Snowman (3 page)

Monte motioned her in the direction of the models, and Ken laggardly followed. A few couples were trooplng in and out of the buildings with that detached, reserved air of lookers. Salesmen pursued them relentlessly with floor plans, literature, and offers of free hot rum toddies.

"Well, at least We've got Janice airborne," Cathy said,

looking at the slopes and silently praying for snow. The clouds at the summit of the mountain were darkening, and the weather forecaster had promised a low-pressure system from Canada. But he'd been making the same promise for weeks.

"We still need some kind of media hype," Monte said.

"Opening a new ski resort isn't exactly network news."

In an effort to keep the pressure on her and saddle her with the failure of his salesmen, Ken broke the silence.

"Robert Redford. He's what we need, and he's a skier."

"He's got his own resort, and it's called Sundance."

"Competion's everywhere," Ken muttered darkly.

"Maybe you picked a bum sales team," Monte said, hitting his favorite refrain.

"Monte, they sold the ass off the Bahamas," Ken replied. "These guys moved land that was under water three hundred days a year. They ran inspection tours from boats!"

"Then why can't they sell our condos? The board let me drop the mortgages to eight and a half percent with five percent down. It's the best deal in the country."

"No one's disagreeing," Ken said.

"Do I have to bump up the commissions, is that it?"

"No, the men are hungry enough."

Chartered buses were disgorging hundreds of people behind them at the lodge. Soft flakes of lazy snow began to fall, and Cathy looked up with pleasure.

"God's on our side, gentlemen."

Near the summit of Sierra a violent cleavage occurred. The Snowman crouched low as the spears of iced snow pounded off his barbed trunk. His powerful hands crashed against a sangar, and loose stones were jarred and fell down the slopes. His rage was all-consuming, and he smashed everything in his path as his horned feet dug into the glacier. He began to climb down to the lower slopes, striding rapidly—in flight from the nameless enemy which implacably followed him. He paused at the edge of a snow bridge, then shielded himself in the hollow of a cornice.

In the distance were vague amorphous forms, and his roar was so deep that the snow bridge collapsed.

"Your progress is incredible," Barry told Janice. "Fact is, you're the best pupil I've ever taught." She was making fine looping turns. She'd be worth complete fidelity for the weekend, he thought, picturing her foot bath and a lengthy main event in the sack.

"It's like flying," she said excitedly. She had made two successful runs down the beginners' slope without a fall. "I love it."

Even the ride up the chairlift excited her. There were bright prisms of sunlight shimmering and forming rainbows above the peaks; a halo crowned the summit.

She turned to look at the lodge receding in the background. The chairlift passed over a large wooded area of serried Jeffrey pine trees. The branches rustled in the wind. All around them skiers in brightly colored outfits were going down the slopes. The snow was getting heavier, and she lowered her goggles.

"We can use this," Barry said. "It'll be packed by morning. Perfect conditions."

"Am I ready for the intermediate slope?"

"Let's see how you go on this run."

He leaned over the bar and pressed his face against hers. Then something caught his attention, and he pulled away abruptly.

"What's the matter?"

Coming into her view above them was a single ski. It gathered speed and flashed menacingly as it whipped past other skiers. She sensed the danger without understanding it.

"It's a suicide ski. Somebody's in big trouble."

The chairlift was nearing the get-off point for the intermediate slopes. Barry's body tensed as he searched the slopes for a struggling figure.

"Janice, stay on the lift all the way up. It'll take you down again. Just keep your poles on the outside," he said quickly, then glided off in a quick lithe movement to the booth placed at the get-off point. He signaled a man in the booth and shouted, "Call the ski patrol! I'm going out to look—"

She lost his words in the wind and craned her neck around to watch him sidestep up the slope past the booth. She adjusted the straps of her poles and faced front. The snow flurries were heavier as the lift moved higher. Sharp needles of ice were crashing into her face and bombarding her. The wind had picked up and scoured the flanks of the mountain with the loose falling snow.

