02 Avalanche Pass (7 page)

“Here. Try this,” he said but the girl shook her head, the exasperation mounting.

“They’re no use in here. The hotel’s in a dead spot.”

He’d known that too. But for her benefit, he feigned ignorance and replaced the phone in his pocket. “Look,” he continued in a helpful tone of voice, “just check your computer there. You’ll see this group is booked in: name of Pallisani. Eleven double rooms.”

Quickly, she punched the computer keys. An abbreviated guest list flashed up on the screen before her and she sucked in her lower lip nervously. She really didn’t like the way things were going here. There was no sign of any Pallisani group. She punched up the bookings for the next day.

“They’re here,” she said. “But not till tomorrow.”

The Canyon Transportation representative looked at her, throwing his hands out and letting them fall to his sides, with a slight show of exasperation. “That’s right. I told you that. They were supposed to be in Salt Lake City tonight but there was a problem. Your list for tonight should have been altered.”

“Well, it hasn’t,” she said, beginning to dig her heels in. Kormann leaned over the desktop and swiveled the computer screen slightly so that he could read it.

“Look, help me out here, Jenny,” he said placatingly. “This guy Pallisani has been on my butt all day about the heat at the Meriton. You’d think the whole damn thing was my fault. Could you check it one more time?”

She shrugged. “Well, okay. But it’s not going to have changed.” She punched the keys again and the display flickered and changed, showing the current guest list. Kormann checked it, hiding the edge of tension he felt. His eye ran down the short list and stopped as he reached the entry “Senator’s Ski Buddies.” Inwardly, he felt a little surge of relief. He hid the emotion, feigning exasperation instead.

“They’re not here,” he said and she gave him an “I told you so” look.

“That’s all we’ve got staying here tonight,” she told him.

“Now, Roger, is there some kind of problem here?”

It was another voice from behind Kormann. Loud and abrasive. Even Jenny’s limited experience in the hotel business told her that this was a voice that didn’t like having its plans changed. She looked to the top of the escalators and took in the expensive down parka, casually unzipped, the dark good looks, the iron gray hair, cut en brosse, and the alligator hide overnight bag slung from his left shoulder. Everything about the man simply shrieked money. And it
shrieked it in a decidedly bad-tempered way. Another half-dozen or so men, dressed in parkas and casual pants, all carrying shoulder bags, were milling around at the top of the escalator.

“No problem at all, Mr. Pallisani,” said Kormann, moving to intercept the newcomer as he made his way toward the desk. Jenny detected a note of nervousness in his voice and her heart sank. This was trouble. A rich client, with a large group of customers and a bad temper, and no record on the computer that she should check them in.

Only too clearly, she could see the problems that would arise.

Check in twenty-two extra guests and that would mean someone was going to have to pay for twenty-two extra room nights. And twenty-two extra included breakfasts. And twenty-two extra God only knew what.

Come the end of the week, it wouldn’t be the customers who’d pay. They’d claim their accommodation had been prepaid and at one hundred and fifty bucks a night there’d be a bill for over three thousand dollars floating around with no one willing to pay it. And then all hell would break loose.

Jenny shook her head, coming to a decision. She wasn’t going to book these people in on her own authority.

“I’m sorry,” she told Pallisani, “but I’ve explained to Mr.… er…” She couldn’t remember his surname so she slurred over it, “that there’s no record of your booking on the computer.”

The gray-haired man regarded her as if she were some kind of particularly offensive insect. Then, refusing to talk to her, he swung on Kormann, his dark eyebrows knitting together in an angry line.

“Am I hearing this right? They’ve got a goddamned empty hotel here,” he swept his arm around, encompassing the deserted lobby, “and this… person… is refusing to check us in?”

“Mr. Pallisani,” Kormann began in a placating sort of voice. “I’m sure she doesn’t—”

“Because a fucking computer is telling her not to?”

