Snowman (12 page)

"The smartest thing you could do would be to close down," he said.

"Listen, I'm not totally crazy," Monte replied indignantly. He turned to Cathy. "Our sales are taking off and he wants me to chase the buyers."

Monte's ferret face registered disapproval, and in his small blue eyes there was that shady glint of a shopkeeper's avarice.

"Monte, we're up against something completely unpredictable. From the tracks I saw today, I know the Snowman's prowling."

"I don't like to take sides, Dan, but I think Monte's got a point. There's more than nine hundred people up," Ashby said. "You'd have to mount an evacuation. People'd start talking . . . On the other hand, they could stay and draw even larger crowds if they think they're going to see something."

"If we were to close the slopes, what would you expect the people to do?" Cathy asked.

"They could stay indoors and screw for all I care. I just don't like it."

Ashby sensed trouble. Any unusual restrictions would be certain to draw outside attention to Sierra. Stringers on some of the maior papers as well as human-interest TV reporters might be alerted.

"Fact is, there's been no attack or even a sighting since he killed the girl," Ashby said in support of Monte.

"Jim, I saw a trail of frozen blood in the pine forest."

"Could've been anything . . . an animal." Ashby poured him another drink. Bradford had to be handled delicately, and Ashby joined whichever side afforded him the most protection. He'd already written five thousand words on Janice, but he realized that, apart from the facts provided by Bradford, most of the material could be dismissed as speculation. He needed the buttress of a visual sighting, photographs, or better yet, the dead Snowman to support his story.

"I think it might help if you spoke to the young man who saw Janice last. He might have noticed some detail that would mean something to you," Ashby continued. "Monte fixed it. He's waiting in the bar for you."

Cathy picked up the signal, and she remembered what Ashby had told her earlier in the day

"I'm not anybody's enemy, honey, just my own best friend." He had proved his case.

She put on her parka and with Bradford in tow left the ofice. She was glad to be alone with him finally, even though he seemed to calculate emotional investments with the care of an orphan's guardian. He gave very little of himself.

The slopes were like black steel knifeblades in the moonlight. They were no longer, and never again would be, the innocent runs of the past. They had a texture of something malevolent, forbidden, and a chill ran through her as they made their way through the crowded lobby to the bar.

At a table in the corner she spotted Barry and threaded her way to him through an aisle of ski-bunny waitresses whose trays were slopped with pitchers of beer. Bradford stood awkwardly, as though inhibited by the sight of the crush of people. He nodded formally when she made the introductions.

"Christ, it scares me to think of this bunch skiing," Bradford said.

"Monte just needs a few more bodies to make him change his mind," Barry said, sullen and red-eyed with booze.

"You were with the girl when she was attacked, weren't you?" Bradford said.

There was a burned expression on Barry's face, of an indelible memory, which Bradford recognized. He had seen it on his own face for years.

"I should've been. I never left a beginner before—"

"It happens. Did you notice anything odd or hear something before you left her?"

Barry leaned back on his chair, gripping his drink tightly.

"No, not really. It started to snow, which is hardly unusual up here. Nothing else." He paused for a moment and tried to control himself, but the strain was too great. "I can't get her face out of my mind—"

"Barry—" Cathy interrupted, sharing his distress.

"Her face. She was eaten! I mean, it was like a cannibal had—"

"I know," Bradford said.

"How could you possibly know?"

"I saw the photographs."

"Man, maybe you know about world-class skiing, but you don't know shit about what went on up there."

"Get it all out," Bradford said. "It's eating your guts."

Barry stared at him. "I'm afraid—I mean, just the thought of being up there on the slopes makes me panic. I watch the chairlift on seven every day and I know that I'll never be able to get on. It's all I can do to take a group up the poma on the ski-school slope. I've been getting headaches and vertigo. I see a girl's face and it's suddenly transformed into Janice's. I hear her voice, crying, accusing me. I deserted her. God, when I think of how much fun this used to be, I could cry. It's a life for chosen people, and you last until you're thirty, maybe; then you have to grow up and find something to do in the real world. But I'm finished at twenty-three. I've been skiing all my life, and there's nothing else I can do."

