3 Swift Run

by Laura Disilverio

  She turned into the corridor and passed the elevators as a door midway down the hall banged open. Heather-Anne’s room? Charlie wondered. A man barreled out, and she got an impression of height and a gray cowboy hat as he strode away from her, disappearing into the atrium. Too young, dark, and skinny to be Les Goldman, she thought, looking over a planter of greenery to see the back of the man’s hat bobbing toward the front entrance. She continued down the hall to 115, and it was, indeed, the room the man had slammed out of. It seemed Miss Heather-Anne Pawlusik had brought a boyfriend with her to look for the missing Les. Interesting. Of course, it could be a brother or cousin, Charlie thought, trying to give their client the benefit of the doubt, or even a hotel employee checking on a malfunctioning television or counting bottles in the minibar, but the man hadn’t worn a uniform or the kind of friendly expression that hospitality workers had surgically applied when they first started the job.

  Drawing even with the door, Charlie noticed that the man had slammed it open so hard that it had failed to latch on the rebound. Tempting. Too tempting. A glance up and down the hall showed no one in sight, although a maid’s cart sat outside a room four doors down. “Heather-Anne?” she called, in case the woman was inside. When there was no answer, Charlie nudged the door wider with her shoulder so she didn’t leave fingerprints and slipped inside, letting the door clunk closed behind her.

  A scan showed the standard Embassy Suites sitting room: couch, TV, coffee table, chair. A laptop case, open, sat to the right of the couch, and Charlie eyed it longingly … but no. Powering up Heather-Anne’s laptop was too big a risk for potentially no reward; in all probability, her files were password protected. Charlie made for the bedroom, elbowing the closet door open on her way. A pair of women’s jeans, two blouses, and a slinky dress hung on the rod, and strappy sandals and athletic shoes were tossed on the floor. No men’s clothes. Hm. Maybe Mr. Cowboy Hat really was a hotel employee … or maybe he had no more business in Heather-Anne’s room than Charlie did.

  The unmade bed told Charlie she needed to hurry; the maid could come in at any time. Starting with the nightstand, she stooped to read the data on a prescription bottle and discovered Heather-Anne was taking Zoloft, which Charlie thought was an antianxiety med. A half-read copy of a historical romance lay facedown on the table, and a hotel notepad lay next to the phone. Ripping off the top sheet, Charlie stowed it in her jeans pocket. She might be able to raise impressions and read what had been written on the page above.

  Conscious of time flitting by—she’d been in the room four minutes already—Charlie ducked into the bathroom. Without touching any surface, she noted the litter of toiletries and high-end cosmetics on the counter and a wet towel crumpled on the floor. A faint smell of sandalwood hung in the air. The room told her nothing about Heather-Anne except she had enough money to afford expensive lipstick and wasn’t a neatnik.

  Passing the closet again on the way out, Charlie halted. Lots of hotels had safes these days … she spied the safe, its door closed, on a shelf beside a stack of extra pillows and blankets. She reached for the ridged dial set in the middle of the door, knowing fingerprints wouldn’t show on the corrugated surface. As she gave it a twist, she heard the snick of a key card going into the door lock. Damn! She didn’t know whether to hope the maid or Heather-Anne came into the room.

  Quickly grabbing the linens off the shelf, she held them chest high so the pile hid her face and started toward the door.

  “Who are—?” The voice was young, half irate.

  “Gotta wash the linens,” Charlie said, hurrying past with her face shoved into the musty-smelling pillows. They really could use a spin through the Maytag.

  “I haven’t used those. Why—?”

  “Bedbugs.”

  Before Heather-Anne could do more than squeak indignantly, Charlie scooted out the door. She turned away from the maid’s cart and found a door leading to a stairwell. Dumping the pillows and blankets on the first step, she ran up to the second floor, feeling the pull in her injured glute. At the top, she rubbed her ass, peeked into the empty hall, and strolled toward the elevator, trying to slow her pulse rate, which had skyrocketed when she heard the key in the door. By the time she rode the elevator to the ground floor, her breathing was back to normal, and she walked toward the main doors as if she were a guest headed out for a touristy day at Garden of the Gods.

