Tough Cookie

Rodder, neon yellow ropes stretched on bamboo poles across the entry to that particular slope. One of the ski patrol’s Closed! Hazardous Conditions! signs swung from the middle of the ropes. Which way would Doug have gone? Beyond Hot-Rodder lay a double-black diamond run—the most challenging and dangerous—with the happy name of Coffin-Builder. Few skiers were bold enough to vault down that turnoff. The ones who did were lean and fast; they hung briefly in the air and then plummeted from view. That was probably where Doug had gone. It was where I would not go.

To my left, a blue run named Jitterbug beckoned. Before deciding which way to go, I waited for a noisy class of snowboarders on its way down Teddy Bear. Their instructor, clad in a bright blue ski school uniform, led the group as it artfully carved the snow. The kids balanced on their boards, adjusted to nuances in the terrain, extended their arms, and leaned into the hill—all as graceful and quick as surfers. I thought I spotted Arch in his new burgundy jacket, but when I called his name into the blowing snow, there was no response. Without a glance in my direction, the young snow-boarders slid swiftly past.

I was cold. Icy pinpricks of snow fell on my cheeks and lips. I shivered inside my jacket and headed toward Jitterbug, which I knew to be a curvy blue run without too many surprises. At the base, Doug would be ticked off with me. But there was no way I was skiing down Coffin-Builder.

The few straight stretches of Jitterbug were bordered by trees on the left and a yellow cord to the right. After a few moments, I stopped on the right side of the slope to rest. Snow obscured the far mountains, but the vista downward was breathtaking. The yellow cord marked a no-man’s-land of rocks and pines that led down to two steep mogul fields, Hot-Rodder closest to me, Coffin-Builder beyond. On Coffin-Builder, a handful of expert skiers zigged and zagged through the bumps. I certainly hoped that it was Arch I’d seen at the top of Jitterbug. If I thought he was boarding down a black run, I’d probably have a heart attack.

I skied fast down the next section of Jitterbug. When I careened around a bend, I spied a crowd of people clustered ahead of me. Digging in my skis, I sent up a cloud of snow as I came to an abrupt halt.

Why was everybody stopped?

Something scraped my cheek and I pulled back. It was a large shred of ash. Or a torn chunk of map. Without thinking, I tried to catch it. It was indeed a wadded piece of paper. That’s when I realized that, along with the snow, this large confetti was coming down everywhere. It was as if someone had torn up a newspaper and carelessly dumped the crumpled bits of litter from the lift.

Litter?

“Mom, hey, Mom!” Arch’s voice sailed past me. “Over here!”

I turned, but did not see my son. All around, gaggles of skiers had halted and were scooping up the tumbling papers. I did not see any snowboarders. “Arch!” I cried into the melee. “Where are you?”

“Here, Mom!” Suddenly my son scraped his snowboard next to my skis. Swathed in his dark red outfit and a stay-warm ski mask that made him look like an escapee from a horror movie, Arch clutched a handful of the paper. His prescription goggles had been pulled up at an angle on the top of his head, and I could just make out his merry brown eyes above the mouth mask. “Money!” he announced. “Hundred-dollar bills! It’s falling with the snow! Here,” he squawked as he thrust a fistful of bills at me. “Put these in your pocket, would ya?” Before I could protest, he scooted off on the board to retrieve more of the falling cash.

There was squawking and yelling among the skiers now, as a sudden updraft swirled the precious bills heavenward, where they mixed with a new tornado of flakes. A member of the ski patrol showed up and started hollering ineffectually for order.

Still uncomprehending, I stood grasping the wad of bills Arch had handed me, then stuffed them into my pocket. I dug in my poles and scooted to the slope’s right side. An abrupt shift in the wind spun up a fresh storm of bills. The money smacked my goggles and I was momentarily blinded. I wiped the bills away and strained to see their source. They seemed to be blowing up from somewhere below where I stood.

