Snowjob (30 page)

“You better stay, Pat,” Doug said. “Get on the horn and tell the chief what’s happening. Me an’ Reid’ll head out to the Cat’s Cradle.”

“I’d like to be there,” Hinton said longingly.

“Manatelli’s the guy we’re after,” Doug said. “We have to cover this place.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Hinton slumped a little but went back to the police car and sat inside. We saw him talking on the radio as I backed out around him and headed for the ski hills.

Traffic was stopped on the road out of town and it took twenty minutes to get to the cause of the problem. A car with New York plates had slid off the road into the snowbank and a bunch of hearty ski types were trying to push it out. We slowed long enough for Doug to check that none of the people looked like anything but skiers, then spurted on to Cat’s Cradle.

It was already busy. The hills were dotted with the brightly colored outfits of skiers carving their way down the slopes and the parking lot was still filling up with carloads of newcomers, fit-looking people, a few children, carrying skis over their shoulders, making for the tows.

“Let’s hustle,” Doug said. “If he gets on the slopes we’ll never find him.”

The office staff was just arriving and Doug paused only for directions to Huckmeyer’s office. It was empty and there was no coat hanging there. We ducked back to the front and asked the receptionist where he was.

“I haven’t seen him. If he’s in, he may be on the slopes. Are his skis in there?”

“Didn’t see them,” Doug said. “Is there a phone in the lift shacks?”

The girl frowned. “No. Why?”

“Never mind,” Doug said. “Which one would he use?”

“The gondola lift. It goes to the top of Devil’s Fingers. Those are the hard runs, the ones he likes.”

“Thanks,” Doug said. “Let’s go.”

We ran out and up the slope to the gondola lift. There were skiers in the line, fit and full of fun. They laughed when we plowed past them into the lift house. “Has Walter Huckmeyer gone up here?” Doug demanded.

The kid in charge was around nineteen, young and efficient and insolent.” Who wants him?”

Doug reached out and pulled the big lever next to the kid. “The police, son. Now tell me, is he on this lift?”

“Hey. You can’t stop the lift. We on’y stop it for emergencies,” the kid blustered.

“P’lice emergency.” Doug pulled out his badge case and flopped it open. “Now. Tell me. Is Huckmeyer on the lift?”

“Wen’ up around five minutes ago,” the kid said. “He could be at the top by now.”

“Do you have a line to the guy at the top?”

“No, off’cer.” The boy was finally getting the message. “We can start and stop it from either end if somethin’ goes wrong, or to let people on and off, that’s all. And we’ve got a signal bell.”

“Leave it shut and use the signal to tell the top guy to leave it off until I tell you to turn it back on. Understand?” Doug said.

“Shit. I guess so.” He was lost now, his authority stripped away. Doug turned to me. “How do we get up there?”

“There’s a couple of skidoos in the ski patrol chalet. I’ll take one up there.”

“Are they hard to ride?”

“Like a motorbike, kind of. But you’re needed down here. Get some more guys out to cover the foot of the slopes in case he’s on his way down. And go and immobilize his car. The staff’ll know which it is.”

“Good thinking,” Doug said. “Take these.” He flicked out his handcuffs and I slipped them into my pocket and told him, “You’d better take Sam. You know his commands. I’ll turn him over to you.”

“Right. Good.” Doug stood still while I ran through the handover procedure. Then Doug ran back down to the office with Sam at his heel.

I clumped up to the ski patrol office and showed them my badge. The woman in charge was bright and sensible. She gave me a skidoo without question and pointed out the easiest way to get up the slope. It was steep, the kind of grade you see in the Winter Olympics, and there was a section of moguls about a hundred yards long close to the top. The few skiers who were taking them were shocked to see me, but none of them fell. I drove around the area, hugging the edge of the trees where the ground was fairly even, although still steep. And then, above it, I came to a ten-foot precipice.

