To Hell in a Handbasket (6 page)

Judy lifted a surprised brow at her mother.

Naylor sat back, folding his arms across his chest. “There. You see?”

A frown creased Roger's face. “That's precisely the problem. We don't see. We don't know who hit Stephanie or how.”

Firmly, Claire pushed him away. She decided to establish some rapport. “Ski patrol's looking for you because they think you hit her. I think someone else did, for reasons I'll tell you later, but I need to hear your story first.”

Naylor swallowed a huge bite. He leaned his elbows on the table and peered nervously up and down Main Street. No cars moved along the street. The only other people in sight were the two workers manning the crepe stand, chatting quietly between themselves. He opened his mouth to speak then closed it again.

Judy ran her hand along Naylor's forearm in a gentle caress. “Please tell us what happened.”

Good girl.

Looking extremely disappointed after Judy removed her hand, Naylor cleared his throat and started in. “I remember passing the four of you below the bump field on Ptarmigan.” He looked Claire and Roger up and down. “You must know your stuff to have made it down that.”

Roger cracked a wry smile. “We try.”

“Anyway, after I passed you, I stopped in the woods to take a piss. Then she and her friend came by.” He jabbed a thumb in Judy's direction then scratched his head, jostling the hat perched on his unruly hair. “I kinda thought that since they'd peeled off from you two, I might catch them in the lift line. Strike up a conversation, you know.” He grinned sheepishly.

Judy pursed her lips, but thankfully knew to stay quiet and sip her cocoa.

“And then?” Claire prompted.

“I passed her.” Naylor indicated Judy. “And slowed down, looking for the other one. Right when I spotted her, this dude dressed all in black came shooting out of the woods right at her. He smacked into her like that.” He clapped his hands together, startling Claire.

Judy gasped.

“She didn't fall right away, but she lost her balance. I could see her fighting for it. But she never got it back. Then she smashed into the tree.” He stopped, his eyes glazed over as he relived the crash. “Shit,” he whispered and cast his gaze toward the ground.

Claire gave him a moment then asked, “Do you think it was an accident? That he didn't look uphill before he came out?”

“Hell no.” Naylor ground his teeth and raised his head. Unshed tears glistened in his eyes. “He was looking uphill all right. Right at her. He waited until she got close, then he pushed off and rammed her.”

“Oh, God.” A tear dribbled down Judy's cheek. She pulled a tissue out of her pocket.

Gently, Claire asked, “Why didn't you stop to help her?”

Naylor jerked and stared at her. “I saw her head smack into the tree and the blood on the ground. I couldn't help anyone hurt that bad, and I didn't have my cell phone on me. I figured the best thing to do was to get the ski patrol. So I booked.”

“What about the skier? Why didn't he stop?”

“'Cause he was chasing me, man.”

“What the hell?” Roger's eyes went wide.

“I passed him on my way down,” Naylor said. “He was standing on the other side of the slope, farther down, staring at her, cool as a frozen cucumber, like he was waiting to see if she moved or something. I couldn't believe it. Then he took off after me, and all I could think was that I'd be next. My heart was pounding, man. The dude was good, knew his stuff. And he was fast, as fast as me. I couldn't shake him.”

Claire gripped her cup. “What did you do?”

“I figured my only chance was to head into Toilet Bowl.” At their quizzical glances, he said, “That's what we boarders call the treed area between Northstar and Claimjumper. It's full of big bumps, tree wells, icy spots, all kinds of nasty, fun shit. It's where we hang out, shoot the breeze, smoke some weed. Just to party a little, know what I mean?” He looked at Judy.

She nodded, silently shredding the tissue in her hands.

Claire stared at her daughter.

Judy shrugged, as if to say she was only playing along with Naylor.

“I know that place backward and upside down,” Naylor said. “I know every bump and tree, so I figured I could lose him there. And I did. After I couldn't see him anymore, I spotted a couple of riders hanging off to the side, finishing a joint. I asked 'em to ride down for me and get ski patrol to help your friend 'cause I had a maniac on my ass. What was her name again?”

“Stephanie,” Judy whispered.

