Tertia did not see Sanguineus in the restaurant.
She phoned him. A recording of his voice: "I'm in a sales meeting. Please leave a message and I will respond as soon as I am able."
She covered her anxiety with a breakfast of scrambled eggs and sausage.
At 8:30am she went to the ski shop's locker room for her ski equipment. The best antidote for her anxiety was to ski, and the moderate slope was her choice.
At that same time an Asian fellow with grey in his pointy sideburns was riding a snow mobile along the crest that led to the private cabins on Brutten Ridge. It offered him a fine view of Sonnenhut's zigzagging trails.
He noticed ski tracks along the tree line and thought, "Cross-country skier," with some envy. A knee injury prevented him from engaging in that desired but, for him, impractical activity. Still he was enjoying his ride on the Polaris 800 Assault deep snow sled, a cloud of frost blowing out behind him.
It was with a feeling of regret that he reached the first and most secluded of the cabins. He had reserved it for three days and two nights at the reasonable price of four thousand Swiss francs.
He was thinking of bypassing the cabin for a longer run along the ridge, when the sight of an Arctic Cat snow mobile, parked near the shed that housed the generators, changed his mind.
Could it be--?
He parked next to the Arctic Cat. He dismounted and removed his helmet and goggles for a clearer look at the machine. There was nothing to indicate who the rider was, but in his own mind there was just one possible prospect. He felt a rather tense elation. He had not expected her to be here, but it would not be out of character for her to surprise him.
He went up onto the wooden porch brushing snow off his sleeves and shoulders. Knocking on the door, his key in a gloved hand, he called out, "Izzy?"
There was no reply. He knocked and called again, in a louder voice. Still there was only the distant screeing of a hawk, circling above the woods and clearings on the rise beyond the line of nine cabins. He tried the latch.
It was not locked. Warily he opened the door a few inches and peered in.
A stone fireplace in the far flagstoned wall, burgundy leather upholstered furniture, a thick shag carpet of cream white, and a varnished redwood table with a rack of wine bottles and a complimentary box of Swiss cheeses, met his probing gaze. He neither saw nor heard anyone.
It then occurred to him that Izzy might have gone skiing along the gentle slope below the cabin, a length of trail that followed a creek. It would be a fairly easy climb back if she did not go too far. She was the athletic type. It would appeal to her.
He went around to the side of the cabin that faced the slope and the downward rushing creek. He saw a pair of skis and two ski poles propped against the cabin's outer stucco wall. So, he thought, she's inside. Why hadn't she answered him? Was she napping? Had she gone skiing earlier, exhausting herself on a long climb back to the cabin?
He felt uneasy. He walked slowly back around to the door, pushed it open, hesitated, and went in, saying, "Hello... Izzy... are you here?"
He turned toward the wall to his left, to the bedroom door, and his heart stopped for a dreadful moment before it started pounding in a fright that was suffocating.
A man in insulated white overalls hung from a crossbeam of the ceiling. The noose had chaffed his neck. His arms were at his sides, the wrists not tied, the fingernails sprouting rope fiber. His features had the cast of an East European, badly bruised. He was quite dead, but had not been dead for very long. A terrible stench came from the seat of the quilted trousers.
The Asian panicked, backing up until his buttocks collided with the table. A wine bottle was jarred loose from the rack, rolled across the table and fell to the rug.
He became aware of someone standing beside him, a man outlined by the sunglow of the open door. A hard blunt object was pressed into his ribcage. His panic became shock. He stared at the tall man who for a long minute said nothing.
"Tell me your name," Sanguineus said at last. He kept the Glock's suppressor in the shorter man's side. "Lie to me and I will kill you."
"Glen Wong. My name is Glen Wong."
"Do you know an Estelle Woodward?"
"No. I've never heard the name."
"Do you know an Isabel Montoya?"
Wong grimaced. He took a deep breath. "Please, she is a friend, but does not work for me. Please, she works for Tertia Fontenay. I came to see her when I found out that she was with Tertia, but I have no part in this."