  As Charlie passed the reception desk, she heard a clerk say into the phone, “Absolutely not! We’ve never had bedbugs in our hotel, ma’am. Let me connect you to housekeeping.”

  4

  When Charlie called to tell me that Les had dropped off the rental in Aspen, I knew immediately where he was—with our friends Cherry and Moss Fitzwater. Excited, I found their number and dialed it. After four rings, it went to voice mail.

  “This is Cherry. And this is Moss,” went the message. “We’re visiting Singapore this month, so don’t expect to hear from us anytime soon. If you’re a burglar, keep in mind that we’ve got a sophisticated alarm system, a mean dog, and a caretaker in residence.”

  I knew their “mean dog” was a bichon frise even smaller than my shih tzu, Nolan. Cherry’s giggles followed Moss’s stern announcement. “Oh, and check our Facebook page for photos of the trip.”

  Listening to their voices made me sad. I wished I’d been able to keep them as friends when Les left me.

  I called Charlie back to tell her I knew where Les was.

  “You’ll need to go up there,” she said.

  “Me? To Aspen?”

  “Yes. It’s good he didn’t answer the phone, and it was smart of you not to leave a message. We don’t want to warn Les that we’re on his tail.”

  Not leaving a message was more because I hadn’t thought about what I wanted to say than about not warning Les, but I said, “Right,” like I’d had the same thought. “But I can’t go to Aspen, Charlie. The kids—”

  Charlie wasn’t listening to excuses, though, and I was on my way to Aspen well before lunch. I’d arranged for Kendall to stay at a friend’s house and let Dexter talk me into letting him stay home alone, packed, and traded vehicles with Charlie since she’d pointed out that Les would recognize the Hummer. Charlie had bought a new-to-her Subaru Outback a couple of weeks ago to replace the one that got smashed in Estes Park, and I liked feeling closer to the road than I felt in Les’s Hummer. I still didn’t think of it as mine. I bounced in the seat, excited about heading off on my own for the first time in … why, I didn’t think I’d taken a trip alone since before the kids were born. I marveled at that as I made the turnoff to 470 outside Denver, sure I didn’t need a map since Les and I had stayed with Moss and Cherry several times before we split. Besides, with any luck, I’d catch Les on the slopes. I knew exactly where he liked to ski, and I was confident that on a beautiful day like this he wouldn’t be able to resist the runs, no matter what brought him to Colorado.

  * * *

  By midafternoon I had parked at the Intercept Lot off 82, where Les always parked, taken the shuttle to Snowmass, where I knew Les liked to ski, and bought a lift ticket for a sum that would have paid for four manicures. Charlie’d suggested I stake out Moss and Cherry’s house, but if I could catch Les on the slopes, I could drive back and be home before the kids went to bed. I’d thrown my ski gear into the car, but I hoped I wouldn’t have to ski. Les had bought it for me one Christmas, even though I’d said I would prefer a weekend at the Canyon Ranch Spa, and I knew it was expensive. Only I wasn’t much of a skier. Les flew down double black diamond runs. I stuck to the bunny slopes and preferred après-ski activities like hot tubs and shopping to actual skiing. Skiing was cold and wet, and it mussed your hair, and I almost always broke a fingernail putting my boots on. I was hoping to spot Les at Sneaky’s, but if I had to ski to find Les, I’d do it. I wished Charlie were here to be impressed with my preparedness and my can-do attitude.

  The slopes were crowded, even midweek, with the sunshine and fresh powder drawing lots of
locals away from work, I suspected. Sun glared off the snow, and I teared up. I slid along cautiously, trying to get the feel of the skis. How long had it been since I skied? Three years? Four? I was sure it would come back to me, like bike riding, although, come to think of it, it’d been even longer since I’d been on a bicycle. The scents of new snow, pine, and coffee mingled pleasantly as I got on line to order my latte. The nearest lift ran continually, and I scanned the people standing in line to board, hoping to see Les. No one looked familiar. Giggles and shouts drew my attention, and I turned my head to watch kids as young as three or four zip down the kiddie hill. I wondered if I’d ever been that fearless. I didn’t think so.

  I had just received my steaming latte when I saw Les. In the chairlift line, he wore the electric blue parka he’d bought at an end-of-season sale and had goggles over his face. I’d recognize his receding hairline anywhere, though.

