The Mountains Bow Down (15 page)

He said, “I just realized who you remind me of. Remember that governor who ran for vice—”

“Webb didn't go with the rest of the movie crew. He bought a ticket for some tram ride.”

Jack pointed down the hill. Juneau's downtown spread across the short basin, stopping at the water's edge. “There's only one tram. Over to the left, see it?”

Three enormous cruise ships floated in the channel and from the shoreline a twin set of cables rose, pulling up the mountain something that looked like a red box. Above the treetops, the wind that rippled the channel's gray-green water also swung the car slightly.

“It runs every ten or fifteen minutes,” Jack said.

“How do you know?”

But he was already on his cell phone, asking information for the Mount Roberts tram.

“Yeah, hi,” he said. “Two tickets for the next tram up.” He paused. “Okay, thanks anyway.” He closed the phone. “Sold out.”

“What's up there?”

“A restaurant with a view that steals your breath. A wildlife center but—”

“How do you know?”

“—but from what Barnes just told us, Webb doesn't sound like a nature lover.” He stared at the summit of Mount Roberts, squinting against the sun. “Maybe I've seen too many action movies.”

“What?”

“Theoretically, a helicopter could land up there.”

“Theoretically.”

“The summit's got a flat ledge.” He pointed. The mountain had sides steep like walls. But I could see a short plateau near the top.

He said, “Canada's only a few miles away. It sounds crazy, but so was hanging Judy Carpenter like that. And suppose she had more jewelry on her? Suppose he wanted to take off with it?”

“I get it, but how do you know about—”

“You're a runner, right?”

“Yes.”

He looked at his watch. “Then c'mon, let's run.”

On the forest floor, yellow flags of skunk cabbage waved when Jack ran past. I watched bouquets of green ferns sway like palms crying out Hosanna. But ten paces behind him, I was struggling, my lungs searing on every intake.

He yelled down the trail. “You okay?”

I nodded, too breathless to speak, and when I looked up, he was glancing back to see if I was all right.

The expression on his face stopped me. One split second. But I saw it.

Tenderness. Concern.

And then it was gone.

“You went soft down there in Dixie,” he said. “Must be that fiancé.”

He took off, and the trail got steeper.

This was not the hike I had in mind. But the geology was an epic crime scene. Before this quaint town laid itself across the foot of these mountains, some catastrophic event had lifted layered rock miles toward heaven. For untold years, wind and rain pummeled the rock while the shifting tectonic plates continued to grind at the fault lines that cut through the channel below. When the Ice Age blanketed the entire region, it scoured the stones, leaving frigid striations still visible on the dark boulders I passed at every switchback, leaning on them for rest.

When I finally caught Jack, he stood next to a large wooden cross. Waiting for my pulse to drop from heart attack country, and not wanting Jack to know it, I turned my back to him and read the sign beside the cross. It described a missionary priest who cut this trail and raised this marker, reminding every hiker who built the mountain and designed the trees and bestowed each of us with our laboring breath.

“Thirsty?” Jack asked.

Parched was more like it, but he opened his hand, presenting something like green snails, and popped one in his mouth.

“Fiddleheads, the tops of ferns. Keep you hydrated.” He grinned. “I promise, it's not poison. Harmon, live a little.”

A texture like Bibb lettuce, a taste like chlorophyll, and he was gone before I could ask how he knew where we were going. Up the rest of the trail my quads burned as if my thighs decided to host the phillumenists' convention. Jack slowed down enough that I could keep an eye on the back of his shirt, spined with sweat, but mostly my head stayed down as we pumped up the mountain.

Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the forest fell away.

We stood on a rocky plateau. Across the channel snowcapped mountains extended as far as my eyes could see, endless white rows. They sliced at the clear sky purged of particulate, offering a vision both beautiful and chilling. Chilling, because it was a place man could not survive. When I looked down, blue blossoms of forget-me-nots shook in the wind. I plucked one, marveling that such delicate flowers could survive high summit weather. The rock was some green gabbro, a metamorphic mix of stone churned and spewed from the earth's deeper layer. Both flower and stone went into my pocket before I shrugged into my jean jacket. Jack stood at the edge, pulling on his brown sport coat. He ran his hand through his hair, the golden ends glistening with sweat. And he surveyed the crowd of people.

So many people. Hundreds, maybe thousands. A complete contrast to the forest's quiet solitude, the tourists snapped pictures and followed guides who wore orange vests and pointed to the cages set on four-foot timbers. One guide carried a bald eagle, leashed to her metal wrist cuff.

“You see Webb?” Jack asked.

When I shook my head, Jack pressed into the crowd. Once again I tried to stick close but he was faster. I lost him when another man stepped between us. He wore a canvas bucket hat and smiled at me.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“Excuse me,” he replied.

Locked in that side-to-side hopping dance, we kept blocking each other as we tried to get out of the way.

The guide to my left was saying, “Eagles mate for life, and it's tragic when a partner dies and we find—”

Suddenly I felt a hand grab my wrist, pulling me through the crowd. I bumped into people, sputtering apologies, then popped out the other side. Jack held my hand, still walking forward, dragging me along. But when I looked down, his fingers had entwined with mine. Adrenaline shot from my heart, flying down my arm. Pulling my hand away, I tucked the tingling fingers into my pocket and kept following. He never turned around.

“This beautiful cat has been with us for about three months,” said another guide. She was pointing to a six-foot cage where a buffcolored animal limped across the container. “He's a lynx and his leg was crushed.” There were other cages, all set on timbers. A black bear cub was missing an eye. A grouse's short legs were crooked.

Jack turned, whispering, “Six o'clock.”

