The Sisters of Blue Mountain

by Karen Katchur

  There was only one way to find out. He’d put it off long enough.

  He turned the car around and pulled back onto the road, continuing over the mountain the way he came, the little four-cylinder engine chug, chug, chugging up the steep incline, teetering at the top as though he were on a roller coaster before soaring down the hill only to rise up again.

  Once in Easton, he located the county coroner’s office and parked, slipping his bag with his wallet and laptop around his neck and shoulder. He ran his fingers through his windblown hair, although the bangs fell across his forehead in waves no matter how many times he’d tried to keep them in place. His hands were clammy.

  He pulled open the door and stepped inside. A woman sat behind a glass partition. She slid the window open as he approached, as though he were a patient checking in to see a doctor.

  “Can I help you?” She gave him a pinched smile.

  “I’m here to pick up a copy of a report.” He handed her a printed copy of his original request and his driver’s license.

  “I’ll check if it was authorized for release,” she said. “You can take a seat.” She started closing the glass window, but he held up his pointer finger for her to wait a second.

  “Can I get a copy of the toxicology report if there was one?” He assumed there was, since his father had been involved in a single-car accident of unknown cause. “I’ll pay whatever the additional cost may be.”

  “I’ll look.”

  Jake took a seat. His leg bounced up and down. He checked his phone repeatedly. Dennis had sent him an e-mail, something to the tune of, Stop avoiding my phone calls and texts. One more day, Jake thought. Give me one more day. If he didn’t hear from Kim after today, he’d pack up his gear and drive home. Dennis was a friend, but he was also his editor. He didn’t want to test Dennis’s patience any longer than necessary. It wasn’t worth losing his only steady paying gig over.

  Or was it?

  Probably not.

  Or maybe it was.

  He’d written freelance articles for local magazines and even made some of the national magazines. It wasn’t much money, but he’d managed to pay the bills. His mother had left him a large amount in a life insurance policy he’d never expected. He’d be okay for a while.

  He drummed his fingers on his thigh. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

  Finally, after twenty minutes or more, the secretary returned to her desk and opened the sliding window again. She motioned for him to approach. He crossed the small waiting room in two strides. His pulse spiked.

  “The autopsy and toxicology reports,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  He paid the fee and she passed him the file. He looked at the manila folder in his hand. “Thanks,” he said, and slowly turned toward the door. He waited to open the file until he was in the privacy of his car.

  The first thing he confirmed was that his father had not been drinking. No drugs or alcohol had been found in his father’s system at the time of the autopsy. Jake was relieved. He didn’t want to believe his dad could’ve been so careless. He put the toxicology report aside.

  The autopsy report was tough to read through; the precise medical terminology was written to sound technical, clinical, legal, as though his father were a criminal or the victim of a crime, an object rather than a human being, a thing rather than a person who had loved ones waiting for him to come home. Jake gleaned from the report that his dad had died from blunt chest trauma. His heart had been compressed between the sternum and spine, his lungs had been punctured. He’d bled internally.

  Jake shuffled through the pages. Where did it say what the hell he was doing on the mountain road in the first place? Why couldn’t he have just stayed home for once? Why did he have to travel all the time? Why? Why weren’t the answers he was seeking in the stupid, blasted medical-jargon-filled file?

  He tossed the papers on the passenger seat and wiped his eyes.

  This was what his mother had avoided all those years, asking the questions that had no answers. Maybe she’d been right all along in her refusal to talk about the accident. It could’ve driven her crazy, the late nights, turning over all of the unknowns in her mind, but she hadn’t let it. She’d insisted on remembering the man he’d been, the good husband. The good father. She’d been lucky to have him for as long as she had. His death had been nothing more than an unfortunate accident.

  Jake put the key in the ignition and was about to start the engine when his phone pinged. He pulled the phone from his bag and wasn’t surprised when Kim’s name appeared. He’d given her number a distinct chime so he’d know immediately when she texted him.

  Found it! The phone number belonged to a Henry Jenkins of Mountain Springs. It was a bugger to find. I had to call in a favor or two. You owe me big-time. Ha!

  Jake read the text several times. He replied. Are you absolutely, positively certain you have the right name?

  Of course! What kind of hacker do you take me for?

  Moisture collected underneath his arms. He had to wipe his sweaty palms on his jeans. The best kind. Thanks, Kim.

  Isn’t this the guy you interviewed for your article in today’s paper?

  It appears to be. I’ll explain later. Thanks again. He shot off that last text and started the engine. He couldn’t believe he’d been sitting across from Henry Jenkins—Dr. Henry Jenkins—just yesterday morning. Questions flooded his mind. They piled up so high inside of him he thought he might choke.

  He punched the steering wheel before pulling from the parking lot, making his way toward the mountain road. One thing was certain. Jake was going to track down the old doc and finish what he’d started.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Linnet plopped onto an uncomfortable metal chair in the back of the crowded hall. The mayor and town council sat in cushioned leather chairs behind a long table in the front of the room. Betty Shulman, the town clerk, was situated in the corner ready to record the meeting. A man Linnet didn’t recognize talked with the mayor. Most everyone else was familiar. Leo and several of the local fishermen were seated in the front row. Chicky was in the two rows behind them.

