Ed McBain - The Empty Hours

Down the corridor, there was the constant thud of ski boots as guests returned to their rooms, the slamming of doors, the occasional high giggle of a girl skier intoxicated by the mountain air.

Voices.

“... will mean a slower track for the slalom ...”

“Sure, but everyone’ll have the same handicap ...”

Fading.

More voices.

“... don’t even think they’ll open the upper trails.”

“They have to, don’t they?”

“Not Dead Man’s Fall. They won’t even be able to get up there with all this snow. Seventeen inches already, and no end in sight.”

The 707 taking off again from the basement. The vents beginning their orchestral suite, the ducts supplying counterpoint. And more voices, raised in anger.

“... because he thinks he’s God almighty!”

“I tell you you’re imagining things.”

“I’m warning you! Stay away from him!”

A young girl’s laughter.

“I’m warning you. If I see him ...”

Fading.

At two o’clock in the morning, the Cats started up the mountain. They sounded like Rommel’s mechanized cavalry. Hawes was certain they would knock down the outside walls and come lumbering into the room. Blanche began giggling.

“This is the noisiest hotel I’ve ever slept in,” she said.

“How are your feet?”

“Nice and warm. You’re a very warm man.”

“You’re a very warm girl.”

“Do you mind my sleeping in long Johns?”

“I thought they were leotards.”

“Leotard is singular,” Blanche said.

“Singular or plural, those are the sexiest long Johns I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s only the girl in them,” Blanche said modestly. “Why don’t you kiss me again?”

“I will. In a minute.”

“What are you listening for?”

“I thought I heard an unscheduled flight a moment ago.”

“What?”

“Didn’t you hear it? A funny buzzing sound?”

“There are so many noises .”

“Shhhh.”

They were silent for several moments. They could hear the Cats grinding their way up the mountain. Someone down the hall flushed the toilet. More boots in the corridor outside.

“Hey!” Blanche said.

“What?”

“You asleep?”

“No,” Hawes answered.

“That buzzing sound you heard?”

“Yes?”

“It was my blood,” she told him and she kissed him on the mouth.

It was still snowing on Saturday morning. The promised storm had turned into a full-fledged blizzard. They dressed in the warm comfort of the room, Blanche putting on thermal underwear, and then two sweaters and stretch pants, the extra clothing padding out her slender figure. Hawes, standing six feet two inches tall in his double-stockinged feet, black pants and black sweater, presented a one-hundred-and-ninety-pound V-shaped silhouette to the window and the gray day outside.

“Do you think I’ll get back in time for Monday night’s rehearsal?” Blanche asked.

“I don’t know. I’m supposed to be back at the squad by six tomorrow night. I wonder if the roads are open.”

They learned during breakfast that a state of emergency had been declared in the city and in most of the towns lining the upstate route. Blanche seemed blithely indifferent to the concept of being snowbound. “If there’s that much snow,” she said, “they’ll cancel the rehearsal, anyway.”

“They won’t cancel the police department,” Hawes said.

“The hell with it,” Blanche said happily. “We’re here now, and there’s marvelous snow, and if the skiing is good it’ll be a wonderful weekend.”

“Even if the skiing is lousy” Hawes said, “it’ll be a wonderful weekend.”

They rented boots and skis for her in the ski rental shop, and then took to the mountain. Both chair lifts were in operation, but as one of the midnight voices had prophesied, the upper trails were not yet opened. A strong wind had arisen, and it blew the snow in driving white sheets across the slopes. Hawes took Blanche to the rope tow first, had her practice climbing for a while, teaching her to edge and to herringbone, and then illustrated the use of the tow — left hand clamped around the rope, right hand and arm behind the back and gripping the rope. The beginner’s slope was a gentle one, but Blanche seemed immediately capable of more difficult skiing. She was a trained dancer, and she automatically thought of the skis as part of a difficult stage costume, encumbering movement, but simply something to overcome. With remarkable coordination, she learned how to snowplow on the beginner’s slope. By midmorning, she had graduated to the T-Bar, and was beginning to learn the rudiments of the stem christie. Hawes patiently stayed with her all morning, restricting his own skiing to the elementary slopes. He was becoming more and more grateful for the snow-clogged roads. With the roads impassable, the number of weekend skiers was limited; he and Blanche were enjoying weekday skiing on a Saturday, and the fresh snow made everything a delight.

After lunch, she suggested that he leave her alone to practice for a while. Hawes, who was itching to get at the chair lift and the real trails, nonetheless protested that he was perfectly content to ski with her on the baby slopes. But Blanche insisted, and he finally left her on the slope serviced by the T-Bar, and went to the longest of the chair lifts, Lift A.

He grinned unconsciously as he approached the lift. Eight or ten skiers were waiting to use the chairs, as compared to the long lines one usually encountered on weekends. As he approached the loading area, he caught a blur of black movement from the corner of his eye, turned and saw his German or Swedish ski instructor from the night before wedeln down the mountain, and then turning, parallel in a snow-spraying stop near the lift. He did not seem to recognize Hawes, but Hawes was not at all surprised. Every skier on the line was wearing a hooded parka, the hoods covering their heads and tied securely beneath their chins. In addition, all the skiers were wearing goggles, most with tinted yellow lenses in defense against the grayness of the day, some with darker lenses in spite of the grayness. The result, in any case, was almost total anonymity. Male and female, they all looked very much alike. They could have been a band of Martians waiting to be taken to a leader. Instead, they were waiting for chairs. They did not have to wait very long.

The chairs on their cable kept rounding the bend, came past the grinding machinery. Hawes moved into position, watched the girl ahead of him sit abruptly as the chair came up under her behind. He noticed that the chair gave a decided lurch as it cleared the platform, and he braced himself for the expected force, glanced back over his shoulder as another chair rounded the turn. Ski poles clutched in his left hand, his right hand behind him to grip the edge of the chair as it approached, he waited. The chair was faster and had a stronger lurch than he’d anticipated. For a moment, he thought it would knock him down. He gripped the edge of the seat with his mittened right hand, felt himself sliding off the seat, and automatically grabbed for the upright supporting rod with his left hand, dropping his poles.

“Dropped your poles!” one of the loaders shouted behind him.

“We’ll send them up!” the other loader called.

He turned slightly in the chair and looked back. He could see one of the loaders scrambling to pick up his poles. There were two empty chairs behind him, and then a skier got into the third chair, and the loader handed him the poles Hawes had dropped. Behind that chair, two other skiers shared a chair. The wind and the snow made it difficult to see. Hawes turned his head abruptly, but the wind was even stronger coming down the mountain. The chair ahead of him was perhaps thirty feet away, but he could barely make out the shadowy figure of the person sitting in it. All he saw was a dim silhouette obscured by blinding snow and keening wind. He could feel snow seeping under the edges of his hood. He took off his mittens and tightened the string. Quickly, before the biting cold numbed his fingers, he put the mittens on again.