The Mountains Bow Down

by Sibella Giorello

  I plugged in the light. No deadly shock.

  “Claire, I’ve been rude to you.”

  It seemed appropriate that she wasn’t listening. When I finally got to the point of making things right, Claire was on another plane. She stared over my shoulder and I turned to see Jessie offering me a white plate with two foil packets.

  “Some guy ordered this for you,” he said.

  The first packet contained a cheeseburger with everything but pickles. The other packet, fries.

  “And extra mayo.” Jessie set down a ramekin between the packets. “He said you’d drink a Coke, no crushed ice.” He turned to Claire. “What can I get you? Drinks are free for anybody with the movie.”

  “I’m an alcoholic,” she said, honestly. Then pointed to her third eye. “I got sober after I realized I had this special gift.”

  “Yes,” said Jessie, sounding Filipino.

  “Large iced tea. Lots and lots of sugar.”

  I said grace and dove into my burger. Claire stared at my fries; I pushed them toward her, showing her how to dip them in mayonnaise. All the while, I shoved back the treasonous thoughts wandering through my mind. DeMott hated this food. Especially fries with mayo. White trash wonders, he called them. But that wasn’t the most treasonous thought.

  It was this: Jack had known exactly what I wanted.

  Somewhere right now, he was with Milo, trying to surreptitiously search the cabin one more time for that jewelry box.

  Babysitting a drunk, and he still managed to order me dinner.

  Claire had polished off the fries and had closed her eyes, making that weird humming noise. The skin on her forehead wrinkled around the pink stone. I wondered how long I could stand it. Claire’s real assistant, my aunt, was coming later. First she was trying to get my mother to eat something.

  Claire’s eyes opened halfway. “I almost had a heart attack walking up here.”

  “Sorry.”

  She pointed with her arm. “How come they get an elevator?”

  I swiveled to see what she was talking about. More kitchen employees. They toted the racks of desserts while others pushed large trash cans on wheels. Bird Girl was inspecting the buffet table and coming up the ramp was the Forehead. He walked over to her and I balled up the foil packets, pretending to go throw them away. But as quickly as possible, I headed in the other direction, following the kitchen employees who walked around a back wall. I didn’t think Vinnie would throw me out, once the party got started. But before anyone arrived?

  On the other side of the wall, inside a tiny alcove, an elevator waited, keyed open. The stainless-steel walls were dented, the embossed metal floor worn from heavy use. And inside a large plastic trash can rested on wheels. I lifted the lid to deposit my trash. The can was perfectly empty, ready for the party, lined with a heavyduty black plastic bag.

  “Get out.”

  I looked up. Vinnie filled the door.

  “Get out,” he repeated. “You’re not with the movie.”

  “I’m with the psychic.”

  “And she’s what—working in the elevator?”

  I smiled. “She tends to go up and down.”

  “Get out.”

  He followed me back to the table. Bird Girl stood with her clipboard talking to Claire, who now had all three eyes open.

  “When does Charlotte get here?” asked Bird Girl in her flat tone.

  “I’m not sure, want me to read your aura?”

  “Do I look like I want you to?”

  “No. But that means you really need it.”

  Narrowing her beady eyes, Bird Girl turned to me. “Sandy says he never invited you.”

  “What did I tell you?” Vinnie said, smug.

  “But I need her help. After a couple readings, my mind starts to fry.”

  “Yes. But when is Charlotte coming?”

  Claire nodded.

  Exasperated, Bird Girl looked at me. “The minute Charlotte shows up, you’re gone. Understand?”

  Claire said, “I think your aura might be black. That’s not good.”

  She turned, walking back to the ramp to stand with Vinnie. He had now positioned himself at the entrance, but kept looking over at me. I glanced at my watch, wondering how long before Aunt Charlotte showed. Not long. Not when my mom thought her food was poisoned.

  “Do you think we could ever be friends?” Claire asked abruptly. “I know, I’m not really a normal person. My family always told me that. But I can’t help it. All this stuff goes on inside my head. People don’t understand how crowded it is up there, nobody gets it. I really wanted to help your mom. I think she’s got kind of the same problem.” She pointed to her third eye. “Dead people keep talking to me.”