To Bradford, it was like listening to a voice from his own past. When he had tried to explain what had occurred to the skeptical members of the Explorers Club, he had suffered an anguish so fine that he himself had wondered about the accuracy of his own account. It was impossible even now to communicate the dread that had afficted him. He felt a curious kinship with Barry. But Barry had not been attacked, had not seen the monsirosity towering over the mountain, ripping the flesh out of men, his mouth dripping blood as his teeth gnashed bone.

They fell silent, and a waitress brought them another round of drinks.

"You'll get your confidence back eventually," Bradford said, hoping he was right.

"Really? I was going to the Olympic tryouts in Sun Valley later this winter. I can't now, I'm unstrung," he said without self-pity. "I've got time to practice, but all I do is sit around and get bombed."

"It happened to me at the Olympics. I missed a gate on two practice runs and I knew that when I was in the shoot for real I'd have trouble. I got psyched."

"You won a bronze," Barry reminded him. Bradford threw his head back and laughed raucously.

"Since when does finishing third get you brownie points? At times I can't believe that I even skied. It's all so long ago. When you're busted out in South America or wherever, a bronze medal doesn't get you a drink on the house."

"What brought you up here?" Barry asked.

"I used to climb as well. A lot better than I skied. And Cathy talked me into coming up as her guest for Thanksgiving."

"Climbing on ice?" Barry was incredulous. "Uh-huh."

"But what does that have to do with what happened to the girl?" Barry persisted.

"I'm going to climb above the experts' slope with a team."

"To do what?"

"Find out if I can who or what killed Janice Pace." He extended his hand, then patted Barry on the shoulder. "This isn't general information, so don't discuss me with the other instructors or guests, Tiger."

"The temperature's forty below zero up there, and the summit is eighteen thousand feet."

"So I heard."

"It's an animal of some kind that we don't know about, isn't it?" Barry said.

"New strain of bear, maybe. I'll let you know. Now, why don't you haul your ass into a sauna and hit the slopes early tomorrow morning and get yourself into shape?"

"Do you want to take a few runs with me?"

"I'd fall on my can. You guys are too good for me. I'd need a snowmobile to keep up with you."

"Come on, Dan."

"Another time." As he was about to leave, he could not restrain his curiosity. "What do you ski?"

"Two point three Rossies."

"I hear they're leaning back now on the downhill."

"Better balance and traction," Barry explained.

He turned to Cathy and said with resignation: "Everything changes."

Cathy's town house, which was just beyond the furnished models, had a sense of permanence. In the central living room there were books on the shelves, old family snapshots on the walls, and a rug which she had woven herself. The furniture appeared to have been acquired over a period of time: an antique desk, a low coffee table with a brass brazier holding a sprawling philodendron, a pair of brass lamps on the end tables. Large multicolored cushions were arranged around the fire. The cathedral ceiling and the stone fireplace the height of the wall gave Bradford a feeling of space.

It was good to see how she lived, for she now had an individuality that he had overlooked because his nightmare had reemerged. She was a warm, vulnerable woman, but married to a job she didn't quite belong in. He respected her independence yet wondered what sacrifices she'd been forced to make to secure it. Her attractiveness had been masked by a high-powered business persona, and he thought he would like to take off her clothes slowly, deliberately, and touch her body. Cathy's energy was a disguise which he was determined to expose. It occurred to him that he might never again have an opportunity to make love. He reminded himself of a soldier going off to war who on his last night's leave had met a girl who'd carry him through the bad times.

She went into the bedroom to change her clothes. "What
do
you do for women on the reservation?" she asked through the partially opened door.

"Pick one for the night. What about men for you?"

"I'm still recovering from the last one. I was engaged to a married man, if such a relationship can exist."

"What happened?"

