aloud anyway. Just when his feet were finally warming up, some dumb bunny tourist had missed the unload point. He had a vague impression of one skier in a gray jacket skiing off the chair while the other passenger remained firmly and determinedly unmoving.
As the chair started around the bullwheel, Clive’s hand shot to the big red kill button beside him. He hit it, sounding the alarm bell briefly and bringing the chairlift sighing to a halt.
The figure in the chair was now eight feet or so from the ground. There was no way he could unload from there, Clive realized. He’d have to back the chair up, bringing the delinquent rider back to the unload ramp.
“Shit!” he said again, reaching for the door handle. As he cracked the door open, the wind shrilled in around him and the telephone linking him to the down mountain loading station rang once. He scooped the receiver up. Before Louis at the base station could ask the obvious question, Clive let him know what was going on.
“Got a skier tried to ride the chair around,” he said, raising his voice against the intrusive wind. “We’ll have to back her up a few yards.”
Louis answered him. “Let me know when you’re doing it.”
Clive nodded, even though the other man couldn’t see him. “Be as quick as I can,” he answered, then hung the phone on its hook and stepped out into the wind and the snow.
He glanced around idly to see if the skier’s companion was waiting for him. There were a couple of skiers nearby, their attention drawn by the alarm bell. But on a day like this people didn’t stand around at the top of the chair. They skied or they went into one of the bars. He checked but none of them was wearing a gray parka. Dumb choice of color anyway, thought Clive. In this weather, a gray parka would blend into the background and the whiteout conditions to make its owner all but invisible.
In Clive’s mind, the more visible you were on the mountain, the less chance you had of some hotshot running into you.
He slipped and slid through the snow to stand directly under the chair.
“Hey, buddy,” he called. “You cannot ride the chair down!”
He spoke precisely, sounding every syllable. The guy was rugged up and the wind was blowing. It didn’t make for perfect conversational conditions.
“You hear me?” he tried again. But there was no movement from the man in the chair. Clive peered more closely at him. He was slumped over in one corner. His head lolled to one side.
“Hey, buddy. You okay?” he yelled, but there was no response and suddenly Clive knew that no, he definitely wasn’t okay. He turned and started to run back to the cabin, slipping and falling to his knees in the snow.
He scrambled into the cabin, grabbed the phone and punched zero. Immediately, a woman’s voice answered. “Ski patrol.”
“This is the top of Storm Peak Express!” Clive babbled urgently. “Get a paramedic team over here right away. We’ve got a guy who has had a heart attack on the chair.”
The woman’s voice, by contrast to Clive’s, was calm and matter-of-fact.
“Heart attack, top of Storm Peak,” she repeated, punching the details into the computer in front of her. “You want we should alert the Medevac chopper as well?”
There was a slight pause as Clive peered out through the windows at the unmoving figure on the chair. “I think you better,” he said. “This guy doesn’t look good.”
SIXTEEN
I ’d say we’ve got a dyed-in-the-wool serial killer on our hands,” said Jesse quietly.
Lee was back in Ned Puckett’s office for the second time in as many days. This time Jesse was with her. He was standing, leaning against a filing cabinet while Lee, Ned himself and Felix Obermeyer, Chief of the Town Police, were seated around Ned’s desk.
“Now then, Jesse,” said Ned. “Let’s not go jumping to conclusions here. Those aren’t the sort of words we want bandied around where the press can hear them.”
“The press have already
As the chair started around the bullwheel, Clive’s hand shot to the big red kill button beside him. He hit it, sounding the alarm bell briefly and bringing the chairlift sighing to a halt.
The figure in the chair was now eight feet or so from the ground. There was no way he could unload from there, Clive realized. He’d have to back the chair up, bringing the delinquent rider back to the unload ramp.
“Shit!” he said again, reaching for the door handle. As he cracked the door open, the wind shrilled in around him and the telephone linking him to the down mountain loading station rang once. He scooped the receiver up. Before Louis at the base station could ask the obvious question, Clive let him know what was going on.
“Got a skier tried to ride the chair around,” he said, raising his voice against the intrusive wind. “We’ll have to back her up a few yards.”
Louis answered him. “Let me know when you’re doing it.”
Clive nodded, even though the other man couldn’t see him. “Be as quick as I can,” he answered, then hung the phone on its hook and stepped out into the wind and the snow.
He glanced around idly to see if the skier’s companion was waiting for him. There were a couple of skiers nearby, their attention drawn by the alarm bell. But on a day like this people didn’t stand around at the top of the chair. They skied or they went into one of the bars. He checked but none of them was wearing a gray parka. Dumb choice of color anyway, thought Clive. In this weather, a gray parka would blend into the background and the whiteout conditions to make its owner all but invisible.
In Clive’s mind, the more visible you were on the mountain, the less chance you had of some hotshot running into you.
He slipped and slid through the snow to stand directly under the chair.
“Hey, buddy,” he called. “You cannot ride the chair down!”
He spoke precisely, sounding every syllable. The guy was rugged up and the wind was blowing. It didn’t make for perfect conversational conditions.
“You hear me?” he tried again. But there was no movement from the man in the chair. Clive peered more closely at him. He was slumped over in one corner. His head lolled to one side.
“Hey, buddy. You okay?” he yelled, but there was no response and suddenly Clive knew that no, he definitely wasn’t okay. He turned and started to run back to the cabin, slipping and falling to his knees in the snow.
He scrambled into the cabin, grabbed the phone and punched zero. Immediately, a woman’s voice answered. “Ski patrol.”
“This is the top of Storm Peak Express!” Clive babbled urgently. “Get a paramedic team over here right away. We’ve got a guy who has had a heart attack on the chair.”
The woman’s voice, by contrast to Clive’s, was calm and matter-of-fact.
“Heart attack, top of Storm Peak,” she repeated, punching the details into the computer in front of her. “You want we should alert the Medevac chopper as well?”
There was a slight pause as Clive peered out through the windows at the unmoving figure on the chair. “I think you better,” he said. “This guy doesn’t look good.”
SIXTEEN
I ’d say we’ve got a dyed-in-the-wool serial killer on our hands,” said Jesse quietly.
Lee was back in Ned Puckett’s office for the second time in as many days. This time Jesse was with her. He was standing, leaning against a filing cabinet while Lee, Ned himself and Felix Obermeyer, Chief of the Town Police, were seated around Ned’s desk.
“Now then, Jesse,” said Ned. “Let’s not go jumping to conclusions here. Those aren’t the sort of words we want bandied around where the press can hear them.”
“The press have already
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