The woman opened her eyes and asked me feebly, “Who
are
you?”
“Max. What do I call you?”
“Jill.” She sounded half asleep.
“Tell me exactly where it hurts so I can try to stop the bleeding.”
One of her hands fluttered near her right thigh. “I tried to stop the chair with my pole.”
I pulled a folding knife out of my pocket, cut her ski pants at the site, and found a deep puncture wound, steadily pumping blood. I infiltrated my hand through the rip, pressed my thumb hard against where I could feel a faint pulse, and instantly saw the bleeding stop.
My nose was almost touching hers by now. “Jill,” I said softly. Her eyes were closed again. “I got it. People are below getting ready to pull us out of here. Mary’s fine and she’s been a big help. All we need for you to do is to keep on breathing. Keep awake and keep breathing. Will you do that?”
“Sure, she will,” Mary said, and I believed her.
· · ·
Three hours later Linda Bettina—tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in stained work clothes—found me at the summit house where I’d finally begun putting up the trim I’d been assigned to that morning. She was accompanied by a young, aggressive-looking woman in expensive, tailored skiwear. It was clear at a glance who between them could decipher the contents of the average toolbox.
“Hey, Linda,” I said, looking up from measuring a cut.
“Hey, yourself, Batman. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
I straightened up and parked my pencil behind my ear. “Meaning what?”
She smiled. “Meaning any other dumb bastard would be taking a break after what you pulled. Which maybe you should do anyway if you plan to collect any workman’s comp.”
I shook my head. “I’m fine. A bit sore. A little rope burn on one hand. The doc checked me out at the base lodge.”
That clearly met with her approval, and she dropped the subject.
“How’s the patient?” I asked.
“You saved her life. And I think the little girl wants you as a dad.”
“Probably not a good idea.” I glanced at the young woman, who’d already snuck a look at her watch.
Linda Bettina followed my gaze, her expression hardening slightly. “This is Stephanie Jones from marketing. They’d like to make a little hay out of your trapeze act, if that’s okay.”
“It’s not.”
There was an awkward silence as Stephanie froze in midsmile and rethought her opening line. “It’s not?” was all she managed.
“Nope.” I noticed Linda Bettina smile before pretending to look out a window.
“Why not? You’re a hero. The press really wants to see this. It’s such good news.”
“I’m a private man, Ms. Jones. I did what I did to help out. It’s over.”
She leaned toward me, all smiles now. “But that’s great, don’t you see? You’re perfect. It’s like real Vermont: the reluctant hero. People will love it.” She actually winked and added, “You might even be able to make some money out of it.”
I shook my head. “Sorry. I’d just as soon forget about it.”
The smile faded. “Well,
you
might, but the cat’s out of the bag. Like it or not, you saved someone’s life, and in this society you can’t do that and pretend nothing happened. People won’t let you. I can help you out, smooth the way and make it as painless as possible, or you can go solo and be hounded half to death. Your choice.”
I sat on the sawhorse beside me and gazed at her a moment. “Let’s be straight here. This is good for Tucker Peak, or it might be if you give it the right spin. And what better spin than some ‘yup, nope’ woodchuck Vermonter who stared death in the face and told him to buzz off, right? Especially if the resort then makes him employee of the month. Except that if that happens, this particular woodchuck will mention the reason he stuck his neck out was because our ancient, poorly maintained chairlift equipment is just an accident waiting to happen, and that if the press wants something to write about, he’d be delighted to show them all the stuff around here that’s threatening to kill the customers.”
Stephanie’s face tightened. “We’d sue you if you did that.”
I laughed. “Now
that
would look good.” But I relented. “Ms. Jones, you won’t have to sue me, because it won’t come to that. I’m an employee. I and other employees helped save this woman from dying. That’s your story: Tucker Peak ready for any emergency. You’ll have photos of the ski patrol, the snowmaker first on the scene who threw me that crowbar, and everyone’ll talk about the team effort instead of me personally because they’ll all have been told that I’m a really shy guy who just wants to be left alone. And”—I spoke more slowly for emphasis—“because they know they’ll be fired if they give anyone my name.”
Jones looked at Bettina, who’d turned back to face us. “Can he do that?”
