Tucker Peak

Chapter 9

I sat in Snuffy Dawson’s unmarked Sheriff’s car at the end of a dirt road some ten miles from Tucker Peak, staring out at a snow-covered field with a frozen pond in its middle, its flat, featureless surface looking like spilled milk at the bottom of a saucer.

“You sure about this mechanic?” Snuffy asked.

“Mike? No reason he’d lie. We could run a check on him, but I doubt we’d find much. I think he was shooting straight.”

Dawson stroked his chin with a meaty hand. “You don’t think maybe the woman was the target? She have a husband?”

I smiled in response. “No, divorced. And supposedly they get along. Besides,” I added, “the eastern lift starts later in the morning, because of how the sun hits the slopes, so what we were on was the first run of the day. Assuming Mike’s right about it being sabotage, it must’ve happened during the night, and there’s no way anyone could’ve known who was going to be in what chair when, or even if any physical injury was intended. Could’ve been the sole intention was to show off how dangerous the equipment is.”

He didn’t react to that. “You said Mike suspected the TPL.”

“Only because of their other stunts. They nailed the door shut to an equipment shed this morning. But to do something violent would destroy their cause. Wouldn’t make sense.”

“Unless they got frustrated, like he said.”

I didn’t want to make one man’s wild guess the only fact in evidence here. “Snuffy, anything’s possible, including Mike being wrong and the whole thing being an accident. But if we assume he’s a good mechanic just for now, then we’ve got to look at who might’ve done this, which may or may not have been the TPL. Certainly it was someone with the right tools and some knowledge of machinery. Maybe someone with ready enough access to the equipment so as not to raise any questions.”

“Like a maintenance guy.”

“Right, an employee with a grudge. The Tramway Board’s looking into it, of course, but Linda Bettina’s been pretty helpful so far. I’ll have Spinney ask her for any insight she might have on any employees past and present with complaints, maybe, or a history of violence and/or vandalism. There’s probably someone who fits that category, knows about that kind of equipment, and doesn’t give a damn about the environmental movement.”

Snuffy finally nodded. “Okay. How’re you doing on the burglaries?”

“Still digging. Lester left me a message a couple of hours ago that he’d like to meet. Could be he found something interesting.”

Dawson let out a deep sigh. “I just wish the whole goddamn mountain would go away. All it does is cause problems. I’ve got my entire payroll working right now because of this protest thing-it’s costing me a fortune. I thought bringing you people in would make things easier. Now, I’m up to my neck in alligators. I got towns all over the county bitching breach of contract because of reduced coverage, and the state cops are already saying they won’t pick up the slack forever, as if that was a big threat. I just wish I could connect that chair thing with the TPL. Then, whether McNally thinks it’s good PR or not, I could bust them all and clear them out of there.”

I considered that for a moment. His financial woes didn’t interest me much. All cops bitch about money, and the state police’s complaints were no less relevant than Snuffy’s own. But the question of what the protesters might or might not know brought back Gail’s mention of their unofficial leader, Roger Betts. I wondered about the benefits of having a conversation with him.

I opened the passenger door of Dawson’s car and swung my legs out, preparing to return to the battered pickup I was using as part of my cover. “It’s early yet, Snuffy. Something useful’ll surface soon. Don’t do anything without telling me, though, okay? I don’t want Sammie or me to get caught by surprise.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I got enough fires to put out without doing your job for you.”

Not a ringing endorsement, but basically what I wanted to hear.

Getting together with Spinney was less complicated and more comfortable than my clandestine meetings with Sammie and Sheriff Dawson. Spinney merely asked Linda Bettina if he could interview me about yesterday’s accident, and she handed us a small conference room on the top floor of the Mountain Ops building.

After closing the door behind us, he smiled and rolled his eyes. “This is too good. There’s got to be a way I can convince them that our undercover guy and their hero-for-a-day is not only the saboteur we’re after but also a right-winger who hates the TPL, wants to clear-cut the mountain, and works for the Israeli Mossad. It would be a clean sweep. What do you think?”

“I think you need a vacation.”

We sat down at the conference table, facing each other in case anyone came in. “Seriously,” he asked. “How’re you doing after all that derring-do? You ain’t getting any younger.”

I looked at him wide-eyed. “Up yours. Is that why you wanted to meet?”

He laughed. “Nope. Fun as this is, I think I can make it better.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and slid it across the table. “Rap sheet for Robert Lanier, alias Marc Roberts, Lanny Robertson, and/or Richard Lane.”

I looked up at the last name, the sheet still unread in my hands. “Sammie’s greaseball ski instructor, the one pawing all his female students?”

