Tough Cookie

Still uncomprehending, I stood grasping the wad of bills Arch had handed me, then stuffed them into my pocket. I dug in my poles and scooted to the slope’s right side. An abrupt shift in the wind spun up a fresh storm of bills. The money smacked my goggles and I was momentarily blinded. I wiped the bills away and strained to see their source. They seemed to be blowing up from somewhere below where I stood.

To my right, the yellow boundary cord had torn loose from its moorings. The cord lay in a loop, then disappeared under the snow. Past the boundary pole, a row of boulders obscured the drop to the lower slope. I hesitated, then cautiously skied to the torn yellow rope. With great care, I glided down to the edge of the rocks that stood between Jitterbug and the steep drop-off to Hot-Rodder.

The view of the lower run was obscured by more boulders and a cluster of pines. Several sets of tracks led through the trees, while more circled the rocks. Money continued to fall. Damn. I had a very sinking feeling, despite the gleeful cries from the skiers downslope. Using the perpendicular-to-the-mountain two-step taught to all beginning skiers when they need to get uphill, I maneuvered up and around the rock pile.

On the far side of a boulder below me, a cowboy hat lay at the base of a small, barren aspen tree. A chill ran through me. Squatting cautiously on my skis, I slid carefully to the edge of the drop-off.

Sprawled next to a mogul, Doug Portman lay motionless in the crisp white snow. His legs seemed to be tangled with one of his skis. Beside the sharp half of a broken pole, his left arm was impossibly contorted. A splotch of blood was spreading on the snow.

“Ski patrol,” I whispered, as I turned and worked my way back up to Jitterbug run. “I—we—need help.”

The crowd of skiers on Jitterbug were still grabbing at the whirling shreds of paper tumbling down with the snowflakes. “Help!” I called. No one paid attention. The bills swirled and landed on the slope, on moguls, on boulders, on branches of pine trees. Greedy hands reached impatiently for them.

I unsnapped my bindings, hefted up my skis, and crammed them into the snow in the X-position, the emergency signal for ski patrol to stop and give assistance. Then I lunged back through the snow to the edge of the run, below the coiled yellow rope and the row of boulders. Surely Doug would be all right … They would send in a chopper and take him to safety.…

“Mom!” I recognized Arch’s ski mask bobbing toward me. He was scooting himself forward, one foot on the snowboard. “Mom, what’s wrong? Where are your skis? Mom?”

I put both hands straight out in front of me, warning my son to stop. Then, praying even as a stone formed in my chest, I glanced over the cliff. From this vantage point, I could see Doug Portman. He hadn’t moved.

I didn’t want Arch to see him. I knew Doug Portman was dead.

CHAPTER 5

Mom!” Arch’s voice had grown desperate. “Why are your skis crossed? Mom? Are you hurt?”

I shook my head. Unnerved by my silence and outstretched hands, Arch finally skidded his snowboard to a stop.

Around us, the snow fell. Where was the patrol? Another torrent of bills swirled up from the lower run. More jubilant skiers joined those already on the plateau. They stretched, bent, fell, and rolled out of their skis as they merrily dived for cash.

“Agh!” A woman’s shriek cut through the din. I could not make out who had screamed. “That’s disgusting!” shouted a tallish woman as she flung bills onto the snow. “That’s blood! There’s blood on it!” Her eyes searched the slope above. She saw me, my crossed skis, and my son, motionless on his snowboard. She took off down the hill.

The skiers hoarding the bills slowed their grasping movements. Heads bent to inspect the money. Suddenly, mittened hands were throwing down fistfuls of cash. More bloodstained bills blew upward, swirled with the snow, then resettled on the slope. In places, the money left erratic pink trails. Skiers pushed off queasily, suddenly eager to be away.

“Mom! What is wrong?”

“What’s going on?” barked a man who’d skied up to Arch. Tall and lean, he wore stylish wrap sunglasses and a uniform. Ski patrol, I thought, in numb relief. A thick red headband held back his gray hair. “Are you all right?” he asked my son. “Whose skis are these?”

Arch gestured and I waved my hands over my head. Another skier hockey-stopped six inches behind me, churning a wave of snow into my face. He too demanded to know what was happening. The ski patrolman shunted away this intruder by assuring him he had the situation completely under control. The skier took off and the patrolman addressed me. “Can you talk? Where are you hurt?” The patrolman’s light blue eyes, gray eyebrows, and well-tanned, deeply wrinkled skin conveyed a seriousness I felt I could trust.

“Send my son away,” I said tersely, as if I knew exactly what the situation was, which I didn’t. “Please. I need to show you something. My son mustn’t see it.”