Tucker Peak

Chapter 8

One of the many disadvantages of living in Tucker Peak’s employee housing was that I’d been given a roommate, a concept I hadn’t thought possible for several decades, aside from having briefly lived with Gail. Fortunately, he was an older man, a kitchen worker named Fred who didn’t favor loud music, didn’t snore too loudly, and wasn’t too much of a slob. He did come from the old school, though, that dictated regular bathing to be antithetical to proper thermal insulation during the winter. As a result, he smelled bad enough to make my eyes water.

He wasn’t in the room much, however, and was already gone when I woke up from only four hours of sleep the next morning.

But not for long. He came banging through the door just as I was pulling on my pants. “Max, come outside. You gotta see this.”

I looked at his wide, excited, bloodshot eyes and decided not to argue, pulling my boots on without socks and my coat without a shirt, all while Fred stood before me, literally dancing from foot to foot, chanting, “You won’t believe it, you won’t believe it.”

It was, admittedly, a sight to behold. Standing at the edge of the employee parking lot, the only vantage point from which the mountain was visible around the bulk of the “Mountain Ops” building, were most of the dorm’s inhabitants, many of them half dressed as I was, and all of them staring at a pop artist’s dream from the 1960s. Blotching the mountainside across several of its broad trails were a series of large yellow stains, looking exactly like oversize urine deposits. The very snow Bucky and I had been pushing around last night, but whose color we couldn’t discern in the artificial light.

“Ain’t that too much?” Fred asked, pounding me on the back. “That marketing bunch must be smokin’ something harsh.”

The marketing bunch, of course, were fit to be tied, which is exactly what the Tucker Protection League protesters had intended when they’d drilled holes through the ice of the existing snowmakers’ source pond the night before and injected untold gallons of nontoxic yellow dye. Not only did the end-result supply its own highly suggestive message but also, if the mountain managers wished to continue making snow (since the pipeline to the second pond hadn’t yet been laid), they’d have to live with its being yellow until the water’s spring-fed source diluted it back to normal.

Not that alternatives weren’t quasi-hysterically considered. As I walked around the base lodge-and the glassed-in, futuristic scale-model fantasy of itself that sat smack in the middle of the lobby like a wedding cake-I overheard heated discussions ranging from adding another color to the yellow to make it more attractive, to importing snow from other places until the crisis passed, and finally-the winner-to making the best of a bad situation by using the camera crews the protesters had already summoned to launch a reverse-spin publicity spiel about being the most colorful resort in Vermont. A contest was even suggested in which people would be issued additional dye of all colors with which to paint the mountain psychedelically from top to bottom.

The fevered pitch of the debate was such that not only was I totally ignored as I moved along the executive hallway with my bag of tools but also I finally got to see Conan Gorenstein, the reclusive CFO, step out of his enclave to join in some of the chatter. A pale, bald, retiring-looking man, he didn’t last long and disappeared after offering a few totally ignored suggestions.

Through it all, the TPL protesters, whom Phil McNally was still reluctant to forcibly evict, chanted with renewed enthusiasm, their ranks temporarily swollen, and marched around with banners and picket signs, otherwise adding to the carnival atmosphere. Privately, I had to hand it to McNally. Any other CEO would’ve called for the National Guard. Instead, he stood before the cameras, merely asked that the TPL be respectful of everyone’s rights, and closed by offering his critics free food and ski passes, much to their obvious disgust and frustration. Shortly thereafter, in an additional display of oneupmanship, he dressed a few of his employees like protesters on the sly, complete with signs, and had them photographed riding the primary, western chairlift and enjoying his proffered amenities.

It all made me think back to the mountain’s overall beleaguered state, and of McNally’s reputed canniness in dealing with it. If this resort had any chance at survival, it seemed to me this man would be responsible for it.

