations. He balanced on one foot, the other one now shoeless, and got a hard grip on the ski patroller’s parka.
“Harry, I need those boots. I need your skis. And I need them real fast. Now, for Christ’s sake, give them to me!”
The urgency communicated, even if the man could see no reason for it. Shaking his head, he knelt, unclipping the fastenings on his right ski boot.
Jesse realized that he’d removed his own left shoe. He gestured to it. “Other one first,” he snapped.
There was nothing to gain by having to stand in the snow in nothing but his socks.
Harry saw the sense of it. He removed his left Koflach and exchanged it for Jesse’s beat-up sneaker. Jesse jammed his foot into the ski boot. He’d need it to fit the skis on. The ski bindings wouldn’t attach to a normal walking shoe, of course. The boot was a little tight in the fit but he wasn’t planning on wearing it long. He hurriedly snapped the lever fastenings into place. By the time he’d done it, the still puzzled ski patroller had the other ski boot ready. Jesse shucked off his shoe, tossed it to the other man and shoved his foot deep into the ski boot.
“Thanks, Harry,” he said breathlessly, grabbing the skis from where they were rammed upright into the snow and dropping them flat beside each other. He stepped into the bindings, clamping his heels back down to lock them. The ski patroller had the stocks ready for him. He grabbed them gratefully.
“Thanks,” he repeated quickly. “I’ll explain later. Wait in the chairlift hut.”
Then he shoved off with the poles, at the same time skating the skis, digging the edges in for purchase, and went gliding quickly across the firm packed snow toward the trail that led to the weather station.
SIXTY-EIGHT
F
or the first quarter mile or so, the slope was slightly downhill. Jesse continued to skate and to pole hard, building his speed as much as he could for the point where the trail started uphill again.
There were a few people out skiing. He passed them quickly. For the most part, they were taking their time, planning to turn off down Buddy’s Run, or maybe to begin dropping down the slope a little as they worked their way over to the Ridge and the Crowtrack, the black runs that wound their way down through the trees to the flatter expanses of Big Meadow. One or two of them glanced up at the lone skier who whipped past them, working arms and legs to build his speed across the groomed snow. A computer programmer from Dallas grinned at his companion, a honey blond doctor’s receptionist from Ohio whom he’d met the night before. He jerked his head in the direction of the fast-moving figure who’d just passed them.
“Extremist,” he drawled. The blonde cocked her head curiously.
“Now where’s he going in such a hurry?” she asked. Her companion shrugged.
“Guess he’s taking the tough runs down through the trees,” he said with a trace of envy in his voice. Those runs were way beyond his meager ability on skis.
None of this was noticed by Jesse. He’d hit the uphill slope now. The momentum he’d built up kept him moving easily for the first sixty or seventy yards. He was glad that the skis had been waxed recently and the snow itself was firm, without a trace of slush. Head down, he continued to pole and skate, creating a classic herringbone pattern in the snow as the pitch of the trail increased and he needed to set his edges out to the side to give him increased purchase. He moved his skis in a wide V-shape, stepping rapidly from one to the other. There was no longer any forward gliding motion in his progress. He was walking now, using the spread skis to gain purchase. His breath came in short, sharp explosions of mist in the cold air. A snowflake drifted down, swirling uncertainly past his lowered eyes as he plowed up, head down.
He glanced up briefly. There were more big, soft flakes spiraling down. The sky was a dirty dark gray and he could tell they were in for another dump. Which meant, if Mikkelitz did make his escape into the wilderness, as he assumed he was going to, there would be no trail to follow.
His thighs were burning with the repetitive skating motion. The boots, a little too tight, were painful on his feet. He gritted his teeth, lowered his head and concentrated on the savage rhythm of movement that he’d developed. Step, pole, step, pole, thrust, step. To an onlooker, it would have appeared easy and graceful. Only Jesse knew how much effort was going into it.
In spite of the cold, his shirt was already damp with sweat, and drops of perspiration were running into his eyes. He shook his head angrily to clear the salt sting. Just keep it going. Couldn’t be more than half a mile to the weather station. Maybe less. Don’t look up. Don’t see how much farther you have to keep up this pace.
His upper body rolled from side to side and he was grunting in time to the movements now—a visceral, primitive sound that was dragged from him by the effort and the adrenaline and the need to keep going. To make it to the weather station before it was too late.
Now he was off the groomed trail, deep among the trees where the snow was softer and the going was much, much more difficult. He fought the snow, thrusting, stepping, dragging huge, gasping draughts of knife-cold oxygen into his lungs.
At last he had to stop. He stood gasping, shoulders heaving. The building was visible now through the trees, barely two hundred yards away. He could see the darker tones of the timber walls against the snow. His view was still partly obscured by the trees, and he had no way of knowing if Mikkelitz and Abby were already there. He waited till his breathing steadied a little, then listened. The snow was falling more heavily now, seeming to blanket out sound around him. He was listening for the high revving note of a snowmobile engine but there was nothing. He’d lost all track of time and a glance at the Seiko on his wrist meant nothing to him. He didn’t know when he’d last seen them. Didn’t know how long it was since he’d dangled under the chairlift like a hooked mackerel.
The ominous thought was forming in his mind that he also didn’t know for sure that this was where they were heading. Abby’s message may have simply been the confused words of a terrified, disoriented woman.
Maybe they were heading somewhere else. Maybe they had already been here and left. Maybe they were yet to arrive. He simply didn’t know. All he did know was that he had to keep going now until he found out, one way or another.
It took him another hundred yards.
He plowed on through the soft, deep snow, wishing he’d been able to commandeer a set of cross-country skis. Then, without any warning, he was in the open, barely seventy yards from the old weather station. The trees receded behind him and the slope of the ground in front of him dropped away so he could glide forward once more. The skis made no noise at all in the fresh falling cover of snow, already several inches deep.
He skied forward carefully, aware that he was in the open now. Aware that if Mikkelitz were inside the building, watching him, he was an easy target—a dark figure against the white background. So far, however, there was no sign that anyone was in the building. The windows and doors that he could see were closed and shuttered, although he knew that, on the far side, there was a garage-type roller door that gave access into the storeroom and workrooms of the building. Now, as he came closer, he became aware of something just visible around the right-hand corner of the building—dark object that was gradually becoming covered by the falling snow. An object that didn’t seem to be part of the building itself, didn’t seem to belong.