and often made it, whether scheduled or not. His aimless fleeing to New Hampshire last spring, after the sudden death of his wife of twelve years, had been the right move. There was a fascination to the White Mountains. He wondered if those who lived in other mountainous areas felt the same about their home turf. Probably. Though here in the Presidential Range he could reach their tops without the rope and pitons required by upstart angular peaks. Climbing through churchly spires of pine and fir and fluttering parties of birch and beech, by casual brooks with elderly rocks, rounded by age, in gurgling conversation. The snap of a twig might be a deer or bear; the scurry of a raccoon had recently been replaced by the crashing of a blundering moose.
As he rounded the last turn in the trail, he saw his wife of two months on the front deck of the base station. Her back was to him, and he allowed his momentum to carry him up the snow-covered ramp to land with a clatter of skis on the wooden deck next to her.
“Whup,” Cilla blinked. “I should have known. My husband refuses to show proper respect for his boss.” She looked up at a boyish grin. “But he might have a little for that middle aged body he throws around so carelessly.”
“He took a child bride to keep him young, not to badger him with insults on his mature physique. Which incidentally didn’t get that way on cauliflower and broccoli. If I brought a steak home tonight would you let it in the house?”
“Surprise. I already have one. If you’re headed home throw some potatoes in the oven for the two of us. Andre’s eating out with Bob.”
Home was a rambling farmhouse, white with gray shutters and a center chimney, sprawling beneath oaks and pines on Bartlett’s Swallow Hill Road, some ten minutes from the ski area. The screen porch across the entire front was entered either from the middle or the garage end on the far right. To the left of the center front door an old-fashioned two-person couch swung gently in the breeze. Outside under the snow cover was a substantial lawn, well cared for by the previous owner, though the geese he’d allowed to run on it were gone.
After steak, which Hudson thought quite good despite the disdain of the chef, he got a fire going.
“You and Kurt had words this afternoon.”
“
“Leftovers from Carr?”
“We haven’t really had a chance to talk. The business with Andre has got me a little worried.”
“Our houseguest?” He adjusted his chair to the left of the fireplace.
“I met him when he came into my office breathing fire. Apparently Adams sent Carr a letter a year ago, which he never answered, just dumped in a folder. Ever hear of the Indiana Bat?”
“Is it like the Highland Fling?”
“It’s a bat, Hudson. One of those things that fly around at night. Adams claims one was sighted last spring here at Great Haystack.”
“Sure, I see them all the time in the base lodge.”
“In Isis Cave. Stay with me on this.” Isis Cave was a small flue, ten foot high and fifty foot deep, on a shoulder of Great Haystack, which currently was being developed for grove skiing.
“So?”
“He seemed pretty puffed when he came in, saying things like `the sighting has serious federal implications.’”
“Because bats have crossed state lines? They’re probably now subject to the Interstate Commerce Commission.”
“Or the FBI.”
“Nut or not, I’m sure glad he was where he was the other day. Ice climbing! You really used to do it as a kid?” Hudson leaned back in his chair and gazed at his wife in wonder.
Cilla waved it off. “Back when I was on the ski patrol at Great Haystack.”
“Why?”
She turned on the table lamp between the chairs. “We were kids. We’d do anything.”
“Climbing an icicle… I suppose there’s a way to keep from sliding off?”
“The shoes are the important things. We didn’t have any of the fancy equipment we used the other day, but we had the shoes. There are half inch metal pieces in the toe that stick into the ice. And crampons on the soles.”
“A whole half-inch to keep you nice and secure a hundred feet up. Suppose you lean back?”
“You don’t.”
Hudson nodded and got up to poke at the fire. “We’ll try another subject. How do you feel about having a double out there somewhere?”
“They say everyone has one; you just don’t usually run into them. Makes me feel funny, as though I’d been cloned. I’d like to meet her. She’s apparently about my age.”
“And he’s close to mine?” He turned to Cilla.
She studied him. “Maybe a little younger. Certainly not a middle aged man.”
“Like the geezer who’s married to his young chick boss?”
Cilla put her arms around his neck. “How do
“Excited. How many guys get to hit on their general managers without waking up on the street?”
“Now you’ve done it, reminded me of work. Britton left a note, there’s a problem with the air we’ve rented.” She let her arms fall to her sides.
“And we’re practically on grass now, with the holiday week coming up. What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t either. He’s trying to figure it out tonight.”
“Okay. I’d better go. He may need a hand, and I should know more about the snowmaking system.” Hudson shrugged into a parka.
“Are you all talk?”
“What gave me away?”
“This bragging about hitting on general managers. Just hot air?”
“Can this be the innocent child I married, propositioning an employee?”
“And still scared to death doing it.”
Hudson added a furry hat, thinking of another that may have saved him from a cracked skull. Or worse. He’d said nothing to Cilla about the attack and didn’t intend to. “Think how far you’ve come.”
“In some ways. The other day a man opened the ladies locker room door at the club. By mistake. I was in my underwear and I froze. Couldn’t move a muscle. He apologized and quickly closed the door, but I was shaking.”
“Good thing for him he was quick. It may have saved his masculinity.”
It was light before the snowmaking system was back in operation. Hudson yawned as he paused at the entrance to Swallow Hill Road to let several cars heading in the opposite direction go by. His left turn signal was blinking, and he had started his turn when a pickup behind him suddenly shot by nearly clipping his left fender. He