I got a bird’s-eye view of the evening’s dye job later on, when I was told to go to the summit building to put in some trim work. Traditionally, that meant hitching a ride on one of the snow vehicles that regularly traveled the mountain carrying workers, supplies, or occasionally wounded skiers. But the option was ours, more or less, so I took the opening ride on the eastern lift to soak up the morning sun and enjoy the scenery. One odd aspect of undercover work is that a good deal of the time, in order to maintain cover, you simply have to play the role you’ve assumed, asking no questions and practicing no subversion.

And at moments like that one, such sacrifices are easily borne. The air was clear and sharp, the breeze nonexistent, and the sky a cobalt blue hard enough to hurt the eye. As the chair slowly slid up the multihued slope below, the lower mountains of the bowl, through which the access road had been cut, dropped away and allowed for an ever expanding panorama of the landscape outside this enclosed and introverted community. The Green Mountains spread out to the horizon, snow-capped, bristling with conifers and naked hardwoods, and shaded in subtle grades of heather, gray, light brown, and purple. Ahead of me, still high overhead, was the row of surreal windmills twirling in the apparent calm, looking like whirligigs, their long, slender blades flashing in the sun.

I had just twisted around in my chair to admire the fake-Swiss-village look of the base lodge, when I heard a woman shout in alarm down the line. An empty chair, just beyond the one below me, was gathering speed as it began slipping backward toward a woman and her child, helplessly trapped, their eyes wide with panic. Their legs weighted down with skis, only a flimsy bar separating them from several hundred pounds of metal, the woman and her daughter began to scream.

Until the chairs collided. Following a solid smash and a small, thin wail, there was total silence. The remaining chair between us carried a frightened teenage boy with a snowboard dangling from one foot.

“Oh, man. Oh, Jesus. Holy shit… ”

“Can you see how they’re doing?” I shouted down to him.

“It’s bad. Shit. She’s like bleeding, man.”

“What’s your name?”

He stared at me, open-mouthed. “What?”

“Your name.”

“Spike. People call me Spike. It’s not my real name, but… ”

“Spike’s fine,” I interrupted. “I need you to get real focused here, Spike. You need to help me help those two people, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

“Tell me how they’re doing.”

He glanced back over his shoulder before reporting, “The little girl looks okay-mostly scared. But the mom’s bleeding bad. It’s dripping off her boot and she’s like unconscious or something.”

“Is she staying put in her chair or does it look like she might fall out?”

He didn’t have to double-check this time. “She’s real wobbly, man, slumped over and kind of sliding maybe.”

The lift had stopped moving, the accident having triggered an automatic shut-off, and the chairs were swinging peacefully, silently.

I tucked my legs up, swung around in my chair, and stood up. I could just reach the steel tow cable overhead.

“What’re you doin’, man?” Spike shouted.

“I’m going on your recommendation, kiddo. If it looks like that woman’s about to fall, it could kill her at this height, especially since we’re over rocks here. I’ve got to try to reach her.” I stared at him purposefully. “So you better tell me if you really think she’s slipping.”

The disappointment and fear in his voice lent him credibility. “She’s going. I’m sorry. It’s slow, but she’s going.”

I sighed. I knew the ski patrol would be here soon, once maintenance told them the cause of the shut-down. I also knew that while efficient, such a system took time to get moving, and the first snowmobile hadn’t even showed up yet.

I had several things going for me. I’d done rope training similar to this just recently to pass the VBI physical, I was wearing construction boots and coveralls instead of bulky ski clothes, and my work gloves were made of heavy leather. Convincing myself these were weighty advantages, and not thinking too much of my own chances of surviving a forty-foot drop to the boulder field below, I grasped the cable in both hands, swung my feet up so they crossed over the top at the ankles, and began working my way downline.

I was about halfway to Spike’s chair, aware of the aching in my arms but still feeling okay, when I heard the first snowmobile growling in the distance. A few minutes later a voice rose from the rider who’d had to walk the last distance because of the rough terrain.

