by Jeff Carson
The initial shock of dropping eighty feet onto solid ground left him as he realized that his rotation was going to land him smack dab on his head if he didn’t do something about it.
It isn’t solid ground, his mind screamed through the terror. It was a pile of slough on top of a huge amount of snow from the last storm, which made his landing even more important. In the event he survived, landing headfirst would be a sure way to suffocate shortly thereafter.
The air was howling now, rippling clothing against his body as he accelerated more and more.
He tucked into a ball and willed his body to spin forward in a front flip. It didn’t seem be working fast enough, as the rocks slid by a few feet from his face. He was still upside down.
Then, somehow, the wind caught his body, pushing him so that he was now looking at blue sky. And then he landed.
He barked involuntarily as he slammed back first into the snow—or maybe he hadn’t. It was so instantaneous that it was impossible to register the events in his mind. One instant he felt the cement-hard blow of the landing, and the next he stared up at the steep walls of a narrow impact crater.
It was peaceful. A few clumps of snow crumbled off the edge above, widening the oval of blue sky even more. Relief turned to panic immediately as he tried to suck in a breath and couldn’t. The wind was knocked out of him. He tried to struggle but couldn’t against the snow, which only filled him with more dread.
Finally, with a long whistle, a breath entered his lungs. His vision tunneled as he sucked a cold lump of snow into his throat, causing him to cough out the little oxygen his body had managed to inhale.
The pain in his chest was agonizing, and then everything went black.
Chapter 20
Beeping and squawking voices. A body slumped in an office chair. A woman stuck her tongue out at him. A man yelled at him to get down. He raised the rifle and shot.
Wolf opened his eyes.
The oval of blue looked the same as it had … when? He heard the muffled beep of his radio and squawking voices, and he thought he heard his name.
His breathing was calm and normal. He coughed, clearing his lungs of moisture, and realized there had been no pain as he’d done so.
He steeled himself and took stock of his body. No stabbing sensation. No tingling ache of broken bones anywhere. He moved his left hand, and then tried his right and felt nothing. Then he remembered he’d lost his glove. He flexed his right arm, pulled it free from the heavy snow, and extended it out in front of him. His hand was covered with snow and stuck in a writing position. He brought it to his mouth and breathed on it, feeling nothing. He bit it, and felt nothing. He decided to forget about it and wriggled his left arm, and with a grunt he heaved it out of the cement next to him.
For a few moments he tried to sit up, but his body didn’t budge, weighed down by the hundreds of pounds of snow pressing on him. Or was it that his back was broken and he was unable to move? Panic slashed at him, but he closed his eyes and took a calming breath.
No, he decided, feeling his feet wiggle in the compact ski boots, then his knee flex, then his thighs, his butt, his back, his shoulders, and his neck. He was fine. It was just that he was buried, and needed to dig himself out. So he began moving snow with teeth-gritting determination.
It took him at least thirty minutes to extricate himself. He parted the snow on his chest, sat up, and then freed his legs. Then it was a matter of crawling up and out of the five-foot hole. “… Wolf? Sheriff Wolf?” The radio sat in a small impact crater a few feet away.
“Wolf!” Rachette yelled into the radio, like he was calling a lost dog as he marched down the street.
Wolf bent down and picked it up. “Yeah, I’m here.”
He took a step and sank all the way up to his crotch in the snow, and then realized he still had a whole mess of a problem ahead of him.
“Are you all right? We’ve been calling you for thirty minutes. Patterson is coming after you.”
Wolf shook his head. “Patterson, do you copy?”
There was no response.
“Patterson!” Wolf said, afraid she was going to go over the cliffs next.
“Down here,” she said. “I’m to your left, down near the road. I had to skirt the cliffs. I’m heading up your way.”
Wolf waved. He looked around and saw a bright-orange sliver in the snow. It was the base of one of Bob Duke’s skis poking out.
“Just hang tight,” he said. “It’s too deep. I found a ski.”
Wolf dug it out and put it on, then trundled down the remaining hillside to the road to meet Patterson.
