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Chapter Fourteen: Otis

The old Otis elevators my grandfather worked on used a simple safety system. The hoist cable wasn't fastened directly to the cage crossbeam, but to the middle of a leaf spring. The ends of the spring were equipped with pawls that caught in the side notches. Normally, the weight of the cage bowed that spring, so that its ends moved inward from the side rails. But if the hoist cable were to break, or come loose from its capstan, the leaf spring, relieved of upward pressure in its center, would flatten, pushing the pawls outward to engage the notches. That was the patented Otis safety brake -- break a cable and the leaf spring would stop the cage from falling to the bottom of the shaft. It was like a rock climber's belay system: you'd fall only to the next set of notches.

The cables on this lift were gone. All that held the cage was the safety brake.

I found my shovel and cleared off the crossbeam. On top was the leaf spring, running through iron guides. The center of spring, with its cable eye, had about four inches of clearance above the crossbeam -- enough space that I was able to lever in the tail of a ski. The spring might be solidly rusted to the crossbeam, but if I could break it loose the cage would descend. Theoretically, I could then release pressure on my lever and allow the spring to snap back and stop the descent. That was great, providing the spring ran freely enough to rebound; if the rust was thick, it might be a slow return, which would mean a fast fall.

Assuming I could take the cage down, what would I find? Presumably, a lateral gallery, a tunnel that would take me out, or into the heart of Aspen Mountain.

I twisted the ski sideways and lifted. Something groaned in rusty pain, something in addition to my gut. I gasped, regathered my breath. Then I jerked upward and the spring groaned again and the pawls popped free.

The cage didn't exactly lurch. It creaked and popped downward, drawn by its considerable snow-laden weight against the rust-frozen bearings in its guide wheels, crunching over the dirt and ice caking the guide rails. I put a shoulder under the ski to hold the pawls out and reached over to feel the walls sliding upward.

The cage accelerated as parts began to loosen up, rust to flake off. My ride began to vibrate, then to shake. I eased up on the ski; the leaf spring came down, the pawls crept out. An ugly squeal announced that their dull points were following the guide rails; then they snagged in a set of notches and the cage bounced to a stop.

It wasn't a sleigh ride. I never thought I'd be thankful for thick rust, but it seemed to be doing my braking. I hoisted on the ski again. This time the spring moved more easily. With a shriek of grinding metal, we were off again.

I found I could bring the pawls back just to the release point, and feel them click past the notches, spaced about a foot apart. In this way I was able to judge downward speed and distance. Every ten or fifteen clicks I stopped and checked the walls of the shaft for a gallery opening.

I needn't have bothered. I could feel the first tunnel, because the air changed. The air had been cold and still above the cage; now, as I descended opposite a side tunnel, a damp, cold breeze blew gently on my face. A breeze meant a vent. The tunnel led somewhere, if only to an airshaft.

I'd descended about 25 stops -- I guessed 300 feet down. I turned on the headlamp and took the cage down a couple of more notches, until the roof came level with the gallery floor. Then I collected my gear and stepped off the lift. Narrow gauge steel rails led back into the mountain. I turned off the lamp to save the batteries, stuffed my rope back into the avvy pack and slung the pack on my shoulder. I put Marco's skis on the other shoulder and, using a ski pole as a cane to reinforce my left leg, set off to follow the rails.

Only to run into the overhead. A crossbeam caught me right in the headlamp, and I staggered. More blows to the head I didn't need. It hurt, but not as much as it would have if the lamp hadn't taken the hit. I turned the switch and found, with relief, that the lamp still worked. I turned it off, sat down and ate my last cookie. I contemplated the happy idea that the light cold breeze on my face would lead me out -- or down an unseen shaft.

After a few minutes I saddled up again and moved forward in a painful half-crouch, brushing one foot against a rail with each step.

Black air encourages horrible imaginings. I hoped not to stumble into another shaft, or find the way blocked by a fallen ceiling or rust-disabled ore cart. As long as the breeze blew from behind, I could hope to be moving toward a vent or entrance on the lee side of the mountain. That would be the east side, the ski area side. But it could be over a mile away, through solid rock.

It was a long walk in the dark, hunched over to protect my head, banging my skis on the uneven tunnel roof and splashing in ski boots through half-frozen puddles between the rails. Following the rails was easy and mindless. A couple of times I came upon switches, presenting a choice of cross-galleries. Both times I simply chose the branch with the stronger breeze. Twice I found the way blocked by a board nailed across the passage, and both times the lamp showed that the board protected a shaft. I silently thanked the engineer who had closed the mine, and it buoyed my faith that the guys who drilled this gallery could follow a straight, shortest-distance line between seams. I wanted out. My belly ached with dull persistence, and soon my knuckle-walking shuffle had my back answering sharply.

I thought of Hildy, who might be dead by now.

And I thought of Moran and Bester. I had never heard of vigilante justice in 20th century Aspen. Or 20th century America, for that matter. There were neighborhood patrols in places like Boro Park, but Boro Park was really 19th century Poland. Maybe Bester had picked up the idea in Argentina.

By midnight the breeze blew stronger. A few more minutes and my eyes were acting up -- I thought I could see a faint smudge of light swimming in the middle of the tunnel. But as I hobbled along, the smudge gradually turned into a boarded-up entrance. Lights and diesel noises leaked through its cracks. Snow had drifted through some larger holes. I swung Marco's skis like a battering ram and within a few minutes was standing on a snow-laden pile of tailings, watching the flashing orange beacon of a snowcat recede down Spar Gulch. Beyond that, the lights of Aspen shone cheerily through the still-falling snow.