Jenny winced slightly at the obscenity. Not that she hadn’t heard it before. Or used it herself for that matter. It was more the vehemence with which the word was uttered.

“Sir, I’m afraid I don’t have the authority to do this. I’m going to have to call the manager here to—”

“Fucking-A you are, honey!” the angry man spat at her. “And you can tell the stupid son of a bitch to get here right fucking now!”

Again, Jenny flinched at the language. There was something doubly offensive about it, coming as it did from a well dressed, successful looking businessman like this. Kormann watched the interplay between the two with a quiet sense of satisfaction. The overall confusion, coupled with the embarrassment caused by Pallisani’s intentional coarseness, were serving to keep the girl off balance. She reached for one of the internal phones, then hesitated.

“Maybe you and your group would like to wait in the coffee lounge downstairs, Mr. Pallisani?” she suggested. The idea was greeted with an angry negative gesture.

“No. I’m waiting right here till I meet the bozo who’s fucked up. Then I’m going to nail his ass to the wall out there. Now I am tired. I want a shower. I want to change. I’ve been fucked around from here to Salt Lake City and I’m not being bought off with a fucking cup of coffee. Capisce?”

His voice was rising with each word and Jenny looked helplessly to Kormann for assistance.

“Maybe we could wait in the office?” he suggested. Pallisani grunted a surly assent and she nodded gratefully. She’d do anything to get this loud-mouthed, angry customer out of sight. Hurriedly, she raised the lift-up section in the counter and ushered them through to the office behind the reception desk. Pallisani, only a little mollified, paced angrily as she dialed the duty manager’s number. The receiver burred softly against her ear. Once. Twice. Oh, please God, she thought, let there be someone there. Then, to her infinite relief, she heard the receiver lifted at the other end.

“Markus. Can I help you?”

The words spilled out of her, almost running over each other in her relief.

“Oh, Mr. Markus, it’s Jenny Callister here at the front desk. Well, we’ve got a problem, sir, and I wondered could you come here right away?”

F
our minutes passed in awkward silence. Then the rear door to the office opened and Ben Markus entered.

He was a good-looking young man in his early thirties, with a square face and a strong jaw, and a slightly crooked nose that was the result of a football injury in high school. The gray eyes were behind rimless glasses and they were an inch or two higher than Kormann’s, putting him at just over six feet. He was a capable, unflappable professional.

“Gentlemen, I’m Ben Markus, the duty manager. Now what seems to be the problem?”

Kormann and Pallisani exchanged glances. To Jenny Callister’s surprise, the two men began to smile, all trace of their previous ill humor seemed to have evaporated.

Pallisani stepped a little closer to the manager, then placed the barrel of a Browning Hi-Power 9 millimeter against his forehead.

“The problem is this, Ben. If you don’t do
exactly
as we tell you, we’re going to kill you.”

M
arkus froze, unmoving, feeling the cold rim of the barrel gradually warmed by its contact with his flesh. Beside him, he heard Jenny Callister choke back a scream—only a small mewing sound escaped her.

For Markus, everything was a blur, except for the blue-black pistol pressed against his forehead. Try as he might, he could focus on nothing else in the room. He heard Kormann’s voice as if it came from a long, long distance.

“Now, Jenny, tell me this: what’s the alarm signal for staff in this hotel?”

Jenny shook her head. Her eyes, like Markus’s, riveted to the gun against his head. “Signal” she said weakly, “I don’t understand.”

Kormann stepped toward her and took hold of her chin between thumb and forefinger. Gently, he turned her face to his.

“Yes, you do,” he told her patiently. “Now, you know and we know that every hotel has a signal that’s used to alert staff to an emergency without alerting the customers. Remember? They taught it to you on your first week here?”

She nodded, remembering.

“Don’t tell them,” Markus managed to croak through his panic-dried throat.

He felt the pistol withdraw momentarily, then jab forward viciously almost immediately, slamming into his forehead with bruising force. His eyes closed involuntarily as he waited for the thunder of the detonation, the rush of darkness, then nothing. But it didn’t come.