“I thought you were buried in an avalanche or something.” Patterson was speaking fast. “I followed your tracks, and saw them end at a slide, and then that cliff.” She looked up. “Oh my God. Look how high that was.”
Wolf didn’t bother looking as he slid down a steep bank and landed on the hard packed powder next to the road.
“How did you get skis?” Wolf asked.
“Scott got a ski patrol to bring some up for me on a snowmobile.” She took a deep breath. “We were pretty worried.”
“Well, thanks,” Wolf said. “Who’s waiting on the highway?”
“Wilson is at the slide zone,” she said.
“Wilson, do you copy?”
“Yes, sir, I’m on my way up now, let me know …” Wilson drove around the corner at that moment. “Aha, there you guys are.”
“Sir,” Patterson said. “Your hand.”
Wolf nodded. “I know. I need heat.”
Patterson took off her glove and held it out, then took it back and shook her head. “Sorry, probably wouldn’t fit you, now would it? Did you hear the radio chatter about the shooting at the top of the pass?”
Wolf’s heart sank. “No. When?”
“Someone just called in about a shooting on top of the pass. Nobody’s hurt, but a man was shot at, and his snowmobile was taken.”
…
At 11:15 that morning, Wolf stood on the shoulder of Highway 734 on the top of Williams Pass, and it was clear that Matt Cooper’s murderer had gotten away, using the mountains surrounding Rocky Points Resort, ingenuity, and a psychotic disposition to his advantage.
Apparently, Red Hat had hitched a ride up the pass, picked up by an unknown vehicle. It was customary practice for a driver of a truck with an open bed to stop if a skier came out of the woods and needed a lift back up to his or her car parked on the top of the pass.
When he’d arrived on top, however, he hadn’t had a car parked there. Instead, he’d flashed his pistol at a man who’d just finished unloading a snowmobile off the back of his truck. A shot in the air had been enough to coax the man to start the machine and give it to the gun-wielding lunatic, who then took off up the western slope at the top of the pass.
They didn’t know what Red Hat had done next, but after staring up the slope a few minutes, Wolf had a pretty good guess: When Red Hat had gotten to a specific point, he’d ditched the snowmobile, donned his skis, and skied down a grooved trail that meandered through the trees worn smooth by a group of ski-resort poachers the day before. Then he’d ducked a rope back into the resort—a well-known move that had got many into the back side of the resort, where tickets on the slower, two-seater lifts were not scanned.
If he was right, then it looked like a perfect getaway with local knowledge helping him pull it off.
“What now?” Patterson asked. “We have to get up there and check out where he went with that snowmobile. Should I call Ritchie?” She meant Brad Ritchie, a man with search and rescue who could bring more snowmobiles.
“Sure,” Wolf said. “Have Yates and Wilson go up—they’re best on the sleds. I think they’re going to find he ditched the snowmobile and skied back into the resort.”
Patterson looked up.
Wolf walked toward the nearest SUV, flexing his right hand underneath the glove. After ten minutes in front of the car heater, the numbness had subsided, and had now been repl
aced with tingling and burning.
“Okay, so what now?” she asked, coming after him.
“We follow through with what we started today,” Wolf said, climbing into Wilson’s vehicle. “We talk to Jonas Prock.”
“Am I coming with you?” Patterson asked, watching with interest as Wolf commandeered Wilson’s SUV.
“No,” he said.
“So what am I doing?”
“You’re going with Baine to pick up Prock,” he said, pointing over at Wilson and Baine, who stood off alongside the road.
“Okay, and—”
“I’m going to go lay down.” Wolf shut the door and started the car, exhaling as the heat blasted his frigid, wet feet.
Chapter 21
The cold shadows of the mountains had already passed over the station outside when Wolf opened his eyes. His office was darkened and his ticking clock said 3:05 when he woke up on his office carpet.
His boots, the ones he’d taken off and given to Bob Duke at the top of the mountain, stood inside his closed door. He sat down on a chair and pulled them on, wincing from a sharp pain that traveled up his back. After a few seconds of bending forward, the pain ebbed away, but it left him wide-eyed and wondering if he’d pinched a nerve.
