The Hunt

by William Diehl

  “Aspen local, Aspen local,” Dryman kept repeating. “This is a distress call. This is Army 457 calling Aspen local

  The radio crackled with static and then a faint voice faded in and out: “. . . is Aspen . . . the air. . . losed. . . you can hea on the phone and.

  “Aspen local, this is Army 457. I’m having trouble reading you. We are about twenty miles south of you on the opposite side of Castle Peak. Do you read?”

  They were flying below the tops of the mountains and the winds became stronger, more erratic. The plane, buffeted by the turbulence, suddenly dropped off on one wing and spun out. Dryman slammed the stick forward as the plane spiraled out, pulled back on the throttle and stopped the spin. He pulled out of the drive and swept across a snow-swept valley. The mountains towered above them. Keegan could almost reach out and touch the straggly pine trees as the plane slowly started to climb back up. Sheer cliffs surrounded them.

  Dryman frantically checked the map. There had to be a way out of the pocket they had dropped into. He began to circle and climb, circle and climb, going for altitude to clear the fifteen thousand-foot Sawatch Range. But as they hit fourteen thousand feet the engine began to falter again. The plane shuddered as Dryman pushed it to the limit, but wind, storm and thin air were choking out the engine. He circled again as he scanned the sectional map in his lap. Then he saw a notation between two of the mountain peaks, “Independence Pass, 12,095 feet.”

  “I can’t seem to bust fifteen thousand feet,” Dryman called back to Keegan. “There’s a pass over there to our west. It’s our only chance to get on the other side of this range.”

  He tightened his circles, the plane skimming the treetops as he searched for the cleft in the mountain range.

  “There!” Keegan cried. “Off to the left.”

  It was a narrow gorge that sliced deep into the foreboding wall of mountains. Dryman peeled off and dove straight into the cut. Keegan’s knuckles were white. The plane was roaring through a claustrophobic canyon less than a hundred yards wide with sheer cliffs on both sides and harsh winds still wracking them.

  As they zoomed out the end of the pass, the radio crackled to life:

  “This is Aspen local, Army 457. Our field is closed.. . I can direct you south to . .

  “Negative, negative,” Dryman said, cutting him off. “I’m dodging mountains out here, I’m ten feet in front of a blizzard and I’m flying on fumes. I need some landing instructions fast.”

  “Repeat, the field is closed, Army 457. It’s already beginning to snow here and .

  “Listen here, Aspen, I’m running out of fuel and it’s getting darker by the second. I’m coming down. Give me wind and runway instructions.”

  “You can’t even see the runway,” came the answer. “We haven’t cleared it Off since the storm last week. We’ve still got two or three inches of snow out there!”

  “Then turn on your lights and say a prayer,” Dryman answered.

  “We haven’t got any lights! Wait a minute . . . I can hear you. You’re north of the field.”

  “You got a truck or car there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well pull out on the front end of the runway, aim it down the strip and turn on the lights. I’ll have to feel this one in.”

  “Mister, you’re crazy!”

  “You’re probably right, but I don’t have any choice. I’m going to have to dump this into that pocket you’re in. Get movin’, pal . .

  There were mountains all around them and the snow was slashing at the cabin windows. Dryman peeled up on one wing and dove down the side of one of the mountains, then pulled out and skimmed across the village at about five hundred feet.

  “I think the airport’s over there someplace,” he said, pointing vaguely to the left.

  “You don’t know?”

  “Hey, Boss, I can’t see anything in front of us. I’m really flying by the seat of my pants.”

  Suddenly in front of and below them, through the slashing snow pellets, they saw headlights flash on.

  “Glorioski, Sandy, there it is,” Dryman yelled enthusiastically. “All we gotta do now is land.”

  The plane roared across the east-west strip heading south. Dryman peeled up, stood the plane on her wing and swung around in a tight arc one hundred feet off the ground, did a perfect 270-degree bank, leveled off, dropped down and hopscotched over the top of the car, clearing it by five feet.