"His lawyer advised him that he'd be better off staying married. It came down to keeping his net worth or starting again with me, so here I am," she said, coming out of the bathroom and throwing her arms out in a theatrical gesture which made him smile. She was wearing blue suede pants and a light pink turtleneck sweater. She put on a pair of dark gray aprés-ski boots.

"You don't sound very wounded."

"It's my poker face. And it's a damned useful story when any of the men up here come on too strong. The male ego is pathetically fragile, and guys quit fast when they're told that you're still in love with someone else."

He laughed. "Which brings us back to what do you do?"

He held her jacket for her and breathed in the soft fragrance of her hair.

"I hang in tough until I meet a beautiful crazy like you."

He kissed her lightly on the lips and said: "Good."

He walked with his arm around her up to the lodge, and before she moved off they stood looking up at the mountain, desolate in the cold night air. Music and loud voices drifted out from the lodge. She tightened her grip on his arm, but he was gone from her again. He grimaced as though in the throes of pain that he could not communicate.

He left her beside a high snowdrift and began walking up the slope. She called to him, but he didn't respond and so she went alone into the lobby. The gusts of hot air from the heater made her flush and created a spiky sensation on her cheeks. She hung up her parka on a peg and went to the window to look for him. She thought she saw a man's shadow above the ski school, but then it was gone. She had already lost Bradford; only the thought of him remained, elusive and puzzling like an undefined foreboding.

A band of bored mischievous kids rushed through the lobby. They were led by a scrawny, loutish, thick-lipped boy who stuck his tongue out to her, then puckered his mouth and made a farting sound. But she was not his target. He rushed through the musicians and slammed the keys of the piano to interrupt them. When a few adults objected, he darted past them toward the game room.

A frustrated woman shouted: "Willie, you cut that out now!" A heavy-set man with an unkempt beard chided the woman.

Fascinated by the monstrous boy, Cathy poked her head into the game room. The children's entertainment consisted of a nightmare collection of gun games, pinball machines, miniature bowling lanes, pool tables where unskilled boys clawed the felt with unchalked cues. Willie was at the change machine, surrounded by his entourage. He kicked the machine and shouted "Gyp!" His anger spent, he opened a small toolkit attached to his Western belt and removed a long, thin dental-type instrument and proceeded to pick the lock. He removed a stack of dollar bills and pocketed most of them, then distributed a single to each of the kids and said: "Hush money. If anyone squeals—girls or not—I'll kick their ass in."

The bully and the thief were consummated in perfect union. She walked away in disgust. But the sea of adult faces around her was no improvement. The adults gathered around the lottery counter, where tickets were being distributed by ski instructors. A heightened expression of greed marked them all, like stamps from a machine. What, she asked herself, was she doing in this place? Free house or not, she wasn't equipped to handle these people week after week. Their problems, children, drunkenness, the clumsy sexual innuendoes of dull men and the plaintive voices of submissive women were too much.

"Life's too damned short," she told herself, making her way to the table, where a large glass barrel was mounted on metal staves. She picked up a microphone and addressed the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Great Northern Lodge. In five minutes we're going to have the drawing for our magnificent, completely furnished Chamonix town home. Those of you who haven't got a ticket, please go up to the ski desk, where you'll be given one. May I remind you that it's one ticket per family. Thank you."

Her voice sounded like a whining electric guitar over the tinny P.A. system.

She worked her way into the bar and managed to get a drink at the service hatch.

A large map was spread over Monte's glass desk. Bradford pointed to a series of routes he had chartered earlier in the day to correct topographical and ordinance errors.

The men surrounded him. The drinks Monte had furnished were beginning to loosen them up. At least only Bradford and Pemba had any inkling of what they could expect once the climb began. As he looked at the faces around the table, he observed an air of security, which the circumstances hardly justified. Yet he realized that if he were to behave cautiously, the mood would change and the men might again begin to balk.

"We'll be able to move our equipment up on the gondola tomorrow morning and we'll make base camp at this point. There's a col running across here, and we'll need a couple of days to find the best site."