Chapter 2
He noticed a small piece of stained glass caught in the nylon sleeve of his ski jacket.
It was blue and green, a piece of the sky and a tree from the scene the window depicted of the mountains on a sunny day.
They’d find the shard of glass here later and know where it came from, would pick it up carefully in rubber-gloved hands and place it in an evidence bag, one more tiny link in the chain they’d be putting together to catch and prosecute the killer.
But they wouldn’t catch him. They’d look in all the wrong places, and he would go free.
He’d get away with it, and nobody would ever guess the real motive. He was smarter than all of them.
Brushing the glass off into the snow, he thought how he’d hated to break out the beautiful stained-glass window in the ornate front door of the chalet. But it was all part of the plan he’d laid out. And once he made a plan, he followed it to the letter.
He’d briefly considered bringing a hammer to break the glass, but that was just one more thing and he had to keep it simple.
He could break it without a tool. Angling his back toward the door, he slammed his elbow into the glass in a sharp punching motion.
He didn’t hit it hard enough the first time.
The blow bounced off and sent a pain shooting up from his elbow to his shoulder.
He drew back and whacked it again, really put some muscle behind it and the glass shattered.
Quietly. A hammer would have made much more noise. His plan was sound.
Careful not to cut his gloves—and leave a tell-tale microscopic fiber for the forensic team, he stuck his hand through the opening and unlocked the door from the inside, stepped into the chilly interior, and closed the door behind him.
He stood still then in the darkness, his eyes growing accustomed to the black all around.
He could smell the scent of vanilla candles and …
was that … just the faintest whiff of chocolate chip cookies baking in the oven?
Of course not, he was just imagining that part.
He looked around at the shadowy interior of the chalet, then made his way across the entryway.
Lithe as a cat—careful to smear the mud on his boots so as not to leave identifiable footprints—he passed through the living room and found the stairs.
He went up to the second floor, walked around, and then found a second set of stairs that led to the attic, where he climbed out a window and onto the roof.
He lay there now, prone, his elbows forming a tripod for the rifle he cradled against his shoulder.
From his vantage point, he could see the whole ski slope laid out before him, brightly lit by the huge LED lights that highlighted the air full of crystals made by the snow falling out of the black sky and the snowmaking machines.
He could hear their growl. The ski resorts ran their snow machines at night during the skiing season so paying customers wouldn’t have to listen to the rumble, and to maintain at least an illusion that all that snow under their skis had fallen out of the sky.
This was night skiing, though, and the machines were running full tilt, spewing “snow” into the air in graceful arcs that overlapped, so no spot anywhere was left bare.
But real snow was coming down now, too. It had started right after dark and had gotten heavier and heavier.
Sometimes the wind whipped the fluffy white chunks so they appeared to be falling sideways, so thick they obscured everything.
When the wind died, the snow let up to almost nothing.
If the gusts of snow continued, they might not have to run the machines anymore for the grand opening this weekend.
If there was a grand opening, which he doubted there would be.
Nothing the resort had planned for the debut of this new facility was likely to go the way they’d expected now, not after tonight.
He’d taken the first shots maybe five minutes after he’d gotten into position.
Bang, bang. Two in a row. Putting the scope to his eye, he’d pointed the Winchester 70 toward the ski slope, and a chairlift came into view instantly, an occupied seat, perfectly in focus.
He’d squeezed the trigger without even thinking about it and watched the black-coated target disappear from view.
He’d stamped the brass before he loaded it—blunt, angry lines of letters that remained even after the flash and heat.
When the bolt came back on the first shot, the casing winked out and clinked on the roof like a dropped coin.
He’d picked it up, and the second spent shell casing, too.
He had personalized them both so he placed them carefully in plain sight.
Wouldn’t do for them to get lost in the snow.
Now, he was having trouble … What would they call it in a war movie?
… Yes, “acquiring a target.” He was having trouble acquiring a target.
Oh, he knew where his primary target would be.
Of course he did, that was all part of his plan, and he’d executed it when he had been mingling among the crowd at the bottom of the ski slope.
Still, he hadn’t factored in how hard it would be to identify any one individual after forty or fifty people put on identical black ski jackets and matching black helmets with visors.
It was a good thing he had planted an “X-marks-the-spot” that only he could see.
Now, he just had to examine every potential target carefully until he located it.
And, of course, there was the secondary target to take out, too, though in many ways, it wasn’t secondary at all.
In many ways, it was primary because everything the shooter had come tonight to set right was the fault of that one person—who would not live to see another sunrise.
He wiggled to get more comfortable on the chalet roof, peering through the sight.
He found a ski lift seat passing by, but it was empty.
Many of them were. The people at the bottom were having trouble getting into an orderly line.
Then, as total newbies, they didn’t know how to sit down on the chairlift as it passed.
They’d figure it out, and the subsequent chairs would likely be filled, all of them.
He held steady, didn’t move the rifle while looking for a target, but sighted past a light standard and waited for the ski lift chairs to pass it.
It really was just like shooting ducks at a carnival.