Killer Mountain

ago.

Actually, she knew just a fraction of what she felt was there to know about her new husband. But that had been enough. She’d spend the next fifty or so years getting to know the rest. And with Hudson there’d be something new learned every week, because very little of himself was made available to others at any one time. A tall man at nearly six foot three with wrestler’s shoulders, yet gentle, almost shy. She’d seen the delight he took in a miniature waterfall appearing unexpectedly around a bend in the trail; enjoyed with him the quiet of a softwood forest roofed by tall pines, where one could almost hear “the tiptoe of a bird” - where had she heard that phrase? Hudson had found his home in Bartlett, New Hampshire next to the National Forest. From the sluggish flatlander she’d first met last June whose idea of a nature trip was a ride on the swan boats in Boston’s Public Garden, he’d developed - partly through her she admitted - an appreciation for each plant, each animal and a place where they could grow together without human interference.

A triple knock on the door announced her mountain manager: late-thirties; dark good looks, solidly built. Kurt Britton had the self confident, almost aggressive bearing of the Marine Corps captain he had been until hired by Floyd Carr, the ski area’s former general manager, two years before.

“The summit’s getting gusts over forty.”

“Had we better close the triple?”

“Already done. The east chair and the Borvigs can handle the crowd we’ve got today.” He paused. “We took a little kid to the hospital. Not skiing, at the nursery. Two years old. Jill found her unconscious in that little penned area; she’d been making snow cookies.” He looked at notes. “Susie Tarden. We reached the mother in the base lodge; she’s gone with her.”

Cilla rose from her chair.

“You’re not planning to go to the hospital yourself.”

“Of course.”

“That’s not the job of the General Manager.”

“She got sick at my area.”

“A lot of people have accidents at a ski area. You can’t follow each one to the hospital.”

“This isn’t a ski accident. This is a child, Kurt. A baby.”

“What can you do there that the doctors can’t?”

“I can at least show that we care.”

Kurt shook his head.

“You don’t agree?”

“That’s your problem. You’re too soft with people. And it shows in your relations with employees.”

“What does that mean?”

“You have tea with Gail every day, for example.”

“So?”

“It takes her away from her work.”

“If you mean today, her shift was over.”

“You know what I mean. She’s just a ticket seller.”

“No. She’s a friend.”

“Can’t you see how it looks? She’s an employee. You’re the general manager.”

“And I’m twenty-five years old just learning the business; she’s fifty and been in it thirty. There’s a lot I can learn from her.” She turned her palms up. “Maybe you could too if you took the time.”

His eyes locked onto hers. “I know my job.”

She nodded. “Yes you do, or you wouldn’t still have it. Kurt, you’ve obviously become a fine mountain manager in just two years. I’m impressed with your ability to pick things up. You learn fast, and I don’t have to second-guess you when it comes to the mountain. With people it’s a different story. We’re running a ski area not a boot camp. You can’t treat people here like recruits.”

“You can’t treat them like your flower people and still have an organization.”

Cilla sat back in her chair. She’d left the ashram barely four months ago after two years of what he’d consider aberrant behavior, maybe communist, certainly disorderly living. She knew what he saw: a tall skinny hippie in the seat of authority. Perhaps where he felt he should sit. She studied him. His ski pants were neatly pressed. His muscular frame stretched an expensive Norwegian sweater. Rapidly thinning hair on his head suggested an oversupply on his chest, confirmed by tufts sprouting from his collar. What had Hudson said about barrel chests? Prone to heart attacks. Sometimes that was true about men in general. The stronger they looked the more vulnerable they were. Like big dogs. Irish wolfhounds last only half as long as smaller more fragile looking breeds. This wolfhound liked to strain at the leash.

She sighed. “You’ve got your generations mixed, Kurt. Right now I’m going to finish these checks and then I’m going to the hospital. We’ll discuss this later.” She bent forward over her desk and started signing.

Momentarily taken aback, Kurt opened his mouth as if to speak, thought better of it, did a right about face and closed the door a little more firmly than necessary behind him.

Cilla looked up at the sound. There was a showdown coming with Mr. Britton. She hoped she wouldn’t have to let him go. He was really good at his job, and the men who worked the snowmaking and the grooming of the slopes and trails followed him enthusiastically. If he went they might too.

Ruth, the ski area receptionist, rang her line. “There’s a man named Andre Adams who’s coming by to see you this afternoon at one o’clock. I’m sorry, Cilla, he didn’t give me a chance to say `hold it’, just said he’d be here and hung up.”

“Any idea what he wants?”

“He said he was from Silent Spring, whatever that is.”

“Isn’t that the environmental group that gave Skiway such a hard time with their expansion some years ago?”

“Yes! That’s right! But that’s because Skiway wanted to use some National Forest land, isn’t it? We’re not on National Forest.”

“No, we’re just a neighbor. Thanks, Ruth. I’ll see what Mr. Adams wants.”

As it happened, a flat tire at lunch in the village made her half an hour late. Ruth greeted her at the employee entrance.

“Where have you been?” Her chubby body quivered under a hastily donned ski jacket.

“Sorry. Car troubles. Happened on the way back from the hospital, so I couldn’t call…don’t look at me like that. I didn’t have my cell phone. I take it Adams has arrived.”

“I put him in your office. The way he chewed my head off he may eat the furniture.”

“I’m sorry to put you through that. He’s a bear, huh?”

“Who’s not hibernating. How’s the little girl?”

“Not so good. She’s still unconscious; I’m going back later.”

The bear had his back to the door, gazing out the window at ski lift operators getting ready for the day’s crowds, as she entered saying, “Mr. Adams, I do apologize…

“Mrs. Rogers, you are obviously not aware of the seriousness of the situation…” He turned to face her, a lecturing finger raised. And stopped. “You… you’re Mrs. Rogers?”

“Yes, and I was saying… Are you all right?” Adams indeed looked as though he’d hit a plate glass door that had suddenly materialized between them.

“I… Yes… Yes, of course.” He gained control. Cilla saw a slim, well-built man in his mid to late thirties with rimless, octagonal glasses and a pointed face that right now carried a look of astonishment. “You took me by surprise. You look very much like… another person I know. You don’t have a sister…? No, of course not. At least Loni doesn’t.” He took a breath. “I seem to be babbling, don’t I. That’s not like me. May I sit down?”

“Of course.” Cilla indicated a two chair grouping around a coffee table and took one herself. A strange start. This Loni must be someone special to him.

Adams saw her look. “Loni is, or rather was, an important person in my life.” He peered at Cilla more closely. “Yes, I can see the differences. But you could be twins.”

Cilla waited.

“But of course that’s not why I’m here.” He rustled papers. “There is a report of the sighting of an animal