  “Hang on!” Dryman yelled as he cut power and pulled the nose up. The plane whooshed down and thudded hard on the frozen ground. Snow showered up over the wings and pummeled the cabin. Dryman pumped the brakes, trying to keep the plane from skidding out from under him. The fence at the end of the field rushed toward them. Then he slammed hard on the right brake and the plane spun around twice and stopped.

  They sat for a full minute staring out at the snow flurries that fluttered around them.

  “Beautiful,” the pilot finally said half aloud. He turned and looked back at the rear cockpit. A pale Keegan smiled wanly back at him and gave him a thumbs-up sign.

  “Always remember,” Dryman said with a laugh. “Any one you can walk away from is a good one.”

  The airport manager drove up through the snow, the chains on his tires clinking against the fenders of his car. He jumped out, a young redheaded man in his mid-twenties, his eyes still bugged from the spectacle of watching Dryman make it safely to the ground.

  “You guys okay?” he said as they climbed out of the plane.

  “I’m ten years older than I was an hour ago,” Keegan replied with a sigh.

  “Amazing! Amazing!” the young man yelled. “I’ve never seen anybody fly like that!”

  “And probably never will again,” Dryman said, climbing out of the plane. “You did real good, fella. What’s your name?”

  “Jesse Manners,” he said sticking out his hand. Keegan jumped down from the wing and slogged through ankle-deep snow to shake hands with the young man.

  “Keegan, White House Security,” he said. “This is my pilot, Captain Dryman.”

  “Jesse Manners,” he repeated, shaking their hands. “I manage the airport here, such as it is. Why don’t you taxi over to the hangar? Least it’ll keep your plane from freezing up.”

  “Good idea,” Dryman agreed.

  “Mind if I drive with you?” Keegan asked. “I need to call the sheriff.”

  “Sure, but he ain’t here. He’s over at Glenwood Springs to talk to the sheriff there. I seen him at lunch just as he was leavin’. You might try Duane Harris, he’s the forest ranger in charge, usually watches out for things when the sheriff’s off somewhere.”

  “He’ll do.”

  The ranger sounded friendly and a little awed by the fact that they had flown into Aspen in such bad weather. Manners provided hot coffee while they waited for Harris to drive fifteen miles from town to the airport. Keegan avoided Manners’s questions while they waited and finally the youthful manager went into the hangar to help Dryman check out the AT-6. Half an hour later a husky forest ranger in a heavy sheepskin jacket entered the airport office. He was in his late twenties, a pleasant, shaggy- haired man with the beginnings of a beard and a quick smile.

  “Mr. Keegan? Duane Harris, U.S. Forestry Station,” he introduced himself.

  “Good to see you,” Keegan said. “I really appreciate your help in this. Meet my pilot, Captain Dryman, H.P. for short.” He showed Harris his credentials and drew the ranger aside, speaking in a low voice. Manners, one of Aspen’s most notorious gossips, appeared to ignore them but his curious ears were keened to the conversation.

  “I’m looking for a man named Trexler, John Trexler? You know him?”

  “Why, hell, everybody knows Johnny. He works ski patrol for Highlands Resort. Is there a problem?”

  “Just need to talk to him,” Keegan said. “I hate to impose on you, but the sheriff’s out of town and I thought maybe you could help us out.”

  “Sure enough. Let’s get trottin’, tho
ugh, this weather’s not gonna get any better. How the hell did you get in here anyway?”

  “A great pilot and the luck of the Irish,” Keegan said with a smile as they went out into the storm.

  Jesse Manners could hardly wait until Harris was on his way before he grabbed for the phone.

  In his cabin, John Trexler was mentally tossing a coin. He had planned to drive the fifty miles into Leadville for the weekend but with the storm coming in he was having second thoughts. The phone rang. It was Jesse Manners at the airport.

  “Hey, Johnny, you been holding out on everybody?” Manners asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “About the White House?”

  “What White House?”

  “The White House. You some kind of big shot?”

  “What the hell’re you talking about, Jesse?”

  “An army plane just put on one hell of an air show out here. Came in right under the storm. Two guys from the White House. They’re comin’ out to talk to you. What’s going’ on, old buddy?”

  “They’re from the White House?” Trexler repeated.

