01 Storm Peak (29 page)
Then, abruptly, the enjoyment faded. She didn’t give a damn about two horny eighteen-year-olds. She wanted Jesse. She wanted him now.
And maybe for more than just now, she realized with a sense of surprise. She thought about their marriage breakup. If she were honest—and with nobody else around, there was no point in being otherwise—she could admit that her career was a large factor in the breakup.
Her career, she laughed bitterly. She was the second-billed anchor for a mid-morning talk show on Denver TV She was, she thought brutally, Hicksville’s Kathy Lee to Nowhere’s Regis.
Jesse had been right, of course, about the motives behind her visit to Steamboat. She’d heard the word “network” and she was ready to do anything to be the face presenting the piece. It was a chance. A moment. A possibility that some network executive might see her and she might strike a chord with him and her career could move on.
Not a good chance. Not a likelihood. A vague possibility. Not even that, if she was honest with herself.
The network shot was a dream, nothing more. It simply wasn’t going to happen. She was going to stay with Channel 6 in Denver, interviewing local politicians, second-string personalities and farmers with hogs that had decided to raise flocks of ducklings as their own offspring.
She shrugged. It wasn’t so bad, she thought. Then she amended it. It wasn’t so good either.
But maybe now, if she wasn’t chasing the phantom prospect of a career in network television, she might be able to put things back together with Jesse. She considered the idea. It had just come to her but she couldn’t see anything too wrong with it.
Maybe she and Jesse could make it together. She knew he wanted to. She’d seen it in his eyes that night when she’d asked him to join her. She was sure she’d seen it. He’d hesitated. Definitely. He may have said no. But he’d hesitated. And that meant that he’d meant to say “yes.”
She glanced at the phone by the bedside now. She could just call Jesse and repeat her invitation. Tell him she was waiting here. Tell him she was naked, and feeling real warm about the thought of him.
She could laugh and tell him about the two drop-jawed boys in the parking lot, staring in amazement at her breasts as she stood by the window. Naturally, she’d make it sound unintentional. But she knew that sort of innocent, secondhand voyeurism could turn a man on quicker than a light switch.
Jesse would drive on down and they could go somewhere quiet and eat and share a bottle of wine and then come back to this room and lie on the big bed, with the lights off and the curtains open and the lights of Mount Werner spread out before them and she could let Jesse make love to her again and again. Like he used to.
Then she knew she wouldn’t do it. Not tonight. The time wasn’t right yet. She’d wait till she’d done her piece for the channel. Jesse would see how much she cared. She closed her eyes and she could see his face, and that silly, lopsided grin that could just mess up a girl’s thinking so badly.
“Fuck you, Jesse,” she whispered. “Where are you?”
And on Mount Werner, the lights started to disappear as the Snowcats moved farther and farther up the mountain.
THIRTY-NINEL
ee dropped into an old leather armchair in the parlor and picked up the remote for the television.
ee dropped into an old leather armchair in the parlor and picked up the remote for the television.
She was beat, physically and mentally. The day had brought another heavy session in Ned Puckett’s office. Miller’s arrest, and the almost certain knowledge that he’d been responsible for the spate of burglaries in convenience stores, had done little to calm the anxieties of the town leaders.
If anything, it had made matters worse. She couldn’t really blame Ned or the others for that. She knew where the fault lay and that was squarely on her own shoulders. She was the one who’d made such a big play of lighting out to arrest Miller. She winced as she thought of how she’d barreled her Renegade down the main street of Steamboat Springs, siren howling and strobes flashing.
News traveled fast in a town like Steamboat and by late afternoon, most of the town knew that the sheriff’s department—no, she amended with a humorless smile—the sheriff herself, had screwed up in spades.
The editorial in the
Steamboat Whistle
hadn’t done anything to make things better. Usually the local paper was sided with Lee and her actions. This time, with the best will in the world, there was little they could do but criticize. She’d jumped to conclusions. She’d acted in haste. On top of that, there was a total lack of any real progress on the case.
Steamboat Whistle
hadn’t done anything to make things better. Usually the local paper was sided with Lee and her actions. This time, with the best will in the world, there was little they could do but criticize. She’d jumped to conclusions. She’d acted in haste. On top of that, there was a total lack of any real progress on the case.
Now, of course, there was Abby’s report, due to air on the evening news out of Channel 6 in Denver.
Abby had spent the morning taping her story. She’d interviewed Jesse at some length, then visited the scenes of the murders. She’d tried to interview the surviving victim and, when that failed, his wife. She spent a brief ten minutes with Lee herself.
There’d been no hint of criticism. There’d been no tough grilling. No sensationalism. No seizing on minor facts and blowing them all out of proportion. On the face of it, Abby had been the essence of evenhanded reporting.
But Lee had been around public office and the media long enough to know that the real slant on an interview only became apparent when the report was edited.
It was then that the reporter could add in their introductions and closing comments. Often, the simplest action, such as the raising of an eyebrow, could throw a huge shadow of doubt over the truthfulness of the subjects, and the wisdom or otherwise of their actions.
So now she waited for Abby’s report, fearing the worst. After all, Abby owed her no favors. She’d sensed an undercurrent of hostility from the reporter. Lee knew that Abby had guessed about her relationship with Jess—and resented it.
Lee shifted in the armchair, rolling her shoulders to relieve the knotted tension in the muscles there. Jesse had been decidedly reserved since Abby had reappeared in their lives, she thought.
He seemed awkward, unsure of himself. She was certain he was doing all he could to avoid her company. Certainly he’d spent only a few minutes alone with her in the past day. And that was in marked contrast to the closeness that had grown between them since they’d spent the night together.