“The same. Looks like she nailed him right off.” He tilted his chin toward the document. “I gave him the special attention you asked for. First I got nowhere, but cross-referencing aliases led me to that, and Linda Bettina confirmed he was no employee poster boy. He’s done a nice job of sampling all the goodies, though-domestic assault, assault and battery, sexual assault, B and E, malicious mischief, disturbing the peace, four DUIs, and two counts of burglary, none of which Bettina knows about, by the way. There’s other stuff, too, but who cares? He’s spent a total of thirteen months in the can for all of it and that was years ago. Since then, he’s been cutting deals, pleading out for probation, or snitching for dropped charges. There’s probably not a man, woman, or child he’s met he didn’t eventually beat, rob, or squeal on. And,” he added after a theatrical pause, “he was working here-right time, right place-for every one of Marty’s phone calls.”

I read the rap sheet carefully and returned it to him. “Nice catch. Anything else?”

“Like something we could use for a warrant?” Lester shook his head. “No such luck. Not unless Sammie cuddles up to him and gets him to spill the beans. Still, this gives us someone to look at, someone who might help us flush out Marty Gagnon.”

“If nothing else,” I muttered.

“Yeah,” he said. “I heard about the chair maybe being rigged. Any way you think we could tie Richie or Marty to that?”

“Don’t I wish,” I said mournfully. I checked my watch and stood up. “No. Not that it necessarily makes more sense, but I think I need to look more closely at the TPL and its leaders to get an answer there. You tell Sammie about Richie Lane yet?”

“Nope.”

“Good. I’ve got something to do right now. Could you find her and tell her we need to talk? With his history, Richie might’ve knocked off Jorja Duval looking for Marty, maybe because Marty stiffed him on sharing the loot. That would make for a nice, tight circle, even without the Israeli Mossad. If it’s true, though, I don’t want Sammie tracking him alone.”

Spinney sat back in his chair looking amused and indirectly confirmed why he’d shared Lane’s history with me only. “Can’t imagine why you’d think she would.”

I had called Gail Zigman after my conversation with Snuffy Dawson and asked her what my chances were of having a friendly chat with Roger Betts. An hour later, she’d phoned me back to say that Betts was both amenable and eager, but only if she accompanied him and only if we met in private. He was fearful that being found with a cop and the likes of Gail Zigman-from the now bad-guy VermontGreen group-would be viewed by his colleagues as consorting with the devil.

Once again, therefore, I left the isolated world of Tucker Peak after I got off work and traveled to a motel room some ten miles distant, knocking on the door and waiting for Gail to open up.

“Hey, there,” she said, kissing me on the cheek. “I like the beard. Tickles my nose.”

I laughed. “I know what you mean, it’s been itching for days. He here?”

She stepped aside and let me in. Sitting in a chair by the window, staring out a little forlornly at the parking lot, was a thin, white-haired man with stooped shoulders and a much longer beard than mine, tinged with yellow. He looked tired, his skin pale and unhealthy, and he seemed anxious, as if under a lot of pressure.

Gail made the introductions.

Roger Betts rose slowly and gave me a bony hand to shake, smiling wistfully and nodding. “Gail speaks very highly of you, Mr. Gunther. Or is it Agent Gunther? I’m sorry.”

I waved him back to his seat and perched on the windowsill nearby. “Joe’ll be fine.”

“Then you must call me Roger.” His voice was a soft, almost musical tenor, very soothing. “I would like to start by thanking you for saving that poor woman and her child. Gail tells me that was typical of you, but I find it quite extraordinary. Risking one’s life for a stranger’s is something I can only imagine.”

His old-world courtliness probably enhanced the man’s reputation among his like-minded friends. But I sensed it was natural to him, and that he was no less sincere because of it. I responded in a similar vein.

“I’ve heard equally good things about you, including that you like a worthwhile fight.”

His smiled broadened. “I was better at it twenty years ago. I’m not sure how much fire I have left in me.”

For some reason, that brought me back to something he’d just said. “Why did you thank me just now? It almost sounded personal.”

Roger Betts glanced briefly at Gail, who told me, “Ground rules are this conversation is strictly off the record.”

I nodded without comment.

Betts turned his head to look out the window again and seemed to speak more to himself than to us. “I’m not absolutely sure we weren’t responsible.”

“You suspect someone?” I asked, startled.

“No, not a person,” he answered slowly, as if drained of all energy.

“More a general mood. I’m not one of those old men who claim the world’s going to pot just because my brain’s too fossilized to follow current events. I know violence and intemperance have been with us since the cave. But there is a stridency among some of my colleagues that exceeds mere enthusiasm. It’s the line dividing righteousness from self-righteousness which allows believers in the latter to turn their backs on common decency.”

