"Wait a sec. Doug Portman, the man in the snow. Why are they transporting him down the hill? I mean, without waiting for. . . medics or for. . . law enforcement?"

"They're following procedure." His calm blue eyes studied me. "Don't worry about Mr. Portman, we've got the situation under control. Let's go now, all right?" I nodded. He murmured into his walkie-talkie, moved with enviable agility back to the right side of Jitterbug, and waited patiently while I stomped over to my skis and painstakingly snapped them back on. Ten minutes later, chilled but in one piece, we arrived at the ski patrol office at the base, a small log building with green trim located next to the rental shop. Arch, watching out the large window, instantly opened the door.

"Mom." His voice was hoarse with anxiety. "Are you okay?"

"Call Tom," I told him. "Please, hon, ask Tom to come to Killdeer. Can you manage that? Tell him we're okay but that it's an emergency."

Arch nodded and made for the bank of phones on the countertop of the bustling office. A wall of detailed maps, complete with colored pins, gave the place the appearance of a battle-control center. A group of patrol members standing in one corner eyed me before going back to their conversation.

"Into the far room, Mrs. Schulz," said my escort. I followed my silver-haired companion through the crowded room. He opened a door and I walked into a small office. The patrolman told me to take a seat; he'd be back in a minute.

I had just struggled out of my ski gear when Arch poked his head into the room. His hair had become matted on one side, wildly skewed on the other. His cheeks were bright red.

"I got Tom. I told him you were all right but you'd been in a ski accident. He wanted to know what happened, and I said maybe you could come talk." He grimaced. "Those patrol guys by the phone said you couldn't come out yet. Tom said, 'Why not?' I said I didn't know, and Tom said he was leaving right away to come get you. He'll be here in about an hour and a half." My son pushed his glasses up his nose. He looked me over curiously. "Are you hurt?"

"No, hon. Thanks." "So what happened? Somebody with a bunch of money had an accident?"

"I think so." I frowned. A needle of anxiety poked my chest. . . poor Arch. "Somebody was skiing and had a bad fall."

He glanced at the front office, then turned back to whisper, "They're really arguing about something out there. Gotta go."

A moment .later my silver-haired companion returned. He was accompanied by a taller, massively built, grim-faced fellow who was carrying a covered paper cup. The big guy - fortyish, thinning dark hair, lumpy face - wore a belted maroon ski suit with the Killdeer logo across the chest. He introduced himself as Joe Magill, from Killdeer Security, before placing the cup on the desk in front of me.