01 Storm Peak Page 12

  Then he waited to catch the leader of the bullies alone.

  The older boy never saw him coming. And after the attack, he saw less than he had before, as one of the protruding nails had slashed across his left eye, destroying it. In addition, he’d suffered a badly fractured skull and a broken wrist and forearm, where he had tried to defend himself. Two ribs were cracked and his body was bruised and torn from shoulder to thigh, where repeated blows from the club had smashed and ripped into him as Matthew continued to hit him long after he had ceased moving. He was found bleeding, half-blinded and unconscious, with fluid leaking from his ear, in the stairwell where Matthew had surprised him.

  He remained in intensive care for a week, hovering between life and death. When, after ten days, he opened his remaining eye and spoke for the first time, he named his attacker.

  Matthew was brought before the school principal, who interviewed him, flanked by two police officers. He faced them calmly, convinced that he had done no wrong. He had simply reacted to a situation and solved it as he had been instructed. He told them this. The teacher was summoned and questioned. Of course, he denied any responsibility for the savagery of the attack as Matthew looked on, watching first with disbelief, then with growing contempt. The pattern that would dog him through his life was repeated yet again.

  “You told me to do it,” he said. His voice was calm and the statement was one of simple fact, not the sort of hysterical denial that might have been expected.

  But, of course, the teacher denied it and Matthew was expelled, charged with attempted murder, a charge that his parents’ money and influence reduced to aggravated battery, and he was sent to a reform school. Even their intervention in having the charges reduced didn’t carry any weight with him. If they could have them reduced, he reasoned, they could have them dropped altogether. But that would have taken more money, which they obviously weren’t prepared to spend.

  His reputation preceded him at his new school. He was regarded as unstable, unpredictable and someone to be avoided. That suited him fine. He wanted to be left alone. He began to fill out and grow—long, relentless sessions in the gym working with weights left him powerful and muscular.

  He was obliged to spend three hours a week talking with a psychiatrist, in an attempt to bring some control to the violence that could well up in him so quickly. There had been several instances with other boys in the reformatory, all of them resulting in his victims left battered and bleeding. He went into these fights with an intensity and savagery that was disturbing. The doctor tried unsuccessfully to help him see the cause of the terrible anger that could seize him in these moments. It was all the more frightening because it was cold and calculating rather than hot-blooded and instinctive in its nature. The doctor began to sense his hatred of authority but never got a chance to reach the core of the problem.

  They found Rawlings’s case notes afterward. The last addition stated:

  Matthew is a deeply disturbed young man with a frightening tendency to extreme violence. He displays a hatred of authority and a total refusal to respond to discipline or instruction. Any attempt to direct his behavior is likely to result in violent and unpredictable episodes, When these occur, Matthew demonstrates a total abrogation of responsibility, choosing instead to level blame at those in a position of authority over him.

  In the light of these notes, Rawlings should have sensed the danger. He was a small man, in his late fifties with a heart condition. Matthew by now was tall and muscular—belying his fifteen years. They found the doctor in a pool of blood, his throat slashed open by the jagged remains of a drinking glass on his desk. The ground floor office window, one of those few in the school that were without bars, was open. Matthew was gone.

  Over the ensuing years, the pattern continued to repeat itself. But of course, when it did, nobody associated it with a small, disturbed boy named Matthew. He had long since disappeared, fading easily into the anonymous background provided by the constantly shifting tide of transients moving back and forth across the face of the country.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Lee looked at the mass of computer printout paper that covered the table and flowed off the end onto the floor like a printed waterfall.

  “I guess you haven’t got lucky yet,” she said dryly. Jesse looked up at her and shook his head wearily.

  “You wouldn’t believe how many people got fired from this place in the last five years,” he said. “It doesn’t speak too well for our employment record.”

  Lee flipped up the page nearest the end of the table and glanced at it curiously. “I guess we get a lot of transient workers in winter coming through here,” she said. “Ski bums and the like who want a nice easy job while they spend their time on the mountain.”