He sounded distinctly alarmed. “Sir. Sir. You can’t do that. It’s too dangerous. Professional help is on the way.”

I didn’t have the energy to deal with that. “Spike,” I called out.

Spike was getting into the mood of the thing. “Yo.”

“Explain the realities to this guy.”

The young man launched into a convoluted diatribe, overriding the voice below that constantly told me to stop, as if that were an option. When I reached Spike’s chair, however, I knew not only that my actions had been justified but also that I was possibly too late. The woman, still a hundred feet away, was looking worse than I’d imagined, half out of her seat, her head lolling, one ski free of the footrest, the other one jammed but threatening to join the first and deprive her of any anchor at all.

“I think she’s cooked,” Spike said softly.

“Not till she hits the ground,” I told him, no longer sure that was true.

I looked around for something to help speed my progress and finally focused on the man below.

“I’m a mountain employee, too. A carpenter. You have any tools on your sled? I left mine behind.” I pointed to the distant toolbox next to where I’d been sitting.

He glanced at his machine, parked on the snow some fifteen feet off to the side. “What’re you after?”

“A hammer, maybe. Something with a hook. Fast.”

He was already moving, no doubt resigned I’d do what I would in any case. “A crowbar.”

“Even better. Fast as you can.”

He returned in under a minute holding a short crowbar.

“Throw it up. And aim right. I don’t want to do this twice.”

Unquestioning now, he followed instructions, climbing the tallest rock he could find to reduce the distance between us and then lofting the heavy tool underhanded with all his strength, so it shot straight up at us and then poised in midair. Both Spike and I grabbed it simultaneously.

“What’re you going to do?” the teenager asked, letting go.

I hooked the crowbar over the cable above me. “Probably kill myself. Watch your head.”

He leaned away as I grabbed the bottom end of the crowbar. The little girl was watching me, her small, pale face tiny in the distance. I considered trying to talk to her but realized the distance made that a waste of more time. I tightened my grip and pushed off.

My intention had been to control my descent by swinging my feet up as I had earlier and using them as a brake, but the angle was so steep and the cable so slick that I shot off as from a catapult, dangling like a streamer on a kite, all notions of swinging my feet anywhere defeated.

Instead, I watched with growing panic as the tangled two chairs and the woman squeezing her way between them loomed up with ferocious speed.

The foregone conclusion spoke for itself. Not only would I smack into my target hard enough to be killed or maimed but also the impact would probably jar the woman free, and maybe knock the child off as well.

So much for professional help.

Feeling the strength all but gone in both my arms, I nevertheless gave one convulsive heave on the crowbar, pulled myself up for an instant, and grabbed hold of the whistling cable with one hand, now only some fifteen feet from the chair ahead.

The effect was frightening, extremely painful, and instantaneous. My body, suddenly slowed, swung forward, pulling my arm half out of its socket. The crowbar jumped off the cable, smacked me in the chest, and went sailing into the void. And my right hand, now the only thing keeping me from total free flight, instantly began to burn from the friction.

But it worked. Like some preplanned if graceless circus act, I slid to a stop just to where I could place my feet gently on the intertwined chairs, and I wrapped my free arm around the first hanger arm, subconsciously praying my weight wouldn’t bring everything down.

It didn’t, and since my face was now inches away from the loose chair’s cable grip, I could see that while it had obviously slipped, it was still securely attached. Only then did I look down at the approximately six-year-old face staring up at my feet, her eyes the size of silver dollars.

“Hi, sweetie. What’s your name?” I asked, surprised I could even speak.

She didn’t answer as I gingerly climbed through the accidental jungle gym toward her, my entire body tingling from exertion and adrenaline.

“Mine’s Max. I’m here to help your mommy. She’s your mom, right?”

The head nodded. I saw people collecting rapidly far below us, talking on radios, sorting out equipment. I knew they were shouting at me, but I continued to ignore them.

