Tainted Mountain (3 page)

Five

Barrett did not like
mountain hikes, but he'd learned early on to do whatever it took to keep his family and McCreary Energy safe. If that meant meeting this earth muffin in secret on a mountaintop, then he'd do it.

While they climbed, Barrett let Scott yammer about protecting the environment and people's health. As if the bonehead knew anything about saving people. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness probably came next on Scott's list of talking points.

Barrett was beyond happiness; pursuing it for himself would be a waste of time.

Scott strode along the trail ahead of Barrett. “I want you to know I appreciate you meeting me.”

Barrett thought about swatting the back of Scott's head. “You said you wanted to talk about groundwater on the Hopi reservation.”

Scott stopped and waited for Barrett. “Did you know this mountain is sacred to fourteen tribes?”

I even know why
. Barrett stepped around Scott and kept walking.

Past sixty and overweight, Barrett's main exercise consisted of riding his champion quarter horses on his ranch. His monthly hiking meetings with Scott stretched his patience as well as his stamina.

Scott followed closely on Barrett's heels. “You read the last report, right?”

The trail rounded a curve and Barrett saw what he was looking for, a sheer drop on the side away from the cliff. A boulder field bottomed out on jagged lava rock 100 feet down.

Barrett struggled to get his air. Flagstaff sat 7,000 feet above sea level, so they must be at a good 10,000 feet on this mountain. That left little oxygen. He hated the sweat dripping down his jowls and couldn't wait to get back, to shower and wash the slick film covering his body.

Scott's breath sounded soft as a sigh. “We need to go public with this information right away.”

Barrett saved his limited air.

“I know something this big will impact McCreary Energy.”

Impact it? You cretin, it would destroy it
.

Scott fidgeted in the silence, as if unsure what to do next.

Barrett leaned against the cliff wall.

Scott stared at him, voice incredulous. “You aren't going to do anything about it?”

“Why yes. Your lovely wife is going to make snow on Kachina Mountain.”

Scott shook his head. “But—with these results—that's not okay.”

Barrett pushed away from the cliff wall and took a step forward. He spoke quietly. “Making snow is good for business. Making snow will eliminate our little problem. Everyone is happy.”

Scott looked wounded and stumbled back a step. “I thought … ”

Barrett narrowed his eyes. “What evidence do you have about this?”

Scott gazed toward the meadow, hundreds of feet below them. “I submitted the well logs to you. You wouldn't hide this, would you?”

“Did you make copies?”

A spark of panic lit Scott's eyes. “You can't cover this up.” As Barrett suspected, Scott was too much of a dolt to keep copies.

Barrett took another step toward Scott. “The problem is being taken care of.”

The nervous man glanced down the trail, no doubt searching for escape. Barrett guessed Scott was now regretting trusting Barrett and not making copies. “Pumping water on the peaks is no solution,” he said.

Barrett sighed. He hadn't wanted it to come to this, but the moron left him no choice. He might be old and out of shape, but his extra weight wouldn't hinder him now. Without another word, Barrett lurched toward Scott and slammed into the fool, launching him over the edge.

The granola cruncher had been paid well to keep his mouth shut and until now hadn't had any temptation to open his trap and spoil his good deal. The only person who might know about this was his wife, but if she spoke up, the whole snow-making deal would be off. He'd keep an eye on her, but she struck Barrett as too smart to let that happen.

Barrett glanced over the side of the cliff.

Not much blood, but the angle of the neck proved just how dangerous it was to cross Barrett McCreary III.

Six

Nora stood on the
wide lodge porch and gazed across the empty expanse of the ski run. There were so few summer mornings to savor on her mountain, and this one had withered away in worry, meetings, balance sheets, and business plans.

Abbey trotted up the lodge steps, tongue lolling.

Nora scratched his ears. “You don't care if the bank is skeptical about snow making and Scott walked out, do you? As long as there is a rabbit on this mountain and food in your dish, you're content.”

