The Mountains Bow Down

by Sibella Giorello

  Kevin asked me to spell the names, stumbling over “Lysander.” Then he asked, “When do you need this by?”

  “Yesterday,” I said.

  Pink tights. Red sweatshirt. Fuchsia fleece. The yellow raincoat. It was all flung across the twin beds in my cabin while Andes flute music tooted, every note poking my brain like a sharp stick, reigniting the headache. But the pain was nothing compared to the agony of seeing Claire’s attempt at dancing. She was humming that weird sound, trying to harmonize with the puffing whistles.

  “Do you feel it?” she asked.

  “I feel something.”

  “Darkness, death. But I’m getting some answers from beyond.”

  I didn’t have the time—or interest—to deal with her. I opened the closet, grabbed my clothes and suitcase, including the titanium case.

  “I was wondering what that was for,” she said, staring at the rock kit. “It looks top secret.”

  “How could you even see it? It was inside my suitcase.”

  “Well, I . . .”

  “You were snooping.”

  She shook her head, the asbestos spikes of hair not moving. “I’m a clairvoyant, I saw it in my mind’s eye.”

  “In a pig’s eye.” I lowered my voice, threatening. “If you touch anything that belongs to me or my mom, I’ll turn you in for those parking tickets.”

  She gasped. “You know?”

  “I know a lot of things, Claire. And I don’t make idle threats.” Carrying my things into my aunt’s cabin, I slammed the door and twisted the lock. I set the rock kit on the desk, closed the curtains, slipped on sunglasses and latex gloves, and took out the bracelet retrieved from the purser’s safe. Turning off the lights, I flicked on the shortwave lamp.

  I pulled the bracelet closer.

  Then I shook it.

  Then I brought it so close the blue stones touched the lamp’s bulb.

  No glow. No fluorescence. And I stood in the eerie dark, trying to wrap my brain around the new order of things.

  This wasn’t the bracelet.

  This was fake.

  Who switched them, the pilot? But the FBI’s evidence tape was intact on the package. And where would the pilot get a fake that fast? Larsen, our airport liaison?

  No way.

  In Claire’s room little birds had started tweeting on the CD player, making me wish I had my gun. Flicking on the lights, I unplugged the lamp and took off the sunglasses. Picking up the jeweler’s loupe, I examined every millimeter of the bracelet under twenty-times magnification.

  Definitely not the same stones.

  If these even were stones. More likely, dyed glass. Plain old silica. As I turned the bracelet back and forth, the bracelet looked attractive, not cheap. But nobody in their right mind would kill for this thing.

  And that ruined my whole plan.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  All right, all right,” said the man opening the chapel’s heavy door. “I’m here. I’m here.”

  The wedding was over and the white chairs were folded and put away, leaving the room with a dim and dusty odor, a tired scent, like stuffed animals left on high shelves their entire lives.

  “What did you need to talk about?” he asked, walking down the aisle toward me. “What was it again?”

  Lanky except for a potbelly that made him look like he’d stuffed a volleyball under his black shirt, the chaplain was trying to smile. Bloated jowls hung over the Nehru collar.

  “Reverend Dennis?” I asked, making sure.

  “Please, call me Den.” He sat on the carpeted platform, crossing his legs, directly under the stained glass medallion.

  I sat down beside him and he smiled. A reflexive gesture. Like my official FBI smile.

  “So. What did you want to talk about?” he asked.

  “My mother,” I said. “The ship’s doctor, Dr. Coleman? He believes she suffered a psychotic break. She’s in the medical clinic, sedated. And I can’t talk to her.” I paused. “She won’t talk to me, but I thought she might talk to you, since you’re a chaplain.”

  “Okay, okay.” He nodded, graying hair brushing the black collar. “Is this the woman who broke down in here?”

  I nodded. “She was praying and then—”

  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 h
ad 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.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” said the Bird Girl in her flat tone of voice.

  But she didn’t wait for an answer. Extending a talon, she snatched the white jacket of a passing food service employee. He wore heavy-duty oven mitts and carried a stainless steel bin covered with foil. As she hooked his sleeve, he reeled back, trying to keep the hot container from spilling.

  Bird Girl peeled back the foil. “I smell broccoli.” She fanned the clipboard over what appeared to be fried rice. In the rising steam, her nose wrinkled. “Broccoli, it’s in there. I said no broccoli.”

  The guy didn’t seem to speak English. Glancing over his shoulder, he searched for reinforcements. Nobody was behind him.

  “Take it back,” she ordered, pointing with the clipboard. “Tell them no broccoli. You hear me?”

  He turned automatically and rushed across the room where another peon came, carrying white plates. As the men passed the neon-lit Plexiglas counter, the bartender named Jessie glanced up as if uninterested. I felt a small relief. Not only was he observant, he could be depended on to cover the windows and skylights, darkening the room for the big surprise: black lights over the dance floor. Benitoite black lights. Because these people would recognize the gem. The same way somebody recognized Ju
dy Carpenter’s blue bracelet and wanted it so badly, they had a fake made, ready for the switch.

  The fake I now had in my pocket to be used like a human fishing lure.

  Bird Girl was another problem.

  “This is a private party,” she said, quirking her head at me. “And you’re not invited.”

  “I’m helping the psychic.”

  “What?”

  I pointed. Claire was wheezing up the ramp, the tails of her bright-yellow sari flapping about her ankles. Once again the third eye peered from her forehead.

  “She’s reading auras and palms tonight. I’m her assistant.” Lifting my arm, I displayed the swath of folded black velvet and a small banker’s lamp in my hand. The lamp borrowed from Geert’s desk. I called over to the bartender. “Where are we supposed to set up?”

  Jessie looked up from slicing the lemons, as if he just noticed me. With the paring knife, he pointed to a card table by the dance floor. As if I didn’t know.

  Bird Girl still didn’t like it. Her brown hair was pulled back in a severe style, revealing dendritic blue veins under pale skin at her temples. She squinted. “Did this get cleared with Sandy?”

  “Sandy asked her to do the readings. His wife wants her aura read.”

  The same food service guy was trying to sneak behind her. He was almost tiptoeing, carrying another bin of hot food. But she was uncanny. Without turning her head, she reached out and snatched his arm. As she pulled him toward her, I grabbed Claire almost the same way and shuttled her to the card table.

  “Raleigh, thanks for helping me out,” she said.

  I draped the black velvet over the Plexiglas table. When I went to plug in the lamp, I wondered if God would slay me on the spot, some deadly electrical shock that I deserved.

  “I’ll read your aura for free,” Claire said.

  I glanced out the picture windows. Not yet dusk, the sun burned deep gold, gilding the rocky peaks. The mountains stood elegant and cold and looking at them, I felt a heartache similar to what I felt standing beside my father’s grave in Richmond. Those times when I understood the smallness of my life, the insignificance, and the absolute need to keep going. No matter what.