The Mountains Bow Down (43 page)

He tossed his thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the medallion. “The cross got knocked down. That one?”

So it did happen. MJ wasn't lying. “You heard about that?”

“Oh yeah. The ship thought I'd be upset. The cross was pretty broken up. But I said, hey, it's just a religious symbol.” He nodded again, agreeing with his own wisdom. “And your mom's the one yanked it off the wall? She must be strong for her age.”

“No, sir. Different incident.”

“
Man
.”

“Pardon?”

“Man, oh, man.” His hand rubbed the round stomach, circling its contours. “Two really bad happenings. What's up with that?”

His brown eyes, almost circular in shape, went perfectly with the jowls and belly. With the shaggy hair, he reminded me of a strange teddy bear. Youthful yet graying. Enthusiastic and still lethargic. Well-fed, still malnourished.

“Perhaps you could reassure her,” I ventured.

“Right, reassure her.”

“She's a strong believer. If you could let her know she's going to be okay. Remind her that God's in control.”

“And hey, look around. This is God's country.”

“Yes, except she can't look around. The medical clinic has no windows.”

“Oh. Got it. Okay, got it.”

“Her strongest foundation is her faith but—”

“But you want me to build on that. Build it up. Make something of it.”

I wasn't sure what to say and in the silence he stole a glance at his wristwatch.

“Sir, I don't mean to offend, but . . .” I struggled for the correct words.

“Hey, no offense taken. That's what this room is for, nonjudgmental release. Like when I heard about the cross getting knocked down. I thought, We're probably better off. Crosses tend to really bum people out.”

A second silence followed. He gave the watch another glance.

Dinner, I decided.

That was the hurry. His next cream-sauced meal and nice bottle of red, followed by coffee and cognac and conversation with people from Arkansas. What a great gig, what a cozy way to shepherd a flock. A parish that revolves weekly, requiring only one sermon, endlessly recycled every Sunday through the Inside Passage or the Mexican Riviera, the Bahamas, Australia. At worst, two sermons, for when the cruise lasted fourteen days. A riff on Jonah, the whale. And something about Noah, because we're on an ark. Ha-ha holiness, pass the potatoes, please.

He stood up, shaking out his legs as if he'd been sitting a long time. “Right after dinner, I'll go see her. Right after dinner.”

Maybe that was why he said everything twice, the recycled pabulum a habit now.

I stood up with him. “On second thought, before you go to any trouble, let me check with her doctor. I want to make sure your visit is okay with him.”

His muddy brown eyes showed their first hint of depth. Relief poured into them. Pure relief. Visiting a wounded sheep like my mother could cause all-night indigestion. Shaking my hand, the reverend told me good-bye twice and left the room, letting the heavy wooden door close behind him.

I felt too tired to walk.

Sitting down again, elbows on my knees, the fatigue weighted my shoulders and rolled down my spine. My mind filled with hard thoughts, uncharitable thoughts. Cold notions about sterile seminaries and simplistic sermons and Christian clichés. Angry, disgusted, betrayed by the over-fatted calf who had waltzed in here, refusing the sacrifice that might taint his next meal.

Dropping my head, I tried to evict him from my mind. Plucking the bitter seeds from my heart, I thought about a veil torn in two, a vacant tomb offering me the right to speak directly to God. No minister was needed to sieve my petition, though all I had to give right now was sadness and humiliation.

And that was enough.

Even in this dark moment, I knew there was light, somewhere.

Somewhere, light was shining.

I opened my eyes, suddenly, gasping at the idea.

Light
.

Of course. That was it.

The lights
.

With nineteen minutes left before the ship pulled out of Skagway, I ran down the gangway and sprinted across the dock. Wind at my back, I raced around the Whitehorse Yukon train station, then turned down Broadway. The streets were deserted, the boardwalks waiting for some shootout to begin. Hanging a fast right, I whipped open the door to the hardware store.

The man behind the cash register stared, slowly chewing his gum.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” I panted. “Black lights, you carry them?”

He nodded and ambled from the cash register. I danced on my toes behind his dusty denim overalls, wanting him to shuffle faster down the wide-planked floor. I checked my watch.
Fourteen minutes. And they would leave without me
.

The man had no hurry in him. Staring at a small lighting display near the spools of chain and fishing lines, he pointed to one shelf, then another. “I know we got some somewhere.”

“Yes, where?”

“Ah.” He pointed to the lowest shelf. “There.”