Naylor glanced at her and his expression softened. “Stephanie. Yeah. Well, after that, I peeled out of Toilet Bowl as fast as I could, hit the base, stepped out of my board, and ran for the first bus heading off the mountain.”

Roger looked skeptical. “Why didn't you contact the ski patrol and tell them about the skier chasing you?”

“You think they'd believe me? You don't believe me yourself, man. I can tell from your eyes. I've had some run-ins with the patrol in the past. They'd assume I did it, pull my season pass, and who knows what else.”

A manslaughter charge is what else.
Claire was amazed that
what the young man seemed to be most concerned about was his ski pass.

“Well, I'm willing to believe you,” Claire said, “because your story meshes with what I saw. I spotted the skier's tracks coming out
of
the woods and meeting up with Stephanie's right before hers veered off. You said the skier was dressed all in black. Can you be more specific?”

“Black skis, those skinny graphite black poles, black gloves, and Spyder pants and jacket.”

“Spider?”

“It's not what you're thinking, Mom,” Judy said. “It's S-P-Y-D-E-R, a brand of ski clothing, with a big logo of a spider on the pieces.”

“What about his head?” Claire asked Naylor. “Could you see his face or hair?”

“He wore sunglasses, but no hat. His hair was kinda gray, or a mix of black and gray. I was surprised an old dude could ski that fast.”

“Was he heavy?” Roger patted his own paunch.

“Nope. Thin.”

Judy leaned forward. “I think I saw the man. He rode up the T-bar a few positions behind Stephanie and me. I remember him because he shoved past a couple of guys adjusting their gear at the top of Ptarmigan like he was in a big hurry. I thought he was rude.”

“Can you add anything to the description Boyd gave us?” Claire asked.

Naylor winced.

Claire caught the movement. “Sorry. Nail-It.”

“The man was on the other side of the slope from us,” Judy said, “so I didn't get a look at his face. I asked Stephanie if she'd seen how rude he was.” Judy's voice caught, and she grabbed her cocoa cup to take a sip.

Claire rubbed Judy's shoulder. “Did she see him?”

Judy shook her head. “She was fixing her gloves and didn't see him at all.”

Tapping his plastic fork on his empty paper plate, Naylor seemed
to formulate some decision. “I drew a picture of him.”

“The skier?” Roger asked.

“Yeah, I'm majoring in art.”

“Me, too,” Judy said.

“Cool.” Naylor looked at Judy, as if assessing her with a fresh eye, but when she showed no return interest, he sucked on his fork and focused on Claire. “I couldn't get to sleep last night. I kept seeing the dude in my head. So I decided if I drew him, maybe he'd leave my dreams and live on paper, you know?”

Claire didn't know, but she nodded.

“Anyway, it worked.”

“We'll need to get that drawing.” Claire reviewed what they knew. An older man, dressed in black Spyder ski clothes, who was an excellent skier, had deliberately killed Stephanie. “I want to take the information you gave us to Detective Silverstone at the Summit County Sheriff's Office.”

Naylor shook his head and sat back, his palms pushing against the table, as if ready to bolt. “You promised you wouldn't go to the cops.”

Claire spoke quietly, but firmly, “No, I said we wouldn't tell a soul unless you approve it first. I'm asking for your approval. You're in danger, Boyd. Look how easily we found you. Not only will the police have no trouble tracking you down, but this skier-in-black could do the same and come after you.”

“I can take care of myself,” Naylor said.

“Not if he has a gun,” Claire replied. “Detective Silverstone
needs to hear how the skier chased you, so he knows how dangerous this man is. This isn't only about your safety. What if the skier gets his kicks from crashing into people on the slope? What if he kills someone else? Do you want that on your conscience?”

Naylor tucked his hands under his armpits, hugging himself. His gaze shifted up and down the street, searching once more. “What if the cops can't find him, and he gets to me in the meantime?”

“How about this? I'll tell Detective Silverstone your concerns and see if he can offer protection.”

“I don't want cops hanging around my place.”

“So you live here?” Roger asked.

“For the season, at least.”

“Let me see what the detective has to say,” Claire said, “then I'll call you and let you know. Maybe they can protect you without being so obvious. Can I have your phone number?” She dug a pen and an old grocery receipt out of her purse and passed them to Naylor.