It was becoming difficult for her to see, and she squinted through the goggles. The chairlift, caught in a wind current, began to rock wildly, and she grew frightened. As she moved higher, she saw that these slopes were deserted. The sky had turned an ominous slate gray. The mountain was darkening, and the increasing momentum of the snowfall had obliterated the runs. She waved at a solitary skier in the distance and called out to him, but the shrilling whine of the wind drowned out her voice.

"Get me off!" she shouted as the chairlift passed the booth on the advanced slope. She thought she made out a figure huddled in the booth. Above her heavy eaves of snow near the summit had been formed into cornices by the prevailing wind. The lift girdled the great facade of the glacier. The stark, glaring whiteness of the ice sheet blinded her, and her unease caused her to suck in great breaths of air, which burned her lungs. The rarefied air and lack of oxygen slowed her mind down.

It was unreasonable, this panic, she tried to tell herself. Soon she would be coming down and she would be safe. She was alone and she didn't want to think about it, but she couldn't help herself. Tears

froze on her eyelids, forming hard crystals, and her cheeks were becoming numb with frostbite.

Higher up the storm had developed into a blizzard, the sheets of snow masking the relentless cliff lines. The ground below her seemed shaky. There were eerie, rumbling underground noises of ice movement, as if the mountain would cleave open and collapse in an avalanche. When the sky cleared for an instant, she saw a long sloping shelf leading to a vertical crack; the crack widened as she moved.

Her fingers were paralyzed from the cold, and when she attempted to bend them she realized that they were frozen. She almost blacked out in the thin air, but some deep instinct for survival enabled her to fight against the loss of consciousness. A sudden razor shard of light illuminated the summit of the mountain; she had the sense of relief which light inspires. For a moment she was entranced by the astonishing cascades of ice which stretched out in an unbroken line.

A series of triangular tracks resembling geometric rungs of a ladder created a rainbow mirage. As her eyes followed the clear line of the rainbow, she relaxed. She chided herself for her city girl's silly fears about what was nothing more than an extended amusement-park ride. Ridiculous.

In the distance beside the rainbow she thought she discerned the movement of light reflecting a shadow. She could see the complete Sierra range. There were hollow spaces beneath the cliffs, and narrow, twisting ice channels.

The shadow blended in with the ice; there was no contrast. It appeared to be traveling at the same speed as the chairlift, but then it loomed ahead, pulverizing the ice and creating fissures.

Something, she thought, was following her.

An unidentifiable sound echoed from below. For an instant it seemed to come from an animal: the deep enraged growl of a bear. It mystified her.

The chairlift dipped on its route to bypass a steep ridge that jutted up like a bent needle. The rainbow tracks were ahead of her on the other side of the ridge. Suddenly a beam of searing light burned her face; her goggles began to melt. She was too astonished even to cry out. The light vanished, and she wiped her face, blinking rapidly to enable her eyes to focus.

She saw reaching toward her a grotesquely shaped, clawed hand. She swerved away, crashing into the metal pole dividing the lift. The fingers groped, and the form pursued her, keeping pace with the lift. She huddled against the bar. The fngers were upon her, touching her, squeezing the bone in her arm; she felt it splinter. A low agonized whine was the only sound she was capable of.

Her ski poles flew through the air; whirling along with them in free fall was her arm. ripped from its shoulder socket. A long plume of snow vapor turned a blackish red. Her eye's were closed. The hand clasped her right leg, and again disbelief was as intense as the pain.

Granitelike fingers held on to her torso. She forced her eyes open. Words were formed by her lips, but they were stillborn as the Snowman's grotesque massive face came closer. A series of grey-black veins snaked through the flat cheekbones, which were covered by razor-sharp pointed burrs. The nose was deeply recessed and virtually boneless, the forehead a series of angled rock-hard protuberances. The head itself was the size of a barrel and was set on the body with no neck. The gaping mouth opened and clasped her leg.

The snapping jaws echoed, opening and closing like some violent machine . . .

Janice was no longer anybody's headache.

The snowfall built relentlessly, establishing a barrier around the lodge while the parking lot was still filling up with late arrivals. The turnout had been larger than expected. From a small wooden hut Cathy's assistants handed out mimeographed maps of the furnished condominium section which was set aside as rentals.

