Читать книгу The Trickster - Muriel Gray, Muriel Gray - Страница 14

When Katie Hunt’s phone rang, she jumped. She hoped it was Sam, and it was. Only two days back at work after his blackout and the ski company had sent him to Stoke for fencing in one of the worst blizzards she could remember. That seemed to Katie to be a slice of a raw deal, but the Hunt family had long since learned to lock away resentment at raw deals in a mental box marked Leave It.

Right now, she was just glad he was safe.

‘So where you going to spend the night, honey?’

Sam sounded tired. ‘Well it’s either the Stoke Hilton or I can bed down in the ticket office. I’m gonna go for the ticket office. Room service is quicker. Seems like I’m the only homeless one round here, so I get the place to myself. It sure beats the hell out of sleeping in the ski truck in a twelve-foot drift. You okay?’

‘Sure. You okay? No headaches?’

Katie heard Sam smile through his voice. ‘No. No headaches. No drooling down my chin like a lunatic. No writhing on the floor in a fit.’

Katie ignored his mockery of her concern. ‘When do you think you’ll make it home?’

‘If the blizzard lets up I guess the pass’ll be open by about noon tomorrow. You can wear my wool shirt if you get cold in bed without me.’

‘Sam?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too, babe.’

Billy yelled from the other room, and Katie said her goodbyes and hung up. Some chat show host was smarming through his front of show stand-up, while Billy Hunt ignored him in favour of a hand-held computer game. He yelled again as Katie came into the L-shaped room that was the biggest living space in the house.

‘Nine thousand, Mom! I got nine thousand! Yeees!’

Katie stood behind her son, and ran one thoughtful hand through his straight black hair. ‘Bed, Billy boy. Now.’

‘You said I could wait up and see Dad,’ he replied without taking his eyes off the grey plastic block in his hand.

‘Dad’s stranded in the storm over at Stoke. He’s coming home tomorrow, so that means bed for you, right now.’

She leaned over and switched off Billy’s game.

‘Aw Mom!’

‘I said now, Billy. Your hockey kit’s at the foot of your bed. You forget to put it in your bag again tomorrow, then you’re on your own, kid. I’m not driving round to school with it.’ She turned to leave the room.

‘Mom?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Dad won’t be at home tonight at all?’

Suddenly he looked worried. Katie went back and joined him on the sofa.

‘It’s okay. Like I said: he’ll be back tomorrow.’

‘Can Bart sleep with me tonight?’

Katie tried to look hurt. ‘Oh, so Jess and I won’t do for company then? I keep forgetting, we’re just sappy girls.’

Billy put his hand in hers, and looked into her eyes with such concern she already regretted the joke. ‘You do fine. I just want Bart with me. It’s important.’

Katie squeezed his little hand. ‘Sure. If you can get him in. Good luck. You know what he’s been like.’

‘Great!’

‘Now go get ready for bed. I’ll be up in a minute.’

Her son bounced up and hopped on one foot to the door, singing as he went. His nine-year-old mind had already moved on to other matters. Likewise, Katie’s thirty-four-year-old mind had drifted back to her husband, worry and anxiety drilling into her. It was wrenched back to reality by the sound of Bart bounding up stairs with Billy, as the dog knocked over the frosted glass vase on the landing.

She smiled, and went to play at being stern.

When dawn came on January tenth it revealed the best snow conditions Silver Ski Company had seen for fifteen seasons. It also brought Estelle Reader the worst day of her life.

When they brought back what was left of Joe around one-thirty, Craig had been first at Estelle’s door, his face a grey mask of grief. Craig thought about the kind of suffering you see in the movies, where widows thank the policeman, squeeze his hand, and sit quietly in a chair absorbing the news. He thought about it as Estelle fell to her knees gurgling like a pig being bled, clutching at Craig’s jacket with fists like claws. She writhed on the floor and tore at the rug, saliva running from her mouth as she grunted and panted in the pain of her despair, until Craig hooked his hands under her armpits and lifted her onto a chair.

Life wasn’t like the movies. In fact life in Silver over the last week had been real bad.

Two ski patrollers killed in a freak explosion, and now Joe. He would, of course, have to tell Estelle that Joe’s death hadn’t been an accident, but not now. Time for that later, and time was going to bring her more pain. She would have to suffer the wait before they could lay Joe in the ground, while an autopsy was performed on the grisly remains.

From what they recovered in the gorge, there wasn’t much left to fit in a coffin, and after the forensics had been at him, Craig suspected a Safeway’s bag would probably be big enough to bury his ex-sergeant decently.