I ended up kneeling on the first chair, which was pressed tightly against the second, squeezing the mother’s chest. I stretched out to grab her under the arms when with a slight groan, she slipped again and almost fell free. I snatched the front of her parka and arrested her fall. She groaned with pain and her eyes opened.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I got you.” I tried unsuccessfully to pull her back up.

“My skis are stuck,” she murmured.

I looked down. She was right. Both skis were now below the footrest, preventing her from being hauled onto the chair.

I glanced at the young girl. “Sweetie?”

“Mary.” Her voice was barely audible.

“Wonderful. Mary it is. Mary, I’m going to ask you to hang on to your mom as tight as you can, okay? I’ll help, too, but I’ve got to use my other hand to undo her skis. Put one arm through the slats in back of the chair, and the other one around her chest, and squeeze as tight as you can. Can you do that?”

Without a word, she followed directions, compressing her lips with serious intent.

Slowly, tentatively, I eased my hold on her mother with one hand and began reaching for her skis, hanging almost upside down in the process. Luckily, the skis were new, the bindings not set too tightly, and the first of them fell away on my first try.

But the second was harder to reach, and as my outstretched fingers got hold of the binding release, something shifted between the chairs. Mary let out a small cry, and her mother’s body began sliding by my head. Fearing I’d lose them both, and my own balance in the bargain, I caught hold of the woman’s fanny-pack belt and reared back with all my strength. We shot up, the last ski smacking against the footrest and springing free on its own, and we all ended up staring at each other in a pile on the chair, Mary crying and her mother screaming with pain.

But at least safe from falling.

Which is when I finally took more careful notice of the blood-on me, on the mother, even on Mary. Dark, arterial blood, which accounted for the reduced consciousness.

“Mary,” I said. “Get your mom to talk to you. I need her to wake up.”

Mary stopped crying and took her mother’s face in her small hands, as suddenly calm as any doctor. “Mommy. Mommy. Talk to me.”

The woman opened her eyes and asked me feebly, “Who are you?”

“Max. What do I call you?”

“Jill.” She sounded half asleep.

“Tell me exactly where it hurts so I can try to stop the bleeding.”

One of her hands fluttered near her right thigh. “I tried to stop the chair with my pole.”

I pulled a folding knife out of my pocket, cut her ski pants at the site, and found a deep puncture wound, steadily pumping blood. I infiltrated my hand through the rip, pressed my thumb hard against where I could feel a faint pulse, and instantly saw the bleeding stop.

My nose was almost touching hers by now. “Jill,” I said softly. Her eyes were closed again. “I got it. People are below getting ready to pull us out of here. Mary’s fine and she’s been a big help. All we need for you to do is to keep on breathing. Keep awake and keep breathing. Will you do that?”

“Sure, she will,” Mary said, and I believed her.

Three hours later Linda Bettina-tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in stained work clothes-found me at the summit house where I’d finally begun putting up the trim I’d been assigned to that morning. She was accompanied by a young, aggressive-looking woman in expensive, tailored skiwear. It was clear at a glance who between them could decipher the contents of the average toolbox.

“Hey, Linda,” I said, looking up from measuring a cut.

“Hey, yourself, Batman. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I straightened up and parked my pencil behind my ear. “Meaning what?”

She smiled. “Meaning any other dumb bastard would be taking a break after what you pulled. Which maybe you should do anyway if you plan to collect any workman’s comp.”

I shook my head. “I’m fine. A bit sore. A little rope burn on one hand. The doc checked me out at the base lodge.”

That clearly met with her approval, and she dropped the subject.

“How’s the patient?” I asked.

“You saved her life. And I think the little girl wants you as a dad.”

“Probably not a good idea.” I glanced at the young woman, who’d already snuck a look at her watch.