Damn it, she thought. It had taken her eighteen years to find him again. Now, with Abby back on the scene, she was afraid she might lose him once more. She was a little surprised to realize just how much she was afraid of that.
The news was breaking for a commercial. An impossibly well groomed golden retriever, carrying a can of mineral water to two impossibly good-looking duck hunters in a Hollywood swamp. A cheerful voice-over told her that he was “Bringing back the brighter taste of Mountjoy Mineral.”
“No shit,” said Lee, and rolled her shoulders again. The tension in her muscles didn’t seem to have loosened any. She wondered what Jesse was doing.
J
esse was in his cabin, watching the same retriever on his battery-powered old black-and-white Sanyo. Like Lee, he waited anxiously. Like Lee, he knew how a report could be slanted and twisted after the event. He knew there was no way to guard against being quoted, or shown speaking out of context. And he knew that Abby didn’t feel she owed the sheriff of Routt County any favors.
esse was in his cabin, watching the same retriever on his battery-powered old black-and-white Sanyo. Like Lee, he waited anxiously. Like Lee, he knew how a report could be slanted and twisted after the event. He knew there was no way to guard against being quoted, or shown speaking out of context. And he knew that Abby didn’t feel she owed the sheriff of Routt County any favors.
The retriever had gone, replaced by a housewife who needed a Tylenol. Tylenol, if you could believe her, could probably solve most of the problems besetting the western world.
The music introduction swelled as the Tylenol woman faded away. And the news desk of Channel 6 filled the screen again, with the 6 News at 6 symbol superimposed over the fade up. Jesse leaned forward and tweaked the volume knob. Throughout Yampa Valley, a few thousand other viewers did much the same thing.
“Welcome back,” said the anchor smoothly. On-screen behind him, a still shot of the front slopes of Mount Werner faded up, overlaid with an artist’s very inaccurate impression of a jigger. It looked like an ice pick gone wrong. Jesse wondered briefly if they’d ever find the jigger. Hollings had told them that the killer had dropped it during the struggle. It was lost somewhere in the deep snow under the chairlift. Below the ice pick-jigger was a caption: “Mountain Murders.”
“The search continues,” said the anchor, continuing himself, “for the multiple killer who has been terrorizing the popular ski resort of Steamboat Springs. Channel 6’s own Abby Parker-Taft traveled to Steamboat today to file this report.”
He looked off camera, to one side. He faded slowly from sight, to be replaced by a wide shot of Abby, mike in hand, facing the camera.
She’d chosen one of Steamboat’s iconic sites as her backdrop: the old timber barn just outside town, with the ski trails of Mount Werner in the background. “This is a mountain of fear,” Abby was saying, her voice well modulated, calm, with just the right hint of drama.
Her pale blond hair stirred attractively in the breeze. She was wearing the kind of battered leather bomber jacket that felt as soft as a glove and cost over five hundred bucks. And tight, sea-blue jeans. She had a great ass and great legs, Jesse thought irrelevantly.
“The Mountain Killer has killed four times now,” Abby was saying, “and left another victim badly wounded. Local business, dependent on the tourist dollar, is suffering.”
Lee reached blindly for a bottle of red wine on the kitchen bench behind her, her eyes still glued to the report. She topped off her glass as Abby detailed how local business was suffering.
Over the next minute and a half, the screen carried a montage of nearly empty ski slopes, deserted bars and restaurants and unoccupied chairlifts as Abby described how people were staying away from Steamboat.
There was a quick sound grab with Ed Spelling, owner of the Sombrero Cantina, who looked worried at the loss of business. It seemed Ed spoke for all of Steamboat’s business community.
Then the scene changed to a shot of the Public Safety Building. Lee took a deep breath. Here it comes, she thought.
“I spoke with Sheriff Lee Torrens, the senior officer responsible for the investigation,” Abby was saying. The screen filled with a close-up of Lee. Abby’s voice, off camera, could be heard asking, “Sheriff Torrens, are there any solid leads in the Mountain Killer case?”
The image of Lee on-screen shook her head slowly. So did Lee, watching. She frowned as she noticed the lines at the corners of her eyes. Her skin looked like old leather compared to Abby’s perfect complexion.
“We’re pursuing certain lines of investigation,” she said.
Watching, Lee muttered to herself, “Shit.”
The “certain lines of investigation” statement sounded just like what it was—another way of saying “We don’t know from diddly shit about what’s happening or what we’re going to do.”
The camera cut away to Abby, nodding sympathetically.
“I guess in an investigation like this, you have to sift through mountains of facts, looking for that one elusive clue that will break the case?” she asked.
Lee frowned to herself again. She didn’t remember that question. It must have been recorded separately by Abby after the interview was completed.
The shot cut back to Lee again. “We’re confident of a breakthrough soon,” she said.
“Like hell we are,” Lee muttered heavily. But on-screen, Abby was nodding again. She looked as if she was confident too.
The scene cut now to the top of Thunderhead.
“Sheriff Lee Torrens is a popular and efficient cop,” Abby said. “She’s not the sort of woman to give up, no matter how tough things are looking. Already, as a by-product of this investigation, she has personally tracked down and apprehended a dangerous criminal who has been breaking into convenience stores around the area.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Jesse, sitting up straighter and leaning a little closer to the slightly fuzzy image that was all he could get up there on the mountain. He’d been sure that Abby would use the Miller case as an example of how the Routt County Sheriff’s Department was falling over its own feet in this investigation. Maybe, he thought, he’d misjudged her.
“The chief investigating officer on the case is Deputy Jesse Parker.”
And there he was, as the camera panned smoothly away from Abby and picked up Jesse in the background, talking to one of the lift attendants and one of Felix Obermeyer’s officers, on guard duty at the top of Thunderhead.
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