02 Avalanche Pass (10 page)

The formerly pristine surface of the snow beneath The Wall was churned and tumbled, mute testimony to his repeated attempts to
defeat his fear. He’d tried to do as Tina had suggested, building up to it throughout the day, skiing a series of progressively more difficult runs. But finally, he had to face The Wall itself.

Each time, as he stood looking down at the almost sheer slope, the pain would sear through his leg once more and he would feel the familiar jolt of fear deep in his belly. Eight times he had overcome it and launched himself out into space, plunging down the slope, going into a series of rhythmic turns, thrusting with his legs, turning, turning again, defying the mountain’s attempts to claw him down. Down the slope, turning and turning, maintaining a constant, flowing motion that harnessed the pull of gravity and the speed of his descent against the bite of his skis into the soft snow and kept him balanced and in place.

And each time, in the moment when he thought he had conquered the fear, it would return, suddenly, jarringly, back to the forefront of his consciousness, manifesting itself in a sudden, well remembered stab of agony that went through his leg and skewered his courage.

In that moment, he would feel the skis slide out from under as he leaned back into the mountain, knowing it was wrong, knowing that he mustn’t, knowing what the inevitable result of the fear-driven movement would be, must be. And then he would feel the instantaneous loss of grace and balance as he was turned into a helplessly cartwheeling, inchoate mass of flesh and bone that tumbled and slid and rolled in a tangle of arms and legs and skis until the momentum was gone and he would lie, chest heaving and lungs burning, defeated once again, betrayed by his own fears.

Eight times. Not directly, one after the other, because once he had fallen, there was no way to regain the summit of The Wall until he had skied down to the cable car station and ridden to the very top of the mountain once again. And each time he made that journey, he was mocked by the fact that, on the lesser slopes, he skied perfectly, rhythmically, gracefully, with all the instinctive, unthinking ability that had been ingrained into him since he was a small boy. It was a bitter reminder of what he had once been and what he
could no longer be. Because now he knew that every time he ventured to the steep, challenging slopes that demanded the skill and courage of a true expert, he would fail.

The sheer physical effort had exhausted him. On two occasions, he had lost a ski when the bindings, unable to resist the twisting force of his fall, had released, saving ankles and knees from damage. On one of those occasions, he had spent fifteen minutes, thigh deep on the sheer slope, struggling to maintain his position, searching deep beneath the soft powder to find the buried ski. It was tiring work. But as great as the physical exertion had been, the mental and emotional exhaustion was even greater and now he sat, back resting against the skis that he had rammed into the snow as far as their bindings, tasting the harsh smoke of the Chesterfield and the harsher flavor of failure. It was over, he told himself. He had come here to try to regain a lost part of himself.

And he had failed.

He gazed down dispassionately at the hotel. His rental car was in the underground parking lot, his suitcase locked in the trunk. It would take him ten minutes to ski down from here, change his ski boots for the soft pair of moccasins he had left out of his suitcase, and be on his way. Suddenly he was anxious to be gone, anxious to put this place and its memories of failure well behind him.

He hauled himself up, dusting the dry snow from his pants, and heaved the skis clear of the snow, dropping them flat on the ground. He flicked the butt of the Chesterfield away, watching its glowing tip describe an arc until it fell, with a slight sizzling noise, into the snow, melting itself a small burrow before the moisture extinguished it. His boots were covered with the packed soft snow and he kicked one against the other to clear them, ensuring that the bindings wouldn’t jam when he tried to close them. Satisfied that the right boot was clear, he poised it above one ski.

Then, distant but unmistakable, he heard the quick rattle of an automatic weapon.

He froze. The sound was strangely muffled. A single shot initially, followed by a sustained burst. Muffled, but with a strangely echoing quality to the sound. Not a heavy weapon, he guessed. An
assault rifle or submachine gun. A moment later, faintly through the thin, high-altitude air, he heard the sound of people’s voices. Screaming.