I saw rows and stacks of white boxes with small UPC labels. “I don't see any black lights.”

“In there, somewhere. You want flood or reg'lar?”

“Both.”

He nodded, chewing. “I figured. How many?”

“All you've got.”

He stopped chewing. “I knew it. You're the new health inspector?”

“Pardon?”

“Don't worry. I won't say anything. You can go incognito.”

Most crime kits contained a small black light. It was used for investigating body fluids. The proteins within would glow like neon under UV light. A health inspector could use the lights for documenting rat urine.

“You think we got another rodent problem?” he asked.

“Sir, I'm not the health inspector.”

He stepped back, curious. “But you still want all the lights?”

“Yes, sir.” I took out my wallet. “It's a different kind of rodent problem.”

The Ninjas had emptied the Sky Bar, and now the one with the pencil mustache stood on a wooden ladder, screwing purple floodlights into the ceiling above the dance floor. I was standing beside the ladder, still sweating from my run back to the ship.

“You should wait,” Geert said. His eyes looked as sharp as blades on ice skates.

I gazed out the window, pretending not to hear him. Sailing south out of Skagway beneath a sun that had ripped through the clouds with no intention of setting, I finally shook my head.

“Sparks says the party is in the pub,” Geert continued. “Put the lights there.”

“No.”

Tonight at seven, the movie crew would have its wrap party, despite not finishing the movie. It was scheduled for the English Pub, but I wanted it moved to the Sky Bar.

The last place anybody saw Judy Carpenter alive.

“Technical difficulties,” I said. “Lack of adequate services. You can think of something.”

“I already told him. He is still insisting.”

“I'm insisting too.” I handed the Ninja another lightbulb. Four floodlights, one 60-watt lightbulb. I bought them all, uncertain which would work for my plan.
If
they worked. “I want those people back in here, just like they were that night.” And now they would be standing under black lights that exposed any and all benitoite.

I glanced over at the bar where a second Ninja waited.

“Cover the skylights, please. And windows.”

A vibration thrummed across the bright space and the room began to darken. Steel shutters rumbled over the Plexiglas skylights, the picture windows, the clear floor, sealing everything as if a bad storm was battering us at sea. The place was a cave.

“Perfect,” I said. “Hit the lights, please.”

The Ninja on the ladder, wearing all-black clothing, seemed to disappear. All except his epaulettes. The glowing white shoulders seemed to float in thin air. On the dance floor Geert's white uniform beamed below the handlebar mustache, now shining like the enigmatic smile of the Cheshire Cat.

“And I'd like that same bartender here. Jessie. The one who worked the night she died. But he'll have to start earlier and stay all night.”

“And if Sparks does not go along with this?” Geert asked.

“The man loves money. Make him a deal.”

“Ach. You think we have unlimited funds?”

“No, but it's cheaper than replacing that bracelet.”

The mustache twitched. “You don't even have the right one.”

“No, I don't.” I smiled, sensing the white glow coming from my teeth. “But tonight I'm going to find out who does.”

The nurse on duty in the medical clinic was the nice one, Nurse Shannon. She was writing notes at the desk and checking off names on a list. When she saw me, she picked up the phone and told somebody I was here. When she hung up, I felt something cold at the back of my neck.

“Is she any better?” I asked.

“The doctor wants to speak with you.”

I guessed that was who she called. I tried to smile. “May I have some petroleum jelly?”

She looked startled, her large blue eyes growing even larger. “Vaseline?”

“It doesn't matter which brand, but I need about half a cup.”

“Half a—what in the world for?”

Again, I smiled. “I need to take it with me.”

She hesitated, then closed the folder that she was working on. In the small lab, she opened a locked drawer and squeezed a tube of petroleum jelly into a small plastic bag. When the phone rang at the desk, she handed me the bag. “Don't leave just yet.”

She left the room and I took the fake bracelet from my pocket. Depositing it in the petroleum jelly, I kneaded it for several seconds, then put it in my pocket. As I was leaving, the nurse cupped the phone.

“Dr. Coleman wants to speak with you.”

“It'll have to wait,” I said.

Around 6:30
PM
, I walked up the enclosed ramp from the ship's top deck to the modern marvel known as the Sky Bar.

The Bird Girl who'd written the press release about Judy's death waited at the top of the ramp, clutching her ever-present clipboard. The Sky Bar's neon and Plexiglas atmosphere stretched like a spaceage landscape behind her, but above that the real sky was cloudless, abraded by the wind, so blue it looked as fine as tourmaline.