Snowfire

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  “And now? Why have you shown it to me?”

  “Because I’ve come to believe in its possible truth. I don’t want to see what’s happening to you. I’ve seen other women fall in love with Julian McCabe, and I’d rather see him exposed, see this letter turned over to the police, than to see you hurt. Don’t you know how I feel about you, Linda?”

  I could not look at him because I was remembering the look in Julian’s eyes, and I didn’t want to erase that memory with another. I felt utterly torn and devastated. Because I could not stand by and let Stuart go to trial in order to save Julian. Even if I loved Julian—and how was I to tell what love was, when all these emotions were so new and untried?—I would still have to sacrifice him for the truth and for Stuart’s sake.

  Clay bent toward me, his hands on my arms. “Don’t look like that, Linda. You’re tearing me up.”

  I was tearing myself up. I stood up, absently brushing a wisp of straw from my ski pants. “Where are you going now?” I asked.

  “I’m going to take you back to the lodge, of course. And keep you there until you have time to get your things and get away.”

  I shook my head dully. “No. I don’t want to leave now. I must talk to Julian first.”

  “Talk to him! You can’t do that. I think he’s already afraid of you because all you talk about is clearing Stuart. And if you clear Stuart, you have to bring out the truth—about Julian. Has he made love to you, Linda? Because that’s what he’d do. To make sure you were on his side.”

  I walked away from him and picked up my skis and poles where they leaned against the wall. “I have to do it my way. Are you going home now?”

  “Not right away. If you won’t come with me I’ll go inside and look for Shan. Take care, Linda.”

  Outside, I bent to put my skis on and fasten the bindings. I waved to Clay, who stood by, watching me unhappily. Then I pushed off toward the chair line.

  Since most people were watching the trail where the exhibition skiers were coming down, I had no trouble this time and got a chair to myself right away. Strong lights on the lift towers helped to light the area, and as my chair creaked upward, the long shadows of my skis moved along the ground below, across snow that looked yellow-white beneath the lights. Beyond my chair a few skiers were coming down the slope. On the bright trail I could see them clearly, and there, well away from the others, was my brother, Stuart.

  How beautifully he came down the mountain—all youthful grace and strength, his turns skillfully balanced, his carving perfection to give him the greatest speed and maneuverability. He did not see me, intent upon his contest with the mountain, and I felt a lump in my throat as I watched. How could I have forgotten for a moment that he must come first in my life? That his safety, that justice for my brother must weigh above everything else.

  The rest of the way up in the chair I made myself think about Julian in a new light, forcing myself to remember and remember. The way he had not come to Stuart’s aid, but had stood back from the first. Clay’s evident belief that what Margot had written him was true. Margot’s fear of Julian, her fear for her life. Shan lying to protect her brother, conniving with Emory because they both wanted to protect him, at whatever cost to anyone else. No wonder they had hated my coming, done everything possible to disturb me and frighten me away, lest I come too near the truth that was so dangerous. Then Emory’s suicide—flinging himself down the mountain because he knew his fabrications wouldn’t stand up in the final test and that the whole dreadful truth was going to come out. Rather than bring himself to testify against Julian, he preferred to die.

  My chair had passed the halfway station, but I hardly noticed where I was. I felt a little ill. Yet still reason piled upon reason. Even Stuart had tried to protect him. I’d felt all along that Stuart was trying to shield someone—now I knew it was Julian. And there was Adria’s unexplained hysteria upon reading the letter she had found in the attic, and her burning of it in the grate. Because her mother had written that her father was trying to kill her. Written it in the real letter to Emory. Under such an accusation, Adria’s slim emotional balance had cracked. There was no telling what would happen to her now.

  Yet still something in me could not entirely accept the clear evidence. I had to see Julian first. I had to talk to him. I had to give him the chance to condemn himself before I lowered my final judgment and went to the police.

