Tough Cookie

When Patrolman Hoskins returned with water for Rorry, I asked if there was a VCR in another office where I could watch something quickly. He shook his head, then asked dubiously, “Are you sure your friend is going to be all right?”

“Yes, I think so. This camera belonged to her dead husband, and … It’s a long story.”

“You need a VCR?”

“Yeah.”

Hoskins lifted his chin at the wide front window. “Cinda’s got a couple of VCRs at her place. Why don’t you try her?”

Of course. I thanked him and went back to Rorry. I unzipped the case and checked the camera, which was spotted with rust. The word Sony was still visible. I rezipped the bag, patted Rorry’s shoulder, and murmured that I would be right back.

The snow seemed to be letting up a bit as I made my way to the Cinnamon Stop. The café was still hopping with business, though, and a video showing a freestyle snowboarding competition was drawing oohs and aahs from the enthralled crowd. I shouted my request to Cinda, who was steaming milk for a latté. Did she have an extra machine in the back where I could watch a film?

She gave me a puzzled look, then cried “Sure!” and muttered something to the waiter I recognized as Ryan. He pointed to a door and I waded through the boisterous crowd to join him.

“You need help with a video?” Ryan asked.

“Yeah, my friend’s pregnant and about to pop. My Lamaze teacher gave me a childbirth video,” I improvised blithely, “and I need to see if it’s in good enough shape to show.”

Ryan shrugged, as if my lie were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard, which it probably was. He turned on the VCR while I struggled to open the camera, first with my fingernails, then with a pair of scissors from Cinda’s desk. When the latch finally gave, the shears snapped. Ryan took the cassette and showed me how to operate Cinda’s VCR.

Fast-forwarded, Nate Bullock’s tape was spotty with visual static. When the film opened with the first shot, the snow-capped rustic sign for Elk Valley and Elk Ridge, I grabbed the remote control from Ryan and hit “Stop.”

Ryan turned to me. “Lamaze at a ski resort? What is this, ‘Cliffhanger Childbirth’?”

I opened the office door to usher him out. “It’s women’s stuff. Not a place you want to go, Ryan.”

He muttered something like You can say that again and zipped out. Worried about Rorry in the present, and what this video was going to show me about the past, I took a nervous breath. Then I hit the Play button.

Nate Bullock’s garbled-but-familiar PBS voice gave me a jolt. I couldn’t make out a word of what he was saying. From the tone of it, it sounded like an introduction. After the shot of the sign, his next shot was of the path beyond it. Next the camera panned to his companion, whom I couldn’t quite make out. Rorry was right about one thing: She was a female. The woman had a snowboard slung under her arm. Nate went from a long shot to a close-up.

I cried out: A conservative form-fitting navy-blue ski suit, no psychedelic outfits. A short cap of brown hair, no spill of pink curls. No jewelry. But her athleticism, her pretty face with its freckle-sprayed pixie nose, her bright, lopsided smile: All these were unmistakable.

Cinda Caldwell.

Barton Reed’s words in the hospital echoed in my brain: Said she was hurt, but that was crap. Just chickened out. Of course, Cinda was the most famous female snowboarder in Killdeer. Young, pretty, and as adept at snowboarding as anyone. She was the best. Got hurt. Wanted to be famous. Never happened.

No, it never happened, I thought as I watched. Nate expertly clicked off the camera and then resumed taping from the valley. Cinda was far above, on the right edge of Elk Ridge. Nate zoomed in on her doing a smooth right to left, then left to right maneuver on the steep white slope. Cinda’s flowing movements were as effortless and breathtaking as big-wave surfing.

Nate’s garbled voice came on again; the tape clicked off. The next time Cinda appeared she was up higher, near the top edge of the steep, forest-lined bowl that Arthur had pointed out to Marla and me the day before. Nate zoomed in. Poised unafraid at the edge of the bowl, Cinda’s face was happy but determined. Then her concentration broke. She stared, puzzled, into the distance. A look of horror spread over her face, and she gestured to the camera.

“Over there,” I could lip-read her saying. She pointed and mouthed the words again. Nate lowered the camera. You could hear him yelling. Then the camera rose and panned vertiginously. I blinked and realized I was looking through treetops at Bighorn Overlook. In the distance, Cinda screamed. Her voice sounded as if she were underwater.