“As in trying to kill people to throw blame on the resort? Are you saying someone in the TPL did that?”

He paled even further. “I merely think it’s a consideration.”

“I’m not trying to be contrary,” I told him, “but I don’t see the logic. People’re already whispering about sabotage and pointing the finger at you guys, not Tucker Peak. Surely, if this was done by a TPL member, he knew the risks of injuring someone and putting you in an even worse light was pretty high. So, why do it?”

Betts didn’t answer for several seconds and then finally admitted, “I don’t know, and I have no proof. It’s just that I can’t separate the two in my mind: our actions and such violence. I’ve seen one lead to the other too often in the past to ignore the possibility.”

I looked at him in a whole new light, suddenly filled with a sense of ambiguity. What was his game? Or was he just shouldering the guilt for the whole world’s collective ills?

Intrigued by the possibilities, I still wanted to introduce a bit of reality. I held up four fingers. “That lends itself to several scenarios-one of your people went off the deep end; someone did this to make you look bad; someone totally unrelated is indulging in a little terrorism and using your presence as a smoke screen; and, last but not least, nobody did it, because it was an accident. Do any of those sound more likely than the others?”

His response was elliptical at best. “I believe very strongly in the positions I take, and I am convinced that harm will come about as a result of Tucker Peak’s plans. But I am a nonviolent man, dedicated to harming no other living creatures. I would be devastated to learn that a cause I was associated with had taken to violence as a means of expression. I merely wanted you to hear that directly from me.”

I resisted being too judgmental, although what he’d just said sounded useless as well as self-serving, as if he were here merely to preserve his sainthood by hedging his bets. But Gail respected him, he’d served long and selflessly in his cause, and he was obviously feeling both his years and a sense of obligation. I decided to play him straight-for the moment.

“I hear it,” I said, “but from you only. Sounds like neither one of us knows what some of your colleagues might be capable of.”

His brow furrowed with concern. “I’m not sure what to do.”

“Keep me informed through Gail,” I suggested, heartened by the chance of forming an alliance within the TPL. “Not about what your plans are,” I added carefully. “You have a right to your ideas and to protest if you want. But if you discover that someone inside your group is endangering others, I’d like to know about it.”

He was silent for a long while and finally said, “This is not the first time I’ve been made such an offer, Joe. The police have always been canny to the ambiguity of social protest, and they’ve always been good at driving wedges in among us.”

I resisted reminding him that he’d broached the subject first. “I’ll put it to you differently, then,” I said instead, grateful I didn’t have to deal with him on a regular basis. “You and I have now met. You’ve checked me out and drawn some conclusions. You also know how to contact me if need be. I’ll let you look to your own conscience to decide if that need ever comes up.” I reached out and shook his hand again. “That okay with you?”

He nodded and smiled, giving me a wink so slight I wasn’t sure I’d seen it. “You’re very good at this, Joe Gunther.” He then raised an eyebrow at Gail. “Careful around him.”

I stood beside Gail at the window, watching Roger Betts drive away in an old Buick, ironically spewing a thin plume of oily smoke. “Frustrating son of a bitch,” I said, slipping my arm around her waist. “He actually winked at me when he left.”

“He’s no fool,” she agreed. “He plays that fuzzy-wuzzy angle like a violin. It forces people to meet him more than halfway. He wasn’t bullshitting you, though, and he was impressed with you personally.”

“Oh, right. I’m sure that’s what the wink was all about-a sign of respect.”

She looked up at me. “He’s eighty-nine. You know that?”

“You mentioned he was pushing ninety. I hope I look as good.”

“I hope you’re even alive.”

I dug a finger into her ribs and she spun away, ending up sitting on the edge of the bed, laughing. I sat down next to her. “Thanks for setting this up, by the way. It was one of the stranger conversations I’ve had in a while, but at least it makes me feel I have another set of eyes where I need them.”

“Who do you think messed with that chair?” she asked, placing her hand on my thigh.

“Don’t know. The lack of a clear motive really bugs me. If it was sabotage, I can’t see who benefited.”

“Maybe it’s totally unrelated-a pissed-off employee.”

“Yeah, we’re looking into that. We’ll figure it out soon enough. Whoever did it’ll probably get restless and try something else.”

A moment of silence fell between us. “What about the other things you’re looking into?” she asked vaguely.

I was struck by something in her voice, having nothing to do with her question. “You okay?” I asked.

She sighed. “To be honest, I’m not sure. I’ve been staring at a lot of walls lately. How’re we doing, Joe?” She sounded suddenly wistful.

