Devil's Run (22 page)

I left the dining room and
trotted up the stairs. Kohl was waiting outside the bar, hands folded behind
his back, as if he had been expecting me.

“Mr. Craig.”

“Herr Kohl.”

He was used to me now
and didn’t even blink. “Surely dinner is not finished so soon.”

“Let’s just say I left
while everyone else still had an appetite.”

He pursed his lips. “No
doubt you were indiscreet.”

“And we’ve only just
met.”

“You are a young man
still. Perhaps you will learn more social graces.” He paused. “Given enough
time.”

I was simultaneously weighing
the sinister implications of his statement and crafting a snappy comeback, when
we were interrupted by satiny rustle from below. It was Cory Canfield, whose
attempt to run up the stairs in a skin tight dress and six inch heels was both
amusing and stimulating.

“Nick! Nick! Why are you
leaving?”

I stepped down and
offered her a hand. She used her free hand to hold up the hem of the dress,
arriving at the top flushed and nearly out of breath, her chest heaving. I
realized I was staring and glanced away at Kohl, who seemed unmoved. How old
was this guy?

“Why are you leaving?”
said Cory, slapping her hand against her hip.

“I’ve overstayed my
welcome.”

“Oh, come on. There’s
nothing wrong with a little political conversation. I learn so much when people
have the guts to argue with my husband.”

“Nevertheless, it’s late
and I have to be going.” I turned to Kohl. “When is the next car down?”

He opened his mouth to
reply, but Cory cut him off.

“No, no, no, no, no!
Come back, Nick.
Have some dinner.”

“I’m sorry; I think it’s
best if I don’t. I was crashing the party anyway.”

“Well, if you must be a
poop?” she said, frowning. Then her expression brightened, “I know, you’re
going skiing with us tomorrow!”

Kohl looked stunned. I
know I was.

“That’s very kind of you,
Mrs. Canfield.”

“Cory!”

“It’s very kind of you,
Cory, but I don’t have any equipment and I’m not staying in town.”

She brightened. “You’re
right! You’re staying here tonight.” She turned to Kohl. “Arnie, don’t we have
that unit? You know, the one owned by that prime minister who can’t come now?”

Kohl, who had recovered
his composure, nodded. “Correct, Mrs. Canfield. Unit twelve.” He turned to me.
“Certain political setbacks make it unlikely the owner will be using it.”

“Tonight?” I said.

“Ever,” he said, his
tone flat.

“Great!” said Cory,
taking a little hop for emphasis. “Can you get everything ready? And he’ll need
ski stuff, too.”

Kohl bowed. “Leave
everything to me, Mrs. Canfield. And now, perhaps, it would be best if you
rejoined your guests.”

“Oh, my gosh, you’re
right!” She started down the steps. “Get a good night’s sleep, Nick. We’ll have
a great time tomorrow.”

I watched her all the
way down. When I turned back to Kohl he was watching me with a neutral
expression.

“No doubt,” he said, “it
is time for a witticism.”

I shook my head. “Fresh
out.” I paused before adding, “Arnie.”

He nodded and pulled a
cell phone from his pocket.

“Renee? Prepare unit
twelve. And arrange that a full set of proper men’s ski clothing and
undergarments be delivered to the room.” He cocked his head and examined me.
“Height one hundred eighty-five centimeters, eighty two kilograms, medium
build.” He paused for a moment, then said, “I beg your pardon. About one
hundred eighty pounds.” He looked at my feet, and then at me. “Forty-four?”

“What’s that in
American?”

“Ten and a half.”

“You should have been a
cop.”

“Perhaps I was.” To the
phone he repeated my shoe size and said, “Oh, and perhaps a set of après ski clothes.”
He listened for a moment. “Style?” He looked at me and smiled. “Pretend you are
buying them for your father.”

“Just like that?” I
said.

He slipped the phone
back in his pocket. “Precisely like that. And now, you are certain you do not
wish to return to the dinner?”

“Yes.”

“It seems your meals are
always being interrupted.”

“I’m sorry?”

“This morning. Your
breakfast with the charming Sheriff. I apologize again.”

“It’s okay. Besides, I
learned quite a bit from you.”

A look of concern
crossed his face. “How so?”

“The whole hand kissing
thing. It really works.”

His face lightened and
he smiled. “Manners still matter. Even in today’s rather brusque society.”

“Whatever.”

“Chief Masterson is a
charming woman, yes?”

“I may have to get
myself arrested.”

“We are outside her
jurisdiction.” He leaned in towards me and lowered his voice. “I am the law
here.”

“Then I’ll behave. Being
handcuffed by you doesn’t seem as much fun.”

“I can guarantee it.”

At that moment a lovely,
but very businesslike young redhead in a black pantsuit and white blouse
appeared.