He waited with the moaning shell of Estelle Reader until her sister got there, then left and headed back to work.

Half a mile from the office, Craig McGee pulled off the highway into a back road, stopped the engine and cried like a baby. He would be all right in half an hour. Right now, he was broken up.

‘No kidding? Well if it’s a problem we can send a car to the airport to bring her luggage separately.’

Pasqual Weaver watched her own reflection in the office window as she spoke. An elegant, if angular, woman in her thirties looked back, the grey fleece zippered top with the Silver Ski Company logo embroidered on the left breast doing its best to undermine her executive status.

The hand unoccupied by the telephone played with the zipper at her neck.

‘Sure, we want her to be real comfortable. And can I say we’re already over the moon she’s even considering it.’

Eric entered the room and Pasqual mimed at him to sit down.

‘Okay James, you put those things to her and get back to us when you have an answer, but please tell her from us that we’re all huge fans and are really hoping she can make it. Okay, you too. Take care.’ She hung up, and gave the phone her middle finger. ‘Jesus. The fucking old bitch is acting like she’s still a star. Make my day, Eric. Tell me you’ve come to persuade me this celebrity ski week idea is a crock of shit.’

Eric Sindon had not come to say any such thing. ‘You’ve heard about the accident?’

Pasqual’s body changed shape. No longer lounging in her leather chair, it was now sitting forward like a cat watching its prey before striking.

‘Tell me.’

‘Craig’s side-kick. His truck went over the gorge on Wolf’s Pass last night.’

Pasqual sat back in her chair with relief. ‘Fuck. Don’t give me scares like that. I thought we’d had a fatality on the slopes. I think we can live with a cop in an auto accident.’

Eric looked at his boss with distaste. ‘It’s the third death in Silver in a week. I’m getting rumours that there’s more to it than just an automobile accident.’

Pasqual opened her top drawer and fished around until she found a packet of M&Ms.

‘Want one?’ She tossed the packet over the desk to Eric after filling her mouth with chocolate.

‘No. Look, I’m telling you this because I think it will have a negative effect on the resort. Skiers don’t get off on reading about death when they should be reading about snow reports.’

‘Eric, I think our visitors are big enough boys and girls to cope with the fact that sometimes people die in cars.’

‘What about Lenny and Jim?’

‘Accidents happen. They were patrollers for Christ’s sake.’

Eric looked at her and she knew that look. Pasqual stood up and turned her back to him, looking out of the window at the last of the die-hard skiers stepping out of their bindings beside the lodge after stealing the last run of the day.

‘What do you see out there, Eric?’

‘A lodge that needs a re-clad and a nursery area that needs two extra tows.’

She laughed, and threw another chocolate peanut into her mouth. ‘Well, maybe so, but I see the best fucking snow we’ve had in years, and a season that’s going to do business like a cold beer stall in Hell.’ She turned back to him. ‘Now what exactly are you worried about?’

‘Someone has to.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning you shouldn’t underestimate negative vibes in a fun resort, Pasqual.’

She sat down and smiled a wicked cat grin at him. ‘Are you telling me my job, Mr Sindon?’

Eric sighed. ‘Okay, forget it. Just thought it was worth mentioning.’

‘Thank you.’

Eric shoved some paper at her.

‘Here’s the shop stock-taking list, and there’s a guy outside looking for work. Do you want me to see him?’

‘Nope. I’ll see him. You fax more celebrities. Try and get something more famous than someone who voiced over an AT&T commercial. Remember the blackmail bit about the kids in wheelchairs. Lay it on as thick as you like. Where’s the guy?’

‘In the ski school.’

She emptied the last of the chocolates into her mouth, threw the packet in the waste bin and moved to the door. ‘Oh and Eric …’

Eric looked up expectantly.

‘No more drama-queen stuff unless a gondola full of customers spontaneously combusts. Right?’

Eric held her gaze without reply for a few more moments than was polite.

‘You’re the boss.’

‘Yes. I am. Aren’t I?’

She smiled and shut the door behind her. Eric looked at the door for a long time until the phone rang.

* * *

As Pasqual left the seclusion of her inner office, walking through the shop and past the ticket booths, she ran the gauntlet of questions and greetings from every member of staff in her path.

‘Oh Miss Weaver! Got a moment?’

‘Pasqual! Can you call the top station?’

‘Miss Weaver – any thoughts on this display?’

She loved it. She adored being pursued by a team of courtiers, anxious for her approval or instruction, and she treasured it all the more when the public saw her in the middle of it.

