“If I hurry I can run down Route 82 and beat it to the main highway. Is Soapie still planning to make the run to Copperhead Ridge?”
“Yeah, I just talked to him.”
“Does he need help?”
“Nah, you know Old Soap. He’s used to this shit.”
“Okay. See you Monday.”
“You’re nuts, pal. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
Trexler looked at his watch. He had thirty minutes at best. He left the cabin, locked it, threw his suitcase in the trunk of his car and drove down the two-hundred-yard driveway to the mountain road leading back into town. But he didn’t turn toward town, he headed up the mountain toward Soapie’s cabin.
On the way into town, Harris checked the ski patrol office at Highlands Resort, which employed Trexler.
“Hey Wes, it’s Duane. Do you know John Trexler’s location?”
“Yeah. He was in his cabin about ten minutes ago. But he’s planning on trying to beat the storm into Leadville. I think he’s got a lady friend there.”
“How’s he planning to go?”
“Route 82. It’s still open. Why?”
“Got a couple of visitors want to see him.”
“You may just miss him.”
“Thanks,” Harris said. He laid the radio mike on the seat beside him.
They drove through a small quaint village and a mile or so beyond it, Harris slowed down.
“This is the road up to his place,” Harris said. “It’s a mile or so up the trail. His cabin sits about two hundred yards off the road.” He looked out the side window as he turned into a narrow lane that led up through the trees. Mounds of virgin snow outlined the narrow roadway.
“We’re in luck,” Harris said. “No tracks. He must still be up there.”
“Any other road out of here?” Keegan asked.
“Nope, it dead-ends up at Soapie Kramer’s ranger station.”
“How far’s that?”
“Four, five miles.”
Harris dropped into low gear and turned up the road.
“How long’ve you known Trexler?” Keegan asked.
“Oh, Johnny’s been around these parts for a few years now.
He’s worked for all the resorts through the years. Half a dozen companies have tried to make a go of it and failed. He’s with the Highlands people now and it looks like they’re here to stay.”
“What’s he like?”
“Just one of the guys. Everybody likes him. Helluva skier. He and Soapie saved a couple of climbers trapped up on Mount Elbert last year. They were almost to the top, fourteen thousand feet, in weather worse than this. When you said you were from the White House I thought maybe the president was gonna give ‘em a medal or something.”
“I hadn’t heard that,” Keegan said sardonically. He reached under his arm, took out an army .45 and checked the clip. Dryman did the same. Harris looked over at Keegan with surprise.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“Duane, I’m going to level with you,” Keegan answered. “If this guy’s who we think he is, he’s very, very dangerous.”
“John Trexler!”
“That’s right. This is the way we’re going to play it. The minute he opens the door, we’ll rush him and get the drop on him.”
“What did he do?” Harris asked. There was alarm in every syllable.
“For starters, he’s killed three people that we know about,” Keegan answered.
“Sweet Jesus!” Harris said.
“What if he gets crazy?” Dryman asked. “What if he’s got a gun?”
Keegan’s heart was pumping overtime but he was outwardly calm. “Then I’ll blow his brains out,” he answered without hesitation.
“Maybe I better call my boss,” Harris said nervously. “Maybe we ought to go back into town and get some help.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Keegan. “He’s not expecting us. We’ll just stay calm. Be pleasant as we approach the place. If he’s outside, introduce us as a couple of rangers from the district office in Denver. Then we’ll take him.”
“I’ve never done anything like this before,” Harris said.
“That’s okay, neither have we,” Keegan answered.
Harris expertly negotiated the snow-piled drive, the back end of the vehicle groaning as its four-wheel drive urged it up the lane. When they reached the driveway leading to Trexler’s cabin, Harris stopped.
“Don’t see his car,” he said. He rolled down the window and checked the road.
The snow was falling harder and the wind was picking up. Harris knelt down and checked the tracks leading up the mountain.
“Funny, no tracks going down, they’re all going up the slope,” Harris said.
“What the hell’s up there, anyway?” Keegan asked.
“Ranger station. Soapie Kramer lives up there. But he was planning to try to beat the storm and head up to Copperhead Ridge to the high station on avalanche patrol—just in case anybody gets lost on the mountain.”
He’s running, thought Keegan. Somebody tipped the son of a bitch off and he running.
“How good’s this Kramer?” he asked Harris.
“Twelve years in these mountains. Don’t figure they get any better.”
“How good are you, Duane?”
“Not that good. I’m good but I’m not old Soapie.”
“How about Trexler?” Dryman asked.
“He’s damn good, too,” said Harris. “Could have been a real competitor but he wasn’t interested. Likes the quiet life.”
“Does he smoke?” Keegan asked.
“Smoke? Yeah. Rolls his own.”
“Does he have a cigarette lighter?” Dryman said.
“Why, yes
“Gold lighter with a wolf’s head on the top?” Keegan said.
“Yeah,” said Harris with surprise. “You must know him pretty well.”
“I know him real well,” said Keegan flatly. “What d’you say? Let’s give it a shot.”
Harris shook his head as he climbed back in the car.
“I’ll try anything once,” he said. “But we got about a twenty-five-degree slope here. I can’t promise anything.”
“I’m sure you’ll do your best,” Keegan said.
* * *
Trexler drove as fast as his Hudson Terraplane would safely maneuver the road to Dutchman Flat and Soapie Kramer’s cabin. He was reviewing his plan, checking it for holes.
The road finally began to level off. He picked up speed, coursing down through the ridge forest until suddenly he burst out onto the flatland, a plateau near the top of the mountain. Snow flurries were just beginning and thick woolly clouds were tumbling over the mountaintops, bringing the big wind with them.
What has nature got against me? he thought to himself. First it was the dust storms. Now this. But he wasn’t complaining. Actually the storm would provide his cover. He needed a couple of days and the brewing storm just might provide them. He parked near the cabin, aiming the car out toward the lake that adjoined Kramer’s place. Snow flurries danced across the ice surface. He walked directly to the corner of the building. The phone line was stretched down the side of the cabin, entering it through an outlet near the base of the house. Trexler opened his penknife and cut the wire.
He went around to the front, peered through the glass panel.
Thank God! Kramer was still there.
Snow lashed the windshield and Harris leaned forward squinting as he guided the black ‘35 Ford, twisting and skidding, up the steep dirt road.
“We’re not gonna make this, gentlemen,” Harris said. “Need chains. All I got’s snow tires.”
Keegan was also straining his eyes ahead on the road.
“Keep trying,” he said.
The car fishtailed as the road turned to slush beneath them. The tires started spinning faster and the Ford began to slow. Then suddenly the rear end jerked to the right. Harris spun the wheel to compensate but he was not quick enough. The rear wheel went off the road.