In the painting I’m wearing a racing suit and helmet, and I’m blasting through the giant slalom course that won me gold at the Torino Olympics. Before I crashed in my next event. Before the end of it all.
I was lucky to survive, wheeled home in a chair after several surgeries in Europe, bravely trying to smile with the gold medal from my first event draped around my neck as a cadre of photographers waited to greet me at Vancouver International. Their nineteen-year-old fallen hero. It took two years to learn to walk again. This is my legacy in this town, the gold medal and the dashed hopes. I crashed because of Jeb. Shortly before my second event, a reporter had asked about his sentence and the role I’d played in sending him to prison. My pain at Jeb’s betrayal, my own guilt, had surged afresh, cutting deep. I lost focus in the starting gate.
I startle back to the present and blink as the flash goes off. I’m jumpy—I heard on the news three days ago that Jeb is now free. I’ve been on tenterhooks since. All I want is to get this ribbon cutting over with. I want to be with Quinn. I know he doesn’t know about her, but deep down I’ve got a bad feeling I can’t seem to shake. I’m here for work, though. I’m trying to juggle it all—being a single mother, saving the newspaper from tanking, digging myself out of the financial hole that the taxes on my property have put me in.
It’s my fame as a local celebrity athlete, plus my position as publisher of the Snowy Creek Leader, that has garnered me this invitation to the ribbon cutting and maiden voyage of the sparkling new Summit-to-Summit Gondola that reaches across the chasm between Bear Mountain and Mount Barren on the other side. Among the dignitaries present are the local member of parliament and the minister for tourism. My own staff photographer, Hallie Sherman, is busy shooting groups posing in front of a red ribbon strung across the glass doors that lead to the gondola terminal. On either side of the ribbon stands a Snowy Creek PD officer dressed in formal gear complete with wide-brimmed Stetsons, jodhpurs, high brown leather boots with spurs, and sidearms in holsters on Sam Browne belts. Their dress is a nod to the Canadian Mounties. Another way Snowy Creek works to attract tourism.
Jonah, one of my staff reporters, is chatting with a woman with a tumble of honey-blonde curls. As she turns her head, a sinister chill of foreboding spears through me. It’s the resident psychic, Piper Smith, and I wonder why she’s been invited.
Piper first arrived in Snowy Creek five years ago to film a docudrama on the “Missing Girls” for CBC’s True Crime show. She returned to Snowy Creek later, to marry Merilee’s much-older half brother, whom she met while filming. I’ve always felt uncomfortable around her. Perhaps it’s the way she seemed to see right inside me when she tried to question me about Jeb all those years ago. The opening shot of the docudrama flashes into my mind—a reenactment of Amy walking barefoot and beaten down the railway tracks as snowflakes start to fall. Her hair is matted with blood, her face ghost-white, her eyes haunted black holes. Her clothes are ripped and covered with mud. I think of Jeb out of prison now, what he did to her. A shiver chases over my arms. I rub them as I watch Piper.
“He won’t come back here,” a voice says near my ear.
I jump. “Jesus, Levi, you startled me.”
He’s also staring at Piper. “I can’t help thinking of that opening scene whenever I see her.”
I swallow. “I know.” I hesitate. “What makes you so certain he won’t come back?”
He moistens his lips, still fixated on Piper in the crowd. “He’d be a fool; he’d have to have a death wish. What could he possibly want here?”
“But you’re thinking it, otherwise you wouldn’t be saying this.”
Levi turns, holds my gaze for several beats. I don’t like the edginess in his eyes. He, Trey, and I, along with three other classmates, all testified against Jeb. Together, we formed the core testimony that helped put him away.
“What if he wants revenge?” I say.
“He wouldn’t dare risk it. If Jeb Cullen sets one foot back in this community, he’ll be drawn and quartered, and he has to know it.”
I suck in a chestful of air and nod.
“Hey, it’ll be fine,” Levi says brightly as he takes my arm. His trademark smile lights his green eyes. “Come, it’s time for the speeches, and then we can get this circus wrapped up.” Yet he pauses. “Just know that we’re all here for you, Rach. You can call any one of us. Anytime.”
