Widowmaker (Mike Bowditch #7)(29)

When I was seven, my father had taken me up with him in his snowcat one moonless night. I didn’t remember much about the experience except certain sensations: the stomach-churning fear of climbing up and down the icy slopes, the wolflike howl of the wind as it shook the windows of the groomer.

“Ever ridden in one of these contraptions before?” Elderoy asked.

The cold seemed to awaken the stitched wound on my arm. “My dad took me once.”

“Not like this one, though!” Elderoy proudly told me that his snowcat was a new PistenBully with tank treads and a flexible plowing blade that could be adjusted to deal with different kinds of snow conditions. He circled the enormous chugging vehicle, showing off its premium features—adjustable tiller, high-performance suspension, heated seats, and a winch cat for grooming the steepest trails—as if trying to sell me one.

“Your old man used to drive our prehistoric Tuckers,” he said with a grin. “I’ll never forget the night he slid down Steep and Deep in his groomer and everyone thought he’d killed himself. Turns out he’d had a girl with him and a bottle of Allen’s coffee brandy. Jack was a rogue all right. Of course, he always liked me, so I never saw his bad side, although I heard plenty of stories.”

I wanted to say, “You’re lucky.”

“I don’t suppose he ever mentioned me?” he asked.

“I think I would have remembered your name. You don’t meet many Elderoys.”

“There used to be two of us with the same first name—Elder Roy and Younger Roy. That was how they told us apart. But Younger Roy passed away some years ago. His snowmobile went through the ice over on Rangeley Lake during the Snodeo. Drunk, of course. Most everyone from the glory days is gone now, retired or passed away. I’m the last of the Mohicans.”

When I opened the passenger door, heated air rushed out of the cockpit. Elderoy cranked up the reggae music playing over his speakers, took hold of the PistenBully’s joystick, and aimed us away from the lodge.

“Ever ski Widowmaker, Mike?” Elderoy asked.

“Sugarloaf’s more my speed.”

“Not sure I would have pegged you for a Sugarloafer!” he said. “I suppose you’ve heard the saying, ‘Sugarloaf is old money. Sunday River is new money. And Widowmaker is never had any money.’ Too bad, since we’ve got some mighty fine trails here.” He started reciting their names with the paternal pride of someone who had cared for them for ages. “We just passed Snow Bunny and Pow Wow. Wild Thing is the main run. Atta Boy and Gritty Girl are moguls. Over on the south side of the lodge, near the condos, are Free Ride, Big Dig, and Git R’ Down. My favorites are the diamond ones up above—Steep and Deep, the Beast, and Take It from the Top. That’s the summit trail.” He thrust his arm in front of my face. “And over there’s Hospital Air Park, where the boarders strut their stuff.”

We started up the mountainside, grinding along an access road that curved away from the ski lifts and trails. A two-way radio murmured on the dashboard. I couldn’t hear what was being said above the Caribbean steel drums.

“Can I ask you something?” I shouted.

“Shoot!”

“What can you tell me about Adam Langstrom?”

He turned down the volume and glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “That depends, I guess.”

“How well do you know him?”

“I’ve known Adam all his life.”

“Did you know he was missing?”

“I did.”

“Any idea where he might be?”

He stopped smiling for the first time since we’d met. “Not sure if that’s any of your business.”

“You’re probably right,” I said, “but his mother asked if I could help bring him home.”

He ran his tongue over his chapped lips. “I hope you don’t find him, in that case.”

“Why not?”

“Because he should have taken off for Canada back before the trial, when he still had the chance.”

“I’m not following you.”

“Adam was never going to get a fair shake. He was screwed the minute the headmaster called in the cops.”

I waited, hoping he would continue.

And he did: “In this world, it doesn’t matter if you’re guilty or not. What matters is if someone else needs you to be guilty. I’ve seen it happen before. I’ve seen decent men ruined.”

“You’re talking about the chairlift accident,” I said slowly.

“That lift never should have been running; it needed so many repairs. Buddy of mine, Scott Dyer, nicest guy in the world, was the lift manager back then. He kept telling the VP of mountain operations that the lift should be shut down. Did the VP listen to him? No, because shutting down the lift would have meant lost money. Sure enough, the line snaps one day in a windstorm, and a skier dies, just like Scott was warning everyone was going to happen. Guess who gets thrown under the bus?”

On the sound system, the Wailers were wailing. The summit was lost in fog.

“The thing that burns me,” said Elderoy, “is that I didn’t have the guts to quit. Because I was afraid, I watched a good friend lose his job and get crucified in the press. Scott would have gotten sued, too—if the poor man hadn’t shot himself. And here I am, ten years later. Only it’s me who’s in charge of the lifts now. And it’s no secret who’ll be blamed if there’s another fatal accident.”