  “Sure as hell looks like it,” Jesse agreed.

  “So, does the resort keep a special computer file of people who’ve been fired?” she asked, scanning the names on the paper, hoping that one might, somehow, stand out from the others and say, “Here I am! Come and get me!” None did. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised by the fact.

  “There isn’t a file that big,” Jesse replied heavily. “Denise came up with the idea of checking through all the employment files, searching for the phrase ‘pay in lieu of notice.’ This is what the computers turned up.” He waved a hand along the sheets of paper.

  Lee frowned. “So we may not even have a complete list of people here?” she asked.

  Jesse’s shoulders slumped at the thought of it. “Jesus, I hope so! There must be at least two hundred names on this list. Don’t wish any more on me.”

  He was crossing names off as they spoke, running a thick black felt-tip pen through them. Lee watched as he’d cross out a name. Read, skip a few, then cross out another.

  “You just eliminating them on the grounds of gut feel?” she asked. He looked up again.

  “Women,” he explained succinctly. “At least we’re pretty sure our perp is a man. So I can thin this down a little to start.”

  “Couldn’t the computer have done that?” she asked. “I thought those damn things could do everything.”

  “Apparently not,” her deputy replied, scoring through another two names in quick succession. “Seems the records weren’t allowed to discriminate by sex.” He grinned at her tiredly. “And you can blame modern society for that, I guess. And they haven’t taught a computer yet to distinguish between a Cindy-Lou and a Billy-Bob.”

  Lee allowed the ghost of a grin to touch the corners of her mouth. “Times I find that a little hard myself, the way the world’s going these days,” she said. Jesse gave a small snort of laughter, went back to his task again.

  “You want to pass me half of those? I’ll lend a hand.” Jesse, without looking up, shook his head.

  “Nah. I’m nearly done here. Thanks all the same.”

  Whit, whit, whit, went the black felt tip across the paper as he slashed names away. He paused momentarily, frowning.

  “Billy. Now surely that’s a man’s name?”

  “I would have thought so,” she replied. “What makes you think otherwise?”

  “The employer. Seems that ‘Billy’ worked for the Snow White Beauty Parlor and Nail Clinic.” He chewed the end of the pen thoughtfully. Again, Lee allowed herself the ghost of a grin.

  “Put her down as a probable,” she suggested. “Cross her out with a dotted line. If you don’t come up with a perp, you can always come back to good ol’ Billy.”

  “Ah, the hell with it,” he said and slashed the pen through the name. “Why can’t people give their kids names that are definitely male or female—like John or Judy?”

  “Or Lee or Jesse?” she suggested and her deputy made a mock angry gesture with the pen.

  “Hell, we don’t count!” he said. “We aren’t suspects in this one.” He paused, then added thoughtfully, “Leastways, I know I’m not. I’m not sure about you.”

  “I guess it helps to be the suspector,” she reasoned. He looked down to hide his
grin.

  “It does that.” He slashed another name, then leaned back with a sigh of relief. “Well, that’s the women out of the way,” he said. “That leaves me barely”—he looked at the pages of names, estimating the number remaining—“oh, say a hundred and ten to go through further.”

  “Hundred and ten out of a hundred and fifty?” she remarked, raising her eyebrows. “Don’t speak too well of the male reliability factor, does it? That’s nearly a three to one ratio of men fired to women.”

  “Affirmative action,” Jesse said firmly. “Easier to fire men these days. Probably find half these boys were fired out of sheer frustration because their employers couldn’t fire the female they really wanted to.”

  He began to reel in the sheets of paper, tearing them across the perforated joins as he did, and stacking the pages together.

  “Once I’ve got these names collated and sorted, I’ll send them through to Quantico. The FBI can run them through their computer,” Jesse said. “That way, we’ll see if any of these guys have any previous record of violence.”

  “And if they have?” she asked.