A skier came over it, above me, like a bird, to land on the short, smooth section that led to the moguls. Like the kid had said in the office, one hell of a challenging run.

The ground sloped up to the trees on either side of the ski slope and the precipice bowed at the ends to meet it so I was able to pick my way through the trees and find a grade I could climb. I covered the last fifty yards to the top of the gondola lift and got off the machine, leaving it facing back toward the slope.

The boy in charge was waiting for me, and beyond him, hovering above the treetops, was the closest gondola with a bouquet of faces peering at the glass toward me.

“What’s goin’ on? I got people stranded,” he said.

“Has Walter Huckmeyer got here yet?”

“Haven’t seen him.”

“Okay. Start up and bring the car to within six feet of the dock.”

“You mean in, don’t ya?”

“No. I mean where the people can’t get out until I’ve checked them.”

“Now, listen, Mac,” he started. He was cut from the same cloth as his buddy at the other end.

I took off my glove and flashed the badge the chief had given me. “Chambers police,” I said. “Do like I said, please.”

“Okay. You’re the boss.” He started the car and I saw relief in the trapped faces, then exasperation as the car stopped short of the pad.

I studied all the faces, making sure Huckmeyer wasn’t among them, then stood where the door would come and waved the kid to finish bringing it in. He did and the people poured off, angry and questioning. The delay had wiped out their skiing spirit and turned them back into city people, frustrated and argumentative.

I stood there, ignoring their questions, until they moved away, snapping on their skis. Then I signaled the operator again and he brought up the next car in the same two stages.

Three cars came up before I detected the one that Huckmeyer was in. I couldn’t see him, but I could tell from the way some of the faces were turned away from me, looking down, that he was crouching there, hiding from me.

I called to the operator to bring it right in. The stopping point I’d chosen, six feet out, was only twelve feet above the snow and I figured a fit young skier like Huckmeyer might drop out and head down the slope, leaving me with my face hanging out.

I’d guessed right. I heard shrieks from the women in the car and two skis flopped out to land heel down and stick in the snow. Then Huckmeyer sat on the edge of the doorway, turned and gripped the floor, looked down once and dropped as the car kept moving.

He landed, rolling like a paratrooper and reaching for his skis, and I turned and ran for the snowmobile.

The machine started first pop and I headed back down the hill, forty yards behind him, with him gaining on me as he headed for the precipice. I’d scouted it before I climbed through the trees and knew where it was only four feet high. I turned the machine and headed straight down at the shallowest point. It was a risk but I was hunting mad and I leaned as far back as I could on the machine and wound it up. He went over the edge, twenty yards to my right and fifty yards in front of me. I lined up straight to cut the risk as far as I could, then braced myself up off the seat, arms and legs slightly bent, clutching the saddle with my knees.

The machine hung in the air for hours, it seemed, but my speed kept the nose from dipping and I landed flat with a jolt that crunched my stiffened spine and made my head sing. But I was still up and I could see Huckmeyer hammering away at the moguls, doing his best to keep his lead.

I had him. The machine whisked around the edge of the mogul field and I was level with him within ten feet of the end. He gave a convulsive pump with his arms, trying to lift himself into maximum speed, but I was there, five yards to one side and outrunning him.

I aimed for the back of his skis, knowing what would happen when I hit them. It did. The track of the machine passed over the backs of both skis, checking him so that both bindings snapped, sending him sprawling forward down the slope. I whipped around in front of him and jumped off the machine. He was game as hell and tried to run but I caught one hand and twisted it up his back, fiddling in my pocket for the handcuffs. He almost broke away and I stuck my foot between his and tripped him, facedown.

That was the final straw. He lay there, panting into the snow, and I unsnapped the catch on his right ski boot and yanked it off. He yelled at me, “Hey. What d’you think you’re doing?” I ignored him and handcuffed his right hand to his right ankle.

