The Hunted

When they turned around, Alex and Elena were gone.

34

The snow was three feet deep and dry, and though it was only fall, the snow machines were roaring full-blast and tourists in Aspen were at high tide. Neither Alex nor Elena had ever been near skis, much less on them. Both were good athletes, though. After three weeks of mastering the art, they were roaring recklessly down the black slopes like they owned the place.

Elena had argued vigorously for someplace warm. Her preferred option had been a small, pleasant, neglected Caribbean island where the natives were friendly and had no idea who they were, and wouldn't care a whit if they did.

Her preferred option two was one of those private, gated resorts in Florida. A nice one with a thick forest of palm trees, a thousand holes of golf, a well-stocked bar, and a beach where they could drink themselves silly on rum and pina coladas and roast themselves into shriveled prunes.

Alex had experienced enough heat and wouldn't hear of it. A federal prison in Georgia, followed by another in the heart of Chicago, and finally, the worst oven of all, a scorching summer in Yuma.

His Russian roots screamed for someplace where icicles hung off your nose. Exploiting her desire for privacy, he had briefly argued for an Arctic expedition, but Elena did not warm to that idea. The argument shifted slowly southward, working its way through Alaska, then, one by one, through the provinces of Canada, and refused to budge another degree once it hit Colorado.

At the end of the second week, MP called. Elena answered. Alex picked up the other line.

"Have you heard the big news?" MP asked them.

Elena happily informed him, "The only newspaper we've touched all week was the one we used to get a fire started."

"The attorney general quit this morning. Apparently the cows in Montana are calling her back."

"And Tromble?" Alex asked.

"Boy, you are out of touch. Fired, five days ago. He fled to Puerto Rico and is taking no calls."

"And how are you doing, MP?" Elena asked.

"Great. I have an offer right here from PKR. They're offering a partnership. They don't currently handle immigration law, and they'd like me to set up a new division."

"Will you take it?"

"I don't think so. Terry and I talked it over. It's almost ridiculously generous, but I doubt I'll fit in."

"You won't miss the money?" Alex, the practical one, asked.

"I think I'll be fine. With all the hooplah about you, I've kicked my fee up to three hundred an hour. Nobody's said no yet."

They promised they'd all get together for dinner after Alex and Elena got tired of Aspen, or ran out of money. Truthfully, neither of them was the least bit tired of it. It was such a playground, and the restaurants and bars were great and plentiful.

Bitchy had popped in for a visit two days before. He flew in from Chicago, where he had just closed on a North Shore home. The appellate court that reviewed his case had recently been joined by two new justices: a pair of rabid Giants fans who sincerely enjoyed the misery of their die-hard Jets brethren on the court. Neither was the least bit appalled by Beatty's assault. Besides, his letter to the court sounded so gracious and repentant the judges were all deeply affected. And, after all, it was Bitchy's first offense.

He showed up in a yellow taxi that brought him from Denver International, lumbering out in a three-piece, tailored Brooks Brothers suit, looking like a Wall Street banker-or more like four or five bankers squished into the same suit. He lifted Elena off the ground with one arm and gave her a huge kiss. After months in a cell with Alex, he knew all about her. He hugged Alex and started to kiss him also, but that's where Alex drew the line.

Over a long dinner, Bitchy happily informed them he was now in talks with the Bears, while his lawyers haggled with the football commissioner about having him reinstated in time for spring camp. Bitchy was optimistic. The commish was playing hard to get, but the inside word was that it was all show. Bitchy was a two-year All-Pro, after all, and an ex-con to boot. That combination always did wonders for attendance and TV ratings. He was also confident the Bears would kick in another million on top of his old three million contract. His reputation alone was worth at least that-what team wouldn't think long and hard before taking on a team with Beatty on the roster?

Elena invited Bitchy to join them on the slopes that day, but he demurred and was resting in his hotel room. The truth was, Bitchy wouldn't go near a ski lift. He was terrified of heights.

So Alex and Elena were alone, at the top of the big mountain, staring down at the valley. The sun was out. The snow sparkled and glistened. Hundreds of skiers below them were doing all the silly things people do when balanced on two thin boards-collapsing, racing, struggling to stay upright, occasionally producing bone-crunching collisions.