Part 12 (1/2)

She owned several pairs of skis that she alternated depending on the environment and where she was, but for Blue Sky under these conditions only her newest powder skis would do. She fastened them to the roof rack and drove to Big Eddies Coffee Emporium. Patrons were streaming in, adding to the line-up that was almost at the door. Soon it would be. Eddie and Jolene and their two helpers moved to the beat of loud dance music. Everyone in line was dressed for a day on the slopes. They came into the shop stomping snow off boots, shaking colorful woolen hats and scarves. Packs were tossed over shoulders and ski pa.s.ses hung from zippers.

The line edged forward. People chatted and laughed. Locals leaned across the counter and gave the staff hugs or pecks on the cheek. Jolene toasted bagels and made breakfast sandwiches. Her helpers made mochas and lattes, and Eddie poured coffee and took money.

The seating area was empty. At this time of the morning the customers, like Smith, were here only to fuel up and head out to the mountain before the lifts started and the hills got busy.

As Alphonse had kindly provided her breakfast, Smith bypa.s.sed the bagel line and ordered her usual extra-large mocha, with full fat milk and whipped cream. She asked, very politely, for an extra dribble of chocolate syrup on the top.

”Sure, Moon,” the clerk said.

It was about half an hour to Blue Sky. She munched on warm croissants and drank hot mocha on the way. There was no sunrise, just a gradual lightening of the sky. Except for the pure white snow, the whole world was gray. Gray clouds, gray deciduous trees-gray bark and gray branches-gray-green evergreens, and brief glimpses of gray mountains.

The mornings skiing was as great as shed hoped it would be. In the early morning, the snow was deep and untouched. The air was so cold and crisp she could almost crunch it between her teeth. Snow continued to fall. The trees were covered in the stuff until it was a wonder some of them didnt topple over.

Shortly before noon she was lucky enough to find an untouched section of powder, and used it to take her down to the lodge. The croissants and mocha had been a long time ago. Skiing in deep powder is difficult, but Molly was very good. Shed dreamt at one time of going to the Olympics, but she wasnt that good, and once she realized it she gave up compet.i.tion. Although her muscles ached from the mornings exertions, it was a good ache. She headed down the mountain, planting her poles with a light, quick flick of the wrist, accompanied by a flick of the arm that helped to turn the skis in the deep snow. The movement of the skis was gradual, much slower than on groomed slopes, and she barely had to turn to keep herself upright and moving. There was no feeling of friction under her feet; instead, she almost literally floated down the mountain, as if she were soaring on clouds, moving in slow motion, surrounded by nothing by snow and silence. The air was cold on her face, fresh and smelling of pine and ice.

She reached the bottom and rotated her feet into a hockey stop, driving the sides of her skis into the packed snow. Snow flew and she punched the air in sheer joy.

She headed for the lodge, debating between the giant veggie burrito and the wild salmon burger.

Her radio crackled. As a police officer, she could ski for free, provided she wore her uniform jacket over her usual ski clothes, carried a radio, and helped out if needed. Altercation in the dining area of the lodge. Respond immediately.

She snapped off her skis and left them and the poles in a ski rest. She ran, as fast as she could in ski boots, up the wooden steps into the building. People, many of them with small children, were hurrying down the steps.

The room was warm and damp and smelled of good food cooking, wet clothes, sweat-soaked socks exposed to the air, and steaming bodies.

She had no trouble locating the problem.

People lined the walls, some of them still gripping plates or cups. A long wooden table had been overturned, bowls of food and mugs of coffee spilled onto the floor. Two men were taking wild punches at each other, yelling and swearing all the while. Blood streamed from the nose of the larger man. In their inflexible ski boots they moved as if they were performing a ballet at the bottom of the Upper Kootenay River. The police officer trying to get through the crowd to reach them walked with no less difficulty.

A resort security guard, all of about sixty-five and weighing a good hundred pounds, soaking wet, jumped from one foot to the other, suggesting that the fighters stop this right now!

A girl was screaming at the top of her lungs. She didnt look at all frightened, more like she was enjoying the excitement and happy to add her own contribution.

”Trafalgar City Police,” Smith shouted. People in front of her looked over their shoulders and scurried out of the way. The screaming girl toned it down a notch.

There wasnt a lot Smith could do in these d.a.m.ned boots. Fortunately the fighters wore similar footwear and thus couldnt do a lot either.

”Break it up,” she said.

They did the opposite, and crashed together, all wild punches and kicks that barely left the ground. They were both young, not a surprise. The heavier one was clean-shaven and short-haired. The other had a scraggly beard and hair that touched the back of his neck.

The bigger guy was closest to her. As he pulled his arm back to aim a punch at his opponent, Smith jumped forward, grabbed the wrist, and twisted. She jerked him back. ”Police. I said break it up here.”

He resisted for a brief moment before the fight drained out of him. ”Okay, okay,” he said. ”No problem, officer.”

Another security guard arrived, running and breathing hard. At least this one was young and looked reasonably fit.

He sized up the scene and launched himself toward the smaller of the fighters, who turned and swung a punch that got the young security guard in the face. He fell back, blood pouring from his nose like lava rus.h.i.+ng from an exploding volcano. The girl began screaming again.

”Hey,” the older guard yelled. ”You cant do that.”

The fighter turned toward his opponent. Conveniently restrained by Constable Smith. She read his eyes. ”Back off, buddy. Fights over.”

He took a step forward into a pile of rice and tofu and curry sauce. He slipped. The old guy stuck his boot under the fighters feet to help him to the floor.

Nice.

Smith spoke into her radio. ”Request a car. Two to tran sport.”

”Hey,” the guy Smith was holding said, ”I gave in, didnt I?”

”Well wait in the office,” she said. The younger security guard got to his feet. He wiped blood onto his jacket sleeve, but didnt seem too badly hurt. ”Take this one,” she said to him. While the taller fighter had given in as soon as the police arrived, the other one had kept on fighting-shed better take control of him. The old guard was standing over the man on the floor, trying to look threatening.

”Help me get him up,” Smith said. They pulled the man to his feet, and she wrenched his arm behind him.

”Hey,” he yelled. ”That hurts. Youre gonna break my arm.”

”Then dont make me. Lets go.” Smith headed for the stairs, aware that they must make a strange procession indeed. The arresting officer and the two fighters stomped in ski boots that afforded no flexibility of movement whatsoever. The younger security guards face was streaked with blood, and the older one seemed quite pleased with his prize. The crowd parted in front of them. Smith looked for someone who might get it into his head to free his friend, but no one approached them. The man she was holding took a half-step toward the girl whod been screaming. Smith jerked him back into line.

It got a bit tricky on the steps to the bas.e.m.e.nt, as ski boots were even more difficult to manage on stairs than on flat surfaces.

Behind them, noise flowed across the main room with the force of water bursting through a broken dam.

Five people just about filled the security office. Smith ordered the two offenders to sit down. The bleeding guard grabbed a handful of tissues off the desk and held them to his face.

”I know you,” said the guy whod given up when the police arrived.

Didnt everyone in a town this size?

”Last night. You were there last night. At the restaurant.”

Smith looked properly at the guy for the first time. Last time shed seen him, hed been enjoying that scene between Lorraine and the Wyatt-Yarmouth family at Flavours. ”Name?”

”Huh?”

”Whats your name?”

”Sorry, Maam. Sir, Miss.”

”Your name?”

”Jeremy. Jeremy Wozenack. I came here with Jason and Ewan, you know, the ones who...”

”I know.”

He held out his hand, as if offering to shake.

She ignored it.

”Get out your I.D.” She turned to the other man. ”You too buddy, I.D.”