  “Then we’ll start with those ones.” He grinned ruefully. “Mind you, we’ll probably find it’s one of the others if we do. That’s the way it usually goes.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Ben Fuller, head of the Mount Werner Ski School, looked up from the schedule he was preparing when he heard a light tap on the door. He grinned a welcome to Jesse as the tall deputy hovered, half in and half out of his small office.

  “Jess! Come on in!” He gestured to the enamel coffeepot that sat on the top of a potbelly stove in a corner of the room. “Help yourself to a cup.”

  Jesse poured the thick, strong brew into a plain white mug and carried it over to the desk.

  “Not interrupting anything, am I?” he asked.

  Fuller spread his arms wide to encompass the office, the desk and, particularly, the paperwork laid out before him.

  “Shoot, of course you are! And I’m damn glad for the interruption.”

  Jesse hooked a straight-backed wooden chair closer and sank into it. He took a sip of coffee and his hair promptly stood on end.

  “Good God, Ben, how you ever get to sleep nights, drinking this witch’s brew?”

  Ben Fuller grinned. He was used to disparaging comments about his coffee. “Who has time to sleep, Jess? That’s a luxury reserved only for public servants like yourself. So, what can I do for you? I take it you aren’t planning on booking in for a week of ski lessons?”

  “Not at this time, Ben,” Jesse replied gravely. “Wondered if you’d take a look at this list of names.” He passed a sheet of paper across the desk. Fuller took it, studied it briefly then looked back at Jesse, eyebrows raised.

  “Couple look familiar. What’s it all about?” His smile faded as he answered his own question. “It’s that case you’re working on, isn’t it? That serial killer?”

  Jesse nodded slowly. “That’s right. We’re working on a theory that it could be someone with a grudge against the town …” he began.

  “A grudge against the town?” Fuller frowned. “How can someone hate a town?”

  Jesse sipped his coffee again. He was suddenly very tired. He’d had this conversation around a dozen times already today. With restaurant owners, bar managers, hotel operators. The computer had spat out its list of people who’d been fired in the past five years. Now the hard grind began. The checking and rechecking. The questioning: Do you remember this guy? What kind of guy was he? Do you think he’d be capable of violence? Do you remember why you fired him?

  So far, the answers were blanks. Now Jesse thought he might shortcut proceedings a little. He’d mentally kicked himself for not thinking of it earlier. The man in question was known to be an expert skier. It made sense to check first on any employees from the ski school or the ski patrol who’d been fired. There were several candidates from each.

  He took a deep breath and, for the thirteenth time, answered the question.

  “Well, one reason might be someone who was fired, and who felt they didn’t deserve to be fired. Let that happen to a guy who wasn’t completely stable and it might just take him off the rails.”

  Ben Fuller shook his head over the sheet of paper. “You really think someone could get so steamed up?” he asked incredulously.

  “Been known to happen,” Jesse answered. “I’d appreciate it if you’d cast an eye over that list and see if you remember any of those names.”

  Ben looked at the names again, a frown of concentration rumpling his forehead. He eased his thickset frame into the old wooden swivel chair that he used, settled his rump more comfortably.

  “This guy.” He tapped the second name from the top. “Got rid of him late last year, as I recall. Had something of a drinking problem.”

  “Violent sort of guy maybe?” Jesse suggested, but Fuller shook his head emphatically.

  “Hell, no! More likely he’d fall asleep than throw punches. Even when I fired him, he just grinned and said he wondered what took me so long to get around to it. Seemed to expect it, I guess.”

  “How about the others?” Jesse prompted, gesturing toward the other names on the list in Fuller’s hand. He studied it for a moment before he replied.

  “Yeah, some of these are familiar. Let’s see …”

  He looked up from the paper, pursed his lips thoughtfully. Then looked back down at the list. His forefinger hovered uncertainly over another of the names.

  “Him,” he said decisively. “I remember him. Mike Miller. He was back in ’01. Had to fire him and he was damned angry about it.”