After tying his boots and successfully standing up without falling over, he walked into the squad room.
Rachette got up from the edge of Wilson’s desk. “Interrogation room one.”
Wolf looked at him. “Interrogation room one?”
“Prock. We picked him up and he’s in there.”
Wolf frowned. “How long’s he been here? How long have I been asleep?”
“I was just about to wake you up. I figured you needed the rest.” Rachette pointed down the hall. “Besides, he’s only been in there a few minutes. We couldn’t find him for hours. Apparently he was skiing.” Rachette arched his eyebrows, as if the piece of information explained everything.
Wolf smoothed his hair. “Where’s Patterson?”
“She’s in the lab, checking out a USB drive that we found on Cooper.”
Wolf squinted and shook his head. “He had a USB drive on him?”
Rachette nodded. “And when I say on him, I mean on him. It was just balanced on his shoulder. We didn’t notice it until later, when you’d already skied down the mountain.”
Wolf nodded, and then stood thinking, trying to get his bearings on the present moment. “And what else?”
“Lorber came and took Cooper off the mountain.”
“And the X written on the window of the cockpit?” Wolf asked.
“Looks like it was lipstick, matching what we found on Stephanie Lang’s forehead.”
“Any usable prints inside or outside the cockpit?”
Rachette upturned his hands. “Lorber’s on it.”
The door to Tammy’s reception office clicked and she poked her head out. “Sheriff.”
“Yeah?”
Her eyebrows arched. “We have someone out here who insists on seeing you. A Mr. Klammer?”
Wolf sighed and nodded, and then walked to the super-heated reception room.
“Ah, Sheriff Wolf,” Klammer said, standing in front of the windows. “I wanted to know if I could come in and be a part of this … inquiry.”
Wolf shook his head. “Sorry, Mr. Klammer, we need to speak to Mr. Prock alone.”
“Shall I call our lawyers?” Klammer asked with slow deliberate pronunciation.
Wolf considered the plural use of the word lawyer, and turned to Rachette who was behind him. “Please have someone get Mr. Klammer a drink. We’ll talk soon, Mr. Klammer.”
Rachette nodded.
“And then get back here,” Wolf said as he walked away.
Wolf continued through the squad room, into the hallway, and past his office. Then he entered a closed door.
Observation room one was a small box with a one-way mirror window into the interrogation room beyond. Wolf stopped and took a moment to study Jonas Prock.
Prock sat under a pool of yellow light with his legs crossed and his coat across his lap. Looking around with a steady gaze, he was cocked sideways, leaning one arm on the wooden table, tapping out a rhythm with his finger.
“Jesus,” Rachette said as he came inside. “This guy’s kind of creepy. Didn’t say a single word at all when we arrested him, and hasn’t said a single word since. Here.” Rachette held out a cup of coffee and a manila folder.
Wolf took the folder, peeked inside, and then took the coffee. “Thanks.”
Wolf went inside with Rachette in tow. He sat down and set the folder on the table, and Rachette stood against the wall behind Prock.
Prock raised his eyebrows and looked over his shoulder, and then his lip curled and he shook his head.
Wolf leaned forward and opened the folder. Inside was a glossy photo of Stephanie Lang, an employee headshot photo taken at Antler Creek Lodge. She was smiling wide, a happy grin, as if she was friends with whoever was behind the camera.
Prock flicked a glance at it and kept his face expressionless.
“What can you tell me about this woman?” Wolf asked.
Prock didn’t move.
Wolf looked at him for a few seconds. “We have two witnesses who say you were with this woman on Saturday night after the gala.”
“I was?”
“According to two people on different parts of the mountain, yes, you were.”
Prock closed his eyes and took a deep breath, like he was going to start meditating right there. When he finally opened them back up, he stared at the wall beyond Wolf.
Wolf tapped on the table.
Prock did a double take at the new picture Wolf had substituted with the last.
