‘So if he’s a serial murderer, you’re saying the valley is safer if he’s in Glenwood.’
‘Yes, I’m saying it’s better that he’s in Glenwood.’
‘Sorry, Dan, but didn’t Ted Bundy climb out a heat duct from the Glenwood prison back in seventy-seven and head down to Florida to murder a couple more girls?’
He leveled his head at me, his fleshy jowls falling in my direction, his pupils slightly dilated in his hazel eyes. ‘Greta, you should be feeling pretty lucky that this guy is locked up. What if he had gotten you alone somewhere?’
I let that one drop. ‘I’d like to see him,’ I said.
Dan’s eyes flicked to his Timex and back at me. ‘Suit yourself. Visiting hours just started. I’ll go over with you.’
On the short walk between the courthouse and the county jail, he let loose with his opinion again. ‘I hope you weren’t thinking of getting serious about this guy.’
‘I’m not quite sure what I am,’ was my honest reply.
After being IDed and passing muster for visitation, I was escorted through some glass doors into a small room with a few tables and chairs. There were already a couple of people in there, a Latina woman talking to a far younger man wearing an orange jumpsuit. From the age difference, I assumed the young man to be her son. They were speaking Spanish so I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but it was abundantly clear that she wasn’t happy that either one of them was there. I tried not to look in their direction, but it was hard to keep my eyes from wandering to the orange jumpsuit. The realization that Duane would be wearing the same garb when he entered came with a sharp sting.
And then the truth of the orange jumpsuit presented itself as Duane was escorted into the room by a deputy. It was so contrary to the green scrubs he’d worn when he was tending to me in the hospital. The deputy’s body language told me Duane had already been tried and convicted in his eyes. While the look on Duane’s face was severe and the ever-ready smile absent, even the prison garb didn’t take away from his beauty. When he saw me, the corners of his lips curled up weakly.
He took a seat opposite me as the deputy retreated to a corner. I couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment, shame or admission, but at first he had trouble meeting my eyes. When he did raise his eyes to mine, I found myself unable to find any words. It was really hard not knowing if I wanted to assure him that I believed there was no way he had done this heinous crime, or ask him if he had. I sat silently, afraid whatever I might say would be wrong.
And then he solved my problem by articulating it. ‘You’re not sure, are you?’
‘Sure of what?’ I said, deflecting his question with another one.
‘Sure that I didn’t do this thing.’ His words were sharp, his voice nothing like the soft one whispering into my ear in the dark.
‘No, Duane, it’s not that. It’s just that …’
The eyes that had made visual love to my body long before the physical act now sharpened into a hostile stare. ‘I don’t want to hear “It’s just that …” I’m in trouble here, and I was sure you were the one person I could count as my ally, Greta. I thought there was something special between us. You know, the soulmate sort of fucking bullshit. Obviously, I was mistaken.’ The words hurt because he’d only said kind things to me before, and I was taken aback at his use of vulgarity. It occurred to me I hadn’t heard him swear before, and I must have grimaced, because he started on me again. ‘Wow, was I wrong. If you can even suspect for one millisecond that I could possibly kill the daughter of my good friends, much less do the heinous things that whoever did to her, you obviously have no sense for who I am. This really hurts. Maybe worse than being falsely imprisoned.’ He pushed his seat back and signaled for the guard. ‘I guess this is it, Greta. I’ve got bigger things to worry about than a friend who has no faith in me.’
I wanted to argue my side, to tell him I wasn’t sure, to ask him about the blood in his house, the blood in his car. But I felt anything I said now would just bury me deeper. He stood up and the deputy was on him like cold on ice. My eyes were welling with tears of sadness and anger at life’s curveballs as the deputy unlocked the door to the other side. It may have been a nice prison, but it was still a prison.
‘I’m sure you’ll be out soon,’ I said, but it was too little and too late. I wasn’t even really sure how I came up with those words; they sounded so ridiculous. My next words were even worse, but they were the truth. ‘I only wish the best for you.’
