Chapter Three
“Brian and Anders, you’ll be patrolling in the Glades.” Connor read the last of Saturday morning’s assignments from a list on his tablet. “Any questions?”
“One question,” Brian said. “Has anybody seen my glove? I had it yesterday, and now it’s gone.” He held up a single black ski glove. “It looks like this, and it has my name written in marker inside the cuff.”
“No, but I’ve got an extra pair you can borrow,” Nina said.
“Thanks, but I don’t think your gloves are going to fit me,” Brian said. “Anyway, I’ve got an old pair. But these were pretty new. I must have dropped one somewhere on my way back here after the lifts closed yesterday.”
“Check lost and found,” Connor said. “Maybe somebody turned it in. Everybody ready?”
They headed outside to a sled loaded with boxes of cast boosters—the canisters of explosives used to trigger controlled slides in the inbound areas of the resort.
Brian and Anders filled backpacks with the bright yellow canisters, along with detonator cords.
Connor checked his pockets for his crimping tool and lighter, then he shouldered the heavy pack.
Even though he had done this a hundred times, he never stopped being aware that he carried enough explosives on his back to blow a gigantic hole in the mountain.
He climbed onto a snowmobile behind Anders and they headed up the mountain, cutting across the pristine corduroy tracks left by the groomers who had worked overnight.
The icy air cut like a knife across his bare skin and he tensed against its bite.
He pulled his fleece neck gaiter up higher over his cheeks.
Other snow machines raced ahead of them with the goal of covering the mountain before the lifts opened in two hours.
Anders stopped the snowmobile in the shadow of a lift tower, the first hints of dawn already lightening the snow around them.
Silently, the two men strapped skis to their packs and began climbing up a steep ridge that ended in a cornice like a whitecapped wave about to break over the slopes below.
Their goal was to trigger a series of small snowslides from that cornice to prevent a much larger slide from releasing later.
“Guess we’d better get to it,” Brian said.
He pulled one of the canisters from his pack, attached the detonator and crimped it in place, then considered where he wanted to place the charge for the best effect.
Then he took out the lighter, lit the fuse, reared back and hurled the canister to a spot underneath the cornice.
“Fire in the hole!” he shouted, his cry echoing off the mountains above.
Anders repeated the warning as he launched his own charge.
A long minute ticked off, then the charges fountained snow into the air and shook the ground with a loud concussion.
Snow broke away from the cornice and cascaded down the ridge.
Brian whooped and raised a fist in salute.
Anders responded in kind. Sure, avalanche mitigation was dangerous, but he’d never let anyone tell him it wasn’t fun.
They skied down the ridge, setting more charges as they went, until they judged the area free of the possibility of any uncontrolled slides.
Other charges echoed from around the resort, and they stopped to watch an impressive waterfall of snow flow down from Top of the Mark, where Connor and Lily were setting charges.
Chase Sargeant joined them as they were stowing their now-empty packs in the snowmobile. “Ski down with me,” he told Brian.
Brian turned to Anders. “You okay with that?” he asked.
“As long as you drive and I ski next time,” Anders said.
“It’s a deal.” Skiing all the way down the mountain in untouched powder was the perfect reward for the morning’s hard work, but someone had to return the snowmobile to base.
“Race you down!” Chase called, and took off.
Brian headed after him, his skis cutting a sharp line through deep, soft snow. He rode the undulating hills of this part of the resort, straightening at each crest, then crouching to take the downhill sections in a racer’s tuck.
He caught up with Chase on the last hill, and they skied side by side down the final approach to the base area, and slid to a stop in front of patrol headquarters, hearts pumping from the exertion and the thrill of the morning.
Brian went inside to retrieve Daisy, who had waited patiently in her kennel, along with the other avy dogs. “Thought I’d take Daisy with me for a couple of runs,” he told Connor, who was unkenneling his own dog, an apricot-colored goldendoodle named Farley.