He hesitated then scribbled his cell phone number. “You won't give him my name until I say so, right?”

Claire looked directly into his eyes. “Right.” What she didn't add was that she would keep hounding him to give himself up for questioning until he did.

He returned the stare and worried his lip. “Okay.” He stood and hunched his shoulders against the cold. “I'm going back to Yeti's now. Some people are expecting me.”

“Thanks for talking to us, Boyd—Nail-It.” Claire extended her hand.

Naylor shook it. “Thanks for the crepes.” He walked to the street, glanced both ways, and stepped out. His head was bowed, as if pondering their conversation.

Tires screeched. Aimed straight at Naylor, a black SUV roared along the asphalt.

Five: The Black SUV

Claire leapt up, toppling
her chair. She screamed, “Look out!”

Judy jumped up next to her. “Nail-It!”

Roger's chair fell over with a loud clang as he shoved himself to his feet.

Boyd jerked his head up but had no time to react before the black SUV rammed him. Arms flailing, his body was catapulted over the hood.

Claire tensed, almost as if she had been hit, too. She gaped in horror at the scene unfolding in slow motion before her.

Beside her, Judy gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth.

The SUV jolted to a stop.

Boyd slid off the side of the hood and slammed to the ground.

The vehicle started moving again. Its rear tire ran over Boyd's groin with a sickening crunch. Once free of Boyd's body, the rear tires spun on the slick street, spewing crystals of brown ice on his still form. All four tires caught, and the SUV shot down the street, with the dark silhouette of the driver inside sitting stone-still.

Roger ran after the vehicle and peered at the back bumper.

“Ohmigod,” Judy shouted, “that car smashed into Boyd and never stopped.”

Claire grabbed Judy's shoulders. “Yes, and we've got to help him.”

Judy gazed at her, glassy-eyed, then blinked and nodded.

Claire ran to Boyd, dragging Judy behind, and knelt on the asphalt next to the young man, who lay sprawled on his back in a widening pool of blood. “Boyd, can you hear me?”

He groaned softly but his eyes didn't open.

Roger met them there, already pulling out his cell phone. “Christ, that driver hit him deliberately.” He stared at the young man's mangled body.

Feeling slow and stupid as if she had just woken from a nightmare, Claire asked, “Did you see the license plate?”

“Some of it. I'm calling nine-one-one.” He punched in the
numbers.

Claire called Boyd's name again. He remained silent and unmoving.
At least he's breathing.
She took a deep breath herself to still the wash of panic flooding her heart. Here it was only the day after Stephanie's accident, and Claire needed to rely on her rusty first-aid training again.

Check the scene first.
She scanned the road. No cars approached, but Boyd and the rest of them were vulnerable out in the middle of the street. The two crepe-stand workers, a young man and young woman, had run over to the side of the street. They stood craning their necks and wringing their hands in their aprons.

Claire pointed to the young man and yelled, “Hey you. Stop any cars that come. Got it?”

He nodded, as if grateful for something to do, and ran into the street, south of where Boyd lay. Roger moved to the north, ready to stop traffic coming in the other direction.

Check the victim.
Blood stained the top of Boyd's jeans, which were scored with black tire tracks. Likely his pelvis was crushed.
Oh, God, the pain.
She hoped he would remain unconscious.

Gently, Claire pulled away one side of his open jacket to examine his torso, which had borne the brunt of the initial impact. Blood soaked his T-shirt.
Not good.

She ran her trembling gloved hands along his scalp and behind his neck, being careful not to move his head. Her gloves came away blood free. At least he didn't have an open head wound.

“Here.” Judy held out his hat. She must have recovered it from the street.

“Good thinking, honey.” Claire grabbed the hat and perched it gently on top of his head to keep him warm.

Step three. Call.
She heard Roger giving directions on the phone
.
Good.
“Tell them he's breathing, but unconscious and bleeding from multiple injuries.”

Roger relayed the information.

Step four. Care. What the hell can I do? His life is pouring out of him onto the ground.
Claire rubbed her forehead with a shaky hand and took a deep breath.
Focus. You can do something. Must try to stop the bleeding.
Claire's gaze lit on the young woman at the side of the road, still wringing her apron. “Get some towels, cloths, whatever you have that I can use to stop the bleeding.”