Linda Bettina followed my gaze, her expression hardening slightly. “This is Stephanie Jones from marketing. They’d like to make a little hay out of your trapeze act, if that’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

There was an awkward silence as Stephanie froze in midsmile and rethought her opening line. “It’s not?” was all she managed.

“Nope.” I noticed Linda Bettina smile before pretending to look out a window.

“Why not? You’re a hero. The press really wants to see this. It’s such good news.”

“I’m a private man, Ms. Jones. I did what I did to help out. It’s over.”

She leaned toward me, all smiles now. “But that’s great, don’t you see? You’re perfect. It’s like real Vermont: the reluctant hero. People will love it.” She actually winked and added, “You might even be able to make some money out of it.”

I shook my head. “Sorry. I’d just as soon forget about it.”

The smile faded. “Well, you might, but the cat’s out of the bag. Like it or not, you saved someone’s life, and in this society you can’t do that and pretend nothing happened. People won’t let you. I can help you out, smooth the way and make it as painless as possible, or you can go solo and be hounded half to death. Your choice.”

I sat on the sawhorse beside me and gazed at her a moment. “Let’s be straight here. This is good for Tucker Peak, or it might be if you give it the right spin. And what better spin than some ‘yup, nope’ woodchuck Vermonter who stared death in the face and told him to buzz off, right? Especially if the resort then makes him employee of the month. Except that if that happens, this particular woodchuck will mention the reason he stuck his neck out was because our ancient, poorly maintained chairlift equipment is just an accident waiting to happen, and that if the press wants something to write about, he’d be delighted to show them all the stuff around here that’s threatening to kill the customers.”

Stephanie’s face tightened. “We’d sue you if you did that.”

I laughed. “Now that would look good.” But I relented. “Ms. Jones, you won’t have to sue me, because it won’t come to that. I’m an employee. I and other employees helped save this woman from dying. That’s your story: Tucker Peak ready for any emergency. You’ll have photos of the ski patrol, the snowmaker first on the scene who threw me that crowbar, and everyone’ll talk about the team effort instead of me personally because they’ll all have been told that I’m a really shy guy who just wants to be left alone. And”-I spoke more slowly for emphasis-“because they know they’ll be fired if they give anyone my name.”

Jones looked at Bettina, who’d turned back to face us. “Can he do that?”

“He can if we don’t play ball with him, and I’ll recommend to McNally that we do. He’s got a right to privacy, and he shouldn’t lose it just because he did something decent. Besides, I like the team effort idea, which happens to be true. Without the rest of ’em, he couldn’t have gotten her down from there.”

Bettina put an end to it by stepping forward and giving my hand a firm shake. “It’s a done deal, Max. Word’ll probably leak out anyhow, but it won’t be from us.” She looked pointedly at Stephanie Jones. “Right?”

Jones made no pretense at hiding her disgust. “Whatever,” she said sourly and left the room.

Linda Bettina looked at me for a moment before extracting a crumpled envelope from an inside pocket and handing it to me. “This just came for you-special delivery.”

I took the envelope and studied it. It was simply addressed, “Ski Montin Hero,” in a large, childish hand. There was no postage or return address.

“One of the sheriff’s people brought it in,” Linda explained. “Straight from the hospital.”

I tore it open and removed a single sheet of paper. On it was a crude crayon-rendered picture of a broken chairlift, with two stick figures dangling from it, one of them dripping a string of red dots. Above them, sliding down the cable on one hand, complete with cape flapping in the air behind him, was a third figure wearing a broad, carefree smile. A bubble with an arrow pointing at him read, “YOU.”

At the bottom of the page were the words, “Thank you for saving Mom. Love, Mary.” It was followed by a large heart.

I handed the picture to Linda without comment. She glanced at it and gave it back.

“Tough guy.”

