by Muriel Gray
Two crows perched on a tiny ledge on the cliff watched the meat hanging from its metal larder, swinging gently with the wind. Perhaps when they were sure it was safe, they would fly over there and explore.
But for now only the snow and the wind explored Joe and his vehicle, and from the look in his eyes, which were two frozen balls in his battered head. Joe Reader didn’t mind a bit.
8
When Katie Hunt’s phone rang, she jumped. She hoped it was Sam, and it was. Only two days back at work after his blackout, and the ski company had sent him to Stoke for fencing in one of the worst blizzards she could remember. That seemed to Katie to be a slice of a raw deal, but the Hunt family had long since learned to lock away resentment at raw deals in a mental box marked “Leave It.”
Right now, she was just glad he was safe.
“So where you going to spend the night, honey?”
Sam sounded tired. “Well, it’s either the Stoke Hilton or I can bed down in the ticket office. I’m gonna go for the ticket office. Room service is quicker. Seems like I’m the only homeless one around here, so I get the place to myself. It sure beats the hell out of sleeping in the ski truck in a twelve-foot drift. You OK?”
“Sure. You OK? No headaches?”
Katie heard Sam smile through his voice. “No. No headaches. No drooling down my chin like a lunatic. No writhing on the floor in a fit.”
Katie ignored his mockery of her concern. “When do you think you’ll make it home?”
“If the blizzard lets up I guess the pass’ll be open by about noon tomorrow. You can wear my wool shirt if you get cold in bed without me.”
“Sam.”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, babe.”
Billy yelled from the other room, and Katie said her good-byes and hung up. Some talk show host was smarming through his stand-up routine, while Billy Hunt ignored him in favor of a handheld computer game. He yelled again as Katie came into the L-shaped room that was the biggest living space in the house.
“Nine thousand, Mom! I got nine thousand! Yesss!”
Katie stood behind her son and ran one thoughtful hand through his straight black hair. “Bed, Billy boy. Now.”
“You said I could wait up and see Dad,” he replied without taking his eyes off the gray plastic block in his hand.
“Dad’s stranded in the storm over at Stoke. He’s coming home tomorrow, so that means bed for you, right now.”
She leaned over and switched off Billy’s game.
“Aw, Mom!”
“I said now, Billy. Your hockey kit’s at the foot of your bed. You forget to put it in your bag again tomorrow then you’re on your own, kid. I’m not driving around to school with it.” She turned to leave the room.
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Dad won’t be at home tonight at all?”
Suddenly he looked worried. Katie went back and joined him on the sofa.
“It’s OK. Like I said: he’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Can Bart sleep with me tonight?”
Katie tried to look hurt. “Oh, so Jess and I won’t do for company, then? I keep forgetting, we’re just sappy girls.”
Billy put his hand in hers, and looked into her eyes with such concern that she already regretted the joke. “You do fine. I just want Bart with me. It’s important.”
Katie squeezed his little hand. “Sure. If you can get him in. Good luck. You know what he’s been like.”
“Great!”
“Now go get ready for bed. I’ll be up in a minute.”
Her son bounced up and hopped on one foot to the door, singing as he went. His nine-year-old mind had already moved on to other matters. Likewise, Katie’s thirty-four-year-old mind had drifted back to her husband, worry and anxiety drilling into her. It was wrenched back to reality by the sound of Bart bounding upstairs with Billy, as the dog knocked over the frosted glass vase on the landing.
She smiled, and went to play at being stern.
When dawn came on January tenth it revealed the best snow conditions Silver Ski Company had seen for fifteen seasons. It also brought Estelle Reader the worst day of her life.
When they brought back what was left of Joe around one-thirty, Craig had been first at Estelle’s door, his face a gray mask of grief. Craig thought about the kind of suffering you see in the movies, where widows thank the policeman, squeeze his hand, and sit quietly in a chair absorbing the news. He thought about it as Estelle fell to her knees gurgling like a pig being bled, clutching at Craig’s jacket with fists like claws. She writhed on the floor and tore at the rug in the pain of her despair, until Craig hooked his hands under her armpits and lifted her onto a chair.
Life wasn’t like the movies. In fact, life in Silver over the last week had been real bad.
Two ski patrollers killed in a freak explosion, and now Joe. He would, of course, have to tell Estelle that Joe’s death hadn’t been an accident, but not now. Time for that later, and time was going to bring her more pain. She would have to suffer the wait before they could lay Joe in the ground, while an autopsy was performed on the grisly remains.
He waited with the moaning shell of Estelle Reader until her sister got there, then left and headed back to work.
Half a mile from the office, Craig McGee pulled off the highway onto a back road, stopped the engine and cried like a baby. He would be all right in half an hour. Right now, he was broken up.
“No kidding? Well, if it’s a problem we can send a car to the airport to bring her luggage separately.”
Pasqual Weaver watched her own reflection in the office window as she spoke. An elegant, if angular, woman in her thirties looked back, the gray fleece zippered top with the Silver Ski Company logo embroidered on the left breast doing its best to undermine her executive status.
The hand unoccupied by the telephone played with the zipper at her neck.