“Mr. Craig, this is
Renee. She will escort you to your room.”

“Good evening,” she
said.

“Hello.”

“Please follow me.”

“Until the morning, Mr.
Craig,” said Kohl.

“Yes, until then.”

We left him standing
there. I felt him watch us all the way down the hall.

Renee took me back past
the restaurant to the residence wing.

“How long will you be
with us, Mr. Craig?”

“You’ll have to ask
someone else. I lost control of my life a few hours back.”

She responded with a very
attractive laugh. “Now, it can’t be as bad as all that. Not everyone gets in
here, you know.”

We stopped at the door
marked “12” and she swiped a white card.

“What I want to know is
does everyone who gets in eventually get out?”

“I get out every night
at ten and go home to my cramped little cottage in the valley. Whereas you,”
she said, as she opened the door, “you get this.”

The door opened and all
I could say was “Jesus.”

“Cute, isn’t it?”

Whatever the owner’s
current situation, he had once benefited from an excellent compensation plan.
The enormous suite had walls of pale stone and a two story high ceiling with
exposed wooden beams painted to match. Dead center in the living room was a
circular fireplace surrounded by deeply cushioned sofas and easy chairs. The
copper chimney jutted down from the ceiling like the business end of a gigantic
trumpet, but the flames jumping in the pile of logs were gas fed.

“The master bedroom,”
she said, pointing, “is up there.” She smiled. “This is as close as I get. Company
rules.”

“Yes, I imagine that
might tend to be an issue with the clientele.” I pointed at a narrow door with
a clear glass panel near the circular stairs. “Is that?”

She nodded. “An
elevator.

“How the other half
lives.”

“That elevator goes up
to the master and down to a climate controlled tunnel to the ski shop.”

“Tunnel?”

“It does get cold and
windy outside. The door next to the elevator is emergency stairs to the tunnel,
and I do mean emergency. It’s a one way door and an alarm goes off, so stick to
the elevator.”

She continued on,
skirting the fire pit.

“The second bedroom is
on this level, over there,” she said, pointing.

She stopped at a
discreetly placed alcove housing a wet bar and picked up a remote control. When
she clicked a button, curtains on the far wall parted, revealing a glass wall
with a sliding door in the center.

“Be careful if you open
this door, although I don’t know why you would in cold weather. We maintain a
slight positive pressure inside the building to compensate for the altitude, so
I wouldn’t leave any important papers lying around. They’re liable to get
sucked out.”

“I’ll make a note.”

She pressed another
button and outside lights revealed that snow had begun to fall.

“You’ll have good
pow-pow tomorrow,” she said.

“Pow-pow?”

“Powder. Don’t you ski?”

“East coast.”

“Oh.” She grimaced, as
if tasting something bad. “This remote controls the lights, TV, everything.
Even the fire.” She clicked a button and the flames died. Another click and the
fire restarted.

“How about the shower?”

“That works the old
fashioned way. Now I’ll show you how the other half cooks.”

She led me past the bar
into a very sizable kitchen with a central island, Sub Zero refrigerator, and a
stove suitable for a restaurant.

“Wow.”

“Wow, what?”

“Big.”

She gave me a quizzical
look. “Really? You think this is big?”

“I’m from New York
City.”

“They don’t have
kitchens there?”

“If this is a kitchen,
then no they don’t.”

She walked back to me
and held out the white card. “Here’s your key.”

It was just like the
ones I’d seen the staff and Kohl using, slightly thicker than the usual hotel
card key, but the same size. There was no room number or writing, just an
embossed resort logo.

“This key is programmed
for you personally. Certain areas of the building are off limits for security
reasons. This opens all doors authorized to you, including the gym, and you
will need to have it with you to use the elevators. It also serves as a lift
ticket.”

“How?”

“Electronic scanners.
Just leave it in the pocket of your outermost garment.”

“Do I get beads or
something for the bar and restaurant?”

She smiled. “You are
Mrs. Canfield’s guest. She is taking care of everything.” She looked at her
thin gold watch. “You are expected at the ski shop at seven-thirty tomorrow
morning to be fitted for boots and skis. Just use the tunnel. There is a map of
the building on your television. Just use this remote or the one in the
bedroom. Now, as to those après ski clothes.”

“Please tell me your
father is a youngish, attractive man.”

She laughed. “Oh, that
was just Mr. Kohl. He has a very dry sense of humor.”

“Saharan.”

“I think we can arrange
something.”

“Something with pleats?”

She shook her head. “Not
on you.”

“Why, Miss Renee, you’ve
given it some thought.”

“Purely business. My
boyfriend, by the way, is a forty-six large.”

“But, of course he is.”

She led the way out of
the kitchen.

“Your ski clothes will
be delivered in about a half an hour. And the housekeeping staff already left
some pajamas on the bed.”

