“It’s about a client of mine. It can wait.”
“Are you still taking people? I thought you’d retired.”
“I am retired. This one is a damned old fool who just won’t accept it. Have Hudson call me,” he ordered. “No. On second thought don’t. I can’t talk about it.” He hung up.
She held the dead phone for a moment. Then replaced it gently. She knew Hudson was fond of Carver; the two enjoyed the mental jousting that took place whenever they got together. Carver was the one person she knew who could give her husband a battle at chess. Her own feelings were somewhat different. If Wallace Carver had been born German, Hitler would have had to fight him for dictator. He seldom said `please’ or `thank you’ and never `good bye’ when finishing a phone conversation. The phone rang again.
“Yes?” Her voice was cold, preparing for new instructions from General Carver.
“Where is he?” Not Wally. A soft voice, almost a whisper.
“What?”
“Your father. Where is your father?”
“You have the wrong number,” she hung up the phone. It rang again before she could turn from it. “Yes?”
“Tell me where your father is and I won’t bother you any more.”
“He’s dead. You’re nine months too late.” The phone went into its cradle with a little more force. She stood looking at it. Waiting. A moment later it rang again.
“Don’t do that again. I only want to talk with him.”
“Then see a channeler. Get off my line.” She hung up and unplugged the phone from the wall.
She paused. Something about the voice. What was it? It was low, quiet and yet with an underlying strength. She’d heard it before. Where? Sometime before Christmas…? She shook her head. Bartlett, New Hampshire, was not a place where one expected crank calls. It also wasn’t a place where one’s home got invaded; Cilla couldn’t remember hearing of any other attack like hers. She hadn’t been quite honest with Hudson about it. Certainly no rational beings would make a second try at a house from which they’d been driven off - nearly captured - and which could no longer be taken by surprise. But there was something about the look in the eyes of the intruders. They revealed no rational thought.
Chapter 9
Surprisingly there had been no wind following the snowstorm, and the spruce the next morning carried armloads of white against a bright blue sky. But the plow had been through. Cilla had mixed feelings about the road being sanded; what a delight it would be to travel it by sleigh.
Kurt Britton was jovial; he’d beaten three of the ski school instructors over the NASTAR course Thursday afternoon. Britton had only skied seriously the two years he’d been in the business, but approached the sport with the same intensity he brought to the rest of his life.
“Coffee for Big Mama?”
“Tea. What time did we start grooming?”
“It was three A.M. before the temperature dropped enough.”
“They must be still out.”
“Just finishing on Wild West. Did Hudson tell you all the snowmakers are in working order?”
“Great! That makes the new snow just a bonus.”
“The real bonus will come next summer when we can hook the system up to the pond we’re building. The environmentalist weenies aren’t going to let us draw from the river much longer. We’ll be one of the few ski areas with self-contained snowmaking. And we’ll have the capacity to handle Big Haystack when we get to it.”
“If we get to it.” Great Haystack Ski Area was actually built on Little Haystack Mountain, but the corporation owned another two thousand acres next door, some five hundred of them running up the side of Big Haystack Mountain to meet White Mountain National Forest near the top. The ski area could more than double its size if the land on the larger mountain was utilized. Plans had been drawn up for a new complex with four lifts, twenty-five trails, and a hotel and restaurant immediately abutting Forest Service land. All it needed was money, and with no mortgages on the existing business, funds were available whenever Cilla decided to take on debt.
It was a Friday, so Cilla skied an assortment of the area’s thirty trails to assure herself the mountain was ready for heavy weekend traffic. Having grown up in Bartlett, she’d been on skis since she was three, and - as with all Mt. Washington Valley kids - skiing was one of her grammar school “courses”. Combined with a natural athletic ability, she was as home on skis as walking, and as knowledgeable about the on-snow side of skiing as grizzled veterans. She sent snowcats back up on three trails to flatten infant moguls in the new snow. These bumps, created by skiers all turning in the same places, were allowed to grow on several expert trails, but ninety percent of Great Haystack’s skiers wanted a smooth surface where turning locations were their option, not somebody else’s.
She left a little earlier than usual to take Andre for his swimming therapy at the club. Cilla had also been swimming since she was three, usually in the Saco River. Now, during the winter, she tried to use the club’s pool at least once a week, each session for a hundred or so laps. Her one-piece bathing suit was as conservative as could be found in the malls of North Conway, but she was aware of Andre’s eyes on her more often than on the female swimmers in smaller pieces of cloth. The attention made her uncomfortable. Damn Loni, wherever she is. She left the pool area as soon as she’d finished her routine, breathing a sigh of relief, when Bob Gold appeared from the weight room, suggesting to Andre they try the new Indian restaurant on the “Strip”, as the three mile commercial stretch south of North Conway village was known.
The Rogers were having a guest of their own for dinner, which was rare. She and Hudson were private people, who neither needed nor wanted a social circle. But Jim Evans was a local physician who’d shared some of the couple’s short history together. He’d doctored both Cilla and Hudson the previous fall for wounds not commonly associated with the peaceful life of the north country and become a friend in the process.
Cilla greeted him at the door as he stomped his boots. “Susie Tardon, how is she?”
“I’m sorry, Cilla. She didn’t make it.” He hung his coat in the mudroom.
“Oh no! That’s terrible! What happened?”
“She never regained consciousness.” The doctor headed toward the glowing fireplace rubbing his hands.
Cilla followed him in. “So… What did she die of?”
Evans gazed into the fire. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? Doctors are supposed to know.”
The doctor nodded wearily. He turned to face her. “That’s what I used to think. You remember Annie Cross?”
“Sure, ran into her last week at the grocery store. She lives on River Street.”
“Lived. She died two days ago. Her niece found her sitting at her dining room table looking as if she was just waiting for dinner to be served.”
“Annie must have been eighty-five.”
“Seventy-four and last week as healthy as sixty. You probably know Henry Callow?”
“I saw him last night at the Planning Board meeting, looking like death warmed over. Don’t tell me…”
“His daughter found him this morning. Sitting in his car in the driveway as though about to drive to the store. He was seventy.”
“I would have guessed him older.” She paused. “But seventy’s not young.”
“Old age isn’t a cause of death. It’s a reason why parts sometimes fail.”
“What parts failed with these?”
“That’s the point; none that I can tell. They should still be alive.”
“Like Susie?”