First Tracks

by Catherine O'Connell

  ‘Only the human kind,’ I said, giving the gas can a nod. ‘There was someone messing around outside. I think they were trying to either burn my place down or burn me out. Did you see anyone come down the road around three in the morning?’

  ‘At three in the morning they would have had to drive over me for me to notice. But this is most unsettling. You have any idea why someone would want to burn up your place?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  He squinted and his gray brows came down low over his eyes at the same time a picture of enlightenment came over his face. We were both thinking along the same lines. We both knew of one person who had a vested interest in me not living in that A-frame anymore. Or living anywhere for that matter. But he didn’t say the name and I didn’t offer it.

  I asked about Ellie and he informed me that she was recovering from her hip surgery quite well. I hadn’t even known she had a bad hip, that’s what a bad neighbor I was. I drove off, reminding myself to talk to the Greenes more often.

  When I got into town I headed directly for the courthouse where the sheriff’s offices were located. My house was far enough up eighty-two to put me outside the Aspen city limits, but I still was in Pitkin County. Sheriff Dan Nichols was standing in the hallway drinking coffee and talking to one of the clerks when I came huffing down the hall carrying the half-filled gas canister in my right hand. I’d known Dan for quite a while, since about when I first came to town. My first encounter with him was when he was a deputy and I’d hit a deer on Owl Creek Road racing to an interview for a ski instructor job.

  I’d been so near to hysterical when he pulled up, feeling so bad about the animal laying at the side of the road, that I’d not even noticed the crushed front end of my Toyota. But he’d calmed me down and reassured me that it wasn’t my fault, that I was lucky it was the deer and not me. My second encounter with Dan was a week later, when I was driving my battered Toyota down the same road doing sixty in a thirty-five, late for my first day of work. He’d given me a pass with a raised eyebrow, and instead of writing me up he asked me on a date. He was a good-looking guy back then, about thirty or forty pounds leaner, and I figured a date sure beat the hell out of a ticket. We went out a few times before I had to tell him I wasn’t interested in anything besides friendship. And that’s how it’s worked out to the present day though, truth be told, I still think he wouldn’t mind otherwise.

  ‘Greta!’ He doffed his cowboy hat to reveal a large shaved head rising like a balloon over his double or triple chin. He gave me a friendly smile. ‘What’re you doing in civvies? I hear it’s epic out there after this last storm.’ His eyes drifted down to the canister. ‘If you’re here for gas, you’re in the wrong place.’

  ‘Somebody tried to toast me last night. And not with champagne,’ I said, putting the canister on the ground in front of him.

  His face took on the appropriate expression for an officer of the law learning one of his constituents was in harm’s way. ‘Want to tell me about it?’

  We sat in his office with the door shut while I relayed the series of events that had taken place at my home during the night. When I’d finished, he nodded. ‘Anyone have a beef with you? Bounced check? Scorned lover?’

  ‘I’ve got a widow mad at me, but she’s not going to burn down my house. I just can’t stop thinking of Joel Simpson, Sam’s son. He’s got a lot to benefit by me not being around.’

  ‘Ha! The son of Sam. Never thought about it this way.’

  ‘Stop it, Dan. This is serious. Someone tried to burn down my house. With me in it.’

  ‘Greta, I am taking it seriously. Believe me. If Joel’s still in town I’ll find him and talk to him. See what he was up to last night.’

  There was a knock at the door and one of Dan’s deputies stuck her head around the door. ‘Need to talk to you for a minute,’ she said. He excused himself and left the room. I took advantage of his absence to check my phone. My heart sped up when I saw Duane had texted me at 6:39 a.m. while I was asleep in the Barca. SORRY FOR NOT CALLING LAST NIGHT. HOSPITAL EMERGENCY. DO YOU HAVE TIME FOR A COFFEE BEFORE WORK?

  My fingers couldn’t move fast enough. NO WORK TODAY. COFFEE WHERE?

  His response came right back. HOSPITAL CAFETERIA.

  Mine. TWENTY MINUTES.

  His. CAN’T WAIT.