The door closed without him even looking back.
Dan was waiting in the lobby when I walked back into the free world.
‘How did it go?’ he asked.
‘What do you think? He thinks that I question his innocence.’ I searched Dan’s face for an answer to my next question. It was as hard and fixed as I’d ever seen it in the fifteen years I’d known him. ‘Should I question his innocence?’
‘Look, Greta, there’s something rotten in Denmark with this guy. One, he’s the last to see her alive. Two, there are traces of her blood at his house and in his car.’
I asked Dan the question I’d wanted to ask Duane. ‘Did he give you any explanation about the blood?’
‘Some story about her cutting her hand on loose nail scissors in her purse after he picked her up at Eagle-Vail. And then stopping at his place in Basalt to wrap it, because it was bleeding so bad.’
This was news to me. ‘Did he pick her up in Eagle?’
‘Yep. We’ve confirmed that. She flew into Eagle because that was the best airfare and then she met her friend here in Aspen.’
‘So maybe that is what happened,’ I said, arguing his case. ‘She cut her hand and that explains why there was blood in his house and in his car.’
‘Greta, get real. It’s not like she’s around to explain it. So just to take that doubt out of your mind, I’m going to share another piece of information with you.’ Dan paused for ultimate effect before the delivery. ‘This is confidential. The real nail in his coffin is we have two witnesses who said they saw the doctor and a pretty blond girl fighting in a Porsche SUV in the parking lot at the Snowflake. That she tried to get out of the car and he pulled her back in. That they drove away together.’
‘So why didn’t they report it?’
‘Said it looked more like a lover’s quarrel than anything else and they didn’t want to get involved. They didn’t think much of it until they read about her death.’
‘Who are these witnesses?’
‘A couple of guests at the hotel. And that’s all I’m telling you. I’ve told you too much already. Violated confidences. But I just don’t want you mooning around for some guy who’s a bad egg.’
I was conflicted, and not only from Dan’s use of clichés. I wanted to say Duane didn’t do it, that he was a great guy. But there were so many contradictions zinging around in my head, I couldn’t have said it with any assurance. So I changed my tactics and asked him, ‘Are you still planning on posting a deputy at the end of my street tonight?’
‘Do you think it’s necessary now, in light of Duane Larsen being in prison and all?’
I didn’t see how Duane Larsen, maniac or no, would have prospered by burning me alive in my house. Regardless of his innocence or lack thereof, I still feared there was someone dark out there trying to get to me. I thought about staying with Judy and Gene, but after what had just transpired with Dr Duane Larsen, I wanted to be alone to lick my wounds.
‘I’d sleep much more soundly knowing there’s a squad car parked at the entrance to my street,’ I said.
‘You got it, Greta.’
The drive home was empty, the feeling of loss crushing. I was so wrapped in my own world, it wasn’t until I was pulling off Highway 82 that I noticed the Pitkin County Sheriff’s car following me. It was a female deputy and she smiled and waved as she pulled over to the side of the road. I know I should have felt reassured by her presence, but I didn’t.
THIRTY-FOUR
Once home, I ope
ned my front door to a dark room. My memory was still trained to expect Kayla greeting me and the recurring wave of guilt and disappointment I’d suffered since putting her down surged through me. The promise of newfound love had served as a distraction, but now her absence came pounding back harder than ever. The very thought that the man who’d made love to me only a couple of nights before was sitting in a prison cell, maybe or maybe not responsible for the disappearance of two women and the death of a third, was mind boggling. Nothing about him remotely hinted that he was anything other than kind and admirable. Then again, there are dozens of stories of women taken in by an evil person and ending up on the losing end of the equation.
I felt that I was in a pit and wondered where the bottom was. Warren was dead. His widow was solitary in her pregnancy. Toby was in Afghanistan and in constant danger. Someone was trying to do me harm, and my newfound love was possibly a serial killer.
