The Downhill
Professional ski racing is full of heroes... and villains. A mystery novel.
Fiction by DAVID STEERS


                                     Preface

His breath formed fleeting wraiths in the harsh light of the overhead floodlights as he walked up the concrete ramp from the underground garage. He was trying to clear his head and knew the cold air would help. He looked up and was happy to see the stars gleaming brightly above him as only stars in a cold mountain sky can.

He lengthened his strides. The snow complained as he walked on it and he knew that meant it was still cold and dry. It would be much colder up above. It would be fast in the morning.

He rounded the corner of the hotel and looked east and up at the mountain. Stars seemed to float from the bottom of the valley to the sky. He knew the lowest stars were really the halogen headlights of the snow-grooming machines putting the finishing touches on a frozen work of art.

His head felt better now and he could grab a few hours of sleep without feeling groggy when he woke up. He had to be sharp in the morning.

As he followed the path that led through a narrow corridor of small fir trees to the back door of the hotel he thought he heard something moving behind him. He was just starting to turn when he heard a whistling sound coming toward him from above. The number of stars in the sky seemed to increase a hundredfold for a moment, then they were eclipsed and blackness descended.

It was 11:31, Pacific Standard Time.


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The phone rang in my Whistler hotel room. I rolled over, picked up the handset, and dropped it back into the cradle. It stopped.

It rang again. I silenced it. It rang again. I squinted at the bedside clock. It was 4:49 AM. This wasn't my mechanical wake-up call. It was way too early.

"Hello," I croaked into the phone.

"Hello," said a voice I didn't recognize on the other end. "Is this Ian Fitzgerald?"

"Yes," I croaked again, worried now. I hate late night calls. They never bring good news. The voice immediately confirmed that.

"This is Sergeant François Lajoie of the Whistler RCMP. Members of the ski team tell me you are related to a Malcolm Fitzgerald?"

"Yes," I replied. "He's my brother. What's going on? What's wrong?"

"I'm afraid I have to tell you that your brother was found unconscious about half an hour ago in Nita Lake Park. It seems he had been there for several hours."

"How is he?" I demanded. "Where is he?"

"He is on his way to Vancouver. The doctor has told me his condition is stable, but they felt that a fully equipped hospital would be better able to give him appropriate care. He seems to have sustained a knock on the head. And he was outside for several hours."

"What hospital are they taking him to?" I asked.

"Lion's Gate, but I wouldn't suggest going to town right away, Mr. Fitzgerald, since the doctors inform me he'll be unable to see anyone for an undetermined amount of time," the policeman said in the stilted way cops and doctors talk when breaking bad news. I had a vision of a very still, gray-faced Mac lying face down in a snow bank in the dark. I shuddered and tried to push the horrible picture aside. I'd need to focus if I was going to be any help to my brother.

"Why was he lying in a snow bank in the middle of the night?" I demanded.

"I don't know. I was hoping you could give me some information, Mr. Fitzgerald. I'm told by officials of the ski team that you were with him last night. I'd like to arrange an interview with you first thing in the morning..."

"I can meet you a lot faster than that," I said, interrupting him. "The sooner we do this the better. Meet me in the hotel lobby in about 15 minutes. Is that alright?" I belatedly remembered who I was talking to.

"Yes," said Lajoie. The phone went dead.

I was wide awake now. I put on the clothes I'd strewn on the hotel room floor as quickly as I could, wondering why my brother had come to harm and what harm he'd come to. I'd left Mac around 11 the night before after a good fish dinner and a few drinks. Everything had been perfectly normal.

This wasn't the first awful thing to happen recently but it was the first to so directly affect me and mine. I thought back to when I first became aware that strange things were happening in the ski-racing world.

I couldn't believe it had only been five days ago.


                                            Next: It all started in Toronto...


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