Chapter 3
Cilla Wheaton Rogers stood behind her desk looking at the office. It would have to go. Other than the well-used oak desk, which came from her late father’s house, nothing else suited her. The former occupant had furnished it to his military taste - cold, formal and smelling of tobacco. Still. It had been four months since the man had last used it; any longer and she’d call in an exorcist.
She sat down to paperwork. Running the ski area for her Abenaki relatives had more to it than fun runs swooping its trails, as she was discovering each day of the two months she’d been its general manager. She studied the proposal from Breugen Corporation for a detachable quad lift that Hudson had faxed, and smiled; he didn’t like what another lift meant - more people at the area. But if he had his way the mountain would be a private ski park for the two of them. It wasn’t that he was antisocial. He just didn’t like people much, particularly in numbers. He felt the mentality of a group sank to that of its slowest member, and a decision to put more skiers on Great Haystack’s existing trails was received with an acquiescent sigh - particularly coupled with the discovery that he’d be making the trip to Germany to discuss final arrangements. He wasn’t wild about flying. No, he didn’t like flying at all. She had a feeling something must have happened in the years before she met him. Which was all of them, until a few months ago.
Actually, she knew just a fraction of what she felt was there to know about her new husband. But that had been enough. She’d spend the next fifty or so years getting to know the rest. And with Hudson there’d be something new learned every week, because very little of himself was made available to others at any one time. A tall man at nearly six foot three with wrestler’s shoulders, yet gentle, almost shy. She’d seen the delight he took in a miniature waterfall appearing unexpectedly around a bend in the trail; enjoyed with him the quiet of a softwood forest roofed by tall pines, where one could almost hear “the tiptoe of a bird” - where had she heard that phrase? Hudson had found his home in Bartlett, New Hampshire next to the National Forest. From the sluggish flatlander she’d first met last June whose idea of a nature trip was a ride on the swan boats in Boston’s Public Garden, he’d developed - partly through her she admitted - an appreciation for each plant, each animal and a place where they could grow together without human interference.
A triple knock on the door announced her mountain manager: late-thirties; dark good looks, solidly built. Kurt Britton had the self confident, almost aggressive bearing of the Marine Corps captain he had been until hired by Floyd Carr, the ski area’s former general manager, two years before.
“The summit’s getting gusts over forty.”
“Had we better close the triple?”
“Already done. The east chair and the Borvigs can handle the crowd we’ve got today.” He paused. “We took a little kid to the hospital. Not skiing, at the nursery. Two years old. Jill found her unconscious in that little penned area; she’d been making snow cookies.” He looked at notes. “Susie Tarden. We reached the mother in the base lodge; she’s gone with her.”
“You’re not planning to go to the hospital yourself.”
“Of course.”
“That’s not the job of the General Manager.”
“She got sick at my area.”
“A lot of people have accidents at a ski area. You can’t follow each one to the hospital.”
“This isn’t a ski accident. This is a child, Kurt. A baby.”
“What can you do there that the doctors can’t?”
“I can at least show that we care.”
Kurt shook his head.
“You don’t agree?”
“That’s your problem. You’re too soft with people. And it shows in your relations with employees.”
“What does that mean?”
“You have tea with Gail every day, for example.”
“So?”
“It takes her away from her work.”
“If you mean today, her shift was over.”
“You know what I mean. She’s just a ticket seller.”
“No. She’s a friend.”
“Can’t you see how it looks? She’s an employee. You’re the general manager.”
“And I’m twenty-five years old just learning the business; she’s fifty and been in it thirty. There’s a lot I can learn from her.” She turned her palms up. “Maybe you could too if you took the time.”
His eyes locked onto hers. “I know my job.”
She nodded. “Yes you do, or you wouldn’t still have it. Kurt, you’ve obviously become a fine mountain manager in just two years. I’m impressed with your ability to pick things up. You learn fast, and I don’t have to second-guess you when it comes to the mountain. With people it’s a different story. We’re running a ski area not a boot camp. You can’t treat people here like recruits.”
“You can’t treat them like your flower people and still have an organization.”
Cilla sat back in her chair. She’d left the ashram barely four months ago after two years of what he’d consider aberrant behavior, maybe communist, certainly disorderly living. She knew what he saw: a tall skinny hippie in the seat of authority. Perhaps where he felt he should sit. She studied him. His ski pants were neatly pressed. His muscular frame stretched an expensive Norwegian sweater. Rapidly thinning hair on his head suggested an oversupply on his chest, confirmed by tufts sprouting from his collar. What had Hudson said about barrel chests? Prone to heart attacks. Sometimes that was true about men in general. The stronger they looked the more vulnerable they were. Like big dogs. Irish wolfhounds last only half as long as smaller more fragile looking breeds. This wolfhound liked to strain at the leash.