I was loveless, jobless, dogless. I wondered how I would support myself if my job was gone for good. I could always teach skiing – if they’d even hire me back. The very thought of doing slow wide turns down the front of Ruthie’s with a class of penguins following behind me depressed me beyond words. Ever since starting on patrol the freedom to go wherever my skis took me had been mine. Losing that freedom would be a big step backwards.
I was overcome with self-pity and started to cry. I have never been a crier. Like I’ve said, the entire time my mom was sick I never cried once. But just as they had way back on that first day in Aspen, the tears started flowing now. They grew in intensity and soon they were splashing over my lower lashes and flowing in self-serving pity down my cheeks. The combination of grief and shock and pain and disappointment was overwhelming. I was back in that place of not having anything or anyone. There was no bottom beneath me, which was a good thing in skiing, but a bad thing in life. I plopped down into the Barcalounger and buried my face in the crook of my arm.
My breath caught in my throat at the sound of an approaching car. At first I thought it was my imagination playing tricks on me. But the unmistakable sound of snow crunching beneath tires was evidence that someone was nearing my residence. Wasn’t there supposed to be a deputy keeping watch at the end of the street? Movie scenes of the female cop sitting in a sheriff’s car with her throat slit permeated my brain. I ran to Sam’s closet where I’d hidden the Remington before leaving this morning. It was ready and loaded by the time the high beams penetrated the dark of the cul-de-sac.
I peered out the window at the approaching vehicle. If it was a murderer coming, it was a rich one. The car was the mountain version of a limousine, a stretch Humvee with an extra set of doors on either side. Curiosity overruled fear as it stopped in front of my door. I watched the car’s driver jump out from behind the wheel and open one of the passenger doors in the back. My eyes widened as Richie and Pablo Alvarez got out of the vehicle. The driver closed the door behind them and took an at-ease stance beside the car like there was some risk of it being towed away. As the father and son walked on to my deck, I couldn’t help but think how ridiculous I must look from crying.
I stepped outside, protecting the sanctity of my home from the invaders.
‘Greta Westerlind?’ Pablo Alvarez questioned. In a ski town, one cannot always be quite sure the person you are addressing is the same person you may have seen earlier in the day. Helmets, goggles and body-covering ski clothes are great disguises, and with my hair down around my shoulders and my eyes puffy and red, I’m sure I looked different from the person he’d glimpsed at the bottom of the ski lift. He was even more handsome than earlier in the day, his salt and pepper hair combed off his forehead, the collar of his brown suede shirt poking out from some mighty fine-looking leather.
‘The one and only,’ I replied. And then taking back possession of my residence, I asked, ‘How did you know where I live?’
‘I asked around. I’m a close friend to the owner of the ski company.’
Of course he was. My question as to what he was doing on my doorstep was answered before the words could even beg their way out of my mouth.
‘I apologize for not sufficiently thanking you for saving my son’s life this afternoon. I would like to do something to express my gratitude.’
A large check wrote itself in my brain. I mean, I am probably one of the least mercenary people you will ever meet, but suddenly Everest was looking closer. I wondered if it was in bad taste to accept money for saving a life. Then again, it wasn’t like I went out looking for someone in a tree well to make a buck. My action had been spontaneous. As a gift can be.
I looked down at Richie hovering shyly, half behind his father. Contentment that this kid was breathing was reward enough for me. I took back my poisonous mercenary thoughts and gave him a smile. ‘That’s not necessary. Helping Richie is part of what I do every day. I’m ski patrol.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Of course he did. He was after all a billionaire, and when he was making inquiries as to who I was and where I lived, my current job status must have come up. ‘But it’s come to my attention that you have some time off, so I want to make you an offer and I will not accept an answer of no.’
I couldn’t imagine what he was going to say, so I stood silently waiting to hear what this offer might be.
‘My wife and I had a lengthy discussion as to what we might do to thank you. And then Richie actually came up with the idea himself. We are leaving tomorrow for St Moritz and we would like you to join us as our guest. No expense to you, of course.’