“Have you heard anything more from Sharee?” Connor asked.
“I haven’t seen her,” Brian said. “I ran into her sister last night and talked to her again about what was going on and she promised to talk to Sharee about it. Guess it worked.”
“Next time, try to attract someone closer to your own age,” Connor said.
“Yeah. I’ll get to work on that.” An image of Chloe, so different from her sister, flashed into his mind. It was a shame they hadn’t met under different circumstances. “Come on, Daisy.”
The dog trotted up and leaned against his side, brown eyes gazing up at him adoringly. “Good girl.” Brian patted her side. At least he had one female in his life who would always love him.
CHLOE KICKED OFF her shoes as soon as she walked in the door of her apartment Saturday evening. She buried her feet in the soft rug and wiggled her toes. She’d been standing most of the day, and the pumps that had looked so cute in the store were definitely not designed for comfort.
Last night, she had arrived home after her talk with Brian to discover that Sharee had already gone out.
Out with friends read the note scribbled on the back of a receipt and anchored by a can of peas in the middle of the kitchen table.
By the time Sharee returned Chloe had fallen asleep on the sofa and didn’t have the energy to start the argument she knew would follow the mention of Sharee’s very inappropriate gift to Brian Weeks.
So Chloe had made it a point to arrive home early tonight, in plenty of time for the sisters to talk.
“Sharee! I’m home!”
No answer, but if her sister was in her room listening to music or streaming a show, she could be oblivious. Chloe headed down the hall and knocked on the closed bedroom door. “Hey, Sharee,” she called. “Have you eaten dinner?”
Only silence. Chloe tried the door and it opened easily.
The darkened room smelled of an overly sweet perfume and fabric softener. Rumpled blankets spilled across the unmade bed, pillows in a pile against the headboard. A quick check showed the bathroom across the hall was empty, too, a single damp towel puddled on the floor.
Chloe pulled out her phone and sent a text to Sharee’s number. I’m home. Where RU?
She studied the screen, waiting for the checkmark that would show the message had been read, but there was no response.
Annoyed, she returned to the living room, to search for a note or some indication of where Sharee might have gone.
Nothing. A little concerning. Even though Sharee rarely provided details about what she was up to, she had taken to leaving brief notes alerting Chloe to the fact that she had been in the apartment and left again.
But she was usually home when Chloe came in right after the salon closed.
If she left to go to the movies or hang out with kids she had met on the slopes, it was later, after Chloe came home.
Her ringtone sounded and she eagerly looked at the screen. Not Sharee, but Sharee’s mom, Darinda. Chloe answered the call. “Hello, Darinda. How are you doing?”
“I hadn’t heard from you in a while, so I thought I had better call and make sure there’s nothing wrong.” Darinda’s voice teased, but with an underlying sharpness that maybe only Chloe could hear.
“Nothing is wrong, Darinda,” she said. “I’ve just been busy.”
“How is Sharee doing? I don’t hear from her, either.”
“She’s fine. She’s skiing a lot.” No need to mention the underwear gifting or harassment of Brian Weeks.
The news would only upset Darinda and Dad, and Chloe intended to put a stop to it.
“I was thinking,” she said instead. “Sharee doesn’t seem all that motivated to get her GED on her own.
Maybe I should think about enrolling her in the local high school.
She’s already made friends with some of the local teens. I think it would be good for her.”
“I don’t know. Does this school have any male teachers?”
“Probably.”
“Then I hate to take a chance.”
Chloe bit back her frustration. “You can’t keep her away from men for the rest of her life,” she said.
“Of course not, but when she’s a little older she’ll know how to handle herself better.”
Would she? “What about counseling?” Chloe asked. “I think it would really help her and your insurance…”
“There’s nothing wrong with Sharee.” Darinda’s voice was pinched. “She’s simply a little immature.”
“A counselor could help her make better decisions.”
“No. I’m not going to discuss this any further. Let me talk to Sharee.”