As she left the building and crossed the darkening nursery area to the ski school shed, she tossed her short brown bobbed hair, waved and shouted ‘Hi!’ to anyone who would respond.

The man was waiting inside. He greeted her with a smile.

‘Hi there. You’re the job hunter.’

‘Yeah. You must be Pasqual Weaver. Moses Sitconski. Pleased to meet you.’

He extended a lily-white hand, which she shook.

‘What kind of a name is that exactly?’

The man looked at her, neither offended or defensive. ‘My name.’

‘Well, Moses,’ she said, pronouncing the word as though it were a shared and intimate joke, ‘You’ve done your resort personnel homework. Now what kind of work are you after? We’re nearly half-way through the season, you know.’

‘Sure, I know. Looks like it’s going to be a great second half. Long time since I’ve seen snow conditions this good. I guess the powder in the back bowls is like spun sugar right now.’

He smiled, crinkling two ice-blue eyes in a face so pale Pasqual figured the guy had never been near a ski trail in his life. She was used to dealing with people with mahogany tans that stopped where their turtlenecks started, but the easy charm of this man was making up for the fact that he was obviously no ski bum. Nor was he dressed like anyone who wanted to be near snow. A long black wool coat hung over what Pasqual noted was a powerful frame. She wasn’t looking at a potential ski instructor, but maybe he’d be some use in the PR office.

‘You a skier, Moses?’

‘Sure. I can get down most things.’

‘So where have you worked before? And what as exactly?’

The man looked into her eyes very deeply indeed.

Pasqual was aware of an acute sexual stirring beginning around her nipples that shifted down over her belly to an area she didn’t have much time to explore these days. He was turning her on with those eyes, and she was ashamed. Why this encounter should have such an effect was a mystery, and made her squirm beneath her fleece with discomfort and irritation. After all, she was surrounded all day by pieces of meat on skis that she could have just by looking sideways at them. If she chose to, she could fuck any instructor on the resort, but sex was never high on Pasqual Weaver’s agenda. Right now, however, it was standing at the front door ringing the bell.

‘Tamarack. Two seasons. Manual grooming mainly.’

She looked at him suspiciously. How could he have worked out doors all day as a manual groomer and still have stayed as white as a baby’s ass? She wasn’t going to be bullshitted. Tamarack just happened to be Silver’s biggest rival right now. So much so, even the name got on her tits.

‘And who was the big white chief at Tamarack? Just in case I want to call him up?’

The man who called himself Moses smiled widely, revealing milky white teeth behind his pink lips. ‘I’d be glad if you called him up, Miss Weaver. His name is William Cole. We called him Hill Billy.’

She knew damned well it was Bill fucking Cole that ran the show over there. Same as she knew that Tamarack had stolen nearly a fifth of Silver’s day trip custom with three new high speed quads. She would drink piss before she would phone up Cole for a reference. The fact that the guy knew his name and his slang name, was enough proof for her he was telling the truth. Plus he would be useful in the office if he knew exactly what was going on with the competition.

‘So are you hoping for manual work again or does something with a desk and a fan heater blowing hot air up your fanny all day interest you?’

‘Anything you got really. I understand you lost a couple of your ski patrol.’

She frowned. ‘Yeah, well we’re on that one thanks. The rest of the guys are still cut up about it and I don’t think they’d take too kindly to me sticking a sits vac. ad in the local newspaper before they’ve got their two buddies in the ground.’

‘A real tragedy.’

‘It’s a dangerous job.’

His eyes were boring through her skull. She looked away, pretending to study the blackboard for tomorrow’s ski class rota. ‘Okay Moses, why don’t you come see me tomorrow at eight thirty and we’ll fix something up. Can’t promise ski patrol, but I’ll be honest and tell you we can use some extra help right now. Things are going to get real busy when the snow reports hit the cities.’

Moses stuck his hand out again and she took it without thinking. This time he held on to it a little longer than she would have liked.

‘Well that’s just great, Miss Weaver. I look forward to that.’

She withdrew her hand as the door threw open to admit five laughing instructors clopping in like carthorses.

‘Robbed the public blind today I hope guys?’ she said in a tone higher than she had planned.

‘Yo, you bet,’ laughed the biggest and brownest of the pack, unzipping his suit with a baroque flourish.

Pasqual smiled once at them, once at Moses, and left.

The tall pale man watched the flimsy wooden door close behind Pasqual and then glanced across at the five faces eyeballing him.

‘Hi,’ he smiled.

Only one nodded back.

Moses Sitconski put his hands back into his pockets without dissolving his smile, then followed Pasqual out into the night.