Schroeder sidestepped the flailing body like a matador evading a stricken bull.
The lead man glanced over his shoulder. Schroeder yanked back his improvised spear. He dug his poles in and swooped down the trail. He drove his right elbow into the man's cheek and knocked him off balance. With knees bent and head low in a tuck, he schussed straight down the trail until he neared the bottom of the run, where the trail made a sharp turn to the right.
The second skier must have been carrying a machine pistol under his jacket because the burp of automatic gunfire shattered the mountain stillness.
The shots harmlessly shredded the overhead tree branches.
A second later, Schroeder was safely out of the line of fire.
He turned onto a narrow, double-black expert run that twisted down the side of the mountain like a corkscrew. The ski patrol had strung yellow tape and put up a sign, saying the trail was closed.
Schroeder ducked under the tape. The trail dropped into an almost vertical run. The snow had a brownish tinge, showing that the cover was thin. The surface was broken by large patches of bare ground. Rocks that normally lay under the snow base were exposed.
He heard gunfire behind him, and miniature fountains of mud erupted a few feet away. The shooter was at the top of the ridge, firing down.
Schroeder slalomed between bare ground and rocks. His skis hit slush and almost ground to a stop, but there was just enough of a skim coat to allow the skis to keep sliding.
Schroeder wove his way through a field of short moguls and got onto a steep pitch where the snow cover was adequate. He heard gunshots off to his right. His pursuer was skiing down a trail that was parallel to Schroeder's, firing through the glade that separated them. Most of the shots hit trees. The gunman saw that he was missing his mark and went into the woods separating the two trails.
The man's form resembled a kangaroo on steroids, but he powered his way through the woods in leaps and bounds. Schroeder saw that the man would break out of the trees below him, where he could rake the trail with killing gunfire.
The man fell once, and quickly got back on his skis. The delay would give Schroeder time to ski past the gunman before he broke back into the open. He'd still be an easy target. Instead, as the gunman broke from the woods on the side of the trail, Schroeder charged down on him.
The man saw Schroeder hurtling at him and fumbled for his gun under his suit.
Schroeder slashed with his ski pole at the man's exposed face like a Cossack on a rampage. The blow went high and smashed the man's goggles. He lost his balance, skiing first on one ski, then the other. The gun flew out of his hand. Weaving drunkenly, arms flailing, he pitched over the edge of the trail, where it dropped down steeply for about twenty feet into the woods.
He ended up upside down in the snow depression around the trunk of a large fir tree. His skis were tangled in the lower branches. He struggled to get out of his bindings, but they were out of reach. He hung there helplessly. His breathing was labored.
Schroeder sidestepped his way down the slope. He picked the Uzi out of the snow, where the man had dropped the weapon, and held it loosely in one hand.
"Who are you working for?" Schroeder said.
The man managed to push his smashed goggles onto his head. "Acme Security," the man said, speaking with effort.
"Acme?" Schroeder said with a smile.
"They're a big outfit down in Virginia."
"You knew who I was, you must have known why they wanted me."
The man shook his head.
"What were you going to do with me?"
"We were going to deliver you to people at the bottom of the mountain. There was supposed to be a car waiting."
"You've been watching me for days. You know more than you're saying. Tell me what they said," he said soothingly. "I give you my word I won't kill you. See?" He flung the Uzi into the woods.
A suspicious expression came to the man's face, but he decided to take his chances. "There was something about a girl's picture we found in your house. They think you know where she is."
"Why do they want her?"
"I don't know."
Schroeder nodded. "One more thing. Who killed Schatsky?"
"Who?" The man looked at Schroeder as if he were insane.
"My little dachshund. The noisy wiener dog."
"My partner killed him."
"But you didn't stop him."
"I likedogs."
"I believe you." Schroeder backed off and began to herringbone up the slope.
"You can't leave me here," the man shouted with panic in his voice.
Schroeder stopped. "I only said I wouldn't killyou. I never said I would pull you out. Don't worry. I'm sure they'll find you when the snow melts."
The temperature would drop down to zero that night. The human body's vital organs were not meant to function upside down, and the man would probably die soon from suffocation.
Schroeder skied to the base of the mountain to a spot that offered a view of the parking lot. He picked out the black Yukon SUV with the tinted windows. Three men stood beside it, looking up the mountain. He wondered who they were, but decided it didn't matter. For now.
He removed his skis, left them on a rack and went to the locker room. He grabbed his fanny pack, stuck the boots in the locker, quickly changed into his walking shoes and headed to the lot where he had parked his truck.
Schroeder checked out the lot and saw nothing suspicious. He walked quickly to the truck and got in. As he drove out of the parking lot, he reached under the seat for a pistol and placed it in his lap.
He contemplated his next move. It would be dangerous to go back to his house. He headed out of town toward Glacier National Park. Twenty minutes later, he pulled up in front of a small, ramshackle building. The sign outside said: glacier park wilderness TOURING COMPANY AND CAMPS. It was one of a number of businesses and real estate holdings Schroeder had invested in using straw companies. Behind the building were several camps he rented out in the warm season.
He parked behind the building, went inside a cabin he reserved for his own use and removed a moth-eaten moose head from over the fireplace to reveal a wall safe. He opened the safe with a few twists of the combination lock. Inside was a strongbox stuffed with cash, which he jammed into his parka pockets along with fake driver's licenses, passports and credit cards.
Schroeder went into the bathroom and shaved off his mustache. He tinted his hair brown to match the picture in his ID, and from a closet he pulled a prepacked suitcase. The change of identity took less than thirty minutes. Haste was of the essence. Anyone who could find a way through the web of fake identities that he had woven had to have considerable resources. It was only a matter of time before they tracked down the wilderness camps.
Someone might be watching the small airport in Kalispell. He decided to drive to Missoula and rent a car. Halfway to his destination, he stopped at a pay phone. Using a phone card, he called a longdistance number. As the phone rang, he held his breath, wondering if she would even remember him. It had been a long time. A man answered. They exchanged a few words and hung up. There was disappointment in his eyes.
Montana has no speed limit. As Schroeder pushed the truck to its limits, he wondered how the genie had once again escaped from the bottle. He was much younger the first time it had been contained, and he wondered if, at his age, he was still up to it.