“Sure, we want her to be real comfortable. And can I say we’re already over the moon she’s even considering it.”
Eric entered the room and Pasqual mimed at him to sit down.
“OK, James, you put those things to her and get back to us when you have an answer, but please tell her from us that we’re all huge fans and are really hoping she can make it. OK, you too. Take care.” She hung up, and gave the phone her middle finger. “Jesus. The fucking old bitch is acting like she’s still a star. Make my day, Eric. Tell me you’ve come to persuade me this celebrity ski week idea is a crock of shit.”
Eric Sindon had not come to say any such thing. “You’ve heard about the accident?”
Pasqual’s body changed shape. No longer lounging in her leather chair, it was now sitting forward like a cat watching its prey before striking.
“Tell me.”
“Craig’s sidekick. His truck went over the gorge on Wolf’s Pass last night.”
Pasqual sat back in her chair with relief. “Fuck. Don’t give me scares like that. I thought we’d had a fatality on the slopes. I think we can live with a cop in an auto accident.”
Eric looked at his boss with distaste. “It’s the third death in Silver in a week. I’m getting rumors that there’s more to it than just an automobile accident.”
Pasqual opened her top drawer and fished around until she found a packet of M&Ms.
“Want one?” She tossed the packet over the desk to Eric after filling her mouth with chocolate.
“No. Look, I’m telling you this because I think it will have a negative effect on the resort. Skiers don’t get off on reading about death when they should be reading about snow reports.”
“Eric, I think our visitors are big enough boys and girls to cope with the fact that sometimes people die in cars.”
“What about Lenny and Jim?”
“Accidents happen. They were patrollers, for Christ’s sake. What exactly are you worried about?”
“Someone has to.”
“Meaning?”
&nbs
p; “Meaning you shouldn’t underestimate negative vibes in a fun resort, Pasqual.”
She smiled a wicked cat grin at him. “Are you telling me my job, Mr. Sindon?”
Eric sighed. “OK, forget it. Just thought it was worth mentioning.”
“Thank you. No more drama-queen stuff unless a gondola full of customers spontaneously combusts. Right?”
Eric held her gaze without reply for a few more moments than was polite.
“You’re the boss.”
“Yes. I am. Aren’t I?”
She smiled as she left, shutting the door behind her. Eric looked at the door for a long time, until the phone rang.
As Pasqual left the building and crossed the darkening nursery area to the ski school shed, she tossed her short brown bobbed hair, waved and shouted “Hi!” to anyone who would respond.
The man was waiting inside. He greeted her with a smile.
“Hi there. You’re the job hunter.”
“Yeah. You must be Pasqual Weaver. Moses Sitconski. Pleased to meet you.”
He extended a lily-white hand, which she shook.
“What kind of a name is that, exactly?”
The man looked at her, neither offended nor defensive. “My name.”
“Well, Moses,” she said, pronouncing the word as though it were a shared and intimate joke, “you’ve done your resort personnel homework. Now, what kind of work are you after? We’re nearly halfway through the season, you know.”
“Sure, I know. Looks like it’s going to be a great second half. Long time since I’ve seen snow conditions this good. I guess the powder in the back bowls is like spun sugar right now.”
He smiled, crinkling two ice-blue eyes in a face so pale Pasqual figured the guy had never been near a ski trail in his life. She was used to dealing with people with mahogany tans that stopped where their turtlenecks started, but the easy charm of this man was making up for the fact that he was obviously no ski bum. Nor was he dressed like anyone who wanted to be near snow. A long black wool coat hung over what Pasqual noted was a powerful frame. She wasn’t looking at a potential ski instructor, but maybe he’d be some use in the PR office.
“You a skier, Moses?”
“Sure. I can get down most things.”
“So where have you worked before? And what as, exactly?”
The man looked into her eyes very deeply indeed.
Pasqual was aware of an acute sexual stirring beginning around her nipples that shifted down over her belly to an area she didn’t have much time to explore these days. He was turning her on with those eyes, and she was ashamed. Why this encounter should have such an effect was a mystery, and made her squirm beneath her fleece with discomfort and irritation. After all, she was surrounded all day by pieces of meat on skis that she could have just by looking sideways at them. If she chose to, she could fuck any instructor on the resort, but sex was never high on Pasqual Weaver’s agenda. Right now, however, it was standing at the front door ringing the bell.
“Tamarack. Two seasons. Manual grooming, mainly.”
She looked at him suspiciously. How could he have worked outdoors all day as a manual groomer and still have stayed as white as a baby’s ass? She wasn’t going to be bullshitted. Tamarack just happened to be Silver’s biggest rival right now. So much so, even the name got on her nerves.
“And who was the big white chief at Tamarack? Just in case I want to call him up?”
The man who called himself Moses smiled widely, revealing milky white teeth behind his pink lips. “I’d be glad if you called him up, Miss Weaver. His name is William Cole. We called him Hill Billy.”