  I was grinning inwardly when Dan came back into his office. Dan didn’t return to his desk, but rather remained standing in the open doorway with his hand on the knob. ‘OK, Greta. We’ll get on this. In the meantime, you given any thought to staying somewhere else tonight?’

  The image of Duane Larsen filled my brain. He’d never asked me to come home with him, but then again I’d never given him the opportunity. ‘Maybe,’ I replied.

  ‘Well, if you’ve got somewhere else to stay I think that’s a good idea. I’ll station a deputy at the entrance to your road in case whoever it is comes back. But I rather doubt they will now that you’re on to them.’

  I got up to go, anxious to get to the hospital to meet my coffee date, the thought of someone trying to kill me now a sorry second priority. Dan seemed anxious for me to go too, which was unusual. He generally extended our visits with a little harmless flirtation. But he was all business and I was getting the impression he was as ready for me to be on my way as I was.

  ‘Sorry to give you the bum’s rush,’ he apologized. ‘Gotta suspect in the Kim Woods murder. We’re holding a little powwow before the arrest.’

  ‘You got somebody?’ My first thought was how relieved Duane would be to learn that someone was going to be held accountable for Kimmy’s death. ‘That’s good work!’

  ‘Yep. Think we’ve got him cold. Her blood in his car, her blood in his house.’

  ‘Congrats,’ I said, now more anxious to get to the hospital so I could deliver the news to Duane myself. ‘Can’t wait to read about it in the paper.’

  He walked me down the hall, and I could tell how distracted he was. But, true to form, he always threw in that little flirtation. ‘Seeing anyone special these days?’ he asked.

  ‘As a matter of fact I am,’ I teased. ‘I’m meeting him for a cup of coffee in a few.’

  ‘Does he have a name?’ he pried.

  ‘As a matter of fact he does,’ I replied. I opened the courthouse door and walked past him with a big smile on my face.

  Duane and I were huddled in the corner of the hospital cafeteria over two cups of coffee, holding hands. He was staring at me so intently it almost made me feel naked, but in a good way. ‘I was really hoping to see you last night, but then the other ER doctor had a car accident in the canyon on his way to the hospital. He was in pretty bad shape when they brought him in, ruptured spleen among other things. I ended up tending to him instead of him relieving me. There was no one else to cover, so I was here all night. Luckily, we were busy so it didn’t give me time to think about much else. Not Kimmy. Or you,’ he added. ‘We were so busy my mind was totally on work. I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t disappoint you.’

  I was barely hearing his words, my attention focused on the feel of his hands upon mine, questioning how this moment could be so sublime despite an attempt on my life and the loss of my job, temporary or not. Was it possible my soulmate had finally appeared, my raison d’être? I wasn’t much of a romantic, but there was no denying something special was happening between us.

  He bent his head down and pressed his lips to my palm, causing me to think I may never wash that hand again. Or at least for the rest of the day. I put my hand to his cheek and stroked it and watched his mismatched eyes light up behind the wire frames. It’s both elevating and humbling to feel you can create a response like that in another person. I think that was the best moment I’ve ever felt in my life when not skiing.

  I was preparing to tell him about the suspect in Kim’s murder, pleased to carry the news that they might know who was responsible, when Dan Nichols and two deputies walked into the cafeteria. My first thought was Dan had foun
d the arsonist who had attempted to burn me out, thinking it odd that he knew where to find me. Then I started wondering how he knew I was here. His eyes widened when he saw me sitting with Duane, and an eerie feeling came over me. He approached the table with a look unlike any I’d ever seen on his face, like a doctor about to deliver a fatal diagnosis.

  ‘Long time, Sheriff,’ I said. Turning to Duane, I added, ‘I was just going to tell you. There’s a suspect in Kimmy’s murder.’

  There was an uneasy silence, the eerie feeling bloating like a dead cow three days on a prairie.

  ‘Greta, I’d like you to leave,’ said the sheriff.