The pain of the pistol pressed to his head remained. The sick heaving
of his stomach was still there. The gun hadn’t been fired, he realized with an immense surge of relief.

“You keep your mouth shut,” Pallisani said, very quietly. He jabbed once more, unnecessarily, and Markus flinched again. His stomach roiled and he thought he was going to be violently sick. With an effort, he controlled himself. Kormann was speaking again.

“Now, Jenny, the signal please.”

Again, she tried to look to Markus. As before, Kormann’s powerful grip wouldn’t let her.

“Please,” she said. “Please take that thing away from him.”

Kormann looked at Pallisani and nodded. Markus took a deep breath of relief as he felt the gun removed from his forehead. Then Pallisani swung the pistol in a short, chopping arc, hitting him just above the left eyebrow. Markus staggered, feeling a sudden rush of hot blood down his face, blinding him momentarily as it ran into his eye. He caught the edge of the desk with his hand and saved himself from falling. Jenny watched, horrified, as he tried to stem the flow of blood.

Pallisani now swung the gun backhanded and caught the manager high on the right cheekbone. More blood. Jenny whimpered as Markus staggered again. The brutality of the pistol-whipping was so casual, so cold-blooded. It almost seemed to be without malice, which made it all the more horrifying.

“Please!” she begged. “Don’t hit him again! It’s two short and one long.”

Markus, dazed by the two sudden blows to the head, made no effort to stop her.

Kormann nodded, satisfied. “Two short and one long what?” he asked. The girl continued to talk, her words tumbling over one another again.

“Two short and one long ring on the fire alarm bells.” She gestured uncertainly to a large red button on the wall behind the desk. “We ring it from there. Then we repeat it again after fifteen seconds so everyone will know it’s not a drill or a false alarm.”

“And where’s the assembly point?” Kormann asked.

Now that Jenny had begun to speak, the words seemed almost
anxious to spill out of her. “The lobby, in front of the reception desk.”

“Okay. Now, Ben, how are you feeling there?” Before Markus could answer, Kormann continued. “Roughly how many staff have you got on site at the moment?”

Markus’ shoulders sagged. There seemed no point in holding out the information.

“Sixty-odd,” he muttered.

Kormann’s eyebrows rose. “That’s all?” he asked.

“That’s all,” Markus replied, adding, “The others will come in tomorrow from Salt Lake City, before the new guests arrive.”

Kormann smiled, without humor. “Not tomorrow, they won’t,” he said. Then he continued, in a brisker tone. “Okay, Ben, let’s ring those bells. Then clean yourself up a little and we’ll go out to greet the folks.”

O
n the fifth floor, Maria Velasquez groaned softly as she leaned over the bath in room 546, spraying a generous mist of bathroom cleanser onto the far side. Her back ached and she hated bending and leaning to do this job. She began wiping the enamel with a square of toweling in quick, painful strokes.

In the corridor outside, the fire alarm bells shrilled suddenly. She stopped, feeling a momentary lurch in her heart. Two short, one long. The staff alarm. If it were a test, there would be one long peal of the bells in fifteen seconds. She waited, then heard the alert repeated. This was for real, she thought. She wondered what the danger might be. Her heart began to race as she thought of the possibility of the mountain coming down. That was the thing the old hands always talked about, remembering the time when the hotel had been buried up to the fifth floor. Heart pounding, she gathered her cleaning equipment into a basket and headed for the stairs.

G
eorge Kirby was opening a gallon can of tomatoes in the kitchen below the hotel’s Mexican theme restaurant.

“Try not to spill them this time,” the sous chef said with withering scorn. George, facing away from the sarcastic son of a bitch, mouthed a silent obscenity. The sous chef loved to throw his weight around on a Saturday evening. It was the one night of the week when he was left in total charge of the kitchen.