Directly across from us, Martin Webb hovered at the edge of the crowd. A tall man—six one, according to the background check—his elongated face looked gaunt and I was struck again by his features, how the full lips consumed that narrow chin. But now those clever large eyes darted side to side, furtively.

“We had to sew up his ear,” the guide continued, pointing into the cage. “See how it's torn?”

The crowd pressed in.

Webb stepped back, then turned toward the forest. The trees stood like an emerald curtain behind the wildlife display and his black sweatshirt and black jeans blended with the dark evergreen boughs.

Jack opened his hand, signaling for me to circle the crowd, using the bodies as cover.

When I came up at nine o'clock, Webb was already pushing away the tree limbs. I didn't see Jack.

The guide said, “In this next display, you'll see an example of our work with wounded birds. This puffin was found bleeding . . .”

The crowd shuffled to the right and Jack popped up, signaling for me to follow Webb. I partially opened the fanny pack, making sure the Glock was accessible, then lifted my arm, protecting my eyes from the branches that scratched at my face. Inside the trees, sunlight turned to alchemy, the branches of hemlock and spruce turned the golden beams to silver. Sticks were snapping to my right. I crouched, squinting through the brushy limbs. His black figure slashed through like an iron sword. Racing after him, I shoved away the branches—only to have them bounce back, full of life and spring. Suddenly he looked back. His face was white against the forest, panting, struggling.

And then he was gone.

I raced faster and found him lying on the ground. Jack stood over him, a hunter bagging the white hyena.

“Are you Martin Webb?” Jack asked.

Webb was staring at me. “You—what do you want?”

“Answer the man's question.”

But the director didn't take direction. He reached up, touching his gaunt cheek. A decent-size scratch was bleeding. Webb stared at the blood on his fingers, horrified.

Jack hoisted him up by the arm, without perceivable effort. “You can get lost in the woods, Marty.”

“Especially when you're in some kind of a hurry,” I said.

“I was taking a walk.” He yanked his arm from Jack's steadying grip. “And my name is Martin.”

“Marty, I'm Jack Stephanson, FBI. You already know the lovely Raleigh Harmon.”

“Touch me again and I'll file charges.”

“That would help, thanks.”

“What?”

“Then you can explain why you were running from us.”

“And running somehow makes me guilty?” Webb smirked. “I've got news for you, this a free country.”

“Free, with laws attached,” Jack said, smiling easily. “One of those laws is you can't go around raping your assistants.”

“What did you—”

“We know all about you, Marty.”

For a second I thought Webb would cave. Mouth open, his eyes were no longer clever. He drew a long deep breath.

And screamed.

He screamed like a silly girl in a horror flick. Covering my ears, I took a step back. The shrill pitch shattered the forest. I saw Jack's lip curling in disgust as he reached for Webb's elbow again. The director released a second wave and I saw a guide come running down a trail toward us.

Young, with a thin blond beard, the guide looked panicked. I couldn't blame him. Webb's scream sounded like another animal needed to be saved.

“Oh, thank God you're here!” Webb told him, pointing at us. “These people, they chased me into the woods and knocked me to the ground.” He touched his cheek again, then showed his bloody fingers. “Look!”

“Hang on,” Jack said.

I yanked my credentials from the fanny pack, flashing them for the guide. “We're with the FBI, we wanted to talk to this man. He scratched his face running from us. He's fine, and you can go back to whatever you were doing.”

“FBI?” The guide scrunched his nose, like he smelled cat poop. “FBI
agents
?”

“I'm bleeding,” Webb sniveled. “I almost lost an eye.” He pointed to someone behind me. “And you're all witnesses.”

I turned around.

The tourists had followed their guide down the trail. Worse, they were looking at Martin Webb with compassion.

“You're not getting the whole story,” I told the guide. “In fact, it's safe to say this man is lying.” I was about to explain what happened, when a distinctive voice clanked behind me.

“And you're one to talk about lying.”

I turned around again. Claire. She was pushing her way through the people.

“Here you are, hitting people again.” She moved past us, standing next to Webb. “You don't need to say a word,” she told him. “Raleigh hit me last night. You can have my testimony for half my usual fee.”

“Fee?” Webb said.

“Okay, no charge. Just because I don't want these Nazis hurting anybody else.”

“Claire, go away,” I said. “This is none of your business.”

She turned toward the crowd, sensing their sympathy. “Do you feel that, in the air? Feel it, coming toward us?”

People gazed at the trees, then toward the dappled sky, their faces fearful.

“A black cloud of pain and agony is coming toward us, right now.”

I looked at the guide. “If you'll let me explain.”

“They have guns,” Claire said.

“Guns?” The guide put his hands on his hips. “This is a wildlife preserve. You can't have guns here.”

“Don't say I didn't warn you,” Claire said.

I brandished my credentials once more, like a priest holding a crucifix toward the devil. “This woman is a menace. She doesn't know what she's talking about.”

“She's lying,” Claire told him. “I work with the Seattle police, I'm a clairvoyant.”

“You're a kook,” Jack said.

The guide said, “I don't know what to believe right now.”

“Well, you can't believe her.” Claire stabbed a finger into my shoulder. “Her mom's losing her marbles and it's all her fault. She lied to her about working for the FBI.” Craning her neck toward the crowd, she said, “I'll prove it to you. Nadine, where are you? Nadine? She was just here . . .”

“You didn't,” I whispered. “Tell me you didn't.”

“Would you lie to your own mother?” Claire asked the crowd. “And the poor woman's coming unglued. Did you see her? She was the woman talking to herself the whole way up in the tram.”