She sighed. “You’ve got your generations mixed, Kurt. Right now I’m going to finish these checks and then I’m going to the hospital. We’ll discuss this later.” She bent forward over her desk and started signing.
Momentarily taken aback, Kurt opened his mouth as if to speak, thought better of it, did a right about face and closed the door a little more firmly than necessary behind him.
Cilla looked up at the sound. There was a showdown coming with Mr. Britton. She hoped she wouldn’t have to let him go. He was really good at his job, and the men who worked the snowmaking and the grooming of the slopes and trails followed him enthusiastically. If he went they might too.
Ruth, the ski area receptionist, rang her line. “There’s a man named Andre Adams who’s coming by to see you this afternoon at one o’clock. I’m sorry, Cilla, he didn’t give me a chance to say `hold it’, just said he’d be here and hung up.”
“Any idea what he wants?”
“He said he was from Silent Spring, whatever that is.”
“Isn’t that the environmental group that gave Skiway such a hard time with their expansion some years ago?”
“Yes! That’s right! But that’s because Skiway wanted to use some National Forest land, isn’t it? We’re not on National Forest.”
“No, we’re just a neighbor. Thanks, Ruth. I’ll see what Mr. Adams wants.”
As it happened, a flat tire at lunch in the village made her half an hour late. Ruth greeted her at the employee entrance.
“Where have you been?” Her chubby body quivered under a hastily donned ski jacket.
“Sorry. Car troubles. Happened on the way back from the hospital, so I couldn’t call…don’t look at me like that. I didn’t have my cell phone. I take it Adams has arrived.”
“I put him in your office. The way he chewed my head off he may eat the furniture.”
“I’m sorry to put you through that. He’s a bear, huh?”
“Who’s not hibernating. How’s the little girl?”
“Not so good. She’s still unconscious; I’m going back later.”
The bear had his back to the door, gazing out the window at ski lift operators getting ready for the day’s crowds, as she entered saying, “Mr. Adams, I do apologize…
“Mrs. Rogers, you are obviously not aware of the seriousness of the situation…” He turned to face her, a lecturing finger raised. And stopped. “You… you’re Mrs. Rogers?”
“Yes, and I was saying… Are you all right?” Adams indeed looked as though he’d hit a plate glass door that had suddenly materialized between them.
“I… Yes… Yes, of course.” He gained control. Cilla saw a slim, well-built man in his mid to late thirties with rimless, octagonal glasses and a pointed face that right now carried a look of astonishment. “You took me by surprise. You look very much like… another person I know. You don’t have a sister…? No, of course not. At least Loni doesn’t.” He took a breath. “I seem to be babbling, don’t I. That’s not like me. May I sit down?”
“Of course.” Cilla indicated a two chair grouping around a coffee table and took one herself. A strange start. This Loni must be someone special to him.
Adams saw her look. “Loni is, or rather was, an important person in my life.” He peered at Cilla more closely. “Yes, I can see the differences. But you could be twins.”
Cilla waited.
“But of course that’s not why I’m here.” He rustled papers. “There is a report of the sighting of an animal here on your premises, an Indiana Bat, protected under the Endangered Species Act - the animal is protected, not the premises. The actual sighting took place nearly a year ago. I wrote a Mr. Carr, who was listed as Chief Executive Officer.” He referred to one of his papers. “Wrote him several times in fact. He has not chosen to respond. At least we have no record of a letter from him. I see you have the title of President at Great Haystack; is Mr. Carr still around?”
“No, I’m also CEO. Mr. Adams, the ski area has been under new ownership since the end of the year. I found one of your letters from last year in the files after receiving the one yesterday. I am unfamiliar with the situation beyond that. What is this Indiana Bat? And who saw it?”
“The Indiana Bat is a small creature about the size of a mouse, whose habitat - as its name suggests - is generally the Midwest. This is as far east as one has been observed. Only a handful are known to still exist. They have thus been designated an endangered species, and the Federal Government is charged with taking all measures necessary to preserve them. This one was seen by a skier last April 13.”
“I understand it was seen in the Isis Cave area. That part of the mountain wasn’t available for skiing then. We are just now opening it up.”
“Precisely. That work will of course have to cease at once. As will all activity within a radius of a quarter of a mile of the cave.”
“You can’t be serious. That would take in almost the entire ski area!”
“Four fifths of it to be exact.”
“You plan to shut us down?”
Adams put down his papers and looked at Cilla for a long moment. “That is the scenario the way it is supposed to be played out. However, I am not an employee of the Federal Government and thus have a certain latitude unavailable to those who are.” A wry grin. “What I am is human, though if the word gets out it will make my job impossible. The secret of any success I’ve had is in scaring the shit out people, if you’ll excuse the language.”
“As you did with Ruth.”