After work, and after several conversations with co-workers who were thoroughly enjoying keeping the press in the dark, I wandered into the repair shop on the ground floor of the Mountain Ops building across from my dorm. It was standard fare in some respects, with a greasy floor, scattered tools, and rack upon rack of assorted supplies. Its uniqueness was in the nature of those supplies: a vast array of arcane pulleys, wheels, spring clamps, and other equipment designed to keep the mysterious workings of a ski mountain up and running. In some ways, it resembled what I thought a NASA repair shed might be like, except-I hoped-for the dirt, the machinery, the nature of the business, and the skill level of everyone working there.

One of the latter stepped out from behind a hanger arm mounted in a vise as I let out a “Hello?”

“Who’re you after?”

He was tall, skinny, and utterly filthy. On the chest of his uniform shirt, like a mirage in fading light, was the barely discernible name, “Mike.”

“You Mike?”

He looked curious. “I know you?”

I stuck out my hand. “New guy. Carpenter. Name’s Max.”

He was slow to shake. “Pretty dirty.” He wiggled his blackened fingers.

I was impressed he’d noticed. “I don’t care.”

He shook my hand, leaving it oily enough that I did wipe it on my pants.

“Warned ya,” he laughed. “What can I do you for?”

“I was wondering about the chair that went for a slider this morning.”

Mike shook his head. “Ain’t got it. Tramway Board inspectors picked it up hours ago.”

“But you looked at it?”

“Sure. I took it down.” His face became more serious. “Why you want to know? We’re not supposed to talk about junk like that.”

“I asked ’em to keep quiet, but I’m the one who saved that woman.”

He grew suddenly animated. “No shit? That was some cool move. Dick said you went down that tow line like Spiderman or something. He threw you the crowbar. We think it’s great you’re telling ’em all to butt out. I heard the PR people were really pissed.”

I waved a hand to calm him down. “They’ll get over it. They just wanted something to offset the yellow snow.”

He laughed again. “Boy, ain’t that the truth? I wished I’da thought of that one myself. It woulda been worth getting fired.”

I let him recover a bit before asking, “So, I was wondering why that chair let loose, since it almost got me killed.”

Mike looked around, crossed to the door leading farther into the building, and checked the hallway beyond to make sure we were alone. Then he came back and said quietly, “It wasn’t the chair. It was fine.”

“Somebody messed with it?” I asked.

“You got it. Let up on the tension spring so it couldn’t hang on when it hit the steep part over the rocks.”

“That couldn’t have been an accident? Chairs must slide all the time.”

“Now and then, yeah, but I know the signs. I been doin’ this for years.” His voice dropped lower still. “Fits in with the yellow snow you just mentioned.”

I didn’t bother hiding my incredulity. “You think the TPL bunch did this?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Put it together, Max. First they hang a banner from the chair’s tow rope, then they fool with the water supply. All McNally does is offer ’em free passes like they were just kids acting out. Pisses them off, right? Nobody likes that. So they get a little more serious.”

“From yellow dye to attempted manslaughter? I guess that’s getting serious.”

Mike straightened and grinned, spreading his hands wide. “I rest my case.”

I waited for Sammie by the back door of the main power house, empty and dark at this time of night, and far from the beaten path. There was no moon. The day’s clear sky had succumbed to clouds, and rumor had it we were in for some snow.

“Joe?”

“It’s Max,” I answered, also in a loud whisper.

“I know that,” she answered testily, drawing near. “And so will everyone else once your Superman imitation breaks cover.”

“You’re my first Superman. I can add it to a Spiderman and a Batman so far.”

“Are you okay?” she asked, putting a hand on my arm. “You could’ve been killed, from what I heard.”

“The story’s improving with age. I wanted to tell you about a little discovery I made. According to Mike, who’s been fixing chairlifts for years, this one was sabotaged.”

She thought about that for a few moments. “Who gains from that?”

“Good question. I can’t answer it either.”

She looked off into the night. “Think it has anything to do with Marty Gagnon?”

“I don’t see how-not now, at least. We better tell the others we might have a whole different player in motion.”