  Her eyebrows were slanted up, like a snapped teeter-totter, and the crazy asbestos hair looked like it was trying to leap from her troubled mind. And in that moment, I felt pity for her, a woman whose spiritual quest was destined to circle back to hopelessness and despair. She searched without listening. She wanted truth, only if it was convenient. But something bothered me even more. Who was more despicable, Claire the lost soul or the one manipulating her?

  “Claire, one day maybe we can be friends.”

  “Can I read your aura?”

  “No.” I took a seat at the table and pulled the chain on Geert’s lamp. It held the 60-watt black-light bulb. Glancing at Vinnie and Bird Girl, I reached into my pocket. Inside the plastic bag, the bracelet continued its petroleum jelly bath.

  “I need a favor, Claire.” Keeping my hands under the table, I wiped down the bracelet with a napkin, then held it under the lamp. The glass glowed, almost as good as the real thing. Among its other ingredients, petroleum jelly contained various rare earth phosphors that absorbed ultraviolet radiation and produced blue and green light. I’d just made cheap glow-in-the-dark gems.

  “Whoa,” Claire said.

  “Hold out your wrist.” The clasp felt slippery from the jelly. And the bracelet was large. It even slipped over Claire’s hand. I tried to recall Judy Carpenter’s arms and wrists. She was a big woman . . .

  “Are you giving this to me?” Claire slid her wrist under the lamp, transfixed.

  “For the night. I want you to wear it all night.”

  She was leaning down close, inspecting the glass. “It must have special powers.”

  But the bracelet wasn’t what caught my interest. The pink stone was glowing on her forehead. Glowing just like blue benitoite.

  “Claire, where did you get that stone on your forehead?”

  She sat up, touching the third eye. “From Charlotte.”

  “My aunt had that?”

  “In her collection. And pink is good. Pink auras mean love.” She smiled sheepishly. “And now that we’re friends, I can tell you a secret. I picked it mostly because the back is flat. Sticks better.”

  I tried to smile. “Did Aunt Charlotte say what it was?”

  “Sure. Rose quartz. Increases my self-esteem.” Claire leaned back, once again examining the long bracelet. The pink stone lost its fluorescence.

  Rare pink benitoite. I’d read about it on the website. Rarest of all benitoite were the pink, orange, and colorless varieties.

  “What’s on this, grease?” Claire took the velvet, about to wipe down the bracelet.

  “No—!”

  She looked startled.

  “It’s a protective coating. Please be careful.”

  “That valuable, huh?” She turned her wrist back and forth, gazing at it curiously.

  Across the room, Bird Girl was greeting arrivals and my aunt stood, waiting to get past her. I shifted the lamp to the middle of the table, where the black light would glow on both her forehead and wrist. “If anybody asks, Claire, the bracelet is mine.”

  “What makes you think they’ll ask?”

  “Consider it my version of being clairvoyant.”

  “Now you’re talking,” she said.

  My aunt had reached the front of the line, and Vinnie was
escorting her toward us, no doubt so he could take me away. His mansard brow was lowering like a boom. I stood up and made my way toward the exit, moving past the clear tables and space-age chairs, giving Jessie the silent signal to cover the windows.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  For this last night on board, Jack had the gym to himself. I imagined the restaurants and buffet lines and bars were packed with people making the most of the final hours. But Jack pumped his arms through a set of curls, his biceps glistening with sweat. The sleeves of his gray T-shirt were torn off and I couldn’t say I was sorry about that.

  “We’ve got a problem,” he panted.

  “Just one?” I asked.

  He faced the windows looking out over the empty sport court. Down below I could almost see the small alcove where it all began.

  “Sparks kicked me out of the boys’ club.” He hefted the thirty-pound weights, then rested them on his sweating deltoids. Great shoulders, I had to admit.

  “Why’d he kick you out?”

  “Because Vinnie caught me searching Milo’s bedroom.”