As the young woman ran to the crepe stand, Claire said to Judy, “Go with her. Bring back whatever you find.”

Claire shucked her jacket and laid it on Boyd's chest. She had to keep him as warm as possible, or he would go into shock. She looked up at Roger. “Give me your coat.”

He took it off and handed it to her, then returned the phone to his ear.

She placed Roger's coat on Boyd's legs. Gingerly, to avoid jostling his pelvis, she slid one side of the coat under his lower legs to protect them from the cold ground. Boyd's own coat would provide a layer of protection for his back.

Judy and the crepe worker returned with arms full of towels and paper napkins. Judy dropped to her knees next to her mother.

Claire lifted her coat and Boyd's T-shirt. A jagged red cut slashed
across half his stomach.

Oh, God.
Claire's stomach lurched. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat and willed it back down to where it belonged.

Judy sucked in a breath and turned away.

The crepe worker dumped her armload of towels and stepped back, eyes wide with horror.

Claire knew the young woman would bolt if she let her. She stared down the crepe worker and forced her voice to be stern. “Don't leave. I need your apron.”

Slowly, the young woman moved her hands behind her back to untie the strings.

Claire pulled a towel from Judy's pile, folded it, and pressed it on the wound. She peered at Judy. “Another one.”

Keeping her gaze averted from Boyd, Judy folded a towel and handed it to Claire.

Good girl, you're hanging in there.
Claire slipped the second towel over the first, now blood-soaked, towel and pressed her gloved hand down again. “Now the apron.”

Judy reached up for the apron held out by the crepe worker and tried to hand it to Claire.

Claire shook her head. “No, you have to slide it under his back, without moving him at all, so we can tie it around his stomach and keep pressure on this wound.”

When Judy hesitated, Claire said firmly, “Now.”

With trembling hands, Judy slid one side of the apron under the hollow of Boyd's lower back and gently pulled from the other side to bring it up and around.

“Now tie it tight. I'll slide my hand out of the way.”

Judy did as she was told.

“Good job, honey.” Claire turned her attention to Boyd's pelvis. It didn't seem to be bleeding as badly as the cut on his stomach, and pressing on the broken bones might make things worse.

The siren of an approaching ambulance interrupted her thoughts.
Thank God. No more decisions.

Two emergency medical technicians ran over with a stretcher. As they hooked up a heart-rate monitor, IV, and oxygen to Boyd, Claire briefed them on what she had done.

She stood to get out of the way and swayed. Stars revolved around her head as her knees buckled.

Roger caught her, and he and Judy sat her on the curb. He pushed
Claire's head between her knees.

One of the EMTs shouted, “You going to be all right, ma'am?”

Claire took a deep breath. The world stopped spinning. “I think
so.”

“You may be a little shocky. Pretty common for someone giving first aid in an accident. You don't feel it until you're off the hook.” He glanced at Judy. “How 'bout you?”

“I'm okay.”

Roger picked up his and Claire's coats that the EMTs had removed from Boyd and replaced with blankets. He draped Claire's around her shoulders and slid on his own.

Wondering if any of Boyd's blood was on her coat, Claire shivered.

Roger sat next to her and gathered her in his arms. “You did great, dear. I'm proud of you.”

“I hope he lives. His injuries were terrible.”

Roger rocked her, rubbing her arms in silence.

Young people had poured out of Sherpa & Yeti's to stand on the sidewalk, gawk, and point. Claire recognized the group of young women she had talked to, looks of whitened horror on their faces.

Siren blaring and lights flashing, a Breckenridge police Land Rover pulled up next to the ambulance. A policeman stepped out of the car and approached the ambulance crew, who had transferred Boyd to the stretcher. They pointed to Claire's family and wheeled the injured young man to the back of the ambulance.

The policeman approached the Hanovers. “Hello, I'm Officer Koch, Breckenridge police. The ambulance crew said one of you might need some help.”

Impatiently, Claire waved her hand. “I'm fine. Forget about me. They need to take that poor young man to the hospital.”

Officer Koch took out a notepad. “They will. Can I get your names?”

After they had identified themselves and given their contact information, the officer asked, “Did you see what happened?”