  “Les!” Several people turned at my call, but not Les. I skied toward the line, coffee sloshing over my ungloved hand. Ow.

  Les was chatting with a curvaceous woman a couple of inches taller than he was. In sleek white winter gear, she was a ski goddess, dark hair curling on her shoulders. The chair came up behind them and they sat easily, still talking. Seeing Les with another woman gave me an unpleasant jolt, but a tiny part of me relished the thought of telling Heather-Anne he’d dumped her for somebody else. I didn’t have time to think about it, though, as I cut into line with a bunch of “excuse mes” and “so sorrys” and plunked into the chair four behind Les and his snow bunny. It whisked up the mountain.

  The passenger beside me was a teen snowboarder who made a point of staring away from me and didn’t respond to my “Hi.” Fine by me. I didn’t have time for chitchat; I needed to keep tabs on Les and his companion. The ground fell away quickly, and I stared down at the sloping white dotted with skiers and evergreens. It might almost have been fun if I hadn’t been afraid of losing Les. As we neared the top, I watched Les and his friend gracefully exit the lift and angle toward a trail slightly to the left. I was so busy keeping track of them that I forgot to ready myself for getting off. I snagged the tip of my ski in the snow and jolted forward, landing on my knees and face. My cup went sailing, splattering coffee on two or three people. The skiers behind me grumbled and skied around me as the lift operator dragged me out of the way.

  Mumbling my thanks and brushing snow off my fuchsia parka, I slid quickly toward the trail Les had taken. Thank goodness it was only a blue, not one of his double black diamonds. Maybe his friend wasn’t an expert skier. Les was skiing easily, cutting from one side of the run to the other in lazy swoops, his electric blue jacket easily visible. I could catch him if I took a straighter line. Not taking time to pull up the goggles around my neck, I pointed my skis downhill, flexed my knees, and pushed off with my poles.

  Whee! For a moment, the whoosh of wind in my hair and the speed were exhilarating, but my thighs began to ache almost immediately, and an icy spot made me wobble. I had the uneasy feeling I was out of control, but I was gaining on Les. I straightened to relieve the stress on my thighs, and that slowed me a little. A snowboarder came out of nowhere and slid across the run in front of me, and I dug my poles in to keep from colliding with her. My skis nicked the back of her board, and she cut away, yelling something in a rude voice.

  Well! She cut me off, not vice versa. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to slow down a bit. As long as I could keep Les in sight, I could talk to him at the end of the run. Trying to force my skis into a snowplow position with the tips wide, I found my out-of-shape legs weren’t up to the task. My right leg skidded, and I windmilled my arms to catch my balance, glad of the loops that secured my poles around my wrists. For a moment, I thought I was going to tumble over, but I got the ski back in line.

  Now I was scared. My leg muscles shook, and I knew a fall at this speed would really hurt, even break a bone or two. My ankles throbbed and only the boots kept them from giving out completely. The run took a wide, easy turn to the right, but I couldn’t turn my ski tips and bounced off the groomed trail into an area dotted with pine saplings. Oh, my God. Wasn’t this how Sonny Bono died?

  I squeezed my eyes shut, letting my momentum carry me down the mountainside. I heard shouts behind me, but I knew no one could save me. Something slapped my cheek, making it sting; the smell told me it was a pine branch. My teeth chattered as my skis rumbled over the clumpy snow. After what felt like an hour, but was probably only thirty seconds, the snow smoothed out again, and I dared to open my eyes. I was back on the run, which had curved to the left and intersected my straight-as-an-arrow path. A flash of electric blue told me I’d just passed Les. Before I could yell his name, a boy of maybe five or six stopped at the bottom of the run and paused to wave a ski pole at his parents. If I kept going, I’d plow right through him.

  What had my instructor always told me to do when in trouble? Sit down. Before I could think about how badly it would hurt or calculate the chances of breaking some bones, I did my best to force my legs into snowplow position. Feeling my speed drop a bit, I flung myself back. My fanny hit the ground, my skis popped off, and I skidded the rest of the way down the hill on my tush, slowing to a stop as the little boy skied toward his parents, completely unaware that I’d been coming straight at him. I sucked in a deep breath, but before I could expel it in a huge sigh of relief, a man yelled, “Get out of—”

  All I could see was the electric blue jacket as Les tried to steer around me. One of his skis lodged under my outstretched leg, and he went down, landing half on top of me. Oof. I was momentarily winded but pushed myself up on my elbows. I fixed a smile on my face. “Oh, Les—”

  He turned on his side to face me, scowling and spitting snow. Despite the thinning blond hair, round face, and electric blue parka, he wasn’t Les.