“He can if we don’t play ball with him, and I’ll recommend to McNally that we do. He’s got a right to privacy, and he shouldn’t lose it just because he did something decent. Besides, I like the team effort idea, which happens to be true. Without the rest of ’em, he couldn’t have gotten her down from there.”
Bettina put an end to it by stepping forward and giving my hand a firm shake. “It’s a done deal, Max. Word’ll probably leak out anyhow, but it won’t be from us.” She looked pointedly at Stephanie Jones. “Right?”
Jones made no pretense at hiding her disgust. “Whatever,” she said sourly and left the room.
Linda Bettina looked at me for a moment before extracting a crumpled envelope from an inside pocket and handing it to me. “This just came for you—special delivery.”
I took the envelope and studied it. It was simply addressed, “Ski Montin Hero,” in a large, childish hand. There was no postage or return address.
“One of the sheriff’s people brought it in,” Linda explained. “Straight from the hospital.”
I tore it open and removed a single sheet of paper. On it was a crude crayon-rendered picture of a broken chairlift, with two stick figures dangling from it, one of them dripping a string of red dots. Above them, sliding down the cable on one hand, complete with cape flapping in the air behind him, was a third figure wearing a broad, carefree smile. A bubble with an arrow pointing at him read, “YOU.”
At the bottom of the page were the words, “Thank you for saving Mom. Love, Mary.” It was followed by a large heart.
I handed the picture to Linda without comment. She glanced at it and gave it back.
“Tough guy.”
· · ·
After work, and after several conversations with co-workers who were thoroughly enjoying keeping the press in the dark, I wandered into the repair shop on the ground floor of the Mountain Ops building across from my dorm. It was standard fare in some respects, with a greasy floor, scattered tools, and rack upon rack of assorted supplies. Its uniqueness was in the nature of those supplies: a vast array of arcane pulleys, wheels, spring clamps, and other equipment designed to keep the mysterious workings of a ski mountain up and running. In some ways, it resembled what I thought a NASA repair shed might be like, except—I hoped—for the dirt, the machinery, the nature of the business, and the skill level of everyone working there.
One of the latter stepped out from behind a hanger arm mounted in a vise as I let out a “Hello?”
“Who’re you after?”
He was tall, skinny, and utterly filthy. On the chest of his uniform shirt, like a mirage in fading light, was the barely discernible name, “Mike.”
“You Mike?”
He looked curious. “I know you?”
I stuck out my hand. “New guy. Carpenter. Name’s Max.”
He was slow to shake. “Pretty dirty.” He wiggled his blackened fingers.
I was impressed he’d noticed. “I don’t care.”
He shook my hand, leaving it oily enough that I did wipe it on my pants.
“Warned ya,” he laughed. “What can I do you for?”
“I was wondering about the chair that went for a slider this morning.”
Mike shook his head. “Ain’t got it. Tramway Board inspectors picked it up hours ago.”
“But you looked at it?”
“Sure. I took it down.” His face became more serious. “Why you want to know? We’re not supposed to talk about junk like that.”
“I asked ’em to keep quiet, but I’m the one who saved that woman.”
He grew suddenly animated. “No shit? That was some cool move. Dick said you went down that tow line like Spiderman or something. He threw you the crowbar. We think it’s great you’re telling ’em all to butt out. I heard the PR people were really pissed.”
I waved a hand to calm him down. “They’ll get over it. They just wanted something to offset the yellow snow.”
He laughed again. “Boy, ain’t that the truth? I wished I’da thought of that one myself. It woulda been worth getting fired.”
I let him recover a bit before asking, “So, I was wondering why that chair let loose, since it almost got me killed.”
Mike looked around, crossed to the door leading farther into the building, and checked the hallway beyond to make sure we were alone. Then he came back and said quietly, “It wasn’t the chair. It was fine.”
“Somebody messed with it?” I asked.
“You got it. Let up on the tension spring so it couldn’t hang on when it hit the steep part over the rocks.”
“That couldn’t have been an accident? Chairs must slide all the time.”
“Now and then, yeah, but I know the signs. I been doin’ this for years.” His voice dropped lower still. “Fits in with the yellow snow you just mentioned.”