  “That’s a good reason. Where was Milo? I didn’t see him up at the wrap party.”

  “Unfortunately he passed out on the bed. I asked permission to search his cabin right before he went out. He said yes.”

  “Glad it was legal, but I take it you didn’t find the box.”

  He shook his head and started a set of shoulder presses. The veins popped on his forearms, engorged with blood.

  I told him Claire was wearing the fake bracelet and the pink third eye that was benitoite. “I don’t know how that gemstone wound up in my aunt’s crystals, but I’d be surprised if they know what it is.”

  “Interesting.” Jack pumped harder, his mouth tensing. “Ready for the rest?”

  “No.”

  “McLeod called.” He panted. “That guy we picked up at Sea-Tac?”

  “Ramazan.”

  “He’s not. Ramazan.”

  I felt my heart stop. When it restarted, I felt that same strange feeling that crept over me when I realized the bracelet was fake. Somebody was double dealing, switching things up. Playing us for rubes.

  “How is that possible, Jack? We have his photo.”

  “Larsen ran his prints through Interpol. Ready?”

  “No.”

  “His name’s Serif.”

  “The roommate?”

  Jack nodded.

  “That means . . .”

  He dropped the weight. The iron pounds hit the steel caddy with a loud metallic smack.

  “You got it,” he said. “Ramazan is still on board.”

  I held the phone to my ear, waiting for Geert to locate “Serif.”

  Jack held his phone, talking to Barnes.

  We both walked along the top deck.

  “He’s in the theatre,” Geert said. “Something wrong with the lights. Why?”

  “Thank you,” I said, hanging up.

  “Understood,” Jack was saying into his phone. “But I’m giving you a courtesy call. Before I make direct contact.”

  His golden-brown hair was damp from his speed-shower, and while he listened to Kevin Barnes, I glanced out at the water. Stretching out the hours, the sun began mixing afternoon gold with gloaming dusk and it suddenly seemed impossible that this much tragedy was taking place amid this much beauty.

  “No, you can’t,” Jack said.

  When I looked over, his blue-green eyes were roaming over my face and when the wind burst, blowing hair in my eyes, Jack reached up, absently brushing it away. I turned my face away, my heart skipping beats again.

  “Fine, she’s right here.” Jack handed me his phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

  Kevin Barnes said, “Have your SSA in Seattle light a fire.” Supervisory Special Agent, McLeod. “My LAPD contact isn’t calling me back and Romeo says you’re in a big hurry.”

  “Right.”

  “And don’t waste the connection,” Kevin said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Make sure management knows you want the job in Juneau.”

  The Italians were yelling again. Only this time they yelled at me and Jack as we barged through the door marked Authorized Personnel Only. The tall lanky chef swung a long ladle, flinging tomato sauce and Mediterranean curses. But Jack yelled back.

  “FBI!” He flipped open his credentials.

  The Italians fell silent.

  And we hurried through the suddenly quiet kitchen. Down the Highway, the food scents seemed even more distinct, as though settling throughout the day. The salt-and-iodine of shrimp, the acute acid of sliced pineapple and oranges. But as we passed the produce, I grabbed Jack’s shirt, stopping him.

  The first elevator, the one Geert used to take me to the penthouse, was on my left, and I suddenly saw Vinnie’s face looming, telling me to get out.

  “Staff only,” I said. “Maids and stewards. It goes straight up to Deck Fourteen.”

  “Thanks for letting me know, Harmon.”

  “No, seriously. I just had an idea. Vinnie, he didn’t want me at that party. But he really didn’t want me in that elevator. I thought he was just being a tough guy but . . .” The look on his face. Anger. And concern in those predatory eyes. “There’s another elevator.”

  Jack looked at his watch. “All right, show me. It’s not like Ramazan can leave.”

  We followed some crew who wore coveralls. They pushed a procession of garbage cans, wheeling them toward the back end of the Highway. It looked more like industrial storage, leaving behind the bakery and the fresh food. Mostly Hispanic, the men had been talking but stopped as we walked behind them. The air they trailed smelled slippery and sickeningly sweet, that scent of decomposing waste.