  She turned to the sound of the door slamming behind her. Al held up his hand in apology. She motioned for him to sit in one of the empty seats next to her. He made his way over, shy and sheepish, taking his place on her right. He sat so close to her they bumped elbows and thighs.

  “I stopped by your place earlier to do some trimming,” he said. “And I saw Charlie’s cruiser in your driveway again.”

  “I know,” she said. “It’s all right. With everything going on, I completely forgot about the trees.” She’d left Myna and Pop at the kitchen table with bacon and eggs on their plates, their coffee mugs full. She’d pulled Myna aside and made her promise to keep Pop at the house until she got back. “No one’s allowed to talk with him. No reporters or cops,” she’d said. “And definitely not that journalist.”

  “Okay,” Myna had said.

  Linnet had given her a stern look. “I mean it.”

  “Okay,” Myna had said again, and Linnet could’ve sworn her sister had rolled her eyes.

  She had to trust Myna would listen. But she hadn’t listened before, and now Linnet wondered if coming to the meeting was a mistake.

  The mayor turned his chair toward the table, preparing to address the crowd. The moderator banged the gavel.

  “This is going to be an informal meeting.” He looked at his constituents. He was young, early forties, only a few years older than Linnet. He was polished in his pinstriped suit, his shined shoes. Despite his slick clothes, his face had a boyish look to it, a face you could trust—or rather, as Linnet saw it, a face for politics.

  He continued. “I’d like to hear from the fish and game commission first.”

  The man Linnet hadn’t recognized reached for the microphone positioned in front of him. He explained that the lack of water-control devices in the dam had led to an excess of aquatic weed growth. “And if you account fo
r the decreasing numbers of snow geese in recent years…” he paused, possibly for effect, “all these conditions breed an unhealthy and, in this case, fatal, habitat for fish.”

  His comment created chatter among the crowd. “Is he blaming us?” a woman asked. “So it’s our fault?” someone said. The moderator let it continue for a minute before banging the gavel again.

  “What do you recommend we do?” the mayor asked.

  “Dredge the dam,” the representative said.

  The crowd exploded, with everyone talking out of turn. The moderator banged the gavel several times, trying to regain control. Al leaned over and spoke in Linnet’s ear. “That’s going to cost quite a bit of money,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said, thinking about her local taxes and wondering how much they would go up. And of course, this was what the other small business owners were worried about.

  “Who’s going to pay for this?” one of the men shouted.

  “We are,” one of the fishermen said. “Every single one of us. But what other choice do we have?”

  “You feel that way because your livelihood depends on that dam,” Chicky said. “But what about me? Why do I have to pay for it?”

  The moderator stood, banging the gavel, and finally got the crowd to calm down.

  “How much are we talking about here?” the mayor asked.

  “The first step would be to contact two or three contractors who specialize in dredging and secure bids,” he said. “Also, you’ll probably want to dispose of the dead fish.”

  “What if we dredged the dam ourselves?” Leo asked.

  “Just tell us how much it’s going to cost,” a woman hollered.

  The conversation went round and round for the next twenty minutes, with most of the discussion focused on money. The bottom line, in Linnet’s mind, was that they’d dredge what they could and pay for what they couldn’t. Either way, it was going to cost them.

  She picked up her purse. “I’ve heard enough,” she said to Al, and stood. He got up and followed her to the door. She felt people’s eyes on her back as she slipped out with Al close behind her. Most of the local reporters were in the meeting. Outside, television crews were standing around their vans. They looked up, eying them for a moment before going back to whatever it was they were doing.

  “Do you want me to follow you home?” Al asked. “I don’t trust all these reporters hanging around.”

  She smiled. “No, I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  He nodded and looked at the ground, mumbling something into his chest.

  She touched his arm, thinking he was upset about the town’s troubles of late. “It’s no one’s fault.”

  He nodded again, shrugging.

  “Why don’t you come over tomorrow, and we’ll take a look at those trees.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Al strode to his pickup. She was about to get in her car when she noticed Terry rushing out of the building. He was big and round and moved quickly for his size. She didn’t know what made her do it. She was acting on impulse, something she almost never did, but the next thing she knew, she was jogging to catch up with him. She wasn’t prepared for what she’d say once she reached him, but she had to say, to do, something. Desperation forced her to take action. For Pop. She grabbed Terry’s arm.

  “What the?…” He spun around.

  “What do you know about Professor Coyle?” she blurted.

  “Who?” His face was red and puffy. He looked angry. But if the rumors were true, and his wife had been cheating on him, Linnet supposed he had every right to stomp around town in a huff.

  “You know. Professor Coyle.” She said the name slow, enunciating each syllable. And then she added, “Donna’s friend.”

  He ripped his arm away. He looked as if he were an animal about to charge. “What do you know about it?” he shouted.

  She took a step back, alarmed. “I…”

  “Stay the hell away from me,” he hollered, spit flying. Then he turned and raced down the street. She didn’t move for a full two minutes, thinking maybe he did have something to hide.

