"I haven't seen or talked to anybody." My voice seemed to belong to someone else. "I have no idea when the run was closed."

"How long have you been here?"

"About fifteen minutes. Listen, I'm freezing. I need to be with my son. And - " I hesitated, then added, "I should tell you, I . . . I know that guy down there. We . . . started off skiing together at the top, and I was supposed to meet him at the base, but he was skiing faster - "

"We're getting help for him. What's his name?" I told him, and the patrolman nodded grimly. "Mrs. Schulz. I need you to look over the side again, please. I need you to tell me if this is exactly the way the man appeared when you first saw him." Snowmobiles were roaring up the lower part of Hot-Rodder. "Please, look one time. Try to remember exactly what you saw. It's important."

His voice faded away as I leaned over the edge of the run. I could not imagine what kind of terrible spill Doug Portman had taken. His large body was sprawled crazily, like a bulky scarecrow blown off its support. He lay half on his back, half on his side. Snowflakes had not yet completely covered his face, but heavy clumps of ice and snow virtually obscured his shiny black jacket and pants. Below him on the slope, his skis lay twenty feet apart. One of his poles had landed clear across the run. What looked like his goggles stuck crazily from the top of a mogul. Odd. Two things had indeed changed since I'd first seen him. More money littered the slope. And by Doug's left shoulder, the ugly blotch of blood had widened. I pointed out these details to the patrolman.

One of the patrolman's questions buzzed in my brain: When was the run closed? I stared down at the lower slope of Hot-Rodder, its moguls lined up in icy rows. Had Doug Portman ducked the rope that closed the run? How fast had he been going? What kind of maneuver had he been trying to make?

Three snowmobiles arrived at Doug Portman's body. Shouted orders carried up through the snowfall. Get out the . . . Move the. . . Easy. . . . With great ease and speed, the rescue team hustled around in the snow and prepared the sled. But, my mind supplied, there's so much blood. . . money everywhere. . . .

Who closed the run? When?

Had anyone known Doug was carrying so much cash? I stared down mutely at the patrol members moving a floppy, unconscious Doug onto the sled. Maybe my experience living with a homicide investigator made me too paranoid. Still, I wondered, what if Doug had been hit? If he had been hit, intentionally or no, all the patrol's traipsing around on the mountainside would make it impossible to tell exactly what had happened.

"Can you ski to the bottom, Mrs. Schulz?" The patrolman eyed me skeptically. "Do you need me to go with you?"