His eyes narrowed with concentration as he tried to place the direction from which the sounds were coming. It seemed to him that they must issue from the hotel. There was no other possible source. Yet common sense told him that he wouldn’t hear shots and voices from inside the hotel. The same insulating qualities and thick walls that preserved the internal warmth of the building would muffle the sound of shots completely. But there was no trace of movement, no sign of people, outside the hotel.

Which left only one possibility, one that explained the unusual quality he had remarked in the sounds—muffled yet echoing. The shots had to have come from the open-ended tunnel that formed the entrance to the hotel.

His reasoning was confirmed when he heard another sound—the grinding sound of a heavy diesel engine starting and revving up. A truck or bus engine, he figured. And now that he remembered the underground entrance, an open-ended tunnel that would funnel the sound out into the open air, he knew he was right. Cars and buses bringing guests to Canyon Lodge could drive down a ramp to unload their passengers under cover, out of the weather. Guests then took the escalator to the first floor checkin while a second ramp provided an exit for the vehicles once they had unloaded. The bare concrete walls would create that echoing effect.

Belatedly, he drew back into the shadow of the trees. Even now, binoculars could be scanning the mountain for a sign that someone had overheard the shooting. Strangely, as he looked down, he could see no sign of any hotel staff in any of the outdoor areas—the heated pool and spa or the terrace bar. He might have expected the sound of shots to bring people running from both those areas. But there was nothing. The hotel looked deserted. Jesse felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck. He’d been a cop too long to ignore that feeling. He thought now of the 1911 model Colt 45 automatic that was nestled between layers of clothes in his suitcase. To get to it, he’d have to go through the entrance tunnel—unless he made his
way around to an alternative entrance, then took the elevator or service stairs down to the lower levels where the underground parking spaces were. As he thought of his gun, he realized he wasn’t going to look for the source of that automatic fire without it.

Now the engine noise that had been throbbing regularly for the past few minutes altered. It rose slightly, then faded as the driver revved the engine and the transmission took the strain. As Jesse watched, the ancient shape of a yellow Snow Shuttle bus emerged slowly from the mouth of the exit tunnel and labored around the turning circle until it was headed down Canyon Road to Salt Lake City.

Jesse frowned. In the time that he’d been here, he hadn’t once seen the Snow Shuttle bus come within a quarter mile of the Canyon Lodge. Its normal route took it along the main road behind the cable car terminal, well below the hotel.

That made two breaks in the normal routine, he thought. And one of them, the sound of gunshots and screaming, was a pretty major variation. He could see no immediate link between the two events but experience told him that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. He watched as the bus seemed to be making hard going of the first shallow rise in the road. It must be heavy loaded, he thought, watching the spurts of black smoke erupting from the exhaust as the driver shifted down through the gears.

No further sound came from the tunnel mouth. He considered the situation. Shots. Screaming. A heavily laden bus going way out of its normal route. Forget that for a moment and concentrate on the shots. Automatic weapon. Somewhere in the hotel. People screaming so people hurt, maybe killed. He shook his head sadly. The world was full of crazies. People were gunned down in schools and churches these days for no good reason at all. Why not a ski resort? The next question was, what could he do about it?

The answer was nothing, until he got hold of his gun. And that meant skiing down to the hotel, across half a mile of open ground, while he was the only thing within sight that was moving. He didn’t like those odds. That was asking to be spotted and that was something he didn’t want—not while there was some crazy holed up in there with an M16 or something similar. But there had been
no further shooting after the second burst. That, at least, was a good sign. The sort of massacres that had happened all too often in recent years were usually characterized by continuous shooting. Not one quick burst and then silence. As long as there was no further shooting, there was no urgent reason for him to go blundering into the hotel. He’d wait until after dark. Or until he heard more shots. Whichever came first.