He slopped in his tongue, wagged his tail, and sat to survey his mountain.

The restless night alone pounded in fatigue behind Nora's eyes. With her closest neighbors in Mountain Village, nestled three miles down the winding road at the base of the mountain, she felt isolated at the lodge. She'd jumped at every noise, afraid Big Elk or Knife Guy would come back to finish her off. Hoping maybe Scott would return.

The nip of pine wafted in the air and the sun filtered through the branches, creating a camouflage of cheer on the grass. Normally the fiery penstemon, the violet flax, and sunny cinquefoil made her heart light. Today, she forced appreciation for the beauty around her.

She stared at the rocky, red dirt parking lot about two hundred feet down a path from the lodge. She imagined snow piled on the periphery and happy people shrugging into ski togs. She loved those days. Everyone excited and busy, laughter chasing around the mountain. Unfortunately, too many days the parking lot sat empty.

Nora allowed herself memories of early morning skiing with Scott. They often checked the slopes before allowing skiers on the runs. Sharing the thrill of their mountain, the morning runs had felt as intimate as lovemaking.

Nora shook away those memories. Enough emotional torture, business beckoned. The morning's meeting in town with her banker had yielded mixed results. Despite her impressive charts and projections and armed with the court's decision, her banker considered her already sizeable operating loan and the refinanced business loan. Kachina Ski's lifeline showed minimal activity. But making snow would not only speed recovery, it would guarantee robust health far into the future. At least that's what she'd told the banker.

In the end, the banker offered enough to pay for initial construction of the snow-making equipment, providing she came up with investors to furnish the remaining capital.

Set my hair on fire, pull my toenails out with pliers, bury me to my neck in hot sand, but don't make me call my mother for money.

For the thousandth time since dawn, Nora scanned the forest behind the lodge. Scott might traipse back after camping in the forest. It wouldn't be the first time he appeared after a night away and they went along as usual with no mention of the argument.

A ridiculous notion. Failure had been threatening their marriage for months, maybe years. Despite all their efforts, they'd never really recovered from … her mind automatically shifted away.

A f
lash of bright blue drew her attention deep into the forest. Scott? But then, it might be Knife Guy, back for blood. Isolated out here, he wouldn't have to wait for the cover of darkness. Logic did nothing to stop the electric flash of nerves.

A fat, mean blue jay flew from the forest.

Just a bird,
she thought.

A crash behind her sent another zing of fire through her chest. Abbey barked. Nora spun and fell against the railing, arms up, ready to defend herself.

She drew in a breath, probably her last. A figure lurched from the gloomy lodge.

“Oh, God.” She slowly exhaled, allowing the panic to dissolve. This heart fibrillation needed to stop or she'd keel over dead.

Charlie—gray-haired hippy, survivor of the summer of love and whatever Jesus freak, earth-loving, peacenik movements surged in the old days—stood in front of the screen door he'd let bang closed. His rusty voice brought his usual good cheer. “Didn't mean to startle you, dear. You are beauty and grace and give me reason to live.”

Long live normalcy—at least Charlie's version
. “I'm here just for you,” she said.

Pabst Blue Ribbon beer can clutched in his hand, Charlie made his way to her, Abbey dancing at his feet. His grizzled face wore a grin and his faded eyes crinkled with affection. “I heard what happened in town yesterday. You ought to keep the back door of the lodge locked.”

“I thought it was locked.” Her inadvertent vulnerability shocked her.

Though they called the rambling building a lodge, it more resembled an insulated barn with a few dividing walls to separate the small snack bar, rental and locker area, and her office. On snowy days crowds packed the small place, making it hot and stuffy. The rest of the time it echoed and a constant chill filled the air. With a dependable snow supply, they could expand. Why not build a restaurant, get a liquor license? Possibilities—always lurking in Nora's mind—warred against her worry.

