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Back The Trickster
Chapters (74)
  1. The Trickster
  2. Copyright
  3. Dedication
  4. Contents
  5. Preface to the 20th anniversary edition
  6. Introduction
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. Keep Reading
  70. FURNACE
  71. Acknowledgements
  72. About the Author
  73. ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
  74. About the Publisher

Sam put his hand over his mouth and closed his eyes. What was he running from? A face in the crowd. He let his legs buckle and he slumped down to the snow on his knees as if in a prayer.

Weeks ago there used to be a Sam Hunt who’d just be tapping in the last post of that snow fence, looking forward to going home and hugging his kids and crushing his wife in his arms. He’d probably have jawed with the night trail groomers for a time, then picked up some groceries on the way home if it was his turn for the car. And there might be steak and spinach salad for dinner. Katie would have books to read after they’d pigged out on cheesecake, and he might just watch a hockey game on TV or muck around with Billy and Jess before bed. That was what it used to be like. It wouldn’t make a feature on Lives of the Rich And Famous, but it was heaven. So where was he now, that Sam Hunt?

Who was this frightened man on his knees in the snow? Frightened of death by brain tumour. Frightened by cops who thought he was a killer. Frightened by a look he saw behind his wife’s beautiful eyes. And now frightened by a face in the crowd. No. Not frightened. Terrified.

He got to his feet like a new-born calf, and knew he had to get home. Fuck the snow fence, fuck the job, he had to get home.

A look round told him the snowmobile he’d come up on was gone. Dean had gone for more orange netting. If he went down using the chairs it would take him the best part of an hour, and that calculation relied on the chairs still running at Half-way, which at this hour was doubtful.

No problem. He’d ski down. Five miles of trail, but he could do it in less than fifteen minutes. He knew his crappy old black boots were in the Patrol hut behind the restaurant, and there were dozens of skis in there that could have their bindings tweaked to fit. Sam loped towards the hut, going round the back of the building instinctively, out of sight from that huge expanse of plate-glass window, that might or might not still contain a pale face with ice-blue eyes.

It was windy back there. The asshole architect of the monstrous concrete building had created a pretty effective microclimate between its ugly back side and the patrol hut.