“Get on the machine in front of me,” I told him and he got up and hobbled through the deep snow to the snowmobile. “In front,” I said. “And don’t try anything cute or I’ll pull your other boot off and make you walk down.”

He got on, bent low over the restriction of the handcuffs, and held on to the handlebars with his left hand. I got on behind him, dropping his ski boot between us, and drove slowly down the slope. Skiers passed me, swinging their heads to see the action. I ignored them and they went on, picking up speed, racing to get back to their friends with the most exciting news of the day. One ski patroller passed, with a spare pair of skis in one hand. Huckmeyer’s, I guessed, but the man gave no indication, just went on down the slope, carving his turns with the easy grace of a lifetime’s skiing.

I drove back to the ski patrol chalet and stopped. “Inside, Walter.” He sat there a moment.

“Do I have to stay this way? Couldn’t you put the handcuffs on my wrists?”

“Lean forward. Put your head flat down,” I ordered and he looked at me bitterly but did as I said. I sat on his back while I unlocked his ankle, using the cuff key from my own key ring. Then I grabbed his left wrist and cuffed his arms behind his back.

I got off him. “That better?” He said nothing but swung his leg over the saddle and sat there. I dropped his other boot in front of him. “Shove your foot into that and get into the shack,” I told him and he did it without a word.

There were two patrollers in the shack, the woman in charge and the man who’d picked up Huckmeyer’s skis. The woman said, “What’s going on? Why’s Walter in handcuffs?”

“It’s a police matter. Do you have a phone, please?”

“Sure.” She pointed and I nodded thanks and pushed Huckmeyer gently toward a chair.

He sat, as well as he could with his hands behind him, and I phoned the police and reported what I’d done. They said they’d contact the radio car at the scene and let Doug know. He would join me.

I thanked the dispatcher and hung up. “I need to talk to Mr. Huckmeyer in private, please,” I said.

The woman stood up. “You’re not going to hurt him?”

“No, ma’am. I’m a police officer, temporarily assigned to the Chambers department. I just want to talk. But it has to be in private.”

She looked at Huckmeyer, nervously. “That all right with you, Walter?”

He nodded dumbly and she reached for a parka. “I have to be near the phone,” she told me. “I’ll be outside. Call me if it rings.”

“Will do, and thank you.” I was beginning to realize what a jolt I’d taken. My whole body ached and my head felt as if it would like to fall off and roll across the ground. I eased my neck gently with my right hand. The male patroller spoke then. “Hurt yourself, did you? Jesus. You gotta be a head case. I saw you go over that jump.”

“Special circumstances,” I said. “Your machine’s okay.”

“How about you?” the woman asked.

“I’ll be fine, thank you. But I do have to talk to Mr. Huckmeyer.”

They looked at one another and then left. I swung my chair to face Huckmeyer. “Where were you going?”

“Skiing,” he said tightly. “Why the hell else would I be on the gondola? I work here. I have the right to ski when I want to.”

“We were at your house. Manatelli’s gone. D’you know where?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know anybody called Manatelli.”

“Walt, believe me. His bodyguard is down with the police chief, singing like a bird. He told us Manatelli was with you last night. So don’t waste time. It’s him we want. Not you. He’s the guy who killed those people. Or set it up for his flunky to do it.”

“I don’t know why you came after me. I don’t know anything. I want to speak to my lawyer. I’m going to sue you for everything you’ve got.”

“That’s fine. We’ll take you downtown. Then you can get your shyster in. But by then it’ll be too late. Once Manatelli’s gone, your chance of making any deals is over.”

“I’m saying nothing,” he said. “Except to protest the humiliation you’ve caused me.”

“Fine. Sit there and wait. See how slowly the time goes. Then think about spending ten, fifteen years the same way.”

I got up and went to the door. “You can come in now, thank you.”

The ski patrol supervisor came back in. She didn’t say anything but looked at Huckmeyer nervously. He said, “This is a bad mistake, Jennifer. I’m going to sue this man for what he’s done.”