“You are all very
thoughtful.” I pulled the roll of bills from my pocket.

“I told you,” she said,
putting up a hand. “Mrs. Canfield is taking care of everything.”

“Thank her for me.”

“You can thank her
yourself at eight-thirty sharp tomorrow morning.”

I awakened early in the most
comfortable bed I’d ever experienced, refreshed by a deep sleep full of dreams
about Cory Canfield and Catherine Masterson. I believe they mud wrestled in one
of them.

After showering in a
stall big enough for a platoon, with multiple nozzles in the walls and ceiling
that schpritzed you from multiple angles, I dressed in the stuff they’d left
me. It was all top of the line, but I stuck with my own parka and gloves as a
small act of rebellion. I grabbed a banana from the bowl of fruit on the bar
and used the remote to open the curtains. There had been a considerable
snowfall overnight, but now the sky was clear.

I rode my little
personal elevator down and went through the access door to the tunnel. Since I
was on the far end of the building, there was only a short passage before I
entered the main tunnel, which angled out to the ski shop. It wasn’t as fancy
as I had expected, being very much like the steam tunnels in old New York
buildings, with walls of painted concrete and pipes running along the ceiling.
A tunnel made sense considering the amount of snow that must accumulate over
the course of a winter. Keeping pathways open would be a constant bother and
from what I had seen the grounds were an unblemished carpet of snow, except for
the flagstone terrace outside the restaurant.

I was alone in the
tunnel, the only sound the echo of my footsteps and the occasional gurgle of
water from one of the pipes. I figured I was about halfway to the ski shop when
I passed a solitary steel door in the left hand side of the tunnel. As always,
there was a card swipe and a number pad. I was fingering my room key, debating
whether to give it a swipe, when a booming crack shattered the silence and the
tunnel shook slightly.

“Jesus Christ,” I said
aloud.

“My apologies, Mr. Craig,”
said Kohl. “I should have warned you.”

I turned to find him
standing ten feet behind me dressed in his overcoat and ushanka. He must have
beamed down, because I hadn’t heard him coming.

“What the hell was
that?”

“That was our howitzer.”
He pronounced it ‘howvitzer’.

“A howitzer? You mean a
field piece?”

“Quite so. 105
millimeter. From your Korean War, I believe.”

“What in God’s name?”

“Avalanche control, Mr.
Craig. We need to prevent dangerous build ups after a snowfall to prevent
serious avalanches.”

“But, artillery?
Civilians with a howitzer?”

“It is strictly
controlled and the crew is well trained. Certain resorts, such as this one, are
authorized to use them. Some of our peaks and,” he groped for the word, “ridges
are rather inaccessible, yet they collect snow that threatens our guests. It is
necessary and not uncommon here in the West.” He paused. “The recoilless rifle
is more popular and, I must admit, easier to store.” Kohl looked at his watch.
“Would you care to see it? We have the time.”

“Why not?”

He smiled his icy smile
and produced his white card key.

“Why not use helicopters
to just drop charges?”

“As you know, we are
equipped for such a contingency. We use the helicopter as well.”

He swiped the card and
punched in the code. The door swung open and we entered a narrower tunnel.

“However,” he continued
as we walked along, “the winds are often too treacherous for aircraft and the
weather is a factor in this exposed position. We do not allow the helicopter to
remain here for long periods of time. It is berthed at the airfield. In any
case, snow buildup cannot be allowed to sit or continue until it is permissible
to fly. The howitzer is not affected by the weather. Of course, for accessible
areas or where more precision is required, we have hand charges and the more
modest tools you saw in the vehicle yesterday.”

We reached a set of
steel steps and climbed them through an open hatch into the Winnebago-like
structure I’d seen in the satellite photos. The steel door was rolled up and
the howitzer had been moved onto a concrete platform in front. A crew of five
was preparing for the next shot. Each man wore protective headgear and safety
goggles. Small flexible lights were attached to their helmets.

Günter was examining the
distant mountain through a pair of field glasses. He lowered them and turned to
the backlit terrain map of the resort that dominated the opposite wall. It was
overlaid with grid coordinates, one of which was highlighted and enlarged.
Small pinpoints of red light, labeled with numbers, were crawling across the
face of the map at random places.

“Tell fourteen to shift
to Dreamweaver for now,” said Günter. “I do not want him under the shell.”

A member of the crew
spoke into a microphone clipped to his parka. Günter continued to stare at the
map. A few moments later I noticed the red light nearest the highlighted sector
reverse direction and head back the other way.

Kohl tapped me on the
arm and handed me a set of ear protectors with padded ear cups.

“What are the lights?” I
said.

“Members of the ski
patrol and the drivers of the groomers.”

“Lo-jacked your
employees, eh?”

“It is a safety
precaution.”

