Mothers with a loving blind spot. They had lobbied this year’s World Cup races to Mammoth. And then the volcano stirred again and they joined forces to prepare the town. But they could not bear to cancel the Cup. Oh, they got Squaw Valley as a backup but unless there is lava flowing here day after tomorrow, the races will proceed here as scheduled. Georgia would kill to watch her boys compete in the Cup on their home turf. Would have killed. Lindsay would…what? Sacrifice her good judgement to cheer on her boys, I thought sourly. While keeping a goddamn close on eye on ground deformation and quake patterns, I hoped.
I fingered the bubble-pack envelope, wondering if my unidentified gunpowder originated at the biathlon range. Thinking, the mayor’s dead, the volcanologist is weirdly interested in how she died, the FEMA guy is oddly devastated, and the cop I most trust in the world tried to get a jump on the crime scene. Thinking, these are the people whose job it is — or was — to keep us safe.
Eric had been looking where I looked — the target, the ballcap — and now he came back to the envelope I was mangling. “Never mind.” He laced his hands behind his head. “It all works out. I’m a jerk on the retrieval, you’re anal retentive with your powder. Save it for John.”
“No need.” I passed the envelope to Eric. “We’re on the same team.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“We don’t want to be late,” Walter said. He pried me from my scope, sent me home to change, collected me within the half-hour, collected Lindsay at six sharp, and in his fire-engine red Explorer he ferried us up the mountain toward the lights.
I had to wonder about this meeting. Why did Adrian Krom call it on the mountain, up at the Inn? Why not call it at the Community Center? Why call this meeting with just one day’s notice? Why call it at all, since we had a meeting a week ago and covered everything conceivable. I reached over the seat and tapped Lindsay. “Are you talking about raising the alert level?”
“No,” she said, “we’re still at ADVISORY.”
I sat back. The Geological Survey issues four-tiered volcano alerts, starting at NORMAL, meaning typical background activity, all the way through WARNING, meaning get the hell out. We’ve been at ADVISORY, meaning elevated unrest, for the past six months. I said, “If nothing’s changed, why’d he call this meeting?”
“Ask Walter,” Lindsay said. “He’s become such great pals with Adrian.”
Walter said, mild, “Adrian’s doing his job.”
I had to agree, although I did not care to say so in Lindsay’s presence. Walter had put his faith in Adrian Krom — just as I had — because Walter believes in authority. Just as I do. Adrian Krom certainly has the authority, and the resources, to prepare us for what looks like is coming. But Krom had gone beyond the mandate from FEMA. What Walter saw in Adrian Krom was a man who came to town and leased a condo and settled in and linked his fate to ours. And that, to Walter, was loyalty.
Lindsay said, “You think he’s a prince, Walter. He’s not a prince.”
Walter took the curves a little fast, throwing us all into silence.
Two curves later Walter’s headlights caught the silhouettes of stripped conifers, and I looked hard. Was this patch of dead trees bigger than last time I came this way? Treekills around Mammoth were old news — quakes breached a fault and gas has been leaking up from an old magma chamber, asphyxiating trees, along with a few people. What we do is tread carefully. Don’t camp near treekills. Don’t ski roped-off areas and if you do for God’s sake don’t do a faceplant.
This treekill looked no larger. Okay, then. Steady at ADVISORY.
We topped the road and parked at the shuttlebus plaza, getting out near the statue of the woolly mammoth. Once, the real thing roamed here and now its iced effigy rears in bronze, town mascot. Our nod to the Pleistocene.
We were on the broad shoulder of Mammoth Mountain, two thousand feet below its summit. I glanced up. Impossible not to. The mountain’s great bulk showed by starlight — a hotshot’s mountain with headwall chutes and plenty of vertical drop. I once took a header down the chute known as Grizzly, which in my opinion should be skied only by paramedics. Down here on the shoulder, backing into the mountain, were the lodge and lift stations, where I used to earn my paychecks. Across the shuttle roundabout was Mammoth Mountain Inn, alpine fancy, where I endured my senior prom. Light spilled from the Inn and mixed with the inky night to grease the snow with a butternut glow.
We trudged toward the Inn, snow coating our boots like spats.
Mike Kittleman was on the porch, sweeping loose snow. Walter and Lindsay went inside but I paused to watch Mike.
Only Mike would wear a jacket and tie to sweep the steps. He always strives to look his best but he’s a swarthy guy who no matter how close he shaves looks like a thug. Or maybe that’s just through my eyes. Mike is another of the guys in my brother’s circle. I’ve known him since we were kids. We didn’t really have much to do with each other as kids — it wasn’t until we were in our teens that our lives intersected. I glanced across the roundabout to the gondola station where we worked together one summer loading mountain bikes and learned to loathe each other.
Long time ago.
I looked at Mike now. He’s the soul of the work ethic. He’s worked his butt off at every job he ever held and accepted overtime like it was a certificate of honor. These days, he’s been working road construction on the evacuation route, along with my brother and a dozen others who finds it pays better than selling lift tickets or ski patrol.
And yet here he was sweeping snow.
I knew he saw me. “Hi Mike. Thanks for clearing the steps.”
He glanced up. “It’s for old people. It’s so old people won’t slip.”
“And the rest of us?” I smiled, making the effort. “So, you working for the Inn now?”
He reburied his attention in the broom. “For Mr. Krom.”
Ah, that explained the tie. I’d seen him moonlighting for Adrian Krom — delivering the bulletins Krom generated, taking notes at meetings — and he always dressed the part. But still. “Is this some kind of memorial? For Georgia?” I sure wasn’t dressed for it.
The cloth of his jacket pulled tight across his back and for a moment I thought he was hunching into a sprinter’s crouch. Anything to get away from me. But he stayed put, frozen as the bronze mammoth. He tunneled me a look. “What do you mean?”
“I mean is this a memorial? Mr. Krom…Adrian…seemed upset about her death.”
“Just go in. O-kigh?”
“Okay.” Why’d I bring up Georgia? I thought again of the biathlon team, back when Lindsay and Georgia had organized the boys into a team. Mike had been one of those teenage biathletes, but he had a temper and he took offense quickly at the needling that was part of team camaraderie. He threw a punch almost as well as he shot his rifle. Finally Georgia got fed up with his fighting and kicked him off the team, kindling Mike’s hatred. I thought, now, Mike was fully capable of holding the old biathlon grudge against Georgia beyond the grave. In fact, he was capable of carrying it to his own grave. And he was clearly working his way into the new power structure in town, with Krom. If Krom was holding a memorial for Georgia, I guessed that wouldn’t sit too well with Mike.
I headed for the door.
Mike pulled himself erect, the consummate doorman, but for his right thumb which began digging mercilessly at the knot of his tie.
CHAPTER EIGHT
There was a huge map pinned to foamboard on an easel by the fireplace.
There was a coffee urn and styrofoam cups, but no flowers. The DeMartini twins were here but without harp and guitar, meaning no Pachelbel Canon, no memorial service. People were dressed pretty much as I was, mountain spiffy, meaning nice shirts with jeans, and the good boots. The only tie, other than Mike’s, was Walter’s, with his chamois shirt. Lindsay would normally wear her silk pantsuit to a place like the Inn but she hadn’t bothered to change from her field clothes. That had won a frown from Walter.