Snowfall in Venice

Also by WES SNOWDEN

Once Upon a Green

Fortesque's Friend

Yesterday's Giant

'Never in Time

King of the Seas

Snowfall in Venice

The Rainbow Season

Book of Dreams

The Alpha Factors

Eyes of the Heart

Dolphins at Sunset

The Leprechaun Wars

Zachary’s Gold

One Last Move

FIREBUG

On Distant Shores

Spinning My Wheels

Terminal Boredom

The Enchanted Opal

CORTINA, ITALY - THIRTEEN YEARS AGO

Despite the pain, Antonio had made good progress. Much more than he ever thought possible when he first set out on this futile trek from the lonely log cabin hidden high in the dense woods of the Dolomite mountains.

But the starving artisan knew the angel of death hovered over him as his weary body teetered on the edge of final surrender. Only human resilience and a dogged determination kept him moving forward down the mountain slope, plodding knee-deep through freshly fallen snow.

Although the old swinging bridge crossing a deep narrow canyon lay dead ahead, the man who would eventually become known as the ‘hermit’ finally reached the limit of his endurance. He could go no further.

A comfortable bed of soft white snow seductively beckoned him to rest, even if only for a brief respite. The hermit slowly lay on his back, letting the falling snowflakes gently cover him with a thick blanket of white. As the welcome numbness gradually invaded his body, a sense of peacefulness ensued.

His last coherent thought before the darkness finally overtook him:

Forgive me, Father, I meant well, but I know I have done wrong. I may have failed, but at least my sin was only in trying to help the less fortunate of your flock.

As the relentless snowfall continued to descend from the heavens, the hermit’s inert form soon became no longer visible to the naked eye. The silence of his snowy grave would not be disturbed for several days. Then, one of the mini avalanches so prone to this area would sweep down the mountainside in the dark of night. It would carry the frozen body of the hermit, in a wave of rolling ice and snow, deep into the lonely canyon that lay waiting for him, far below the old swinging bridge.

At this altitude, the depths of the crevasse were never free of snow and ice, even during the hottest days of summer. With no one to mourn his passing, Antonio Fontana was destined to rest entombed in this isolated snowy grave for all eternity.

NEW YORK CITY-TODAY

Iwas pissed off.

After another day of working on what I considered to be nothing but a highly priced medical assembly line, I wearily removed my mask and gown. Then I trudged to the staff room for a welcome coffee and a commiserating chat with Gayle Wellington.

Gayle was my operating room nurse, general assistant, confidante, best friend, and lover. She was also going to be my bride in five more days.

I’m sick and tired of doing the same old stuff, day after day. I groused. I’ve done more butt lifts, tummy tucks, nose jobs, and lip enlargements than I can count. Why the hell can’t I just concentrate on what I’m good at?

Gayle moved over to my side, kissed my cheek softly, then began to give me a badly needed shoulder massage. I found her gentle, sympathetic voice soothing on my frazzled nerves.

Sorry, sweetheart, you and I both know that’s never going to happen as long as we remain employees of the Kingston Center for Cosmetic Surgery.

I was unhappy, but I knew her evaluation was accurate. For the past two years, the Kingston Center had turned into the medical equivalent of an old-fashioned sweatshop. Nothing mattered to the new owner but increasing the flow of profits.

With some modesty, I can say that some people considered me to be a genius at reconstructive surgery, particularly for kids with severe facial deformities. I tended to favor children from the less fortunate financial community whenever I could. I had pioneered some radical new approaches to cleft pallet reconstruction with a great success rate.

Some people in New York medical circles considered me brilliant at my work. The jealous ones spread the rumor that Doctor Marcus Gunderson was grandstanding by using unorthodox surgical approaches.

Although we had helped numerous low-income families with the new procedures, the blunt truth was Gayle and I were gradually going broke. The private clinic owner wouldn’t permit us to do charity operations unless we reimbursed the Kingston Center. The cheapskate demanded we pay the going rate for operating room time out of our own pockets.

I vividly recalled my last heated conversation with Donald Kingston, the sole owner of the Center. At the meeting, Kingston was adamant.