  “That’s what they said. White House Security.”

  Wh i te House Security? Trexler’s mind started racing. What could that be?

  “It’s a secret, kid,” he said calmly. “Tell you about it later. And listen, Jesse, keep it under your hat for now, okay? It’s a surprise.”

  “Sure, Johnny.”

  Trexler cradled the phone and stood motionless in the room, his mind bombarded by questions. What in hell would two men from White House Security want with him? What the hell was White House Security? Did it have something to do with immigration? Had someone accidentally stumbled onto his false identity?

  Was there a breach in security?

  Impossible! Vierhaus, Hitler and Ludwig were the only ones who even knew of his existence. And yet, of all the possibilities that ran through his mind, that one seemed the most logical. While a breach was remote, it was the only thing that made sense.

  The question was moot anyway. He could not take a chance, he had to run for it. He needed time and a lot of luck for what was ahead. He had to create another illusion.

  He had his knapsack ready. After the incident in Drew City, Trexler was always ready to make an immediate escape. He went into the bedroom and lowered a ladder leading to a storage space in the ceiling of the cabin. He went up with a flashlight, unlocked a footlocker stored there and took out a rucksack. He had everything he needed in it: identification, cash, his long knife, a .45 Colt automatic and clothes. He tied the SS dagger to his right calf and strapped on a money belt containing his cash.

  As he outfitted himself, he was working out a plan, one of several options he had formulated through the years. He went back down and threw enough clothes in his suitcase to appear as though he would be away for a couple of days.

  He returned to the living room and called the ski patrol office at the lodge. Wes Childress, the patrol captain, answered.

  “Wes, it’s Johnny,” he said, sounding as casual as possible. “I’m heading out for Leadville. Just thought I’d check out. I should be back Monday if the roads are clear.”

  “You’re not going to make it, kiddo,” Childress answered. “This blizzard’s on us already.”

  “If I hurry I can run down Route 82 and beat it to the main highway. Is Soapie still planning to make the run to Copperhead Ridge?”

  “Yeah, I just talked to him.”

  “Does he need help?”

  “Nah, you know Old Soap. He’s used to this shit.”

  “Okay. See you Monday.”

  “You’re nuts, pal. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  Trexler looked at his watch. He had thirty minutes at best. He left the cabin, locked it, threw his suitcase in the trunk of his car and drove down the two-hundred-yard driveway to the mountain road leading back into town. But he didn’t turn toward town, he headed up the mountain toward Soapie’s cabin.

  On the way into town, Harris checked the ski patrol office at Highlands Resort, which employed Trexler.

  “Hey Wes, it’s Duane. Do you know John Trexler’s location?”

  “Yeah. He was in his cabin about ten minutes ago. But he’s planning on trying to beat the storm into Leadville. I think he’s got a lady friend there.”

  “How’s he planning to go?”

  “Route 82. It’s still open. Why?”

  “Got a couple of visitors want to see him.”

  “You may just miss him.”

  “Thanks,” Harris said. He laid the radio mike on the seat beside him.

  They drove through a small quaint village and a mile or so beyond it, Harris slowed down.

  “This is the road up to his place,” Harris said. “It’s a mile or so up the trail. His cabin sits about two hundred yards off the road.” He looked out the side window as he turned into a narrow lane that led up through the trees. Mounds of virgin snow outlined the narrow roadway.

  “We’re in luck,” Harris said. “No tracks. He must still be up there.”

  “Any other road out of here?” Keegan asked.

  “Nope, it dead-ends up at Soapie Kramer’s ranger station.”

  “How far’s that?”

  “Four, five miles.”

  Harris dropped into low gear and turned up the road.

  “How long’ve you known Trexler?” Keegan asked.

  “Oh, Johnny’s been around these parts for a few years now.

  He’s worked for all the resorts through the years. Half a dozen companies have tried to make a go of it and failed. He’s with the Highlands people now and it looks like they’re here to stay.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Just one of the guys. Everybody likes him. Helluva skier. He and Soapie saved a couple of climbers trapped up on Mount Elbert last year. They were almost to the top, fourteen thousand feet, in weather worse than this. When you said you were from the White House I thought maybe the president was gonna give ‘em a medal or something.”