“Might think about getting a gun too.” Charlie lived in Mountain Village, edged up to the forest, probably born of the pine needles and cinders after the last volcano erupted. He stopped in with his beer to visit Nora a couple of times a week then headed up one trail or another to perpetrate his peculiar brand of peaceful eco-terrorism. The idea of him wielding a gun made Nora smile.

“What's the good news today, Ranger?” Nora asked her usual question.

Charlie gulped his beer and gave his expected response. “Looks like rain.”

Nora knew Charlie hung teapots, kettles, coffee cups, and water buckets in a tree in front of his house to encourage rain.

“A gully washer.”

He guffawed. “I like an optimist.”

With his unflappable attitude and quirky outlook, Charlie often felt like her only ally. Even if he objected to snow making, he never argued with her about it. She felt slightly uncomfortable that he spent his days dragging logs across trails to thwart the wheels of hated motorized vehicles in his forest. But he had given up stringing cable from tree to tree when he nearly decapitated a dirt biker and ended up with a month's jail time.

He reached into a pocket of the oversized army jacket he always wore, probably the one issued to him back in Vietnam, and pulled out another PBR. “Care for a beverage?”

Nora laughed. “That stuff tastes like gasoline.”

He popped the top and took a swig. “Coming from anyone else, I'd say that was an elitist comment made by an exclusionary capitalist out to exploit the underclass. A real Barrett McCreary.”

“I don't really mind being compared to Barrett McCreary.”

Charlie shook his head. “Child, you don't know what you're saying.”

Charlie tipped his head back and drained his PBR in one long chug. He crushed the can and slipped it into a pocket. “Got work to do. You be careful and lock that door.”

Abbey, tail wagging, joined Charlie and they ambled across the grass, disappearing in the forest. Nora wandered into the dark lodge. She checked the back door. No wonder Charlie walked right in. Scott must have broken the mechanism and forgot to tell her. She needed to rework her revenue projections, but then she'd head back to town to hit the hardware store. No way did she want to spend a night here without sturdy locks.

The sound of a chair scraping over the floor startled her. Her head whipped around, and she searched the vast darkness. “Who's there? Charlie?” Her pulse pounded in her ears, blocking any other sound. Movement next to the white stone fireplace caught her eyes.

“If you're one of those activists, you'd better get off my property.” She stepped toward the door. “I'm calling the police.” Another step. No replies. Maybe her overloaded mind blew a fuse and nobody was here. She hurried toward the door anyway. In the dim lodge her eyes strayed to a hulking shadow jutting from the wall. Breath caught in her throat.

Knife Guy glared at her from behind the rental counter.

There was no debate between fight and flight; Nora took off for the screen door.

She barely cleared the rental counter when what felt like a brick wall slammed into her back, sending her crashing to the floor in a crush between concrete and two hundred pounds of lean, murderous Indian.

Fingers raked her head and grabbed a handful of hair. He jerked her around and pounded her down, the back of her head cracking on the floor. Fissures of pain blinded her. He straddled her chest, letting only the barest stream of air into her lungs, hatred shooting from his eyes. “You won't destroy our sacred moun-ain.” His words came from clenched teeth.

She struggled for breath. “I … ”

His hand smashed into the side of her face, grating her cheek and tongue against her teeth. Agony exploded through her temple, and the taste of blood filled her mouth.

“Shut up!”

His hands wrapped around her throat, squeezing as if her neck were nothing more than a wash rag. Rage turned his dark face into a mask of destruction, eyes glinting with absolute power.

She kicked for her life, fought to buck him off, struggled to shake her head. Yet she barely moved, despite adrenaline pumping through her. Impossible that death could find her so easily. It shouldn't happen this effortlessly. Someone shouldn't simply walk in the door and kill her. No preamble, no preparation. Hardly any struggle. Just dead.