It was almost five thirty. The lodge lobby was crowded with those who had unpacked and were now exploring the amenities.

Cathy had been looking for Janice for the past hour: She was to be presented to the guests at a seven o'clock "meet and greet, mix and mingle" complimentary cocktail party given by the management. A Snow White evening gown still had to be fitted, and seven kids had been recruited to play the dwarfs.

Cathy searched the Snowplow Bar, now eight deep with merrymakers. She buzzed Janice's room again, without luck. Sierra's single dressmaker was becoming temperamental; she couldn't have the dress ready if Janice didn't report immediately for the fitting. As a last resort, Cathy tried Barry's quarters. There was no answer.

She went out on the terrace. A group of kids were sleighriding down the ski-school slope and throwing snowballs. Her name was paged over the P.A. system, and she went to the phone.

"Janice?"

"No, it's Monte. Where the hell is that idiot? She's due at the slide presentation."

"I've been trying to find her."

"Is she with Barry?"

"His phone doesn't answer.

"If he's honking her now, I'll have his ass on a skewer and he can pack it in and ski the hell cross-country back to Vail."

"Monte, I'll meet you at his place."

She hung up, zipped up her parka, and put on her hood.

The instructors were housed on the brow of a hill in the development's first building catastrophe, an octagonal affair shaped like a meatball and christened La Rosa Towers. It was unsalable and fit only for employee housing. She waited for Monte in the lobby.

His jeep pulled up, and he stormed down the corridor to Barry's apartment; Cathy had to run to keep up with him. A towel was knotted around the doorknob, indicating that Barry was inside and busy. Monte rang the doorbell. At the fourth ring, Barry came to the door, opened it an inch, and asked who it was.

Monte pushed past him, and Cathy followed reluctantly. Barry had a towel draped around his waist.

"Where's Sugarplum?" Monte demanded.

"Depends on who you mean."

"Janice," Cathy said.

"I haven't seen her since I left her on the slope. I took it for granted she was with you, Cathy."

"Bullshit," Monte said.

"Honestly, Monte. I had to leave her on the lift because some guy lost a ski; he broke his leg on Helter Skelter."

"You'll forgive me if I don't believe you," Monte insisted, thrusting Barry aside and throwing open the bedroom door.

Lying on the floor, her feet coiled in rope stirrups, her wrists locked in plastic grips, Linda Crown was doing a body-scissors exercise. Linda gave the under-six nursery-group ski instruction. Now she was naked, puzzled, but friendly.

"Where the hell is Janice?"

"Not here," Linda said, unthreading her limbs from the exercise rope.

Monte eased the door closed. "You were tellling the truth."

"What's so astonishing about that?"

Monte turned to Cathy for assistance.

"I guess it just seemed logical that she'd be with you. We haven't been able to find her," Cathy explained, "and you had a bet with Erich . . . and I thought . . ." Cathy faltered.

"I had other things to do."

"But how could you just leave her?" Cathy asked accusingly.

"Don't tell me my business. Someone out on the run with one ski takes precedence. Anyhow, Janice was doing fine—and she was on the chairlift. Now why don't the two of you shove off."

A sense of foreboding governed Cathy's actions. She spent the next few hours going through the lodge with several instructors, searching for Janice. They checked the bar, and had Janice paged at fifteen-minute intervals. The local taxi-service dispatcher sent messages to his drivers, giving Janice's description; the car-rental agencies and the airport were also questioned. In desperation, Cathy decided to visit the condominiums to see if Janice had by some chance run into a friend and was having an innocent drink. All the while Cathy greeted new check-ins, was battered by tiresome questions about linen, firewood, and mealtimes. Dozens of times she passed the lines outside the main warming hut, where people waited to get their boots and be fitted with skis. Occasionally a smart-ass would shout out to her—"Did you find
him
yet?"—which heightened her tension and became a jangled refrain.

By ten that night her nerves were gone. A desolate, unremitting voice within her insisted that Janice was out there, buried under the lashing gale of snow which had begun to fall that afternoon. Heavy gusts of wind thrashed the loose drifts.