“Well, that’s reassuring. On one hand you say he won’t come back, but on the other you think he’ll come after me?”
“It’s not going to happen.” He hooks his arm around my shoulders, giving me a reassuring squeeze as he guides me toward the podium. I watch as Levi and his twin brother, Rand, climb up onto the small makeshift stage and position themselves next to their father at the podium. Hal “the Rock” Banrock takes the mike and thanks everyone for coming. He launches into a speech about the Herculean challenges that faced the Summit-to-Summit construction team and how the result will now draw tourists from around the globe, both summer and winter, boosting both the local and provincial economies. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass behind the Rock, the flags of many nations flap in a mounting high-alpine wind.
He better hurry with his speeches or this wind will grow too fierce for a gondola crossing. I check my watch. I’m beyond edgy now, thoughts of Jeb consuming me with an unspecified anxiety. Levi has just made it worse.
I glance at the flags again, trying to distract myself, and my gaze is pulled upward to the forbidding granite formation that is Crystal Peak. White geologic streaks cut across Crystal’s somber face and sparkle in the sun. In this slant of light, the cables and metal ladders of the via ferrata are clearly visible. I think of my grandfather, Jaako, a Finnish immigrant and old-school mountaineer who told me tales of how via ferrata were built in the Dolomite region of Italy to aid the movement of troops through the Alps during the First World War. It was his idea to have a via ferrata system on Crystal. Rock jumped on it.
When Jaako first arrived in this valley, he teamed up with the Rock, a strapping mountaineer himself fresh out of Australia. Together they began to carve the first ski runs into the flanks of Bear Mountain. Each day they hiked up, and using bare hands, ax, and chainsaw, they forged a winter playground out of wilderness.
The Rock went on to monetize their efforts, securing government tenure for the land and founding Bear Mountain Ski Enterprises along with the Snowy Creek Real Estate Development Corp., which now specializes in resort real estate around the world. If one had to name a king of Snowy Creek, without a doubt it would be Rock Banrock. He’s outlived three wives and most of his peers, and his offspring now populate, and pretty much run, this town.
My granddad, on the other hand, launched the Snowy Creek Leader. Where Rock made a financial killing, Jaako eked by monetarily, concerned more with esoteric pursuits—philosophy, literature, ecology. The truth. Jaako passed the newspaper down to my father, Seppo. And at age twenty-seven it became mine. And by God I’ve been learning the ropes fast. The company was about to tank after my dad’s lengthy battle with cancer. But Hal Banrock stepped in, buying up a 49 percent share of the business. Now it’s my job to find a way to keep the paper afloat in the digital era that is killing print. Along with Quinn’s arrival, this past year has been a trial by fire. I have a sinking feeling today that it isn’t over, by far.
Levi takes the mike from his father and my attention is drawn back to the Banrock brothers. Levi and Rand are almost carbon copies of each other, younger echoes of the Rock himself. Like their father, they stand around six two. Both have startling green eyes and thick shocks of sandy-brown hair. Levi is manager of mountain operations. Married with a toddler. Rand was recently appointed CEO of the Snowy Creek Real Estate Development Corp. He’s single, a daredevil, bit of a playboy. I suspect Rand would prefer Levi’s job, but that’s how their father dealt the cards.
I check my watch again. One forty-five p.m. C
laustrophobia tightens around my throat.
Speeches given, the ribbon is cut. Applause ensues, and the kids from the local choir burst out in song. My phone vibrates in my pocket. I check the number—it’s the office. I let the call go to voice mail. They can manage without me for a few hours. A music duo with dreadlocks and guitars takes over from the choir and begins to belt out a local brand of mountain funk folk. Servers weave through the crowd with refreshment trays. Cameras click and flashes pop again. I’m in the first group to pass through the doors to board the gondola.
A cameraman follows.
The cabin fills to capacity, mostly journalists for this first car. There is room for twelve on bench seats around the windows, six standing. Levi elects to stand. The door closes and a bell clangs. The giant bullwheel cranks around and the cabin starts to move.