I didn’t bother hiding my incredulity. “You think the TPL bunch did this?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Put it together, Max. First they hang a banner from the chair’s tow rope, then they fool with the water supply. All McNally does is offer ’em free passes like they were just kids acting out. Pisses them off, right? Nobody likes that. So they get a little more serious.”
“From yellow dye to attempted manslaughter? I guess that’s getting serious.”
Mike straightened and grinned, spreading his hands wide. “I rest my case.”
· · ·
I waited for Sammie by the back door of the main power house, empty and dark at this time of night, and far from the beaten path. There was no moon. The day’s clear sky had succumbed to clouds, and rumor had it we were in for some snow.
“Joe?”
“It’s Max,” I answered, also in a loud whisper.
“I
know
that,” she answered testily, drawing near. “And so will everyone else once your Superman imitation breaks cover.”
“You’re my first Superman. I can add it to a Spiderman and a Batman so far.”
“Are you okay?” she asked, putting a hand on my arm. “You could’ve been killed, from what I heard.”
“The story’s improving with age. I wanted to tell you about a little discovery I made. According to Mike, who’s been fixing chairlifts for years, this one was sabotaged.”
She thought about that for a few moments. “Who gains from that?”
“Good question. I can’t answer it either.”
She looked off into the night. “Think it has anything to do with Marty Gagnon?”
“I don’t see how—not now, at least. We better tell the others we might have a whole different player in motion.”
I SAT IN SNUFFY DAWSON’S UNMARKED SHERIFF’S CAR
at the end of a dirt road some ten miles from Tucker Peak, staring out at a snow-covered field with a frozen pond in its middle, its flat, featureless surface looking like spilled milk at the bottom of a saucer.
“You sure about this mechanic?” Snuffy asked.
“Mike? No reason he’d lie. We could run a check on him, but I doubt we’d find much. I think he was shooting straight.”
Dawson stroked his chin with a meaty hand. “You don’t think maybe the woman was the target? She have a husband?”
I smiled in response. “No, divorced. And supposedly they get along. Besides,” I added, “the eastern lift starts later in the morning, because of how the sun hits the slopes, so what we were on was the first run of the day. Assuming Mike’s right about it being sabotage, it must’ve happened during the night, and there’s no way anyone could’ve known who was going to be in what chair when, or even if any physical injury was intended. Could’ve been the sole intention was to show off how dangerous the equipment is.”
He didn’t react to that. “You said Mike suspected the TPL.”
“Only because of their other stunts. They nailed the door shut to an equipment shed this morning. But to do something violent would destroy their cause. Wouldn’t make sense.”
“Unless they got frustrated, like he said.”
I didn’t want to make one man’s wild guess the only fact in evidence here. “Snuffy, anything’s possible, including Mike being wrong and the whole thing being an accident. But if we assume he’s a good mechanic just for now, then we’ve got to look at who might’ve done this, which may or may not have been the TPL. Certainly it was someone with the right tools and some knowledge of machinery. Maybe someone with ready enough access to the equipment so as not to raise any questions.”
“Like a maintenance guy.”
“Right, an employee with a grudge. The Tramway Board’s looking into it, of course, but Linda Bettina’s been pretty helpful so far. I’ll have Spinney ask her for any insight she might have on any employees past and present with complaints, maybe, or a history of violence and/or vandalism. There’s probably someone who fits that category, knows about that kind of equipment, and doesn’t give a damn about the environmental movement.”
Snuffy finally nodded. “Okay. How’re you doing on the burglaries?”
“Still digging. Lester left me a message a couple of hours ago that he’d like to meet. Could be he found something interesting.”
Dawson let out a deep sigh. “I just wish the whole goddamn mountain would go away. All it does is cause problems. I’ve got my entire payroll working right now because of this protest thing—it’s costing me a fortune. I thought bringing you people in would make things easier. Now, I’m up to my neck in alligators. I got towns all over the county bitching breach of contract because of reduced coverage, and the state cops are already saying they won’t pick up the slack forever, as if that was a big threat. I just wish I could connect that chair thing with the TPL. Then, whether McNally thinks it’s good PR or not, I could bust them all and clear them out of there.”