I took the envelope and studied it. It was simply addressed, “Ski Montin Hero,” in a large, childish hand. There was no postage or return address.
“One of the sheriff’s people brought it in,” Linda explained. “Straight from the hospital.”
I tore it open and removed a single sheet of paper. On it was a crude crayon-rendered picture of a broken chairlift, with two stick figures dangling from it, one of them dripping a string of red dots. Above them, sliding down the cable on one hand, complete with cape flapping in the air behind him, was a third figure wearing a broad, carefree smile. A bubble with an arrow pointing at him read, “YOU.”
At the bottom of the page were the words, “Thank you for saving Mom. Love, Mary.” It was followed by a large heart.
I handed the picture to Linda without comment. She glanced at it and gave it back.
“Tough guy.”
· · ·
After work, and after several conversations with co-workers who were thoroughly enjoying keeping the press in the dark, I wandered into the repair shop on the ground floor of the Mountain Ops building across from my dorm. It was standard fare in some respects, with a greasy floor, scattered tools, and rack upon rack of assorted supplies. Its uniqueness was in the nature of those supplies: a vast array of arcane pulleys, wheels, spring clamps, and other equipment designed to keep the mysterious workings of a ski mountain up and running. In some ways, it resembled what I thought a NASA repair shed might be like, except—I hoped—for the dirt, the machinery, the nature of the business, and the skill level of everyone working there.
One of the latter stepped out from behind a hanger arm mounted in a vise as I let out a “Hello?”
“Who’re you after?”
He was tall, skinny, and utterly filthy. On the chest of his uniform shirt, like a mirage in fading light, was the barely discernible name, “Mike.”
“You Mike?”
He looked curious. “I know you?”
I stuck out my hand. “New guy. Carpenter. Name’s Max.”
He was slow to shake. “Pretty dirty.” He wiggled his blackened fingers.
I was impressed he’d noticed. “I don’t care.”
He shook my hand, leaving it oily enough that I did wipe it on my pants.
“Warned ya,” he laughed. “What can I do you for?”
“I was wondering about the chair that went for a slider this morning.”
Mike shook his head. “Ain’t got it. Tramway Board inspectors picked it up hours ago.”
“But you looked at it?”
“Sure. I took it down.” His face became more serious. “Why you want to know? We’re not supposed to talk about junk like that.”
“I asked ’em to keep quiet, but I’m the one who saved that woman.”
He grew suddenly animated. “No shit? That was some cool move. Dick said you went down that tow line like Spiderman or something. He threw you the crowbar. We think it’s great you’re telling ’em all to butt out. I heard the PR people were really pissed.”
I waved a hand to calm him down. “They’ll get over it. They just wanted something to offset the yellow snow.”
He laughed again. “Boy, ain’t that the truth? I wished I’da thought of that one myself. It woulda been worth getting fired.”
I let him recover a bit before asking, “So, I was wondering why that chair let loose, since it almost got me killed.”
Mike looked around, crossed to the door leading farther into the building, and checked the hallway beyond to make sure we were alone. Then he came back and said quietly, “It wasn’t the chair. It was fine.”
“Somebody messed with it?” I asked.
“You got it. Let up on the tension spring so it couldn’t hang on when it hit the steep part over the rocks.”
“That couldn’t have been an accident? Chairs must slide all the time.”
“Now and then, yeah, but I know the signs. I been doin’ this for years.” His voice dropped lower still. “Fits in with the yellow snow you just mentioned.”
I didn’t bother hiding my incredulity. “You think the TPL bunch did this?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Put it together, Max. First they hang a banner from the chair’s tow rope, then they fool with the water supply. All McNally does is offer ’em free passes like they were just kids acting out. Pisses them off, right? Nobody likes that. So they get a little more serious.”
“From yellow dye to attempted manslaughter? I guess that’s getting serious.”
Mike straightened and grinned, spreading his hands wide. “I rest my case.”