  The chair almost spilled me out at the top station because I was not alert to leaving it. I schussed down the ramp and snowplowed out a little way from the lift. I could not bring myself to ski down right away. Soon, soon, I must go and look for Julian, find a way to talk to him alone—yet in the midst of others, where I would be safe enough.

  The top of the mountain seemed lonely now, and the cold was growing intense. Most people were off watching the exhibition skiing on another slope. Only a few die-hards were still skiing on their own. One of them was my brother. I saw Stuart coming up the lift alone in a chair, and this time he saw me. He waved his ski poles at me and shouted, “Wait for me!”

  I stayed where I was, near a red snow fence, where slopes split off in different directions, plunging down the mountain between stunted pines. Nearby someone had left a snowmaker, looking like a machine gun on a tripod, its blue hose snaking away across the snow. I waited for Stuart to reach me.

  He lost no time, skating toward me the moment he left the ramp, sliding to a stop, his skis inches from mine. “Clay sent me up here after you,” he said. “I don’t know what he’s worried about, but he’s got something on his mind.”

  I answered him directly. “I know who killed Margot, Stuart.”

  “Take it easy, Linda.” He patted my shoulder with one mittened hand from which dangled a ski pole. “Clay said I should get you home right away. Since we don’t have a car, let’s go down the back way. We can talk when we get to Graystones. You’re shivering and it’s getting colder up here.”

  I shook my head. “No—I’m not a good enough skier to take that back trail to the house.”

  He wasn’t taking me seriously, or Clay either. “Sure you are. I’ve been watching you and you’re plenty good. All you need is a bit more confidence. The trail will do that for you.”

  “No.” I repeated. “I’m going to wait and talk to Julian. You go ahead, if you want to. Perhaps I’ll try it later.”

  “He should be up soon. I saw him outside down below, putting on his skis.”

  My heart thudded. I didn’t want to talk to him alone up here. “Wait for me, Stuart. After I talk to Julian, I’ll go down with you.”

  He had never been particularly sensitive to the fears and trepidations of others. Perhaps I had never taught him to be. Perhaps I had always put his feelings first in my life, and that hadn’t been wholly good for him. Now, when I needed him most, he failed me.

  “No point in my waiting. You can come when you’re ready—or let Julian take you home in the car. I’ve been out here most of the day and I’m not in the best possible shape, so I’m tired. We’ll talk down at the house later. Besides—I think I know what you’re going to tell me. It was Emory, wasn’t it? And he’s killed himself because he couldn’t face up to having the facts come out and me go free.”

  “I think you know better,” I said. “But go ahead. Perhaps I’ll follow you in a little while. If I’m brave enough to try the trail.”

  He skated off toward the end of the mountain where the trees would open upon that winding trail that led back to Graystones far below. I watched him go, wondering if I had the courage to face Julian alone up here.

  When Stuart was out of sight, I searched the chair lift as it climbed steeply up the mountain—and I could see Julian. He was only a few chairs away from the top—and he saw me too. He raised his hand to me, the ski poles dangling. And suddenly I knew I could not stay and face him. Not up here. What accusations had to be made, or whatever questions asked, had to be carried out where there would be others near at hand. I could no longer trust myself
with Julian alone. Once he guessed what I knew, I might be in as great a danger as Margot had been.

  I did not return his wave, but skated off along the rough mountain top in Stuart’s wake, hoping that I might catch up to him. Perhaps Julian would think I had not seen him and make nothing of it.

  I was not used to skiing an ungroomed surface, and I quickly gave up skating and pushed myself along more gingerly in a snowplow. There were banks where the snow was thin, half-ridden rocks, roots across the way. I wasn’t going to like this at all, but I had no choice. Only the moon lighted my way—there was no electricity up here—and where the trees gathered tightly together, shadows deepened, and the white ribbon of the trail twisted away through black trees on either hand.