  Jesse leaned forward slowly, set the coffee mug down on the desk. “Angry?”

  Memory came back in a flood now, and Fuller nodded several times. “Mad as a hornet. Thought he was going to take a swing at me. Wish the bastard had. I’d have loved a reason to lay one on him. He caused me a whole peck of trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble would that have been?” Jesse asked.

  “I had him assigned to private classes—just one on ones. He decided to take the idea of one on one literally. He and a client skied down Valley View, went off to the left there into an empty condo and screwed themselves up a storm. Damn near brought the mountain down.”

  Jesse shrugged. “I guess it wasn’t exactly the lesson the client had in mind,” he said. “But was that a reason to fire him?”

  Fuller shook his head emphatically. “No, no, no! Frankly, I didn’t give a damn. The client’s husband got a little tetchy about it though. Walked in on them while Miller was busy showing his wife a whole new reason for keeping her knees bent.”

  “Oh, shit,” Jesse said, understanding.

  “Exactly. Problem was, the husband took a swing at Miller and Miller damn near killed him. Turned out he was one of these experts in kung fu or karate or whatever they call it these days. He really went to town.”

  “Had a violent side to him then?” Jesse asked.

  “You’d better believe it. That’s why I got rid of him. Hell, I might have done it over the other business. I mean we all know it goes on, and we all know the trick is not to get caught. Chances are, though, he might have got away with it. But he sent that other feller to the hospital and there was just no way I could keep him on after that. No way in the world.”

  “You said he turned ugly when you fired him?” Jesse reminded the ski school director.

  “Oh, yeah. Ugly is the word. He stormed up and down this room. He said he’d fix me good. He’d fix the whole place …” Fuller’s voice trailed off as he realized what he was saying. His gaze locked with Jesse’s. There was a cold light in the deputy’s eyes. The light that shines in the eyes of a hunting animal when the prey is suddenly revealed.

  “Sweet Jesus …” Fuller said quietly. “It could be him, couldn’t it?”

  Jesse nodded agreement. “Could be, Ben. Or it could have been just talk. It’s certainly something I’d want to check up on. You have any r
ecord of where he might have gone? Where he came from? Do people normally leave a forwarding address?”

  Fuller shrugged. His eyes were still reflecting the sudden realization that the former instructor could be the man who’d already murdered three times. Later, the realization would dawn that he himself could conceivably be a target. That realization would cause Ben Fuller more than a few hours’ lost sleep in the days to come.

  “Some do. Some don’t,” he replied. “I’ll have the office check their records and see for you, Jess.”

  The deputy stood up. “I’d appreciate that, Ben. Also, cast your mind over those other names, see if you can remember how come they were fired as well. See if any of the others remember.”

  Fuller stood to usher Jesse to the door. “I’ll do that, Jess. You think it’s worth checking the others though? Seems to me Miller’s got to be the man you’re after.”

  “Maybe, Ben. But we’ll check ’em all. Just in case.” Jesse tugged on his Cubs cap and lifted his battered leather jacket from a hook inside the outer office door. “Be in touch,” he said briefly, then went out into the cold.

  He went looking for Opie Dulles, the ski patrol commander. He’d hoped to find his erstwhile boss in the ski patrol office at Ski Time Square. Jenny the dispatcher, looked up as he entered, welcoming him with a broad smile.

  “Hi there, stranger,” she said. “Looking for your old job back?”

  He answered Jenny’s question with a grin. “Not right now, girl. Got other business to take care of. Opie around?”

  She shook her head. “Went up the mountain a half hour back.” She reached for the two-way handset on the desk beside her, thumbed the talk button and spoke into the mike.

  “Time Square base to Zero one. Do you read?”

  Zero one was Opie’s call sign. The patrol heads at the various huts around the mountain were One one, Two one, Three one and so on. Jenny released the talk button and Opie’s distorted voice was heard through a crackle of atmospherics.