To my right, the yellow boundary cord had torn loose from its moorings. The cord lay in a loop, then disappeared under the snow. Past the boundary pole, a row of boulders obscured the drop to the lower slope. I hesitated, then cautiously skied to the torn yellow rope. With great care, I glided down to the edge of the rocks that stood between Jitterbug and the steep drop-off to Hot-Rodder.

The view of the lower run was obscured by more boulders and a cluster of pines. Several sets of tracks led through the trees, while more circled the rocks. Money continued to fall. Damn. I had a very sinking feeling, despite the gleeful cries from the skiers downslope. Using the perpendicular-to-the-mountain two-step taught to all beginning skiers when they need to get uphill, I maneuvered up and around the rock pile.

On the far side of a boulder below me, a cowboy hat lay at the base of a small, barren aspen tree. A chill ran through me. Squatting cautiously on my skis, I slid carefully to the edge of the drop-off.

Sprawled next to a mogul, Doug Portman lay motionless in the crisp white snow. His legs seemed to be tangled with one of his skis. Beside the sharp half of a broken pole, his left arm was impossibly contorted. A splotch of blood was spreading on the snow.

“Ski patrol,” I whispered, as I turned and worked my way back up to Jitterbug run. “I—we—need help.”

The crowd of skiers on Jitterbug were still grabbing at the whirling shreds of paper tumbling down with the snowflakes. “Help!” I called. No one paid attention. The bills swirled and landed on the slope, on moguls, on boulders, on branches of pine trees. Greedy hands reached impatiently for them.

I unsnapped my bindings, hefted up my skis, and crammed them into the snow in the X-position, the emergency signal for ski patrol to stop and give assistance. Then I lunged back through the snow to the edge of the run, below the coiled yellow rope and the row of boulders. Surely Doug would be all right … They would send in a chopper and take him to safety.…

“Mom!” I recognized Arch’s ski mask bobbing toward me. He was scooting himself forward, one foot on the snowboard. “Mom, what’s wrong? Where are your skis? Mom?”

I put both hands straight out in front of me, warning my son to stop. Then, praying even as a stone formed in my chest, I glanced over the cliff. From this vantage point, I could see Doug Portman. He hadn’t moved.

I didn’t want Arch to see him. I knew Doug Portman was dead.

CHAPTER 5

Mom!” Arch’s voice had grown desperate. “Why are your skis crossed? Mom? Are you hurt?”

I shook my head. Unnerved by my silence and outstretched hands, Arch finally skidded his snowboard to a stop.

Around us, the snow fell. Where was the patrol? Another torrent of bills swirled up from the lower run. More jubilant skiers joined those already on the plateau. They stretched, bent, fell, and rolled out of their skis as they merrily dived for cash.

“Agh!” A woman’s shriek cut through the din. I could not make out who had screamed. “That’s disgusting!” shouted a tallish woman as she flung bills onto the snow. “That’s blood! There’s blood on it!” Her eyes searched the slope above. She saw me, my crossed skis, and my son, motionless on his snowboard. She took off down the hill.

The skiers hoarding the bills slowed their grasping movements. Heads bent to inspect the money. Suddenly, mittened hands were throwing down fistfuls of cash. More bloodstained bills blew upward, swirled with the snow, then resettled on the slope. In places, the money left erratic pink trails. Skiers pushed off queasily, suddenly eager to be away.

“Mom! What is wrong?”

“What’s going on?” barked a man who’d skied up to Arch. Tall and lean, he wore stylish wrap sunglasses and a uniform. Ski patrol, I thought, in numb relief. A thick red headband held back his gray hair. “Are you all right?” he asked my son. “Whose skis are these?”

Arch gestured and I waved my hands over my head. Another skier hockey-stopped six inches behind me, churning a wave of snow into my face. He too demanded to know what was happening. The ski patrolman shunted away this intruder by assuring him he had the situation completely under control. The skier took off and the patrolman addressed me. “Can you talk? Where are you hurt?” The patrolman’s light blue eyes, gray eyebrows, and well-tanned, deeply wrinkled skin conveyed a seriousness I felt I could trust.