  ‘But …’ I looked at his face and then back at Duane’s. Duane looked puzzled. ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I said, taking Duane’s hand and holding it hard.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Dan turned towards my newfound love and in a most controlled voice he said, ‘Duane Larson, we are here to arrest you for the murder of Kimmy Woods. You have the right to remain silent. What you do say …’

  My ears screamed ‘NO’ in denial. I jumped in before he could finish giving Duane his rights, my voice shrill and anxious. ‘Are you crazy? There’s no way he would have killed that girl. She’s his friend’s daughter.’

  ‘Greta, I’m going to ask you again to leave,’ Dan said without looking at me. ‘I want you to get out of this room. Now.’

  ‘No!’ I cried defiantly.

  Then I looked at Duane’s face. While he had turned as pale as the snow on the windowsill behind him, his face remained closed and calm. He stood and offered his wrists. ‘Greta. Do as he says. This is a big mistake, but you’re not helping things by making a scene.’

  ‘No,’ I cried, reaching across the table. ‘You’re not taking him.’

  Then one of the deputies, a woman, took my arm firmly in her hand and held me back. The sheriff finished reading Duane his rights, and I watched in mute anguish as they led him out the door.

  THIRTY-ONE

  What does one do when it has been suggested that your newly discovered soulmate could be responsible for the death of a young woman who just happened to be the daughter of his close friends? And actually, ‘responsible’ is a euphemism. The cold fact of the matter was the police were saying that my newfound lover might have murdered that young woman. Can’t get much more responsible than that.

  I’d watched in numb disbelief as they escorted my handcuffed lover from the cafeteria to a waiting squad car, my mind reeling as though it was the day of nine-eleven all over again. My mind flashed to that day that was carved in the memory of anyone who wasn’t senile or dead drunk. I’d gotten up early that morning to give my mother some breakfast and turned on the TV. The twin towers were already gone. She died later that week.

  As I watched through the cafeteria window, they loaded him into the squad car while excited voices all around me informed newcomers carrying breakfast trays about the arrest that had just taken place. I wanted to tell them they had it all wrong, wished I could chase after the police car to tell them again they had made a big mistake. I wanted to let Duane know I was there for him no matter what and everything would be all right. That it was folly that anyone like him could possibly commit such a heinous act.

  But instead I sat immobilized, unable to move, back on the knife’s edge of Capital Peak. When the police car drove off, I could see Duane’s sandy head in the back seat. Afterwards I dragged myself out to the parking lot and sat in the Wagoneer for a solid ten minutes, thinking about how euphorically happy I’d been not a half-hour before. I thought of his kindness and gentleness and the tender way he made love to me. Certainly a man like him couldn’t possibly be capable of such a horrible violation of life. He was a doctor. He saved lives. I felt certain that a grave error had been made.

  Then slowly the veil of rabid love started to lift. Wheels started turning in my brain, examining the situation from a less emotional standpoint. I reviewed each of my encounters with him outside the hospital. His appearance at the Bugaboo with the young blond. His clown-like skiing and his ancient ski gear followed by his expert performance at the sport. Speaking fluent Japanese to the chefs at the sushi bar. The way he made love in the dark. The way he had memorized every inch of my body even though I was an emergency room patient. His ability to make love to me while his friend’s daughter was missing. A new paradigm clicked in, one I didn’t want to face. Duane was charming and well-versed at many things, but he was a chameleon. And when you’re dealing with a chameleon, you can’t really be certain what lies beneath the skin. Maybe he had two differing sides just as he had two different eyes.

  The thought set me spinning. Everything good had turned bad. My world had turned upside down. I was in a blinding blizzard and couldn’t find up. The sky was the ground and the earth was celestial space. The object of my affection had not only been snatched from me, he was possibly a murderer. I was unemployed. Someone was trying to kill me. My lot was worse than Job’s, the only thing missing the festering boils. I was Europa turned into a cow by Zeus.

  With the world melting down around me, I looked inside myself for something to ease the pain. Many people take pills. I turn to the one constant in my life. Skiing.

  I drove the Wagoneer into town and double-parked in front of Gondola Plaza, not caring if I got a ticket. Like an addict in need of a fix, I stormed into the patrol room for my gear. Singh and Reininger were there and I turned my head from Singh’s sympathetic looks, ignored Reininger’s lame attempts to make me smile. I just stared back at him like the moron he was. I knew they knew my job status. But they had no clue about the latest occurrence in my personal life.