She knew damned well it was Bill fucking Cole that ran the show over there. Same as she knew that Tamarack had stolen nearly a fifth of Silver’s day-trip customers with three new high-speed quads. She would drink piss before she would phone up Cole for a reference. The fact that the guy knew his name and his slang name was enough proof for her he was telling the truth. Plus he would be useful in the office if he knew exactly what was going on with the competition.
“So, are you hoping for manual work again or does something with a desk and a fan heater blowing hot air up your fanny all day interest you?”
“Anything you got, really. I understand you lost a couple of your ski patrol.”
She frowned. “Yeah, well, we’re on that one, thanks. The rest of the guys are still cut up about it and I don’t think they’d take too kindly to me sticking a sits. vac. ad in the local newspaper before they’ve got their two buddies in the ground.”
“A real tragedy.”
“It’s a dangerous job.”
His eyes were boring through her skull. She looked away, pretending to study the blackboard for tomorrow’s ski class rota. “OK, Moses, why don’t you come see me tomorrow at eight-thirty and we’ll fix something up. Can’t promise ski patrol, but I’ll be honest and tell you we can use some extra help right now. Things are going to get real busy when the snow reports hit the cities.”
Moses stuck his hand out again and she took it without thinking. This time he held on to it a little longer than she would have liked.
“Well, that’s just great, Miss Weaver. I look forward to that.”
She withdrew her hand as the door threw open to admit five laughing instructors clopping in like carthorses.
“Robbed the public blind today, I hope, guys?” she said in a tone higher than she had planned.
“Yo, you bet,” laughed the biggest and brownest of the pack, unzipping his suit with a baroque flourish.
Pasqual smiled once at them, once at Moses, and left.
The tall pale man watched the flimsy wooden door close behind Pasqual and then glanced across at the five faces eyeballing him.
“Hi,” he smiled.
Only one nodded back.
Moses Sitconski put his hands back into his pockets without dissolving his smile, then followed Pasqual out into the night.
9
The plows went past with the invincibility of a fleet of Newfoundland trawlers putting to sea; lights flashing, funnels blowing out plumes of snow, their metal bows pushing back the ocean of white in huge, semi-solid waves.
Snaking behind these yellow leviathans was a line of nineteen cars, two trucks and a bus, and right in the middle Sam Hunt sat behind the wheel of the company pickup.
As he drove slowly behind a big shiny Ford, Sam’s eyes were narrow slits of dismay. Not because his progress home was painfully slow, but because last night, alone on the bench in the ticket office at Stoke, he’d had another dream.
So far, it was the worst. Since his blackout three days ago, every night had furnished him with dreams so distressing and unendurable he was beginning to dread sleep. But last night was the pits. It was almost real.
It had been different in detail, of course, but the creature was still there. Still fixing him with its unholy, vindictive, glacial gaze as it set about its grisly business. Always the business with the heart. That was the bit he couldn’t take.
There was more last night, though. A lot more. Sam made a dry swallow as he remembered.
The office that smelled of wet floorboards and hot dogs during the day was a different place at night. Fierce heating dried the wood after the last customer had left, slowly evaporating the puddles caused by skiers dragging the snow in on their moonboots. For a while it made the room steamy and sour. But once it had dried, and the cleaners had done their stuff sweeping up discarded sticky backs from the lift passes, the office was a pleasant and inhabitable room. When Sam had called Katie he was comfortable. There was, after all, something soothing about seeking refuge from the storm in a commercial rather than a domestic setting, appealing to that childish excitement of bedding down somewhere alien and forbidden.
He had three blankets in the truck and found a long foam seat cover from the back of the office, where the staff took their boots off. More than enough for a bed. He made his nest beside the radiator pipes at the back wall, where he faced the
big digital clock above the ticket windows.
Outside, the blizzard battered at the windows, the snow hitting the glass like shotgun pellets. Sam turned off the overhead striplight and wriggled, snug beneath his blankets. The big green digital numbers of the clock cast an eerie illumination on the room, reflecting dimly on the floorboards. They were reading 10:07 when he settled down, his hand beneath his head like a child. Sam had decided he was feeling better. Dreams aside, there had been no further blacking out, and it was that void of consciousness that held most terror for him. Brain tumor? Cancer? All the demons of modern medical knowledge had plagued him since that numbing collapse. But it was over now. He was well. Sure of it.
When he woke up after the dream and threw up, the green digits were reading 10:45. Sam found himself on all fours, hunched like a dog over a pile of his own hot vomit. He was sweating and panting, and the stench of the wet bile beneath him made him retch again.
The memory of it made Sam clutch the steering wheel like a lifeline. But it was what came after that was making Sam’s heart thump in his chest like a trapped bird. Nothing. That’s what happened after he woke over his own vomit. At least nothing until he woke a second time. At 7:30 a.m. Fully clothed, standing outside his truck.
10
Alberta 1907
Siding Twenty-three
The man was coming again. Chief Hunting Wolf pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and composed himself. His warriors said nothing as they watched the tall man in the flapping black clothes scramble up the rocks toward them, but Hunting Wolf sensed them shift uneasily beside him in anticipation.
When the Reverend James Henderson reached the small group of natives, he was battling for breath, sweating with the exertion of the climb.
“Big walk I do,” he gasped.