Damn it, how many times do I have to tell you? Kingston had snarled. This clinic isn’t a charity operation. I’m only interested in turning a profit, period. If you want to keep taking on all these poverty cases, be my guest, but only if you keep paying the going rate. If you don't like it, you can get the hell out and start your own business.

At this point, I stalked out of the meeting. No use arguing with a turd with a heart of stone, I mumbled to myself. Then, I unloaded my frustration on Gayle.

Shit. Kingston refuses to budge, even though he knows we have a backlog of desperate cases. Unfortunately, I’m just about tapped out, so those poor kids will have to wait a little longer. To be frank, at this point, we barely have enough cash on hand to finance our honeymoon trip. Thank God your old man gave us the first-class airfare as a wedding present.

Gayle nodded. That’s okay, honey. Both of us are badly in need of a break. Let’s get the wedding out of the way and do some skiing. We can take another crack at that cheap S.O.B. ton when we get back.

We were both passionate about skiing. We met while waiting for the lifts at the resort town of Whistler, British Columbia, and it was love at first sight. After working together at the surgical center for several months, we decided to get married. I wanted to return to Whistler for our honeymoon, but Gayle had her heart set on spectacular Cortina, Italy. We planned to enjoy two fabulous weeks skiing over Christmas and New Year in Cortina before returning to the grind in New York.

FIVE DAYS LATER, MY old aunt Mabel at the reception told us Gayle, and I had made a lovely sight when we walked hand in hand into the church. Supposedly I inherited my coloring and physique from some distant Viking ancestor. I’m well over six feet in height, with a muscular build and a slight reddish tinge to my fair hair. In turn, Gayle only reached as high as my shoulder, but she is a rare beauty. Her raven dark hair frames a very expressive face, set off by luminescent eyes. It was her spectacular eyes that had first attracted my attention.

Gayle’s mother cried as she watched us exchange our wedding vows in the small candlelit chapel before an intimate gathering of friends and family. Most of the guests were also in tears by the end of the ceremony. Gayle was happy, crying tears of joy. Heck, I might have had a little moisture flowing myself by the time it ended.

My new brother-in-law, Tom, rented a stretch limo for the occasion. It was already packed with our baggage and ski gear ready to go. After a sumptuous light meal of cold poached salmon and assorted salads, we bid the guests farewell then headed to the airport for the official start of our honeymoon. Traffic was light for New York, so we made good time.

After clearing airline security, we worked our way through to the Delta first class lounge for a departing drink. I raised my glass and winked at my new bride.

Here’s to you, Mrs. Mark Gunderson. You managed to snare me against all the intense competition. That makes you one fortunate woman.

Gayle shot back. If you keep that up, buster, I’m going to start our honeymoon by filing for a divorce.

We both laughed, then strolled hand in hand to the departure gate. The scheduled Delta flight was being operated by Alitalia Airlines, substituting the enormous Airbus A330 for Delta’s smaller Boeing 767.

FOR THE FIRST HOURS, the flight was uneventful. I relaxed, enjoying the comfort of my first-class seat to the fullest when the flight attendant approached.

More chilled champagne, Doctor Gunderson?

I checked my watch—-still ninety minutes before our scheduled arrival in Venice, Italy. Don’t mind if I do, Maria. My first wife will probably join me as well.

Gayle didn’t like my use of the word ‘first.’ In fact, she stuck her little pink tongue in my direction. I grinned. For the first time in ages, I felt utterly at ease.

The flight attendant smiled at us as she poured two large glasses of the bubbling concoction, then she departed for the galley.

I raised my glass in a toast to Gayle. May the rest of our honeymoon be as pleasant and smooth as this flight....

The words froze in my throat as the massive aircraft seemed to encounter a patch of severe turbulence. The seatbelt sign flashed on. I knew Gayle was a nervous flyer, so I reached over to hold her hand. Then suddenly, without warning, the Airbus A330 began to experience a violent, yawing motion. The wingtips rose and fell in rapid succession before the nose dropped. Finally, the ailing craft started a terrifying, freefall plunge down toward the dark, cold ocean below.

For moments that seemed like an eternity, the Airbus continued its chaotic plunge. Champagne glasses rolled in the aisles. Loose pillows, handbags, and assorted meals flew through the cabin before landing on screaming passengers. It was total bedlam in the air.

Multiple alarms screeched