a passing animal, a settling bird, shook a branch, and the snow drifted down in a white cloud all of its own.
The road, slick with patches of ice or hard-packed snow, twisted and turned through the mountain passes. The sky was heavily overcast, and as they drove past the airport at Castlegar, she couldn’t see the mountains. No planes were likely to be getting in or out today.
“Do you know what they call Castlegar, John?” she dared to ask.
“No.”
“Cancel-gar.” Long pause. “’Cause of the number of flights that are cancelled ‘cause of the weather.”
“Thank you, Molly, I understood the reference.”
She concentrated on the road. The last thing she’d want would be to put the Sergeant in a ditch, and have to wait for a tow while he called the RCMP to come and get him.
She hadn’t liked John Winters much the first time she’d worked with him. In fact she hadn’t liked him at all. But he was kinda growing on her, and she thought they were getting on okay. As long as she didn’t screw up. She was more afraid of John Winters’ displeasure than that of the Chief Constable or Staff Sergeant Peterson.
“Uh, John?”
“What is it now?”
“I don’t think you called Peterson.”
“Why would I do that?”
“About taking me off the road?”
“Right.” He pulled out his cell phone. Nearing Castlegar, he had a signal.
She could tell by the one side of the conversation she was party to that Peterson was arguing. But as long as he wasn’t arguing with her, it was all okay.
***
Wendy Wyatt-Yarmouth leaned on her poles and looked down the hill they called Blonde Ambition. Then she took a deep breath and pushed off, swallowing her fear. She’d constantly avoided taking this midlevel, or blue, run despite Jason and Ewan’s nagging, but today she decided to ski it. Some sort of tribute, perhaps. Or maybe just to prove to Jason, for the last time, that she could accomplish something.
When Jason had suggested spending their Christmas break skiing in the Kootenays—for the powder, he’d said—she’d agreed, thinking that Blue Sky would be like Whistler. Her parents gave her a holiday in Whistler as a high school graduation present, and she’d loved every minute of it. Whistler was full of the sort of restaurants that were featured in Gourmet magazine, designer shops, luxury hotels. And, incidentally, good skiing.
Blue Sky was full of good skiing. Period. The so-called lodge was nothing other than one long, low, two-story building with a cafeteria, a twenty-seat bar, and plenty of room for people to sit on wooden benches to enjoy lunches carted in in paper bags, backpacks, or family-sized coolers.
Despite the death of their friends, the group had decided to continue their ski vacation. They had to do something, or they’d go nuts just hanging around waiting until it was time to go home.
And Wendy did not want to spend any more time with her parents than she had to.
They’d left home the day after Christmas, as soon as they could get a plane heading west. They’d flown to Calgary, where they sat, fuming, for a day because Castlegar was socked in. They could have taken the Greyhound bus, but Doctor (PhD) and Doctor (MD) Wyatt-Yarmouth did not travel on buses. And now they sat in town, at a third-rate hotel because it was the only place with a vacancy, both of them fuming some more, and her father complaining to everyone who’d listen, and many who didn’t particularly want to, about the incompetence of small town policing.
They tried demanding that Jason’s body be released for them to take home, but the police were still waiting for the result of the autopsy.
Didn’t they know that Doctor Wyatt-Yarmouth Number One was on the board of the Halton Regional Police Service?
The Trafalgar City Police, apparently, didn’t give a flying fuck.
Soft white snow flew into Wendy’s face, and she almost smiled. Her smile died when she remembered why her parents were here. To take Jason, and
The road, slick with patches of ice or hard-packed snow, twisted and turned through the mountain passes. The sky was heavily overcast, and as they drove past the airport at Castlegar, she couldn’t see the mountains. No planes were likely to be getting in or out today.
“Do you know what they call Castlegar, John?” she dared to ask.
“No.”
“Cancel-gar.” Long pause. “’Cause of the number of flights that are cancelled ‘cause of the weather.”
“Thank you, Molly, I understood the reference.”
She concentrated on the road. The last thing she’d want would be to put the Sergeant in a ditch, and have to wait for a tow while he called the RCMP to come and get him.
She hadn’t liked John Winters much the first time she’d worked with him. In fact she hadn’t liked him at all. But he was kinda growing on her, and she thought they were getting on okay. As long as she didn’t screw up. She was more afraid of John Winters’ displeasure than that of the Chief Constable or Staff Sergeant Peterson.
“Uh, John?”
“What is it now?”
“I don’t think you called Peterson.”
“Why would I do that?”
“About taking me off the road?”
“Right.” He pulled out his cell phone. Nearing Castlegar, he had a signal.
She could tell by the one side of the conversation she was party to that Peterson was arguing. But as long as he wasn’t arguing with her, it was all okay.
***
Wendy Wyatt-Yarmouth leaned on her poles and looked down the hill they called Blonde Ambition. Then she took a deep breath and pushed off, swallowing her fear. She’d constantly avoided taking this midlevel, or blue, run despite Jason and Ewan’s nagging, but today she decided to ski it. Some sort of tribute, perhaps. Or maybe just to prove to Jason, for the last time, that she could accomplish something.
When Jason had suggested spending their Christmas break skiing in the Kootenays—for the powder, he’d said—she’d agreed, thinking that Blue Sky would be like Whistler. Her parents gave her a holiday in Whistler as a high school graduation present, and she’d loved every minute of it. Whistler was full of the sort of restaurants that were featured in Gourmet magazine, designer shops, luxury hotels. And, incidentally, good skiing.
Blue Sky was full of good skiing. Period. The so-called lodge was nothing other than one long, low, two-story building with a cafeteria, a twenty-seat bar, and plenty of room for people to sit on wooden benches to enjoy lunches carted in in paper bags, backpacks, or family-sized coolers.
Despite the death of their friends, the group had decided to continue their ski vacation. They had to do something, or they’d go nuts just hanging around waiting until it was time to go home.
And Wendy did not want to spend any more time with her parents than she had to.
They’d left home the day after Christmas, as soon as they could get a plane heading west. They’d flown to Calgary, where they sat, fuming, for a day because Castlegar was socked in. They could have taken the Greyhound bus, but Doctor (PhD) and Doctor (MD) Wyatt-Yarmouth did not travel on buses. And now they sat in town, at a third-rate hotel because it was the only place with a vacancy, both of them fuming some more, and her father complaining to everyone who’d listen, and many who didn’t particularly want to, about the incompetence of small town policing.
They tried demanding that Jason’s body be released for them to take home, but the police were still waiting for the result of the autopsy.
Didn’t they know that Doctor Wyatt-Yarmouth Number One was on the board of the Halton Regional Police Service?
The Trafalgar City Police, apparently, didn’t give a flying fuck.
Soft white snow flew into Wendy’s face, and she almost smiled. Her smile died when she remembered why her parents were here. To take Jason, and
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