“She isn’t here right now.”
“Where is she?”
“I’m not sure. She’s not answering my texts. But I’m sure she’ll be back soon.”
“We sent her to live with you so you could keep an eye on her. Now you tell me you don’t have any idea where she is?”
“I can’t keep her locked in the apartment.
I have a business to run.” And she hadn’t exactly been asked if she would take charge of her little sister.
Darinda had called one day last month to say that Sharee was on an airplane headed to Denver and she planned to stay “a while.” Only when Chloe protested did her father come on the line to tell her the whole sad tale.
“You have her call me as soon as she gets in,” Darinda said. “No, wait. Have her call your father. I have rehearsal. I have the lead in our production of Noises Off.”
Darinda ended the call, leaving Chloe staring at her phone. She tried texting Sharee again, then called. The call went straight to voicemail.
A chill traveled through her as she stared at the phone screen.
As secretive and stubborn as Sharee could sometimes be, it wasn’t like her to ignore Chloe altogether.
Who could she be with? Chloe berated herself for not getting to know the friends Sharee hung out with.
But she was Sharee’s sister, not her mother.
She wasn’t used to keeping track of anyone but herself.
She went into the kitchen, but her appetite had vanished. Where did Darinda get off blaming Chloe for not keeping track of Sharee? She was the one who had sent her own daughter to live halfway across the country at the first sign of trouble.
Sharee was troubled. Chloe didn’t understand why or how, but it made sense to her to get a professional opinion. But Sharee still depended on her parents’ health insurance, and Chloe didn’t have extra money to pay for counseling sessions with no insurance coverage.
She clicked on the television, but couldn’t focus on anything there.
She hugged her arms across her stomach and paced, anxiety mounting.
Times like these she wished she had someone to be with her, to listen as she vented or brainstormed, and to help her to decide what to do.
Most of the time she did fine on her own but sometimes she ached to have a partner. Another person she could count on.
But that person didn’t exist. She grabbed her keys and went out to drive around town, searching for some sign of her sister. If she didn’t find Sharee, and if the girl wasn’t at the apartment when Chloe returned, she would call the sheriff and report her sister missing.
THE LOUD BLARE of music jolted Brian from sleep. He groped for his phone, intent on shutting off the alarm. Then he realized it wasn’t the alarm that had awakened him, but a call. He stared at the screen, not recognizing the number.
“Hello?” he answered.
“Brian Weeks?”
“Who wants to know?” He looked at the clock. Five twelve a.m. Not early on a day when he had to do avalanche mitigation, but today he was off the schedule. He could sleep in as long as he wanted.
“Mr. Weeks, this is the sheriff’s department,” the man on the other end said, his voice firm. “Would you open your front door, please?”
“Open my door?” He blinked, still wrapped in a fog of sleep.
“Open your door. I have two officers waiting to speak to you.”
“Just a sec.” He shoved into a sitting position, then found a pair of ski pants on the floor and pulled them on. Then, barefoot, he went into the living room and looked through the door’s security peep. Sure enough, two men in khaki uniforms stood on his tiny front porch.
Heavy knocking sounded. “Sheriff’s office,” one of the men said. “Open the door.”
Brian undid the locks and eased open the door. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“Brian Weeks?” the taller deputy, with a round face and bangs, asked.
“Yeah.”
“We need you to come with us.” The deputy who hadn’t yet spoken, a thin, dark-haired man with sallow skin, took Brian’s arm, while the other pulled out a pair of handcuffs. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back,” Bangs ordered.
“Wait a minute,” Brian protested. “What’s going on?”
“You have the right to remain silent…”
This was a nightmare. That had to be it. In real life he wouldn’t be standing here while one cop read him his rights and the other fastened cuffs around his wrists. “I don’t understand,” he said. “What are you doing?”
“Brian Weeks, we’re arresting you for the murder of Sharee Anderson.”