I couldn’t say if I was pleased or disappointed. The idea of joining this billionaire family on vacation felt on one hand a little weird. On the other it held appeal. I’d only skied in Europe once, at St Anton and on a budget. The thought of racing down the famed slopes of St Moritz held appeal. Yes, it was the place of the rich and privileged, but then again, so was Aspen and that sure didn’t take anything away from the skiing.
I thought about it further. There was nothing to lose and only skiing to gain. Timing wise the offer couldn’t be better. There was nothing going on here for me at present. And then I just thought, why not? From the loss of Warren to Duane’s deceit, from my recent shortcomings and mistakes to the fear of someone trying to enter my house, why not just get up and leave it behind? Take a brain vacation. With my life basically in the trash bin, a change of scenery could only make things better.
I thought about commitments. There was my coat-check shift at the Bug on Saturday, but covering that was as easy as giving away white lightning on Skid Row. Class on Monday – I’d just have to make it up. There was Warren’s service, but I was banned from that anyhow. There was nothing to lose. In fact, maybe in fresh surroundings, my buried memory might come back to me.
‘What time do we leave?’
He smiled an elegant broad smile. ‘We leave from the private terminal at noon. My driver will pick you up at eleven forty-five.’
I was going to ask if that would allow enough time for security and all and then it dawned on me that TSA wouldn’t be a big issue on a private jet. He and Richie said goodnight and stepped down the stairs. The driver had the door to the Humvee open before you could even think about it. Just as he started to close the door, a last question occurred to me.
‘Hey,’ I called out. Pablo Alvarez stuck his head out the door. ‘Was there a sheriff’s car stationed at the end of the road?’
‘Yes, Greta, there was. The deputy performed her duty, but when we explained the reason for our visit, she let us pass.’
‘Thanks.’ Maybe I was going to have a good night’s sleep after all.
THIRTY-FIVE
The next morning I called Judy to bring her up to date on my life. She was packing for a week in Palm Beach with Gene’s family. Why anyone in their right mind would want to leave Aspen in the middle of the winter to go someplace warm was beyond me. Not when you could be skiing. I hadn’t talked to her in a couple of days and I filled her in on the sorry state of my life and what had happene
d with Dr Larsen. She’d already seen news of his arrest in the paper and told me in no uncertain terms I’d dodged a bullet. Then I told her about how I’d been invited to go to St Moritz. She was more excited about the trip than I was.
‘Nice,’ she said. ‘I love St Moritz. I can’t believe you’re flying with Pablo Alvarez. I think he’s one of the richest men in Mexico. Gene thinks he’s one of the cagiest investors around. Let me know if he drops any tips.’
‘Right. As if I care. A change of scenery just seemed like a good idea. Do I need to pack anything special?’ I asked, wondering how my Thrift Shop wardrobe would play in Switzerland.
‘Just bring a lot of black. No one can tell what it cost.’
The Alvarez Humvee pulled up in front at exactly 11:45. The driver was alone this time, and he took my quickly packed duffel and my ski gear from me and loaded it into the back. I climbed into the front seat and belted myself in. He stood outside the car on his side and stared at me, obviously not accustomed to having passengers sit next to him, and when I explained I wasn’t comfortable having someone drive me around, he looked perplexed. After further consideration it dawned on me that he didn’t speak English. The drive to the airport was a quiet one.
We arrived at the airport at exactly noon. We bypassed the entrance to the terminal used by the common folk, and pulled into the entrance for the private operations, a low-key structure with a covered turnaround in the front. It was my first ever visit there. For all the years I’d lived in Aspen, for all the Fourth of Julys and Christmases that I’d driven past the airport and seen the tarmac heavy with private aircraft – so much so that some pilots had to drop their passengers off and fly to Rifle to park the plane – I’d never set foot in the private terminal. I hadn’t been invited. Then again, I didn’t run with the type of people who would have offered the invitation.
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