The engine note of the bus was fading as it reached the first bend in the road, taking it back to Salt Lake City. Jesse watched as the bright yellow, slow-moving vehicle rounded the bend and disappeared out of sight. It would reappear in three or four minutes’ time, he guessed, when the winding road would bring it back into view some three-quarters of a mile down the road.

Jesse settled down in the snow again to watch. And to wait for darkness.

T
he first, uncomprehending shock had worn off. Senator Carling sat on a gym bench, Calvin Rockley close by. The other three members of their party were a few yards away, seated disconsolately on the hard nylon carpet that covered the floor of the gym.

Glancing around, Carling estimated that there must be around forty hostages in the room. Their captors lounged easily against the walls around them. During a career on Capitol Hill, which included many meetings, both formal and informal, with three presidents, Carling had enjoyed ample opportunities to observe the behavior and demeanor of armed, highly trained troops. Now, his relatively experienced eye took stock of the men guarding them. He noted, with a growing sense of unease, that they seemed completely at home with their weapons, showing an air of easy familiarity with them.

Studying the men, Carling came to the conclusion that his captors were highly trained, experienced and thoroughly professional. For the life of him, he couldn’t decide whether that was good or bad news.

There seemed to be no common racial link between them. They were a disparate group. Some might have been Middle Eastern, or even southern European in parentage. There were several who were of fairer complexion, including two blonds, and he had already seen one black man among the group. Whether he was African–American or from some other background, Carling had no idea. He
didn’t see any Asian-looking men among them. Maybe that was significent, maybe not.

Through the picture window behind him, the precipitous, snow-laden wall of the canyon reared high overhead. By now, only the top third of the mountain was catching the light of the low-angled late afternoon sun.

He sensed movement beside him and glanced to where Calvin Rockley had edged a little closer on the bench. The aircraft manufacturer leaned toward him and spoke in a low tone.

“What do you think, Senator? Who are these guys?”

His voice was barely above a whisper, yet Carling noticed that it drew the immediate attention of the closest of the guards—a slim, fair-haired young man with a look of wide-eyed innocence that was belied by the ugly, squat shape of the machine carbine held comfortably in the crook of his arm. The guard shifted his position slightly, so as to keep the senator and his companion directly under his gaze. At the same time, Carling noted, he didn’t neglect the rest of the sector assigned to him. Those wide, blue eyes continued to roam across the dispirited group in the gym, ready for instant action at any sign of rebellion.

Not that there was much chance of that, the senator reflected bitterly. The surprise achieved by their captors had been absolute. As near as he could calculate, every guest left in the hotel had been swept up in their carefully laid net.

Softly, his eyes on the guard, wary for any sign of aggression, Carling answered his companion. “Your guess is as good as mine, Cal. Some kind of terrorist group, most likely.”

“Al Qaeda, maybe?” Rockley suggested. Carling shook his head. He’d relaxed a little now. After their first exchange, the guard seemed to have lost immediate interest in them. Obviously, there was no ban on talking among themselves.

“They sure don’t look like it,” he replied. He inclined his head toward the guard, “That one looks like the original all-American boy. And I’d swear the guy on the desk when we came in was Brooklyn born and raised.”

The guard had caught the slight head movement and their interest in him. He caught Carling’s gaze and glanced meaningfully—once—down to the machine gun. He shook his head slightly—a barely perceptible movement that nevertheless sent a clear message:
Don’t start anything. We’re in charge here.

Carling took the hint. He turned slightly so that he was no longer looking directly at the guard. Rockley had caught the interplay as well.

“Whoever they are,” he said, “they sure seem to know their business.”

The senator nodded slowly, several times. A slight frown creased his forehead.

“Whatever that might be,” he said finally.

Pallisani noticed the switchboard come back to life. He smiled thinly at the terrified operator still sitting near him, and flicked a switch on the board to answer.

“Canyon,” he said briefly. In the headset earpiece, he heard the reply from five miles down the road.