· · ·
I waited for Sammie by the back door of the main power house, empty and dark at this time of night, and far from the beaten path. There was no moon. The day’s clear sky had succumbed to clouds, and rumor had it we were in for some snow.
“Joe?”
“It’s Max,” I answered, also in a loud whisper.
“I know that,” she answered testily, drawing near. “And so will everyone else once your Superman imitation breaks cover.”
“You’re my first Superman. I can add it to a Spiderman and a Batman so far.”
“Are you okay?” she asked, putting a hand on my arm. “You could’ve been killed, from what I heard.”
“The story’s improving with age. I wanted to tell you about a little discovery I made. According to Mike, who’s been fixing chairlifts for years, this one was sabotaged.”
She thought about that for a few moments. “Who gains from that?”
“Good question. I can’t answer it either.”
She looked off into the night. “Think it has anything to do with Marty Gagnon?”
“I don’t see how—not now, at least. We better tell the others we might have a whole different player in motion.”
Chapter 9
I SAT IN SNUFFY DAWSON’S UNMARKED SHERIFF’S CAR at the end of a dirt road some ten miles from Tucker Peak, staring out at a snow-covered field with a frozen pond in its middle, its flat, featureless surface looking like spilled milk at the bottom of a saucer.
“You sure about this mechanic?” Snuffy asked.
“Mike? No reason he’d lie. We could run a check on him, but I doubt we’d find much. I think he was shooting straight.”
Dawson stroked his chin with a meaty hand. “You don’t think maybe the woman was the target? She have a husband?”
I smiled in response. “No, divorced. And supposedly they get along. Besides,” I added, “the eastern lift starts later in the morning, because of how the sun hits the slopes, so what we were on was the first run of the day. Assuming Mike’s right about it being sabotage, it must’ve happened during the night, and there’s no way anyone could’ve known who was going to be in what chair when, or even if any physical injury was intended. Could’ve been the sole intention was to show off how dangerous the equipment is.”
He didn’t react to that. “You said Mike suspected the TPL.”
“Only because of their other stunts. They nailed the door shut to an equipment shed this morning. But to do something violent would destroy their cause. Wouldn’t make sense.”
“Unless they got frustrated, like he said.”
I didn’t want to make one man’s wild guess the only fact in evidence here. “Snuffy, anything’s possible, including Mike being wrong and the whole thing being an accident. But if we assume he’s a good mechanic just for now, then we’ve got to look at who might’ve done this, which may or may not have been the TPL. Certainly it was someone with the right tools and some knowledge of machinery. Maybe someone with ready enough access to the equipment so as not to raise any questions.”
“Like a maintenance guy.”
“Right, an employee with a grudge. The Tramway Board’s looking into it, of course, but Linda Bettina’s been pretty helpful so far. I’ll have Spinney ask her for any insight she might have on any employees past and present with complaints, maybe, or a history of violence and/or vandalism. There’s prob
ably someone who fits that category, knows about that kind of equipment, and doesn’t give a damn about the environmental movement.”
Snuffy finally nodded. “Okay. How’re you doing on the burglaries?”
“Still digging. Lester left me a message a couple of hours ago that he’d like to meet. Could be he found something interesting.”
Dawson let out a deep sigh. “I just wish the whole goddamn mountain would go away. All it does is cause problems. I’ve got my entire payroll working right now because of this protest thing—it’s costing me a fortune. I thought bringing you people in would make things easier. Now, I’m up to my neck in alligators. I got towns all over the county bitching breach of contract because of reduced coverage, and the state cops are already saying they won’t pick up the slack forever, as if that was a big threat. I just wish I could connect that chair thing with the TPL. Then, whether McNally thinks it’s good PR or not, I could bust them all and clear them out of there.”
I considered that for a moment. His financial woes didn’t interest me much. All cops bitch about money, and the state police’s complaints were no less relevant than Snuffy’s own. But the question of what the protesters might or might not know brought back Gail’s mention of their unofficial leader, Roger Betts. I wondered about the benefits of having a conversation with him.
