Her complexion was shockingly white, and the way she was slumped forward against the tree made him sure that her neck and maybe her back were broken. He was afraid to touch her for fear that he would cause further damage. “Liz,” he said to her. “Sweetheart, it’s me. Can you hear me?” She didn’t respond. He eased the ski glove off her right hand and held her fingers. “Liz, squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”
He looked down at her unmoving fingers. Tiny, narrow, delicate, lifeless. “Oh, God, Liz, please,” Todd said close to her ear. “Just a little squeeze. I’ll feel it.”
She was on her knees, almost as if she were praying. Her ski goggles were askew on her face, the right lens shattered and covered with blood. He wanted to take them off, but he didn’t dare. He looked back the way she had come, then up toward the chair lift tower at the top of the ridge. He could make out two figures starting down the slope into the bowl. Even from this distance he could see that they were pulling a stretcher sled and were clad in the orange jackets of the ski patrol.
“Help is on the way, Liz,” he told his wife. “Hang on, sweetheart, they’re coming.” He shifted so that he could look up into her face.
There was a lot of blood from a big gash low on her forehead, but it wasn’t arterial, and because of the cold air the bleeding was already slowing down. There was blood in the snow between her legs. At first he thought that it was from her head wounds, but then he realized that the front of her ski suit was soaked with blood. He fell back, a moan involuntarily escaping from his throat. The baby. Not again. Please, dear God, not again. The ski patrol was moving fast down the slope.
Todd looked up and desperately waved to them. They waved back. “Just a couple of minutes now, Liz,” he said to her. “I swear to God.” He didn’t know how he could face Mac and Mrs. M. This was all his fault.
He should have been an asshole and canceled the ski trip. He’d known better. The doctor, who’d been somewhat skeptical, would have sided with him. If he had been strong enough. Responsible. He glanced at the ski patrol rescuers, who were getting closer, then turned the other way, hardly able to contain himself. He felt helpless. His eyes lit on one of Elizabeth’s skis. It had gotten tangled in the lower branches of a couple of small pines a few feet away. Elizabeth’s condition didn’t seem to be getting any worse. She was starting to breathe a little easier, and there was nothing he could do for her. He wanted to scream. To lash out at someone, at anyone. He crawled over to the lone ski and pulled it out of the branches. He brushed the snow from what was left of the bindings. The rear mechanism had shattered.
Nothing remained attached to the base of the ski except for some jagged pieces of metal. He stared at the mechanism. It hadn’t broken apart.
The metal hadn’t simply failed because of work fatigue. The binding had shattered. As if it had been blown apart, from the inside out. He bent forward and sniffed the binding, then reared back. He knew the smell. He should. He’d smelled it often enough during training at the Farm.
It was Semtex. A Polish-made plastic explosive. Very stable, very powerful, very easy to get on the open market. The ski patrol was a little more than one hundred yards out now. Van Buren buried the ski, then scrambled back to Elizabeth. She was still unconscious, and although she was pale, he couldn’t see anything catastrophic. He un zippered her belt pouch and took out her wallet. He removed her CIA identification card, driver’s license, and two credit cards under her real name and pocketed them. The ski patrol was coming on quickly, but they were still too far away to make out what he was doing. He took a small, plastic-wrapped package from a back compartment in Elizabeth’s wallet and extracted a Minnesota driver’s license, social security card, bank debit card, and University of Minnesota student ID and medical insurance card all in the name of Doris Sampson, and distributed them in her wallet.
Somebody had tried to kill her. It was important that he and Liz drop out of public view right now until he could call for help. His cell phone was at the hotel.
Van Buren replaced Elizabeth’s wallet in her pouch. “It’s going to be okay, sweetheart. I promise, nobody’s going to hurt you again.” Van Buren stood up, glanced at the ski patrol rescuers, then scanned the ridgelines. Either the plastique had been set on a fuse, possibly by someone back at the chalet, or it had been remotely detonated by someone up here. Someone who was watching them, someone who had followed them. But there was no one around. The bowl was empty. The ski patrol arrived, secured the sled and stepped out of their skis.
“What happened, sir?” one of them asked. His name tag read LARSEN.
“She hit a tree,” Todd said. It was difficult to keep on track. He wanted to fight back. The second ski patrol volunteer whose name tag read WILLET, brought a big first-aid kit over to Elizabeth, took off his gloves and knelt beside her to start his preliminary examination.
“What’s her name?” “Doris,” Todd told him. “Okay, Doris, how are we doing this afternoon?” Willet said, taking her pulse at the side of her neck. Larsen pulled out a neck brace and backboard, which he brought over to where Elizabeth was crumpled. “Breathing is labored, but breath sounds are equal and symmetrical. Her heartbeat is fast, but strong,” Willet said. “Some trauma to the forehead and right temple, some bleeding but not heavy.”
They’d worked as a team before. Their moves were quick and professional. They knew what they were doing; they’d been here many times before. Larsen took out a wireless comms unit a little larger than an average cell phone. “Base, this is Ranger Three in Pete’s Bowl beneath Earl’s Express.” “Stand by, Ranger Three.” “Are you the husband, sir?” he asked Todd. “No. I’m her brother. She’s four months pregnant.” Larsen’s lips compressed, and he nodded. “How old is she?” “Twenty-five.” “General health?” “Very good-” “Ranger Three, go ahead.” “We have a white female, twenty-five, with blunt trauma to the head, chest and abdomen. Some blood loss, but she’s wearing a helmet.” “Okay, pulse is one fifteen; regular and strong.”
Willet called out. “BP one hundred over fifty. Patient is unresponsive, but her pupils are equal and reactive to light.” Larsen relayed the information to the clinic at the base of the slopes down in Vail Village. “The patient’s brother is with her. He says that she is four months pregnant. There is evidence of some bleeding around the perineum of her ski suit.” “Stand by,” the on-call doctor ordered. “Is she going to make it?” Van Buren asked. He had to keep it together, but it was hard. Larsen nodded. “She was wearing a helmet. Probably saved her life.” He glanced over at Elizabeth. Willet was taking off her helmet, careful not to move her head. “Where’s her husband?”
“She’s a widow,” Todd said. “That’s why she wanted me to come skiing with her.” “Tough luck. She’s a good-looking girl.” “She is,” Todd said, his nerves jumping. “Ranger Three, give her 500 ccs of normal saline and start her on O2. The medevac chopper is en route. We’ll transport her to Denver General when you have her ready to move.”
“Hang in there, Doris,” Larsen said. He and Willet attached the neck brace, their movements very gentle, very precise. Todd could only stand by and watch. But already he was working out the steps he would have to take in the next twenty-four hours to protect his wife and child. They were priority one; everything else was secondary.