I feel a soft dip in my stomach as we launch out of the terminal and swing over the cliff into air. Immediately we’re slammed by a gust of wind. Glances are exchanged.
“How much wind can it take?” says one of the CBC people.
“It’s the most wind tolerant of our lifts,” Levi says with an easy smile. “This gondola is designed to operate in gusts up to eighty kilometers per hour. But if the wind speed does hit max, there’s an automatic shutoff, which can be overridden if need be.”
Silence descends on the occupants as the sheer scope of the surrounding terrain takes hold of us. Suspended only by cable and towers, we move with a quiet electronic hum. In the center of the car is a glass bottom through which we can see the distant tips of towering Douglas fir, pine, the ski runs. Deer. As we cross the plunging chasm of the Khyber Creek drainage, the churning green-white waters of Bridal Falls come into view. From up here the water looks like lace spilling over shining black granite. My chest tightens as I recall the summer that Jeb and I hiked up to those falls. We found the ice cave hidden behind the water and crawled in.
“It really does give one a different perspective,” the reporter from the Sun says in a hushed tone.
Levi nods. “These views alone will draw visitors. In summer the gondola will form a bridge to a hiking loop. In winter skiers will be able to access new downhill terrain on Mount Barren.” He points as a red gondola cabin slowly approaches along the cables from the other side.
“Twenty cabins in total, one departing every sixty seconds. Total ride time between the Bear and Barren terminals is about fifteen minutes. The distance traveled across the chasm is 4.4 kilometers, or 2.73 miles.”
“Strung between the shoulders of giants,” says a woman from the radio station as she stares at the endless peaks in the distance.
The empty cabin passes us as we near a massive steel tower.
Thousands of feet below in the valley are the colorful roofs of the village. Khyber Creek is a mercurial ribbon as it snakes down to our town. From the village, a dirt road switchbacks up the flanks of Mount Barren. Higher up Barren’s slopes, yellow machines hulk like mechanical dinosaurs, motionless in the forest. Levi points them out.
“We’ve been cutting new trail systems into the south flanks of Barren, but we had to suspend all operations due to the extreme fire hazard and drought. A small spark from one of the machines could be disastrous. We hope to get back on track as soon as the weather switches.”
A bear and her two cubs lumber slowly below, heading down the drainage toward the populated valley. The drought has left a low berry crop in the high alpine, and this will mean greater potential for human-bear conflicts in town this fall as the bruins become desperate to reach hibernation weight. I make a mental note to ensure this is on the Leader story list for next week, along with reminders of the extreme, simmering fire hazard.
“That ski run down there”—Levi points—“is Rachel’s Gold.” He casts a glance in my direction and grins. “Named after our own hometown celebrity, Rachel Salonen, here, after she brought home the gold for Canada.”
Everyone turns to look at me. I feel hot. I smile and nod. My phone vibrates in my pocket again, and an inexplicable charge crackles through me.
“Do you think the drought will mean a late opening for the mountain, then?” one of the CBC reporters asks.
“We’re confident the weather will turn within the next week and that when the precipitation comes, it’ll be in the form of snow at higher elevations,” says Levi. “The longer-range forecast is also calling for a big series of storm fronts.” He gives the trademark Banrock smile.
“What about lightning?” one reporter asks, looking up at the top of another giant tower as we hum quietly past.
“We have conductors, but in the event of a storm cell moving in, we would manually shut down.”
A helicopter thuds down valley. Eyes watch and Levi preempts the next question. “There’s no worry about aircraft hitting the cables, either. We’re equipped with a state-of-the-art obstacle collision avoidance system which uses radar to alert any aircraft in the area to the presence of the gondolas. Strobe lights and loud noises over all radio frequencies will also alert pilots who come too close.”
“And what happens if there is a shutdown, a catastrophic failure, people trapped in the cars?”
Levi laughs heartily. “You journalists. Here I am wanting to tell you about the increase in tourism, the boost for the economy, the fact we’re one of the first gondolas in the world to run between two mountains, and you’re all about catastrophe.”
A ripple of amusement passes between the occupants.