  Once I reached the trail it became worse, because now there was a downward tilt to the earth, and a winding path to be traversed. I didn’t know how to do it. After a few moments of slow snowplowing, of catching my ski tip in a bank and nearly falling, I cupped my hands about my mouth and shouted for Stuart. But he had gone on well ahead of me, and he would travel faster, so there was no answer. I could see his ski tracks ahead of me in the snow, clean and competent, sometimes neatly jumping an obstacle—not stumbling about as I was doing. I could see by his tracks that he was alternating between a schuss and wedel.

  The trees were taller now, and while I was better hidden from the top of the mountain, the light was dimmer down here. In the distance I heard Julian shouting my name, and wondered if he had heard me calling Stuart, had already guessed that I would be coming down this way. Now I was afraid of him. For the first time I was afraid of him and he would sense that fear in my unanswering flight. He would be after me at once—coming a lot faster than I could manage on the same trail. Coming after me, driven by all that fire and ice.

  I pushed on down, trying to wedel, falling, tangling my skis, giving Julian more time before I was up on my feet again. Now I had to speed whether I could or not. I let myself schuss straight ahead, trying to avoid the rocks, the roots, trying to maneuver the turns without falling. But now I had too much speed. In another moment I would go cracking into a tree to wreck myself. If I tried to snow-plow that would throw me. There was only one way I knew to slow a schuss that was getting out of control. I sat down and let my skis go out from under me, sliding a little way on the seat of my pants, leaving sitzmarks behind me. It was not a proper fall and my skis didn’t release. While I was scrambling up I could hear him coming behind me—the swish and rattle of his skis—the unmistakable sound of a skier coming fast.

  Terror was a spur. I was off again, schussing, taking the turns with more skill than I knew I had, faster and faster—until I had to sit down again and slow myself. All around me the trees were tall now. I was well down from the top—but how much farther I had to go I had no idea. There was no sign of Stuart, except for the trail he had left in the snow. I tried to follow it, knowing he would choose the best way. I concentrated on one obstacle at a time—and never mind the far course. That was what Stuart had taught me.

  On again, schussing. There! I’d barely missed a hidden rock that would have sent me head over heels. If I had a real fall Julian would be on me in moments. And I was alone on the mountain, where I could so easily go into a tree, or over the edge—by “accident”—and no one any the wiser.

  That there was an edge to the trail now, I became all too aware. On my left the trees had opened to show a moonlit glimpse of countryside, far below. The trail was skirting the steep side of the mountain now, and off to my left was a plunging drop-off. My terror increased, yet I could do nothing except pray and try to carve my edges into the snow so that I wouldn’t go careening off into space. But you carved in turns, not in schussing, and all thoughts of skiing technique forsook me. I skied by instinct, sometimes by the seat of my pants—and I was going fast, faster. Wind whistled in my ears and my hair flew out behind me beneath its restraining band. I was no longer cold, but the fingers that grasped my ski poles were growing a little numb. I was holding the poles too tightly. I must relax. Relax, relax—that was the only command I could give myself. It was the prime rule of all successful skiing. And nothing about me was relaxed.

  As I got up from my last sitzmark, I could hear him coming. My speed had been nothing compared to his, and he’d not had to waste all that time sitting down, as I had done. I turned my head to look up the long stretch I’d just come along, and I saw him, bearing down upon me. He didn’t trouble to shout, but his face was drawn in anger and tension. There was no use in my trying to schuss now. He would simply run me down. We were close to the edge of the mountain and anything could happen. I stood with my back against a tree, my skis pointed uphill across the fall line to brace me—and waited for whatever was about to happen.

  He saw me and his eyes burned with anger—perhaps as wildly as they had done that day when he’d come upon Margot’s chair coming down the ramp and had pushed it through the guardrail he had earlier prepared so it would break. But there was no guardrail here—only the sheer cliff beyond the trail. And my brother was far away from my reach, where he could no longer help me.

  I braced myself as the grim man on skis bore down upon me. It was because he was watching me instead of the trail, that the thing happened. He did what any expert has done at times—his skis struck a hidden rock and he went catapulting into the air in a terrible fall. Both his skis released and he lay stunned in the snow. Granting me time—unexpected time.

