Jones looked at Bettina, who’d turned back to face us. “Can he do that?”
“He can if we don’t play ball with him, and I’ll recommend to McNally that we do. He’s got a right to privacy, and he shouldn’t lose it just because he did something decent. Besides, I like the team effort idea, which happens to be true. Without the rest of ’em, he couldn’t have gotten her down from there.”
Bettina put an end to it by stepping forward and giving my hand a firm shake. “It’s a done deal, Max. Word’ll probably leak out anyhow, but it won’t be from us.” She looked pointedly at Stephanie Jones. “Right?”
Jones made no pretense at hiding her disgust. “Whatever,” she said sourly and left the room.
Linda Bettina looked at me for a moment before extracting a crumpled envelope from an inside pocket and handing it to me. “This just came for you-special delivery.”
I took the envelope and studied it. It was simply addressed, “Ski Montin Hero,” in a large, childish hand. There was no postage or return address.
“One of the sheriff’s people brought it in,” Linda explained. “Straight from the hospital.”
I tore it open and removed a single sheet of paper. On it was a crude crayon-rendered picture of a broken chairlift, with two stick figures dangling from it, one of them dripping a string of red dots. Above them, sliding down the cable on one hand, complete with cape flapping in the air behind him, was a third figure wearing a broad, carefree smile. A bubble with an arrow pointing at him read, “YOU.”
At the bottom of the page were the words, “Thank you for saving Mom. Love, Mary.” It was followed by a large heart.
I handed the picture to Linda without comment. She glanced at it and gave it back.
“Tough guy.”
After work, and after several conversations with co-workers who were thoroughly enjoying keeping the press in the dark, I wandered into the repair shop on the ground floor of the Mountain Ops building across from my dorm. It was standard fare in some respects, with a greasy floor, scattered tools, and rack upon rack of assorted supplies. Its uniqueness was in the nature of those supplies: a vast array of arcane pulleys, wheels, spring clamps, and other equipment designed to keep the mysterious workings of a ski mountain up and running. In some ways, it resembled what I thought a NASA repair shed might be like, except-I hoped-for the dirt, the machinery, the nature of the business, and the skill level of everyone working there.
One of the latter stepped out from behind a hanger arm mounted in a vise as I let out a “Hello?”
“Who’re you after?”
He was tall, skinny, and utterly filthy. On the chest of his uniform shirt, like a mirage in fading light, was the barely discernible name, “Mike.”
“You Mike?”
He looked curious. “I know you?”
I stuck out my hand. “New guy. Carpenter. Name’s Max.”
He was slow to shake. “Pretty dirty.” He wiggled his blackened fingers.
I was impressed he’d noticed. “I don’t care.”
He shook my hand, leaving it oily enough that I did wipe it on my pants.
“Warned ya,” he laughed. “What can I do you for?”
“I was wondering about the chair that went for a slider this morning.”
Mike shook his head. “Ain’t got it. Tramway Board inspectors picked it up hours ago.”
“But you looked at it?”
“Sure. I took it down.” His face became more serious. “Why you want to know? We’re not supposed to talk about junk like that.”
“I asked ’em to keep quiet, but I’m the one who saved that woman.”
He grew suddenly animated. “No shit? That was some cool move. Dick said you went down that tow line like Spiderman or something. He threw you the crowbar. We think it’s great you’re telling ’em all to butt out. I heard the PR people were really pissed.”
I waved a hand to calm him down. “They’ll get over it. They just wanted something to offset the yellow snow.”
He laughed again. “Boy, ain’t that the truth? I wished I’da thought of that one myself. It woulda been worth getting fired.”
I let him recover a bit before asking, “So, I was wondering why that chair let loose, since it almost got me killed.”
Mike looked around, crossed to the door leading farther into the building, and checked the hallway beyond to make sure we were alone. Then he came back and said quietly, “It wasn’t the chair. It was fine.”
“Somebody messed with it?” I asked.
“You got it. Let up on the tension spring so it couldn’t hang on when it hit the steep part over the rocks.”
“That couldn’t have been an accident? Chairs must slide all the time.”
“Now and then, yeah, but I know the signs. I been doin’ this for years.” His voice dropped lower still. “Fits in with the yellow snow you just mentioned.”
I didn’t bother hiding my incredulity. “You think the TPL bunch did this?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Put it together, Max. First they hang a banner from the chair’s tow rope, then they fool with the water supply. All McNally does is offer ’em free passes like they were just kids acting out. Pisses them off, right? Nobody likes that. So they get a little more serious.”
“From yellow dye to attempted manslaughter? I guess that’s getting serious.”
Mike straightened and grinned, spreading his hands wide. “I rest my case.”
I waited for Sammie by the back door of the main power house, empty and dark at this time of night, and far from the beaten path. There was no moon. The day’s clear sky had succumbed to clouds, and rumor had it we were in for some snow.
“Joe?”
“It’s Max,” I answered, also in a loud whisper.
“I know that,” she answered testily, drawing near. “And so will everyone else once your Superman imitation breaks cover.”
“You’re my first Superman. I can add it to a Spiderman and a Batman so far.”
“Are you okay?” she asked, putting a hand on my arm. “You could’ve been killed, from what I heard.”
“The story’s improving with age. I wanted to tell you about a little discovery I made. According to Mike, who’s been fixing chairlifts for years, this one was sabotaged.”
She thought about that for a few moments. “Who gains from that?”
“Good question. I can’t answer it either.”
She looked off into the night. “Think it has anything to do with Marty Gagnon?”
“I don’t see how-not now, at least. We better tell the others we might have a whole different player in motion.”
Chapter 9
I sat in Snuffy Dawson’s unmarked Sheriff’s car at the end of a dirt road some ten miles from Tucker Peak, staring out at a snow-covered field with a frozen pond in its middle, its flat, featureless surface looking like spilled milk at the bottom of a saucer.
“You sure about this mechanic?” Snuffy asked.
“Mike? No reason he’d lie. We could run a check on him, but I doubt we’d find much. I think he was shooting straight.”
Dawson stroked his chin with a meaty hand. “You don’t think maybe the woman was the target? She have a husband?”
I smiled in response. “No, divorced. And supposedly they get along. Besides,” I added, “the eastern lift starts later in the morning, because of how the sun hits the slopes, so what we were on was the first run of the day. Assuming Mike’s right about it being sabotage, it must’ve happened during the night, and there’s no way anyone could’ve known who was going to be in what chair when, or even if any physical injury was intended. Could’ve been the sole intention was to show off how dangerous the equipment is.”