  I grabbed my gear without talking to anyone, the liner to my patrol jacket, my skis and boots and gloves and helmet. When I got back to the Wagoneer, a cop was already writing me a ticket. I had left the car running, but when the cop saw me he tore the ticket up. I recognized him as a broken wrist on Spar. Stress had narrowed my vision to a tunnel as I sped along Main Street and I had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a couple of skiers in the crosswalk. When I reached the roundabout, I took the exit that led to the Aspen Highlands.

  There was no line at the bottom, so I rode the chair by myself, my goggles steaming with banked tears of disappointment and fury. Thinking I’d found a special kind of happiness only to have it thrown back at me in such a bizarre manner had taken me to the edge. My mind was a mélange of contradictions: had I slept with a killer, was I wrong to doubt him, could it be that I loved him?

  There was a line at the second chair to the top, so I had to share with a couple of young boarders, relieved that they had absolutely no interest in the woman who sat with her back to them the entire ride. Once we hit the top, I slid off and tucked to catch speed up the incline to the snow cat pick-up. A virtual snow tank with treads, the snow cat pulls a trailer to the highest point possible before letting its riders off to trek the rest of the way to the legendary Highland Bowl, a huge open space servicing some of the finest expert terrain in the country. From the drop-off point, it’s a thirty- to sixty-minute hike, depending on your level of fitness.

  The snow cat had just departed with a full load. In no mood to wait the ten minutes for its return, I clicked out of my skis, threw them over my shoulder and followed in its tracks. Fueled by pain and anger, my pace was far quicker than it would normally be as I put one booted foot in front of the other.

  The air grew thinner with each step, my breath shallow with the effort of the climb. Step after step after step, thinking of nothing except the physical agony of your heart pounding against your breastplate as if to burst your chest, your lungs searing with bruise-like pain. My head hung low like a chastised puppy as I climbed, taking in none of the savage beauty of the vast white bowl expanding around me. At one point I took a lingering look over the edge at the most narrow point, a point where a mistake meant certain injury if you fell on to the steep, rocky terrain to the side. I pondered if luck might be with me and cause me to fall to my death. But luc
k was not on my side and I stayed on my feet. Step after heaving step I climbed, trying to vacate my mind, to outrun all thought. There is no Duane, no Warren, no arson, no job loss. Just climb, Greta, climb.

  My mouth was parched and I regretted not having brought water for the grueling hike. But then there was something redeeming in the thirst. It served as a distraction from the stronger pain, the heartache I was seeking to escape. I powered past a couple of boarders and heard one of them say, ‘That dude must really have to be somewhere.’ I kept my head down as the gap between me and the boarders broadened. The next person I passed was a fit middle-aged local who asked if I was going for the record. I didn’t even acknowledge him, but forged onwards. I’d pushed beyond physical pain in my life and this was nothing, my feet working like pedals, rotating without stopping, moving, moving, moving.

  As I neared the top I came upon a couple of women who were north of middle age, the mountain equivalent of those trucks on the road with the inverted triangles on the back. One was wearing a bright orange parka, the other bright purple. Even with their goggles down I could see the wrinkles etched into their cheeks. They stood aside to let me power past, one saying to the other, ‘I couldn’t have done that when I was her age.’

  And then I’d reached the summit, all 12,392 feet of it. The snow platform was filled with scores of skiers in a far better frame of mind than mine, newbies patting each other on the back for making it, veterans yawning at the newbies’ exuberant displays. My heart was pounding so hard with effort that I had to bend at the waist to find my breath. Gradually my heart began to slow and I straightened up.

  The view from the top of Highland Bowl defies description. The closest I can come is to say it is pure majesty, with snowcapped peaks extending for miles until they fade into distant blurs. The sky beyond the geographic map was painted a vivid blue. For the first time in memory I had absolutely no appreciation for the panorama unfolding before me. For the first time ever, I wondered what it would be like to stop breathing.