I opened the passenger door of Dawson’s car and swung my legs out, preparing to return to the battered pickup I was using as part of my cover. “It’s early yet, Snuffy. Something useful’ll surface soon. Don’t do anything without telling me, though, okay? I don’t want Sammie or me to get caught by surprise.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I got enough fires to put out without doing your job for you.”
Not a ringing endorsement, but basically what I wanted to hear.
· · ·
Getting together with Spinney was less complicated and more comfortable than my clandestine meetings with Sammie and Sheriff Dawson. Spinney merely asked Linda Bettina if he could interview me about yesterday’s accident, and she handed us a small conference room on the top floor of the Mountain Ops building.
After closing the door behind us, he smiled and rolled his eyes. “This is too good. There’s got to be a way I can convince them that our undercover guy and their hero-for-a-day is not only the saboteur we’re after but also a right-winger who hates the TPL, wants to clear-cut the mountain, and works for the Israeli Mossad. It would be a clean sweep. What do you think?”
“I think you need a vacation.”
We sat down at the conference table, facing each other in case anyone came in. “Seriously,” he asked. “How’re you doing after all that derring-do? You ain’t getting any younger.”
I looked at him wide-eyed. “Up yours. Is that why you wanted to meet?”
He laughed. “Nope. Fun as this is, I think I can make it better.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and slid it across the table. “Rap sheet for Robert Lanier, alias Marc Roberts, Lanny Robertson, and/or Richard Lane.”
I looked up at the last name, the sheet still unread in my hands. “Sammie’s greaseball ski instructor, the one pawing all his female students?”
“The same. Looks like she nailed him right off.” He tilted his chin toward the document. “I gave him the special attention you asked for. First I got nowhere, but cross-referencing aliases led me to that, and Linda Bettina confirmed he was no employee poster boy. He’s done a nice job of sampling all the goodies, though—domestic assault, assault and battery, sexual assault, B and E, malicious mischief, disturbing the peace, four DUIs, and two counts of burglary, none of which Bettina knows about, by the way. There’s other stuff, too, but who cares? He’s spent a total of thirteen months in the can for all of it and that was years ago. Since then, he’s been cutting deals, pleading out for probation, or snitching for dropped charges. There’s probably not a man, woman, or child he’s met he didn’t eventually beat, rob, or squeal on. And,” he added after a theatrical pause, “he was working here—right time, right place—for every one of Marty’s phone calls.”
I read the rap sheet carefully and returned it to him. “Nice catch. Anything else?”
“Like something we could use for a warrant?” Lester shook his head. “No such luck. Not unless Sammie cuddles up to him and gets him to spill the beans. Still, this gives us someone to look at, someone who might help us flush out Marty Gagnon.”
“If nothing else,” I muttered.
“Yeah,” he said. “I heard about the chair maybe being rigged. Any way you think we could tie Richie or Marty to that?”
“Don’t I wish,” I said mournfully. I checked my watch and stood up. “No. Not that it necessarily makes more sense, but I think I need to look more closely at the TPL and its leaders to get an answer there. You tell Sammie about Richie Lane yet?”
“Nope.”
“Good. I’ve got something to do right now. Could you find her and tell her we need to talk? With his history, Richie might’ve knocked off Jorja Duval looking for Marty, maybe because Marty stiffed him on sharing the loot. That would make for a nice, tight circle, even without the Israeli Mossad. If it’s true, though, I don’t want Sammie tracking him alone.”
Spinney sat back in his chair looking amused and indirectly confirmed why he’d shared Lane’s history with me only. “Can’t imagine why you’d think she would.”
· · ·
I had called Gail Zigman after my conversation with Snuffy Dawson and asked her what my chances were of having a friendly chat with Roger Betts. An hour later, she’d phoned me back to say that Betts was both amenable and eager, but only if she accompanied him and only if we met in private. He was fearful that being found with a cop and the likes of Gail Zigman—from the now bad-guy VermontGreen group—would be viewed by his colleagues as consorting with the devil.