  At the end of the Highway, an embossed steel wall held signs in English, Spanish, and French. Warnings about electricity, fire, automatic doors that were cutting off the stick leg of the stick figure, radiating black lines indicating the stick man’s extreme pain and suffering. The men folded back the plastic lids on a set of large green Dumpsters and I turned a slow circle. Jack watched as they hoisted bulging trash bags, flinging them like slingshots into the steel containers. I stared at the elevator. The dented doors were closed and a key stuck out of the wall panel. Jack reached over, turning it. The door slid back. The garbage guys stood still, staring at us.

  “This runs to the Sky Bar?” he asked them.

  When nobody answered, he repeated the question in Spanish.

  One of them replied. “Sí.”

  Silent again, they waited for another question. But there wasn’t one and they pushed the now-empty can back up the steel tunnel, taking quick glances over their shoulders to watch us.

  “The bartender saw her leave,” I said, once they were out of earshot. “She walked out of the bar. Nobody disputes that.”

  “So no elevator?” Jack asked.

  “Somebody else could have used the elevator. Then nobody would have seen them walk into the bar.” Geert had told us there was a camera at the bar’s entrance. On the deck, pointed at the door. “The Dutchman even says she walked out.”

  Jack turned the key again and the doors slid shut. “Who do you think used the elevator?”

  “Let’s go ask Ramazan.”

  At the other end of the Highway, we headed up the set of steel stairs Jack and I used to get to the laundry, the ones Geert used to search the crew cabins. Once again a showgirl rushed past us. She wore a 1920s flapper costume and her patent leather tap shoes click-click-clicked down the steps.

  On Deck Six we found the dressing room for the stage. Naturally I took the women’s, Jack took the men’s, and I opened the door to find five girls leaning into bright mirrors, fixing their makeup, wearing only bras and panties. They looked over as I opened the door. “I’m with security,” I said.

  They went back to the mirrors, with the unselfconscious nakedness of dancers. I heard a garish sort of music and it seemed to pulsate through thin walls. Across the room, another d
oor was marked Stage. I was heading toward it when a green light flashed. The girls squeaked and rushed past me, grabbing dresses from a metal rack. Tenting elbows to protect their makeup, they slid into sequined and fringed tank dresses. The back door flew open. The flapper from the stairs raced in.

  “You’re cutting it close!” scolded one of the girls.

  “I had to go!” the flapper cried.

  “You can’t use this bathroom?”

  “The door’s locked.”

  “If you laid off all that Diet Coke—”

  “I’m trying to stay awake—”

  The green light flashed again and though still bickering, the girls clicked out of the room in their tap shoes.

  I followed and came out stage left. Heavy black curtains dropped from a cable, puddling on the stage. I could see another set of young women can-canning, swishing ruffled skirts before the cheering audience. When cymbals crashed over the sound system, the Charleston suddenly cranked up and the flapper girls shimmied on stage.

  The can-canners went off stage right, washing past Jack who stood in the wings looking lost. And like he wanted to laugh. Catching my eye, he tipped his head toward the backstage and I stepped through the side curtains. The dance hall girls zipped across the truncated space, their quick steps timed to avoid electrical cords that snaked like vipers.

  “You see him anywhere?” Jack asked.

  I stared into the dark and cavernous space above us. Rows of canister lights beamed pastel columns to the stage. Nothing looked broken.

  Jack grabbed a young man passing by. He was dressed in black, looking like a stagehand. “We heard you’re having problems with the lighting.”

  “Check with Kez.” He was American and pointed stage right. “Kez is in charge.”

  Deep in the wings with a battery headset clamped over copious brown curls, a woman watched the Roaring ’20s number. Her mouth twisted critically to the side. When she saw us, her expression didn’t change.

  “Kez?” Jack asked.

  “Yeah.” It came out cockneyed. Yea-eh.

  “We heard you needed some lights fixed,” Jack said.

  “Is that a joke?” She flexed the word. “G’on, climb up. Right now, get some applause.”