Günter turned to the two
men standing by the ammunition rack and called out a command. “Charge five” was
the only part I caught. One of the shell handlers pulled out a thirty inch
olive drab round with yellow printing.

“Isn’t that a high
explosive round?” I said to Kohl.

“Of course. An explosion
is the result we wish.”

“Seems a little
dangerous. What happens if they overshoot?”

“They never do. These
men are experts. A resort in Utah did, however, some years ago make a small
mistake. The shell landed in the backyard of a private home.”

“I hope no one was
having a barbecue.”

“It was early morning.
Fortunately, no one was killed.”

The shell handler
carried the high explosive round over to the gun, cradling it in his arms like
a newborn. A man was bent over the howitzer, examining the open breech. He
stood up and announced that the bore was clear. The shell handler stepped
forward, slid the round in, and locked the door in place.

“Locked and loaded.”

 Günter repeated it
back to him. Next he called out traverse and elevation commands, the crew
adjusting the gun to his specifications. Satisfied the gun was targeted correctly,
he gave the command “Ear protection on!”

I slipped on the ear
protectors and held them clamped against my head. The crew did likewise, moving
away to the sides of the gun, except for the man holding the firing lanyard. He
stepped away from the breech and turned his back. Kohl put a hand lightly on my
arm, motioning me to step farther back.

“Clear to the front,”
said Günter, shouting to make himself heard. “Clear to the rear!” He gave one
last quick look all around. “Fire!”

The trigger man yanked the
lanyard. Orange flame belched from the muzzle and the barrel recoiled
violently. The report shook the metal walls and rattled the wooden bin of empty
shells.

I lifted the ear
protection to listen for the flight of the projectile. I wasn’t sure if I heard
it, but I distinctly heard the faint thump of the round striking a distant
slope of Spanish Mountain. The breech opened and the smoking shell clattered
onto the floor. One of the crew picked it up with insulated gloves and carried
it over to the bin of empties. Günter had his binoculars up. After a moment, he
lowered them and turned to Kohl.

“Success?” said Kohl.

Günter nodded.

“Good.” Kohl turned to
me. “Did you enjoy that, Mr. Craig?”

“I’m a guy, aren’t I?
You could start a war from here.”

“It is a war,
you understand. Each new snowfall brings terrible danger. You shall see when
you are skiing there are many narrow ravines with steep sides.” He made a ‘V’
with his hands. “Most of them funnel directly towards the
pistes
, the
ski trails below. A buildup of snow, should it be allowed, can result in
destruction that is difficult to comprehend.”

“I’ll bet.”

He glanced at his watch.
“But, we must not make you late for your appointment. Please to follow me.”

I turned for one last
look before descending the stairs. The howitzer had been rolled back inside and
the overhead door was ratcheting down. Günter watched me as if considering how
I would look strapped to the muzzle.

“I’m still not sure how
you make money,” I said, when we were back in the tunnel.

“As I told you last
night, our clients are extremely wealthy and they crave privacy and security.
We provide what you Americans like to call ‘best in class’ for both those
commodities.”

“Well, this place seems
great, but I can think of a dozen luxury hotels that provide the same services.
Rich people didn’t get rich by being stupid. They’re not going to spend money
unless they feel they’re getting their money’s worth. It can’t be cheap
maintaining a place at this altitude. Water, heat, fuel. That cable car alone
must cost a fortune to maintain.”

“One must invest for the
long term, Mr. Craig. We also have the benefit of some special tax incentives,
from your federal government. You saw, I assume, the mining area on your
journey here?”

“The ghost town? Yes.”

“Yes, quite so, the
ghost town. What a charming American term that is. The mining area and the
watershed nearby are what is called a Super Fund site. The mining operation
closed in the nineteen eighties, and the mining company flooded the mine, which
was considered normal procedure at that time. However, this resulted in
considerable pollution of the surrounding area and ground water by dangerous
chemicals and heavy metals. As part of our plan for a year round destination,
we have taken on responsibility for the cleanup. Part of our proposed
championship golf course will be built on the reclaimed toxic site.”

“I hope you know what
you are doing.”

“Our people are experts
and the activities are strictly regulated. We gain tax breaks, and your
government saves millions of taxpayer dollars.”

“Nice to see government
and private enterprise working together. Good thing you have Canfield on your
side.”

“Oh, Mr. Craig, Senator
Canfield is very strict about not involving himself in the business affairs of
his wife’s company.”

“Yes, I’m sure the
regulators don’t consider his position for a moment when they make decisions.’

“I am sure I do not know
what the regulators consider.”

We passed through the
door into the main tunnel.

“I will leave you now,
Mr. Craig. Please enjoy your day on the slopes.”

“Thank you. One question
more, though.”

“As you wish.”

“Do you ever sleep?”

The ends of his mouth
moved slightly. “Never on the company’s time.”