Tough Cookie by Diane Mott Davidson Page B

forward, one foot on the snowboard. "Mom, what's wrong? Where are your skis? Mom?" I put both hands straight out in front of me, warning my son to stop. Then, praying even as a stone formed in my chest, I glanced over the cliff. From this vantage point, I could see Doug Portman. He hadn't moved.
    I didn't want Arch to see him. I knew Doug Portman was dead.
    -5- Mom!" Arch's voice had grown desperate. "Why are your skis crossed? Mom? Are you hurt?"
    I shook my head. Unnerved by my silence and outstretched hands, Arch finally skidded his snowboard to a stop.
    Around us, the snow fell. Where was the patrol? Another torrent of bills swirled up from the lower run. More jubilant skiers joined those already on the plateau. They stretched, bent, fell, and rolled out of their skis as they merrily dived for cash.
    "Agh!" A woman's shriek cut through the din. I could not make out who had screamed. "That's disgusting!" shouted a tallish woman as she flung bills onto the snow. "That's blood! There's blood on it!" Her eyes searched the slope above. She saw me, my crossed skis, and my son, motionless on his snowboard. She took off down the hill.
    The skiers hoarding the bills slowed their grasping movements. Heads bent to inspect the money.
    Suddenly, mittened hands were throwing down fistfuls of cash. More bloodstained bills blew upward, swirled with the snow, then resettled on the slope. In places, the money left erratic pink trails. Skiers pushed off queasily, suddenly eager to be away.
    "Mom! What is wrong?"
    "What's going on?" barked a man who'd skied up to Arch. Tall and lean, he wore stylish wrap sunglasses and a uniform. Ski patrol, I thought, in numb relief. A thick red headband held back his gray hair. "Are you all right?" he asked my son. "Whose skis are these?"
    Arch gestured and I waved my hands over my head. Another skier hockey-stopped six inches behind me, churning a wave of snow into my face. He too demanded to know what was happening. The ski patrolman shunted away this intruder by assuring him he had the situation completely under control. The skier took off and the patrolman addressed me. "Can you talk? Where are you hurt?" The patrolman's light blue eyes, gray eyebrows, and well-tanned, deeply wrinkled skin conveyed a seriousness I felt I could trust.
    "Send my son away," I said tersely, as if I knew exactly what the situation was, which I didn't. "Please. I need to show you something. My son mustn't see it."
    There was a fractional hesitation in the patrolman's shrewd eyes. Then he pivoted to Arch. "Young man, could you please proceed to the ski patrol office at the base?" he called. "Wait there. I'll bring your mother down."
    Arch cast a worried glance in my direction. I nodded to him that it was all right. Only then, with a last concerned look, did he reluctantly move away.
    "Are you injured? Can you tell me who you are?" demanded the ski patrolman.
    I told him my name, what I'd seen on the lower run, then motioned to my former perch. As I traipsed up clumsily in my ski boots, the patrolman, a deft skier, quickly two-stepped to the spot. He peered over the edge of the precipice, whistled softly in surprise, then. pulled out his walkie-talkie and spoke rapidly.
    A moment later, he snapped his radio shut. "Mrs. Schulz, Goldy Schulz," he said when I arrived at his side. My feet were so cold I couldn't feel them. The patrolman touched my shoulder. "Did you see this man fall?" I shook my head. "Did you see someone hit him?" Again I indicated a negative. "There's no one else on that run down there, Hot-Rodder."
    I swallowed. "It's closed."
    "Have you talked to any other patrol members? When was the run closed?"
    "I haven't seen or talked to anybody." My voice seemed to belong to someone else. "I have no idea when the run was closed."
    "How long have you been here?"
    "About fifteen minutes. Listen, I'm freezing. I need to be with my son. And - " I hesitated, then added, "I should tell you, I . . . I know that guy down there.