The muscles in my back popped back into place as I straightened up. Then I stepped carefully into the bindings and motored down Spar toward the town lights, making all my turns on the right foot. The left leg squealed each time it had to bear weight. I skied straight onto the deck at Little Nell's, fed the pay phone and called the hospital. It was after midnight, so Maggy would be off duty and on her way home. I was going to have to talk someone else into checking on Hildy.

"I need to speak to the doctor on call," I told the nurse who answered. "It's an emergency."

"Who's calling, please?"

"This is the sheriff's office. We have a medical problem here."

"I'll page Dr. Horowitz."

I waited, watching the snow float past the streetlamps.

"Horowitz here."

"Ralph, it's Sam. Listen carefully. A couple of guys just tried to kill me and I think they're going to try to kill one of your patients. Are you alone there?"

"Yes, I'm alone. Where the hell are you? Do you know there's a search on for you all over the mountain?"

"I'll bet there is. Can you be overheard?"

"Sure, if anyone wanted to listen in."

"It's better for me if these guys think I'm still dead, if you know what I mean. Will you check on Hildy Matteson? She knew what Marco Plank was up to and these guys are going around killing people who were close to him.

"It's too late, Sam. Hildy died this afternoon. After her restraints came off she took a whole bottle of sedatives."

"No."

"I'm sorry."

"Wasn't anyone watching her?"

"There was a sheriff's deputy stationed outside the room all day. He went to the can and when he got back found her comatose."

"Oh, shit. Ralph, don't tell anyone I talked to you. Not anyone, not the cops, not Tug Moran. There's a bad cop mixed up in this and if he finds out I'm alive, I'm dead. Ralph, you too. Do you understand?"

"I think so. Sam, what happens next?"

"I don't know. I'll be in touch." I hung up.

So Tug had poured a bottle of pills into Hildy at just about the time Bester was plinking away at me. I was going to lay really low until I found out whether Maggy was in danger, and whether the boys still figured me dead.

I couldn't use my car. It was parked right across the street, but if one of Tug's guys saw it cruising around town, I'd be back down the mine shaft within half an hour.

I phoned Maggy.

"Thank God, you're alive. Where are you? Tug said you never got out of Keno. I've been worried sick. The patrol is out looking for your body . . . "

"Shh. Tug and Bester killed Marco and Hildy, and they tried to kill me. They don't know I'm okay."

"Come over here, Sam. I need to see you."

"I can't come to your place. Tug's guys might still be watching you. In fact it's not safe for you to be there. Is there someplace else we can spend the night?"

"I'll pick you up. I'm so happy you're alive, you jerk. We can go to Ralph's place. I feed his cats when he's on call."

"Okay, but drive to the City Market and park there. I'll meet you in the alley around back. It will look like you're just shopping. Ten minutes."

It's not easy sneaking around back alleys in ski boots, dragging a bum leg and carrying 25 pounds of gear, but it's certainly no worse than crawling through abandoned mines. I carried Marco's Heads, and a casual glance would make me just a limping skier coming back from the clinic by way of a bar or two. Behind the supermarket I sat in the snow, leaning against a dumpster like a wino, in the darkest corner I could find.

Maggy shook me awake. She hushed me, pointed a little flashlight in my face and gasped. "God, look at you. Why didn't you tell me you were hurt? Can you stand up?"

"Wait a minute. The skis."

"Where? I'll get them."

"There, in the corner."

"Come on, I want to look at your face."

She led me across the street to Horowitz' apartment and let us in. "Hurry," she said. "Get out of the light."

Maggy sat me down on the toilet and tried to peel the hat off my forehead. It stuck, and I realized that I must look pretty bloody. "Lemme look," I said, and turned to the mirror. I had bled copiously from two scalp wounds and had a horribly swollen black eye. The blood had dried in the hat and in snow-smeared blotches all over my face. "No wonder it hurts so bad," I said.

"They beat you up."

"Well, they hit me a few times and threw me down a shaft."

"What shaft? Never mind the story, tell me where else it hurts."

"They gut-punched me. And my back hurts, but that's just muscle stuff. What I need is a hot bath. The thing is, they shot me. Look."

"Omigod," she said. "Oh, my, God." She tore through a bathroom drawer and came up with a pair of scissors. "Lie on the floor. Face down."

Maggy began snipping through my pants. She softened the clotted blood with a warm wet washcloth and peeled away the woolen longjohns. "You don't want to see this," she said. "It's like hamburger. We have to get you to the hospital."

"I can't go there. They'll kill me there."

"Let's see what we can do." She helped me undress. She bathed the wounds. She rummaged in the medicine cabinet. "Trust Ralph," she said. "He's got everything here. E-mycin. Good. Here's some Darvon. Take it." I gulped the water. It was wonderful.

"More."

"We need to feed you, too. Lie still."

I drifted off a bit as she dressed the holes in my body and sponged me clean. After awhile she helped me creep into bed. She sat on the edge and gave me a cup of soup. Gently, she touched the compress on my temple.

"I wouldn't be surprised if you're concussed," she said. "Were you dizzy or nauseous?"

"Yeah, but here's why." I pointed to the purple bruise between my navel and rib cage.

"I can't get at the pellets," she said. "We'll need to get you into surgery for that."

"It'll have to wait until I get this thing settled."

"It can't wait too long."

"It will have to."

She nodded. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"I found out who killed Marco."

"But did you find any evidence?"

I thought about that. My eyewitness account would be worthless against the word of the elected sheriff. "No," I said slowly. "I can't prove anything."

"So," she sighed. She paused. "So how was the skiing?"