  I was off again, with hope renewed. The mountain couldn’t go on forever. And once Graystones was reached, Stuart would be there. And Adria and her nurse. I would no longer be alone and helpless. I managed the next steep curve with precision—and found Stuart ahead of me, leaning against a tree, smiling at me brightly.

  I practically tumbled into his arms, nearly falling out of my skis, and he set me upright, smiling. “I could hear you coming—what a clatter! But you were doing fine. I told you you could come down this trail if you tried.”

  I was too much out of breath to do more than blurt out words. “Quick! Julian. Back there. He’s fallen.”

  I don’t know whether he understood what I meant—that Julian was pursuing me. But he sensed the need for action. And he seemed to understand that I wasn’t asking him to rescue Julian.

  “Come along,” he said. “I’ll go ahead and you can follow me.”

  He could wedel and do quick stem turns, but I had to schuss again, and I almost bore down upon him before I slowed myself by sitting. He turned to look back at me, laughing a little, and as I got to my feet I listened. There was no sound on the trail behind us. Julian must have knocked himself out. I waved to Stuart to start ahead. But this time he waited for me.

  I saw that we were two thirds of the way down. I recognized this place. We were just above the lookout point where Julian and Adria and I had come that day. And now that I was with Stuart I needn’t be afraid any longer, even if Julian recovered and came after us. Yet something in me ached willfully, unreasonably for the man who had fallen back there—and who was about to fall further because of all he had brought upon himself.

  “Quick!” Stuart called. “Come here quickly, Linda. I can hear him coming again.”

  Yes—he was up. I could hear the swish and the clatter. I didn’t know what Stuart intended, but I gave him my hand and let him pull me, sidestepping up the back of the lookout rock.

  He put his arms about me and held me tight. “You couldn’t let anything be, could you?” he whispered. “You couldn’t let well enough alone so that I could get out of this by myself. You had to keep stirring around until you found out the truth. And I know you all too well, my darling sister. You’d protect me up to a point. But now that you know, you’ll throw me over because you can’t wrestle with your conscience.”

  His words tumbled out while I stared at him in horror, unbelieving, not accepting what I’d heard. Unable to accept.

  “We’ve got to get back to the house,” I said. “Don’t let Julian catch us.” />
  His arms about me tightened and I felt myself being thrust toward the plunge down the mountainside. His face was one I knew very well. All the brightness of Lucifer was there, and the high elation that was part of Stuart—and a will that was without mercy. My body was lifted, my skis raised in the air, and I dared not struggle. Far below lay the world—but it was an empty world for me—all space and nothingness. I hoped I would be unconscious before I struck the first rock.

  “Put her down!” cried the grim voice from behind us.

  I could feel Stuart turn as he looked toward the trail. I could feel my skis touch the rock beneath as he lowered me, and for an instant his lips grazed my cheek.

  “I wouldn’t have let you drop, Linda. I only wanted to frighten you, punish you a little.”

  I bent my knees, clutching at reassuring rock as he released me. Then he leaped out into the air, and dropped into a perfect landing on the trail, with knees bent, sitting back a little, his skis carrying him like the wind. His speed was tremendous—desperate. He meant to make the turn. I saw him edging, but one ski tip caught on a branch lying across the way, and he went headlong into the woods. I heard the dreadful crack as he struck a tree, crashing to the ground. The moonlit night was filled with echoes—and then silence.

  I released the bindings on my skis so I could step out of them. Then I huddled against the lookout rock, moaning a little. The earth was spinning too fast for me. I couldn’t catch up. I was too dizzy to stand, though I knew I must go to where Stuart lay.

  Julian did not stop for me. Once he was sure I was safe, he got out of his own skis and followed to where Stuart lay flung upon moonlit snow, where something dark and shining spread around him.

  In a moment Julian was back. “He’s still breathing. I’ve got to get down to the house fast and phone Ski Patrol. If he lives that long. Can you stay with him, Linda? He can’t hurt you now.”

  “Of course,” I said, and let him pull me to my feet.