“Yes,” Roger answered. “A black Range Rover hit him.”

“A Range Rover? You sure?” Claire asked.

“I know my SUVs.”

The officer looked up from his notepad. “Did you get a license plate number?”

“Just part of it,” Roger answered. “It was definitely a Colorado plate. White mountains against a dark green background. The first two letters were A and Y.”

The ambulance took off toward the medical center, sirens blaring. They all watched it leave in silence.

Roger caught the officer's attention. “The hit was deliberate. The driver waited up there”—he pointed in the direction from which the SUV had come—“and took off once Naylor stepped into the street.”

The officer's brows rose. “Deliberate?”

Roger's mouth was set in an angry line. “I'm sure of it. Whoever was driving that SUV meant to kill Boyd Naylor.”

Judy gasped. “No. Boyd can't die, too!”

“Too?” The officer looked even more confused. “Who else died?”

Claire sympathized with the poor man. She was still trying to sort out everything in her own mind. Something nagged at her, a detail she was missing. “I'm sure the attack on this young man is connected with the young woman who died at the ski resort yesterday.”

“Why do you think that?”

Claire remembered her promise to Boyd. If he lived, she owed it to him to keep that promise. “I would rather talk to Detective Silverstone about that.”

“Is he investigating the skier's death?” At Claire's nod, the officer said, “Wait here a minute,” and walked to his patrol car.

After a few minutes talking on the radio, he returned. “Detective Silverstone's working an accident on Highway Nine out by Farmer's Corner. I'll take your statements and share them with him. Can you meet him at the justice center tomorrow morning?”

“Yes.” Claire shivered again. She couldn't get warm.

The officer peered at her in concern. “How about the three of you get in my patrol car? We'll continue the interview there.” He signaled the crepe-stand workers. “Three hot chocolates, then stick around. I need to talk to you, too.”

Roger helped Claire to her feet. As she trudged to the police car, she said a silent prayer for Boyd. He needed to live, to help find out who had tried to kill him—and succeeded in killing Stephanie.

_____

At eight-thirty the next morning, Roger pulled the car into the parking lot of the Summit County Justice Center. Claire studied the red brick building with its peaked green roof. Flanked by firs and aspens and Colorado and U.S. flags, it seemed to be just another unassuming local government building, like the public library next door.

She followed Roger and Judy through the glass doors into a quiet two-story lobby with green indoor-outdoor carpeting. The stern face
of a mounted bighorn sheep stared down at them from over the entrance to the jail side of the building, as if to say, “Beware, all who enter here.” The Hanovers turned in the other direction, down a hall decorated with DARE posters and drug-free pledges signed by Summit County children.

Roger held open the door to the sheriff's office, and Claire told the receptionist who they were and asked to see Detective Silverstone. As Silverstone led them to his desk, she noted the space looked like any other business office—insurance, engineering, marketing—except some of the occupants wore uniforms of black shirts and green-gray pants with black strips along the side. And their belts bristled with handcuffs, black leather cases holding who knows what, and holstered guns.

Silverstone, however, wore jeans and a work shirt. The only clothing that identified he was a member of the sheriff's office was his black fleece vest with a yellow star on the left side, emblazoned with blue letters spelling out “Summit County Sheriff's Office.” He led the way into a large room divided into four gray half-cubicles open to the center, each with its own computer. Three desks were unoccupied, and a patrol officer sat typing at the last. The soulful strains of a Tab Benoit song Claire recognized from the
Voice of the Wetlands
CD came from a radio turned down low.

Silverstone motioned for the Hanovers to sit in three chairs positioned in front of one of the rear desks. “Anyone want coffee?”

Claire shook her head. Judy and Roger refused also. They had polished off a whole pot of coffee before they came, because none of them had slept much after getting home. Claire had called the Summit County Medical Center early that morning. Boyd had been flown to Denver Health Hospital's Trauma Center on the Flight for Life helicopter. But she hadn't gotten any information out of Denver Health before they left for the justice center.

“Have you heard anything about Boyd Naylor?” she asked, as Silverstone seated himself behind his desk.

A pained expression crossed his face. “He died on the operating table. Too much damage to internal organs.”