And then she felt a new pain. Real, excruciating, burning her lungs as they dried up, turning in on themselves, begging for air. Her mouth gaped. Blackness seeped into her vision, closing in, shuttering life. Her arms dropped to the floor, her body no longer obeying her dying brain. The twisted face hovering over hers faded into darkness. This was it.

Death brought instant relief. The weight on her chest disappeared. It felt as if air actually raked against her raw throat. But it burned. There shouldn't be pain in death, right? Great gulps triggered coughs that scraped her delicate tissue.

The blackness receded from her eyes and sound returned to her in the form of grunts and pounding flesh. Two men grappled on the floor next to her. Knife Guy, larger and heavier, took a fist to his face. The other man moved with grace and agility, planting another blow and another.

Knife Guy shoved the thinner man off balance and settled himself in an attack stance. And there it was. The knife appeared and the blade emerged with a
schwit
.

Jump, scream, run. Do something!
But she just wallowed as though buried in tar. The man, her savior, jumped to his feet. Cole Huntsman. He crouched, his eyes burning into the attacker's, calculating, calling him on.

The heart-stuttering siren of an emergency vehicle sliced through the air.

Knife Guy hesitated only a second, then bounded past Cole and out the screen door.

Before the door even banged closed, Cole knelt beside Nora. “Are you okay?” He put an arm under her shoulders and helped her sit.

She swallowed fire. Her voice sounded raspy and weak. “Yes. No.”

“Can you stand?” She nodded and he pulled her to her feet.

Her core shook, radiating out to her arms and legs. She leaned on Cole. “He's gone?”

“The siren saved us. It looked bad when he pulled the knife.” He supported her weight and helped her toward a bench.

Sirens. Police? Ambulance? Her brain still felt foggy, and she couldn't think straight. How long since Charlie had left her—minutes, a half hour? He might have been careless, fallen and broken a leg or crushed a foot with a heavy log.

Scott always teased Nora for overreacting. It was probably just a hiker who twisted a knee or something.

Cole lowered Nora to sit. “Where is your husband? You shouldn't be out here alone.”

But she wasn't alone, was she? Cole was here. A dangerous environmental activist. Her heart accelerated again. Fear made for a terrific aerobic workout. She glanced at the door, wondering if she could get outside before he caught her. Cole Huntsman couldn't be any more pleased with her making snow than Knife Guy. “What are you doing here?”

He looked startled at her accusing tone. “Well.” His Western drawl sounded as if he just stepped in from the range. Even in the dim light she saw a blush creeping into his cheeks. “I couldn't help but notice that things didn't go that great between you and your husband yesterday. I don't mean to butt in, but I just wanted to check to make sure you were all right.”

Likely story. He and Big Elk had to be in cahoots and he was taking the “good cop” role. Maybe he came to Flagstaff to stop Barrett's uranium mining—why else would he be hounding Barrett—but he'd obviously joined Big Elk's camp. Still, he saved her life.

Her life. Her throat and neck ached with bruises inside and out and her tremors returned. She'd nearly died. And the man who wanted her dead was still out there somewhere.

Cole's hand rested on her shoulder and rubbed slowly across her back. “Let's get you into the sunshine.”

Good guy or bad guy, right now Cole was the only guy around. He'd kept her alive so far. She let him help her stand and stagger to the deck. As soon as possible she ducked from his supporting arm.

The lodge squatted halfway up the mountain. Two short flights of wide metal stairs led from the ground to the deck. Five giant picnic tables spread out on the expansive redwood platform that faced the lift. Nora and Scott's tiny apartment sat on the second story, accessed by a steep outside stairway that climbed the front of the lodge.

A police cruiser pulled into the parking lot, lights swirling, and stopped.

Who called the cops? How did they know about the attack? Odd that they showed up so quickly.

She and Cole watched as the cop walked up the path and clumped up the stairs. Nora recognized him as the same senior officer who had investigated her slashed tires and the broken shed window, the most recent incidents of vandalism on the property. Nora searched her brain for his name. Gary something or other.