“She the girl outside?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s not disturb her view of me as a monster. Unfortunately I can’t continue the performance while facing a woman who could be the one I lived with for two years, and would have for longer had she…” He snapped his file shut. “I’ll tell you another secret; I’m not a bit convinced an Indiana Bat made it all the way to New Hampshire. My real interest is in protecting the National Forest. Great Haystack is right on the edge, but indeed doesn’t impinge on it. Were you utilizing even a few feet of Federal land…” he shrugged and left the thought unfinished. He put the file in his briefcase and turned to shake Cilla’s hand. “I understand you and your husband are friends of Bob Gold. Perhaps we could all get together to do a little ice climbing. Bob tells me Cathedral is in great shape. Do you climb?”
“Years ago.”
“I’ll ask Bob to set it up. Though not for Cathedral. Maybe something milder. And remember, I’m dangerous.” He opened the door. Ruth was at her desk just outside. Adams turned for a long look at Cilla. Then gave a slight shake of his head and closed the door behind him.
After a few minutes on the telephone, Cilla knew a lot more about her visitor. Silent Spring, obviously named for the book by Rachel Carson that warned of the catastrophic consequences of inattention to human damage to the environment, had come into being sometime in the early nineties. Its Executive Director, Andre Adams, had made a name for himself as one of the leading environmentalists in the Northeast. His organization, headquartered in Boston, was responsible for new Clean Air laws in Massachusetts and Vermont, and his research on wind-carried acid rain had smokestack industries in the mid West quavering.
In recent years Adams had turned his attention to the White Mountain National Forest and he had appeared at hearings on such projects as the Appalachian Mountain Club’s request for extension of its permit, the Forest Service arrangements for clear cutting of timber and Skiway Mountain’s plans to expand its ski area further onto National Forest land.
Those she reached called him brilliant, tough and determined. Though a confirmed tree hugger herself, Cilla got the idea Adams could also be an executioner, depending on which side of the table you sat on.
Bob Gold, a former Navy Seal who had retired to the Valley, often worked out with Hudson in the weight room at Cranmore Sports Center. Cilla’s phone call caught up with him there. His take on Adams was straightforward: a good guy, enthusiastic about his work. Sure a bit of a fanatic, but probably had to be to get his point across in the world of big business.
“He’s been staying with me for a few days. Have to throw him out tomorrow, though; the crew is coming to put in a walk-in freezer that’ll take part of the room he’s staying in.”
“Starting a restaurant in Dundee, Bob?”
“No, no. The freezer’s just for me. Cooking’s my hobby, you know.”
“You ever meet a friend of his named Loni?”
“No, but I’ve heard all I want to about her. They lived together a couple years until she walked out on him a few months ago. The guy has bent my ear about her the whole time he’s been here.”
“Never saw a picture of her?”
“Nope, why the interest?”
“Adams said he wouldn’t close us down cause he couldn’t do it to someone who looks like her.”
“That would be you?”
“Yes. He seemed kind of squirrelly, was all hot to lower the boom on us when he came in.”
“He can do it, Cilla, I’ve seen him operate. But he’s really a nice guy underneath. We’ve made a couple of trips into the backcountry this winter. Up until this Loni business he was interesting to talk to. In fact, I’d think you in particular would get along well with him.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, you’re kind of a flower person, aren’t you?”
“What’s with you guys? Kurt gave me the same line this morning. Is it so crazy to want a clean home?”
“Home?”
“The earth, dummy. Where we live. You’re always out in the woods; you want to wander around it in smog?”
“Yeah, that sounds just like him. We’re going up Dracula Divide tomorrow before he heads back to Concord. Why not take a few hours off and join us? You’ll never get Hudson to take you ice climbing.”
“No, he’s not much for heights. I hated to ask him to fly to Europe.”
“I miss him in the weight room. He keeps me at it; without him I’d probably sit home and veg. Hasn’t he been gone longer than he expected?”
“Yes.” She wrinkled her forehead. “Back the day after tomorrow, I think. He took a side trip to Russia. You remember John Krestinski?”
“Sure, his FBI friend. Met him and his wife last month when they were visiting you.”
“John’s parents made their first visit back to St. Petersburg since they immigrated to the US back in the fifties. They were supposed to call John from there two weeks ago. They didn’t and they’re not at the hotel where they were staying. John asked Hudson to go to St. Petersburg and see what he could find out.”
“Why Hudson? Doesn’t the FBI have counterparts in Russia? Like whatever came after the KGB?”
“John doesn’t want to make an official case of it. I probably shouldn’t be telling you about it. So forget I did. Hudson speaks Russian; John doesn’t.”
“Isn’t that a little backward?”
“John was born in this country, and his parents wanted him to speak only English growing up.”
“But hey, the FBI’s the expert on disappearances, isn’t it?”
“I think John’s background has been a sensitive point in his job in the past. You know, an FBI agent with a Russian heritage in the days when we were fighting communism. I don’t think he wants that spotlight again. Where did you say you’re climbing tomorrow?”
“Dracula Divide at seven AM.”
“I’ll meet you there.”