The photo was a close-up of Stephanie Lang’s frozen corpse. Wolf watched as Prock took the whole picture in—the iced-over eyes, the frozen tongue sticking out, the torn-open flesh, the frozen meat underneath. Then, to Wolf’s surprise, Prock’s tough act vanished for an instant.
“I’ll repeat,” Wolf said, sensing the weakness in Prock’s façade, “we have two witnesses who say you were with this woman after the gala on Saturday night. This picture”—Wolf tapped it—“was taken Sunday morning.”
Prock stared at the photo, then looked away and closed his eyes. He scratched his neck with shaky fingers, an unconscious gesture of vulnerability. An unconscious gesture to his neck.
“Did you strangle Stephanie?” Wolf asked quietly.
Prock looked up. “What? No.” He mumbled something in German.
Wolf took a sip of his coffee and set it down. “We know you and Matt Cooper were with Stephanie last night. So why don’t you tell me what happened? Was it Cooper? Did he do it? Did he hold her down while you did it?”
Prock gripped his head with both hands and rubbed. “Ahhh … no. We did not do this.”
“Then tell me what happened,” Wolf said in an even tone.
Prock pulled his hands away from his head and looked up at Wolf with wet eyes. “I didn’t kill that girl.” His voice was barely a whisper.
There was a firm knock on the door and then it opened.
Patterson stuck her head inside. “Sir, sorry. I need to speak to you.”
Wolf turned and raised his eyebrows in response.
“It can’t wait, sir,” she said.
Wolf shut the folder slowly, then scraped his chair back. Without a word, he and Rachette left the room.
“What’s up?” Wolf asked when the door clicked shut.
“There’s a movie on the USB we found in the cockpit … on Matt Cooper … and you have to see it.” She left the room and waved for them to follow.
They went into the squad room to Wilson’s desk. He was bent close to the computer screen, and then he looked up and scooted back.
Patterson sat down in a chair and wheeled it close to the desk, then gripped the mouse. She clicked on a media player and tracked the movie playing on it to a position she wanted.
Wolf knitted his brow
when he saw two people crawling all over each other on the screen, moving at light speed as Patterson found her desired mark.
“Whoa,” Rachette said.
Finally, she clicked and sat back, letting the movie play.
Wolf leaned forward.
“Mayor Wakefield,” Rachette said.
The image on the computer screen was of the interior of a vehicle, recorded with a fish-eye lens and at an angle that suggested it was mounted on the rearview mirror. It was a sharp picture, tinged green with a night-vision setting, and both the passenger and driver’s seats were in the frame.
Mayor Wakefield was driving the car, dressed in a thick dress coat with a suit and tie beneath. He drove without giving much attention to the road. Instead he was swiveling left and right, looking in the side-view mirrors, and shifting to press his face to the glass, as if seeking something in the blackness of the night surrounding him.
What he was searching for became clear a few seconds later. The camera jerked as he stopped the car, and then he smiled, looking out the passenger window into the night. He bent over and pulled on the handle. The cab flashed green for a second as the picture became overexposed by the interior light. When it adjusted back to normal, a woman was sitting in the passenger seat. She leaned over and kissed him, and he kissed her back with passion, twisting in his seat and fondling her breast. After a few more seconds they parted and looked around out the windows as if making sure they weren’t being watched.
“Stephanie Lang,” Rachette said.
It was her. She had a mischievous look, groping at Wakefield’s crotch with her left hand as she looked out the passenger window.
Lights streamed past the rear of the car. As they dimmed and receded into the distance, she leaned into his lap and stayed there for good.
“Okay,” Wolf said. “So this is a sex tape of Mayor Wakefield and Stephanie Lang. It’s definitely a development, but why are you pulling us out of the interrogation?”
Patterson held up a finger and then grabbed the mouse. She clicked on the bar below and pulled the marker to later in the movie. In the split second it took her to scroll through the whole movie, the screen showed snippets of the frames. Though hard to register exactly what was being seen, it was clear enough that Lang and Wakefield were naked, having intercourse, and in multiple positions for the next several minutes.