I leaned back a little to get a clearer view of her face. “The two of us? I’m okay. What’s up?”

She gazed out the window before answering. “I don’t know. I’m having a hard time figuring out if I’m doing the right thing.”

“Working for VermontGreen?”

“That, and living half my life in Montpelier, away from you. It’s been a crazy few years, you have to admit. I can’t tell if I’m making sense anymore.”

I could sympathize with her there. Watching her rebuild her life after being raped at the point of a knife several years ago had been an emotional roller-coaster at times. But not a directionless one.

“Well, not to sound trite, but are you happy at what you’re doing?” I asked.

She looked at me, her expression hopeful. “I think I am. I mean, I know that politicians aren’t really normal. They’re mostly needy and ego-driven, and some of them aren’t bright enough to light the inside of a fridge. But I love the energy of their world-the deal-making, the laws that result from it. I hated it all when I was young and looking in from the outside, but I can’t get enough of it now. I really do believe it’s one way to make a difference. Sort of a logical extension of what brought me up here in the first place, and why I got so active when I was a selectman in Brattleboro.”

“I’m not sure I see the problem, then,” I admitted.

Gail let out a puff of air and lay back on the bed to speak directly to the ceiling. “Because there’s got to be more to life than being politically involved. I don’t really have a family anymore, I haven’t talked to my parents in so long. I have no husband, no kids, I stopped living with the only man who could put up with me for more than a week. I sometimes feel that in exchange for this new life, I’m about to lose everything else. And then I’ll just be somebody wearing a suit and cell phone.”

I stretched out next to her, propped up on one elbow. “I’ve worried about losing you, too.”

She stared at me, her eyes wide. “Why?”

“Remember when I was accused of stealing that jewelry and that jerk from the attorney general’s office tried to hang me? He described me to the court as an over-the-hill flatfoot trying to compensate for living with an attractive, younger, upwardly mobile woman he was worried would leave him behind.”

Gail reached out and squeezed my hand. “Oh, Joe. None of that was true. The man was an idiot. He’s not even a lawyer any more, he was proven so wrong.”

“Maybe so, but it hurt. You are all of those things.”

“But you aren’t compensating for it.”

“I joined VBI.”

Her mouth half opened in astonishment.

“I love what I’m doing now, too,” I explained further. “But part of the reason I took the job was to earn your respect.”

She rolled over and hugged me. “My God, Joe. How could you think I didn’t respect you? You’re the love of a lifetime. Christ, what a screwy idea.”

I kissed her. “No, it’s not. And it worked out beautifully. You’ve found something to do that really floats your boat, and I got the kick in the pants I should’ve given myself years ago. We’ve never been a conventional couple. Why should that change now?”

“So, you’re okay?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you don’t mind living apart?”

“Sometimes,” I answered her honestly, “but it’s got its up sides, too.”

She smiled at me then. “Oh, yeah? Like what?”

“Being with you now, stretched out on a motel bed.”

She chuckled and her hand traveled across my chest. “What’re your plans for the rest of the evening?” she asked softly.

I kissed the corner of her mouth. “I have a meeting with Sammie later. But I’ve got an hour at least.”

She reached up and touched my bearded cheek. “So I can play with this?”

“You rented the room.”

A little more than an hour later, I was crossing Tucker Peak’s employee parking lot, moving from one halo of light to another, the first fat flakes of a long-anticipated storm barely starting to drift by like albino moths, indecisive and tired.

“Joe?”

It was a man’s voice, quiet, vaguely familiar, belonging to a shadow that stepped out from behind a parked car some ten feet ahead of me. The light being directly overhead at this point, his face was shaded in the darkness cast by his baseball cap. His hands, however, were in plain sight and empty.

I stopped and tried to sound innocent first, although I suspected it would be useless. “Who?”

He stepped nearer, still speaking very softly. “It’s Win Johnston. You okay to talk?”

I glanced around, both relieved and surprised. It looked like we were alone. “For a minute.” Win was a private investigator, an ex-cop, and a friend. But I could only guess that his appearing from behind a car in the dark of night was going to cost me some peace of mind in the midst of an already complicated case.

“I thought I saw you a couple of days ago, but I guessed you were undercover. Your heroics on the chairlift clinched it, though. Nice beard. How’ve you been?”

We shook hands and stood closely together, almost whispering. “Okay. You working on something here?” I asked.

“Yup.”

“What can you tell me?”

