Tough Cookie

Jack shrugged. He was so marvelously good-looking, it was hard to believe he was so evil. “Portman said he sniffed an investigation coming. He was skipping out. What if they got him, with all that money I’d paid? He’d go to prison. If he did, so would I. I had to get rid of him. Making it look as if Reed had done it seemed like a good idea, since he didn’t have long to live anyway. Reed figured out what I’d done. Too bad. So he tried to get back at me, mow me down on the slopes. And he nearly killed Eileen instead. I could have killed him for that—I wasn’t married to her yet.”

“And you needed the money from Eileen that you didn’t inherit from Fiona.”

Jack shrugged, then poked me with his ugly little gun. “Time to get moving.”

The pistol in his hand was a .22, accurate only at close range. Six shots, unless he had more ammunition. We were coming down to the rail that led to the canisters. I had to run away from him, hide, run out onto the slope, hope I could get away from him—something, or else I’d die, like everyone else who’d stood in Jack Gilkey’s way. I had to act.

I tensed my leg muscles and kicked Jack’s washboard stomach with all my might. He gasped in pain and surprise and banged into the wall. Then I jab-kicked him hard in the back; he fell to his knees. I ran, clumsily, stupidly, as fast as I could. I ran for my life. Down the steps. Down the hallway. Down the rail toward the canisters. I could hear Jack stumbling down the stairs after me, cursing.

Five canisters were lined up. Oh, when did the night crew arrive? No telling. I squeezed along the wall and tried to figure out which one to duck into. The one farthest from Jack, of course. It was poised right at the large double doors, and it was half full of food scraps and garbage. Beyond the front canister was darkness made silvery by moonlight. I clumsily climbed up the sides, jumped into the canister, and slithered down into the trash. It was all I could do to keep from gagging.

I heard a shot. Jack was firing into the canisters. One shot, two, three. This was going to be it, I thought, and prayed for Arch and Tom. With taped hands, I used my body to burrow as deep as I could into the trash. I thought I was going to vomit again.

Then, without warning, there was a loud kee-chunk, and the canister quivered violently. I could hear male voices in the distance. The night workers? Were they coming? I was surrounded by rotting lettuce and meat fat. Would the workers hear me if I squirmed to the top of the garbage? Could I risk calling to them, with Jack—armed—so close to the canisters? No. Clink. Ke-chunk, clink

. It was the clank of metal doors being closed on trash canisters, followed by the whir of the descending gondola.

Behind me, a loud pop was followed by a zing. Another shot. Jack was shooting at my canister. Pop-zing.

I could hear Jack howl. Then my stinking, packed canister swung out into the darkness.

The night air was stingingly cold. But I’d escaped Jack. I knew the gondola operators at the top could stop the cars, but they could not reverse

their motion. That could only be done by the operator at the bottom. So even if Jack knew I was in this canister—and he didn’t—he wouldn’t be able to bring me back. With a startling suddenness the canister dropped and I was swaying, out of range of Jack’s lethal little .22. Would he hurt the canister workers? I doubted it. He had only one target tonight: me.

I wriggled between two bags of mind-numbingly smelly garbage. My head hurt, my cheeks hurt, everything hurt. The stink was inconceivable. I’d never get the smell out of my hair, I thought, and giggled insanely. The canister had holes in its walls and top. Through the holes overhead, a distant light was shining. The canister shook; an almost full moon came into view.

Down, down the canister rolled. In my mind’s eye, I saw the gleaming container, suspended twenty feet above the ground, streaming noisily through the night.

I had to get the tape off my hands. My only choice was to feel with my tongue around the duct tape till I came to an edge. Then I began, slowly, laboriously, with my teeth, to tug off the tape. The blood running down my face didn’t make the task any easier. But at least biting and wrenching the tape off, centimeter by centimeter, took my mind off the cold, the smell, the canister swaying and creaking in the frigid wind, high above the mountain.

When I finally had the tape off, the canister clanked onto the track, then began to move laboriously toward the warehouse. I was on the ground, but where? How long had I been on the gondola? Ten minutes? Twenty? What had Jack been doing? I knew he kept ski equipment at the bistro. Would he try to ski down in the moonlight? How long would it take for him to get his equipment on—five, six minutes? How long to schuss down from the top? The fastest I’d ever made it was six minutes, and I was nowhere near the expert skier Jack was.