  “I hadn’t heard that,” Keegan said sardonically. He reached under his arm, took out an army .45 and checked the clip. Dryman did the same. Harris looked over at Keegan with surprise.

  “Hey,” he said. “What’s going on?”

  “Duane, I’m going to level with you,” Keegan answered. “If this guy’s who we think he is, he’s very, very dangerous.”

  “John Trexler!”

  “That’s right. This is the way we’re going to play it. The minute he opens the door, we’ll rush him and get the drop on him.”

  “What did he do?” Harris asked. There was alarm in every syllable.

  “For starters, he’s killed three people that we know about,” Keegan answered.

  “Sweet Jesus!” Harris said.

  “What if he gets crazy?” Dryman asked. “What if he’s got a gun?”

  Keegan’s heart was pumping overtime but he was outwardly calm. “Then I’ll blow his brains out,” he answered without hesitation.

  “Maybe I better call my boss,” Harris said nervously. “Maybe we ought to go back into town and get some help.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Keegan. “He’s not expecting us. We’ll just stay calm. Be pleasant as we approach the place. If he’s outside, introduce us as a couple of rangers from the district office in Denver. Then we’ll take him.”

  “I’ve never done anything like this before,” Harris said.

  “That’s okay, neither have we,” Keegan answered.

  Harris expertly negotiated the snow-piled drive, the back end of the vehicle groaning as its four-wheel drive urged it up the lane. When they reached the driveway leading to Trexler’s cabin, Harris stopped.

  “Don’t see his car,” he said. He rolled down the window and checked the road.

  The snow was falling harder and the wind was picking up. Harris knelt down and checked the tracks leading up the mountain.

  “Funny, no tracks going down, they’re al
l going up the slope,” Harris said.

  “What the hell’s up there, anyway?” Keegan asked.

  “Ranger station. Soapie Kramer lives up there. But he was planning to try to beat the storm and head up to Copperhead Ridge to the high station on avalanche patrol—just in case anybody gets lost on the mountain.”

  He’s running, thought Keegan. Somebody tipped the son of a bitch off and he running.

  “How good’s this Kramer?” he asked Harris.

  “Twelve years in these mountains. Don’t figure they get any better.”

  “How good are you, Duane?”

  “Not that good. I’m good but I’m not old Soapie.”

  “How about Trexler?” Dryman asked.

  “He’s damn good, too,” said Harris. “Could have been a real competitor but he wasn’t interested. Likes the quiet life.”

  “Does he smoke?” Keegan asked.

  “Smoke? Yeah. Rolls his own.”

  “Does he have a cigarette lighter?” Dryman said.

  “Why, yes

  “Gold lighter with a wolf’s head on the top?” Keegan said.

  “Yeah,” said Harris with surprise. “You must know him pretty well.”

  “I know him real well,” said Keegan flatly. “What d’you say? Let’s give it a shot.”

  Harris shook his head as he climbed back in the car.

  “I’ll try anything once,” he said. “But we got about a twenty-five-degree slope here. I can’t promise anything.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do your best,” Keegan said.

  * * *

  Trexler drove as fast as his Hudson Terraplane would safely maneuver the road to Dutchman Flat and Soapie Kramer’s cabin. He was reviewing his plan, checking it for holes.

  The road finally began to level off. He picked up speed, coursing down through the ridge forest until suddenly he burst out onto the flatland, a plateau near the top of the mountain. Snow flurries were just beginning and thick woolly clouds were tumbling over the mountaintops, bringing the big wind with them.

  What has nature got against me? he thought to himself. First it was the dust storms. Now this. But he wasn’t complaining. Actually the storm would provide his cover. He needed a couple of days and the brewing storm just might provide them. He parked near the cabin, aiming the car out toward the lake that adjoined Kramer’s place. Snow flurries danced across the ice surface. He walked directly to the corner of the building. The phone line was stretched down the side of the cabin, entering it through an outlet near the base of the house. Trexler opened his penknife and cut the wire.