Chapter 22
Great Haystack was having one of its busier periods, though Canadian holiday week didn’t have the punch of former years. Cilla knew that in the nineteen-eighties and early nineties more French than English might be heard in the base lodge during that vacation week, with the huge influx of skiers from Quebec.
Cilla’s mind was organized in a way her desk never revealed, and since childhood she’d been able to shut off compartments with things she didn’t want to think about. Her desk had begun to reflect another’s mind. Frances Ingalls, set up just outside Cilla’s office, arranged for every paper to go through her hands into a new file drawer and onto a tape from a computer that had been up to then only used for monthly financial reports. In order to find anything, Cilla, who had never worked with computers, was forced to get better acquainted with a new keyboard, which, though much like that of the old Remington typewriter she’d used for school, had whole new sets of keys, and changes on those that should have been familiar. Unable to sleep anyway, she spent most of one night committing the keyboard and the functions of each of the keys to memory.
The sight of her own bare desk was somehow unsettling to Cilla, who scattered papers on it when Frances wasn’t watching. When the FBI woman gathered them up for filing, Cilla gave her the patient smile of a mother with incorrigible children.
There was little opportunity for examination of where her relations with Kurt Britton stood. With the latest snowstorm - which settled eight inches on the slopes and trails before heading eastward - snowmaking equipment had been shut down for the season. It was well into March, and end of season was scheduled for the first of April. Barring a weeklong tropical blast, there was enough snow to coast into closing. But by then, coasting, and other winter sports, were sliding into second place. Golf courses were opening in Massachusetts, and summer sports were capturing skiers’ attention. So April 1 was it. And the snow they had would be worked to produce the best skiing possible. Kurt turned his attention to that. As any skier knows, spring skiing is a different animal than the product of New England winters. Hard and fast in early morning, the snow softens under stronger sun, and mid-morning produces a turn-anywhere surface that matches that of the finest winter grooming. By mid-afternoon it is mush, so spring skiers start and end their days early. Nighttime temperatures freeze the surface into miniature cliffs and valleys that must be churned into loose marbles. With the stated purpose of saving payroll, Kurt took over the operation of one of the snow harvesting vehicles, and his appearances during daylight hours became rare and sporadic. His meetings with Cilla were businesslike and brief, and no mention was made of the battle of Bale Out.
It was just after eight when Frances came in. Her eyes held concern.
“You haven’t heard anything from Hudson have you?”
“Of course not. Why?”
“Nobody’s seen him for two days. Is he the type to go off on a drunk?”
“What do you mean no one’s seen him? Isn’t he at Carver’s?”
“No.”
“Aren’t your people guarding him?”
“We have agents stationed around the house, but he hasn’t been there.”
Cilla rose with fire in her eyes. “What the hell are they doing guarding a house? I thought it’s the people they’re supposed to be protecting! There are only two of them in that house. Can’t they keep track of that many?”
Frances backed up a step. “The agents don’t live at the Carver house, Cilla. They weren’t aware he wasn’t there until just this morning.”
“Well God damn it!” She picked up the phone.
“Yes?”
“Wally, this is Cilla. Where’s Hudson?”
“Why?”
The old fart was going to make this as difficult as possible. “They tell me he’s been missing for two days.”
“He had to go out of town.”
“Where?”
No response.
“Damn it, Wally, where did he go?”
“He went to a funeral.”
“Whose funeral?”
“Sturgis’s. In Marblehead.”
“He went to a funeral two days ago and hasn’t returned?”
“Yes.”
“Hasn’t he called?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you even a little concerned?”
“Hudson can take care of himself.”
“Damn male ego! Don’t you move. I’m coming over.” She slammed the phone down. “And as for you, Frances Ingalls, you get on the phone and tell John Krestinski to call me at the Carver house. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
It was scarcely eight-thirty when she burst through the Carver door. Wally was at his hand-carved mahogany desk.
“What’s the name of that funeral home?”
“O’Connor.”
“Have you called them?”
“To say what?”
“To find out what happened to Hudson, of course!”
“The funeral was two days ago. I very much doubt they’d tell us a man answering Hudson’s description was still there keeping company with an urn of ashes.”
“Sturgis was cremated?”
“Yes.”
“Where were the ashes going to go?”
“Unknown.”
The muscles around Cilla’s eyes tightened. “Wallace Carver, stop playing monosyllabic games with me. Why did Hudson go to Sturgis’ funeral?”
The old man drummed fingers on his desk. “He thought Sturgis’ daughter Loni might show. He wanted to talk with her.”
“And you don’t know if she did.”
“No.”
Cilla searched Carver’s face, but it was devoid of expression. “And you have heard nothing from Hudson since.”
“No.”
Cilla picked up Wally’s phone. “I suppose you haven’t called his cell phone either.” She punched in a number, listened and hung up. “Not even a message,” she said half to herself. Then to Carver, “You know Marblehead. Where is the O’Connor home?”
“You intend to go there?” He was unbelieving.
“Yes.”
“What on earth for?”
“To find Hudson of course.”
The old man was exasperated. “Young lady, in case you are unaware or have for your own reasons chosen to forget, Hudson Rogers has one of the finest minds I have had the privilege of knowing...”
Cilla broke in, “Don’t preach to me, Wally.”
Carver continued as though she’d said nothing. “...who obviously has found a lead and is following it up, leaving the funeral home two days ago.”
“Are you through?”
“No, damnit! Aren’t you listening? There is absolutely no way you can duplicate Hudson’s reasoning and follow a trail two days cold.”
Cilla looked at him coldly. “I can try.”
“Why?”
The temperature dropped still lower. “I’m his wife.”
“And what about the FBI people? Loni is in the witness protection program. Hudson had to make this trip to Marblehead because they wouldn’t tell him where she’s being hidden.”
Cilla chewed her lip. “Frances is having John Krestinski call me. How come the FBI hasn’t noticed Hudson’s gone?”
“They’re guarding the house not imprisoning us here.”
“But they must have noticed his absence.” She turned to him. “Unless you...”
“There has been...some pretense.”
“Well, there’s about to be more. When John calls tell him you don’t know where I am.”
“When Mr. Krestinski calls he’ll get no answer.”
“No. I’m coming with you.”