Once again, therefore, I left the isolated world of Tucker Peak after I got off work and traveled to a motel room some ten miles distant, knocking on the door and waiting for Gail to open up.
“Hey, there,” she said, kissing me on the cheek. “I like the beard. Tickles my nose.”
I laughed. “I know what you mean, it’s been itching for days. He here?”
She stepped aside and let me in. Sitting in a chair by the window, staring out a little forlornly at the parking lot, was a thin, white-haired man with stooped shoulders and a much longer beard than mine, tinged with yellow. He looked tired, his skin pale and unhealthy, and he seemed anxious, as if under a lot of pressure.
Gail made the introductions.
Roger Betts rose slowly and gave me a bony hand to shake, smiling wistfully and nodding. “Gail speaks very highly of you, Mr. Gunther. Or is it Agent Gunther? I’m sorry.”
I waved him back to his seat and perched on the windowsill nearby. “Joe’ll be fine.”
“Then you must call me Roger.” His voice was a soft, almost musical tenor, very soothing. “I would like to start by thanking you for saving that poor woman and her child. Gail tells me that was typical of you, but I find it quite extraordinary. Risking one’s life for a stranger’s is something I can only imagine.”
His old-world courtliness probably enhanced the man’s reputation among his like-minded friends. But I sensed it was natural to him, and that he was no less sincere because of it. I responded in a similar vein.
“I’ve heard equally good things about you, including that you like a worthwhile fight.”
His smiled broadened. “I was better at it twenty years ago. I’m not sure how much fire I have left in me.”
For some reason, that brought me back to something he’d just said. “Why did you thank me just now? It almost sounded personal.”
Roger Betts glanced briefly at Gail, who told me, “Ground rules are this conversation is strictly off the record.”
I nodded without comment.
Betts turned his head to look out the window again and seemed to speak more to himself than to us. “I’m not absolutely sure we wer
en’t responsible.”
“You suspect someone?” I asked, startled.
“No, not a person,” he answered slowly, as if drained of all energy.
“More a general mood. I’m not one of those old men who claim the world’s going to pot just because my brain’s too fossilized to follow current events. I know violence and intemperance have been with us since the cave. But there is a stridency among some of my colleagues that exceeds mere enthusiasm. It’s the line dividing righteousness from self-righteousness which allows believers in the latter to turn their backs on common decency.”
“As in trying to kill people to throw blame on the resort? Are you saying someone in the TPL did that?”
He paled even further. “I merely think it’s a consideration.”
“I’m not trying to be contrary,” I told him, “but I don’t see the logic. People’re already whispering about sabotage and pointing the finger at you guys, not Tucker Peak. Surely, if this was done by a TPL member, he knew the risks of injuring someone and putting you in an even worse light was pretty high. So, why do it?”
Betts didn’t answer for several seconds and then finally admitted, “I don’t know, and I have no proof. It’s just that I can’t separate the two in my mind: our actions and such violence. I’ve seen one lead to the other too often in the past to ignore the possibility.”
I looked at him in a whole new light, suddenly filled with a sense of ambiguity. What was his game? Or was he just shouldering the guilt for the whole world’s collective ills?
Intrigued by the possibilities, I still wanted to introduce a bit of reality. I held up four fingers. “That lends itself to several scenarios—one of your people went off the deep end; someone did this to make you look bad; someone totally unrelated is indulging in a little terrorism and using your presence as a smoke screen; and, last but not least, nobody did it, because it was an accident. Do any of those sound more likely than the others?”
His response was elliptical at best. “I believe very strongly in the positions I take, and I am convinced that harm will come about as a result of Tucker Peak’s plans. But I am a nonviolent man, dedicated to harming no other living creatures. I would be devastated to learn that a cause I was associated with had taken to violence as a means of expression. I merely wanted you to hear that directly from me.”
Tucker Peak Page 10