Almost as if on cue, a heavy gust of wind buffets our car. There’s a gasp and some nervous laughter. My phone buzzes, this time indicating a text message.
I slip my hand into my jacket pocket. It’s from Brandy, Quinn’s sitter. My pulse quickens. Brandy knows I’m going to be tied up with this opening today. I glance up. We’re nearing the far terminal. It’s two thirty p.m., the time Brandy should be picking Quinn up from school. Turning my back to the group, I open the text message.
Please call, need to talk.
I type back, On gondola with press. Will call as soon as we dock. I hit “Send.”
A response blips back almost immediately:
Quinn’s been in incident at school. She’s fine but principal needs to talk, won’t let her leave until you come.
Tension builds in my stomach. Our gondola cabin enters the terminal building, the giant red bullwheel turning smoothly, teeth locking over to a new track. The cabin bumps gently against its berth, slowing to a crawl as the doors slide mechanically open. I push to the front and hurry ahead of the crowd. I find an alcove, duck in. Quickly I dial Brandy.
“Brandy, what’s going on?” I hold my hand over my exposed ear to shut out the noise of the machines, the voices of the journalists disembarking.
“Quinn got into a fight with four girls at lunch, but she’s okay, physically. They tried to call you at work, then your cell. Then they called me, but I was in a ropes course all morning. They need to speak to you, Rachel. They want to keep Quinn until you get here yourself.” There’s a pause. “I think they called the cops.”
“What on earth for?”
“Something about a guy lurking around the school property.”
Panic licks. I think of Jeb—of his release.
“Where are you now?”
“Outside the school.” She hesitates. “Quinn didn’t even want to see me. They have her in the nurse’s room.”
“I’ll be down as soon as I can,” I say. “Will you let them know I’m on my way?”
Brandy agrees, and I kill the call. I’m already running through the logistics of getting down the mountain as fast as I can. There are no chairlifts operational on the Mount Barren side this early in the season. The ride back to Thunderbird Lodge via the gondola will take fifteen minutes. From the lodge it’s still another thirty minutes in another lift down to the village.
I catch up with Levi, who’s
talking to the group outside the terminal. Drawing him aside, I say, “My niece has had some trouble at school. I have to get down right away.”
“We’ll be firing up the Summit-to-Summit again in another twenty minutes or so, after the tour—”
“I need to go stat.”
“Rachel, I can’t—” He pauses, suddenly seeing the seriousness in my eyes, then says, “What kind of trouble? Is Quinn okay?”
“Physically, yes, but . . .” My gaze suddenly lights on an all-terrain vehicle parked next to a construction shed. I can get down via the dirt road from this side. It’ll be shorter. “Can I borrow that four-wheeler?”
He frowns. I can see him mentally calculating risk, the insurance ramifications of a nonemployee having an accident on a company vehicle. His gaze dips quickly over my body, taking in my short skirt, tights, knee-high boots. A small appreciative smile curves at the corners of his mouth. “In that gear?”
“Levi, you know I can handle an ATV. I need to get down.”
He hesitates, then says, “I’ll have one of my guys drive you. Come.” He takes my arm and escorts me over to a metal-sided outbuilding. Inside he finds a spare helmet, hands it to me as he asks a young mountain employee named Garth to chauffeur me down.
“We don’t have spare goggles,” he says as I yank the helmet down over my thick hair.
“It’s fine.” I mount the backseat, skirt riding high up my thighs.
“You going to be okay in that gear, Rach? I can look for some coveralls or something?”
“I’m fine. Thanks, Levi. I owe you.” I tap the driver on his shoulder and he fires the engine. We bomb down the dirt switchback toward the village, glacial silt billowing in a gray cloud behind us. I squint into the dust, the wind forcing tears down my cheeks. And suddenly I miss Trey. I feel the hole in my heart. I miss being part of a team, having someone to call, to lean on. Even after six months of living with Quinn, I still have no idea how to handle her. It was her surly presence, the constant reminder of Jeb, that strained our relationship to the brink until Trey suggested we take a break. A break that became permanent.
The Slow Burn of Silence (A Snowy Creek Novel) Page 5