"On your registration you put down your business title as 'acting chairman' for LeCourt and Bistro. You are a colleague of Maurice LeCourt."
"Yes? But... "
"Drake LeCourt is a junior executive working under you."
"Yes? But..."
"Don't lie to me," Sanguineus advised, cocking the gun's hammer. "Tell me what you know of Tertia Fontenay's intentions."
Wong swallowed painfully. Sweat beaded his forehead. "You're her bodyguard? Yes... She intends to stop Drake LeCourt from trying to... stop her. She met Izzy... beg pardon, met Isabel at Sugarbush. The ski resort in Vermont. Last winter. Isabel fell in love with her, and told her about... about her line of work, and... and how she killed a horse trainer who had kidnapped a little girl who... I don't remember the details."
"When did you first meet Tertia?"
"Years ago," Wong said. "I don't know, maybe ten-twelve years ago." He made an ineffectual gesture with the hand furthest from his interrogator. "When she came to believe that Drake had killed their mother and two sisters, she... she introduced me to Isabel. Look, I am in as much danger as Tertia! Drake will kill me too! If he isn't stopped, Tertia will die and I will be the next victim! He hates me! He is racist!"
Sanguineus stepped back and lowered his Glock. He considered a moment, then uncocked the gun.
"You were one of three men who registered for single occupancy at the Sonnenhut Inn," he said musingly. "The second of the three is hanging from the ceiling. He came here on a snow mobile. I followed covertly on skis. He came here for a reason. He said it was to read you the riot act, to get you to call Isabel on her cell and invite her up here for lunch. He had supposed that was your plan but he wanted to be sure about it. He didn't want to admit it, but he intended to kill her, and of course he would have killed you for the deuce of it. He was a Napolitano thug. That doesn't mean anything to you unless Montoya has shot her mouth off on things she should keep to herself." He saw in Wong's guilty eyes that he was aware of French underground politics.
Sanguineus smiled grimly and continued, "Well, now that it's out: Vicente Napolitano has done business with Maurice LeCourt through Jacqueline Faber, a contributing editor on L'Figaro. She writes under a man's name and the Napolitano boys thinks she's a monsieur. No matter. They support Drake LeCourt's ambitions. Here's my offer. I let you go, and you go straight to the Inn, to your vehicle, and you get your ass out of here. Don't go to your room, don't check out. Just fuck everything and go. I'll protect Izzy."
Tertia finished buckling her ski boots.
She stood up from the bench and reached into the locker for her Black Diamond ski poles.
"It feels like holy hell," she remarked, going through the motions of poling on a slope. "It pinches under the arms."
"It was the best I could do at such short notice, Sugar Bitch."
Tertia grunted a laugh. "It was your idea to come up here, Izzy. I told you I couldn't afford an assistant for San, and why take a risk for nothing?"
Isabel put a hand on her hip. "For nothing?" She mouthed a soundless laugh. "Sanguineus promised me fifteen thousand out of his contract, just to put together that titty armor. I knew he'd have something for me to do for him if I showed up."
"By coincidence," Tertia said urgently. "He doesn't know about us. You go on up to the cabin and play with Glen."
"Don't be an idiot! I should go out and salt Drake, and Glen can play with himself."
"No! Drake's mine! It wasn't your sisters he murdered! I couldn't care less if he killed my slut mother! But no one's going to deprive me of--"
"Hush it!" Isabel put a firm caressing hand on Tertia's neck. "Goddamn, Tersh, you want the whole fucking resort to hear this? Go ahead and have your little revenge party, but it's not going to be what you imagine, I guarantee you that, Sugar Bitch!"
Tertia stroked the wrist and pulled the hand away from her neck. "My my, look who's yelling now, the cool professional."
She handed Isabel the ski poles, and, bumping the locker door wide open with a padded elbow, took out her Panatti skis.
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