  * * *

  Finding Cherry and Moss’s house was harder than I’d anticipated. I was sure that if it’d been daylight, I could’ve driven straight to their development, but in the dark all the gated housing areas looked similar, and I couldn’t remember if theirs was called Aspen View, Mountain View, or Eagle View. A recent snow had left the streets snow-packed and slick, and I drove slowly, trying to peer through the gates, every muscle in my body aching from my humiliating reintroduction to skiing. I’d learned to drive on Georgia’s red dirt roads, and driving on snow still made me nervous. Rude people behind me honked and zipped past, spinning snow onto my windshield and making it even harder to see.

  I breathed a sigh of relief when the guard at the fifth community I stopped at, Ponderosa Heights, recognized the Fitzwaters’ names and let me in after writing down my name and license plate number. Aspen trunks shone whitely in the moonlight, and the snow was so pretty it looked fakey, like something you’d see at Disneyland—white and powdery and sparkly. I crawled down the street until I reached the winding driveway leading to Cherry and Moss’s. I drove past it and parked half a block up, like Charlie had suggested. She’d told me to stake out the place, see if Les was really in residence, and get photos of him if I could. It’d been my bright idea to try to find him on the ski slopes, thinking I could wrap things up and get back to the kids tonight. Once we knew for certain that he was holed up at the Fitzwaters’, we’d call Heather-Anne and let her take it from there. Part of me thought it was unfair to sic Heather-Anne on Les if he was trying to get away from her, but Charlie pointed out that that’s what we’d been hired to do.

  I gnawed my lip, the heater blowing. I’d stopped at a drugstore for some ibuprofen and taken several, but I still ached all over, and I felt stiff as a fence post. Hotness that wasn’t from the heater began to burn through me. Hot flash! Unzipping my parka, I opened the car door and stumbled into the snow, scooped up a handful, and held it to my face. Ooh, that felt good. As the prickly heat receded, I looked around. The moonlight on the snow lit up the neighborhood, and I could see the Fitzwaters’ lodgestyle home clearly. Without really thinking about it, I found myself walking up the d
riveway, my boots scrunching loudly in the snow. If I waited in the car, I’d have to leave to find someplace to pee, and with my track record that’s when Les would appear. It would be smarter—wouldn’t it?—to investigate the house now and see if Les was really here. Truth is, surveillance, with all that waiting around, and having to pee but not being able to, and freezing because you can’t turn on the heater and let the subject know you’re there, wasn’t my long suit.

  Lights flooded the snow-covered front yard as I neared the four-car garage, and I jumped. Someone must have seen me. I thought about hiding behind the evergreen shrubs and had even started toward them when I realized the lights were motion activated like the ones Les had had installed at our house. Heavens, that had given me a start. My breaths came out in smoky puffs. I didn’t see any lights in the house. I felt a little disappointed. Part of me wanted to see Les again. It’d been more than a year since he ran off to South America, and I still missed him. An itty bit. Not his snoring, or the way he ignored me for days on end when he had a big deal in the works, or how he used to slap my fanny if he caught me eating a doughnut or a cookie, but telling him about my day and discussing what the kids were up to, and planning vacations together. We both loved to travel. I remembered that he’d taken his last trip—to Costa Rica—without me and blinked back tears.

  I paused near the steps, shivering, trying to work up my courage to walk up to the door. What if Les answered? A happy thought struck me. I didn’t have to mention Heather-Anne. I could say I was in Aspen for the skiing and decided to drop in on Moss and Cherry. That would keep him from being suspicious. I climbed the stairs before I could lose my nerve and knocked timidly. I waited, shifting from foot to foot, getting chilled. Butterflies swarmed in my tummy. Zipping my parka, I knocked again, a little louder. Still nothing. Maybe I’d been wrong about Les staying here.