Unlike in the movies, such a question of a good PI was well within the rules. Cops weren’t fond of the profession, that much was true, but the antagonisms, at least in a rural place like Vermont, weren’t played up. Win had been a state trooper, had retired in good standing, and was self-employed now because it kept him in the game without forcing him to kowtow to too many bosses. I trusted his integrity and had even worked with him in the past, since PIs could often do things and go places we couldn’t.

“Checking up on an employee, seeing if he’s aboveboard.”

“Oh, oh,” I said. “Sounds like embezzling.”

He quickly held up a hand. “No, no. It’s much vaguer than that.”

“But still interesting to someone with a big problem and a lot of money,” I suggested, “like maybe the resort brass?”

His vanity prompted him to admit half an answer. “I’m not cheap.”

“So, it’s serious.”

He wobbled his head from side to side. “Could be. I haven’t found anything yet.”

“I don’t guess you’d tell me the target.”

“Sorry.”

“Would it have anything to do with that chair breaking loose?”

“Is that why you’re here?” he asked.

I considered being as coy as he was but didn’t see the point. “No. That came out of the blue. We’re here on a string of condo rip-offs.”

He looked surprised. “You were just working on that killing in Brattleboro. Is there a connection?”

“You didn’t answer my question,” I reminded him.

He took my own evasion in stride. “About the chair? I don’t know. A contact at the Tramway Board told me it was tampered with. But it’s a puzzle piece I haven’t been able to place yet.”

“No… me neither. Win, do me a favor, okay? Keep me in the loop as much as possible. There’re a couple of things going on here, and to answer your question, I don’t know if they connect or not, but you already know one woman’s dead and another was almost killed. I realize you have confidences to protect, but pay extra attention, all right?”

“Sure, Joe. What’s your cover name again? Max something?”

“Lambert. And Sammie Martens is a ski instructor named Greta Novak-bottle-blonde.”

He laughed gently. “Some name. I saw her, I think. Looked like she was having a ball. Didn’t recognize her. She’s very attractive.”

“And very serious, as always.”

He shook my hand again. “Keep your head down, Joe… Max. I’ll let you know if I find anything interesting.”

He turned away, passed between two SUVs, and was gone, leaving me to wonder what else might fall into my lap.

Sammie was waiting for me where we’d met the night before, checking her watch as I walked up.

“I thought we’d have to scrub this,” she said.

“Sorry. Ran into Win Johnston in the parking lot. He’s working here, too, looking into an employee. I’m guessing one of the management types, given his standard rate, but he wouldn’t fess up. The interesting thing is that he’s bothered by the chair sabotage, meaning it might play a role in what he’s investigating.”

“An employee trying to do in the company?”

“He doesn’t know, says it doesn’t fit, but it makes more sense than the TPL doing it. I asked him to keep an eye open.”

“You trust him?” Sammie knew Win only to say hi and shared the common police prejudice against his profession.

“To report anything outright criminal? Absolutely,” I told her. “He’s proved himself enough times. Plus, he thinks you’re very good looking.”

“I think he needs to lose weight.”

I left it at that. “I also had a private chat with Roger Betts this afternoon.”

She gave me a surprised look. “How’d that happen?”

“He’s worried some of his folks might be getting a little overenthusiastic.”

“As in screwing around with chairlifts?”

“That was the implication, although I told him that, pretty predictably, more people are blaming the TPL for that than the resort, which makes the whole point of the exercise a little weird. Still, after you and I are done, I’m going to call Lester and have him compare notes with Snuffy’s office. They’ve been building files on the protesters since this started. Could be they have a candidate we should look at more carefully.”

Sammie suddenly shivered and then checked the time. “Why did you want to meet? Lester made it sound important.”

“We think your Richie Lane might be Marty’s contact man. His real name’s Robert Lanier, and he has a king-size rap sheet.”

“Shit,” she spat out. “I knew it. Slimy bastard.”

“Maybe, but that’s all we know. We could pull him in and sweat him, but I’m betting he knows the rules enough to just sit us out and then vanish. I’d prefer to keep an eye on him instead, nail him for something crooked if we’re lucky, and then use that to open him up, or maybe follow him till he leads us to the ever elusive Marty Gagnon.”

“Shouldn’t be hard to catch him dirty. He aspires to do something criminal every night. It’s in his blood.”

You know where he is?”

“Right now? No idea, but I bet he started out at the nightclub, ‘cruisin’ for a lonely lady,’ as he puts it. That’s his daily routine-brags about it every morning. Some of the other instructors told me he might as well be a wall fixture over there.”

“Tomorrow morning, we’ll put a twenty-four-hour tail on him. I’ll have Spinney figure out a schedule. If you’re right about his habits, we should have something on him pretty quick.”

“Great,” she said, “it won’t be too soon.”