  * * *

  Linnet and Myna sat side by side on a cold hard bench inside the police station. Myna sat hunched over with her elbows on top of her thighs and her chin in her hands. Linnet sat erect, her eyes on the door through which Charlie had taken Pop along with his lawyer some forty minutes ago.

  “What do I need you for?” Pop had asked when Greg Lyons had introduced himself.

  “I was hired to represent you.” Mr. Lyons was small and thin with soft brown eyes. He wasn’t attractive by normal standards, but there was something about him, a calm confidence that drew you to him.

  “What do I need you for?” Pop had asked him again.

  Linnet had answered. “Charlie has a few questions for you, and I thought it would be best to have someone with you who can help.”

  Pop had been agitated and confused. Myna had stepped in and rubbed his arm, comforting him. Linnet had slipped her hand in his. But it wasn’t until Mr. Lyons had taken his place by Pop’s side that Linnet had breathed a little easier. She’d spoken to Mr. Lyons briefly on the phone before meeting him, but she’d felt his competence immediately.

  Charlie had escorted the pair into the interrogation room, motioning for Linnet and Myna to wait outside. She’d watched enough television shows about law enforcement to know all about such rooms without ever having to be inside one.

  Neither sister had said a word to each other since the door closed behind them. But Linnet wanted to know what was on her sister’s mind. She’d been unusually quiet on the ride to the station when Pop asked why they were going to see Charlie, and what it had to do with the dead fish, which led to a discussion about the town hall meeting and dredging the dam.

  “You’re not thinking about giving Jake another exclusive interview with Pop, are you?” she asked now, keeping her eyes straight ahead on the beige metal door.

  “No,” Myna said without looking up. “But if I did, I’d make sure it was only to ask him questions about the fish and the dam.”

  “He’s being questioned by the police about a murder at this very moment, and you still think it’s a good idea to let him talk to a journalist? Don’t you care about what happens to him at all?” She was picking a fight, taking out her frustration on her sister. It was a dumb thing to do, a sisterly thing to do.

  “Of course I care. But I don’t see how helping Jake hurts Pop. And besides, you brought it up. I didn’t.”

  Linnet was about to lay into her sister when the beige metal door swung open and Pop and Mr. Lyons walked out. Charlie emerged behind them. Linnet met Charlie’s gaze.

  “Let’s go,” Mr. Lyons said, taking Pop by the elbow and leading him outside. Linnet and Myna followed.

  The media was waiting for them in the parking lot. Hugh Huntley rushed toward them, pushing past Linnet and shoving the microphone into Pop’s face. “What do you know about the murder of Professor Coyle?”

  Mr. Lyons stepped between them, smooth as silk, and said to Hugh in a calm voice, “My client isn’t answering any questions at this time.”

  “Is he a suspect?” Hugh asked. “Is he being charged with murder?”

  “No comment,” Mr. Lyons said.

  They continued to their car, the media falling in step beside them. Linnet and Myna took up the rear. Mr. Lyons opened the front passenger door and helped Pop inside. Myna opened the rear door, looking over her shoulder across the parking lot. Linnet followed her gaze. Jake was headed their way.

  “Get in,” Linnet said in a harsher tone than she’d intended. Myna did as she was told.

  Mr. Lyons slipped his hand under Linnet’s arm and guided her to the driver’s side door. By this time, the media was dispersing. Someone stopped to talk to Jake. Mr. Lyons whispered into her ear. “I want an IME done on your dad.”

  “What’s an IME?”

  “An independent medical
exam. He hasn’t been charged with anything, but I think we should be prepared.”

  “He couldn’t remember anything, could he?” she asked.

  “Your dad couldn’t answer one question,” he said.

  * * *

  Ian was waiting in the kitchen when they got home. She sensed he was anxious, although based on his body language—leaning against the counter, leisurely holding a coffee mug, his feet crossed in front of him—you would think he hadn’t a care in the world. But Linnet knew her husband, felt the tension inside of him despite his casual appearance.

  Myna and Pop walked to the table and sat. Perhaps Myna also felt the stress in the room because she purposely kept her head down and avoided making eye contact with anyone.

  “Can I get you anything, Pop?” Linnet asked, and poured a glass of cold lemonade from a pitcher and set it in front of him. “Where’s Hank?” she asked Ian.

  “At the dam,” Ian said.

  “By himself?” she asked, putting the pitcher down.

  “He wanted to be alone,” he said. “But now that you’re home, you might want to talk with him.”

  She left through the side door and made her way to the dam. The smell of rotten fish stained the air, the warmth of the sun speeding up the decomposing process. She found Hank lying on the dock, his feet dangling over the side but not touching the water where the fish floated belly-up. It had only been a few days since the geese had been in the same position as the fish.

  “Hey,” she said. “Do you mind if I join you?”

  He didn’t answer, but he scooted to his left to make room for her. His bangs fell away from his forehead. The four o’clock sun cast shadows across his freckled nose. They stared at the blue sky and the fluffy cumulus clouds drifting over the mountaintop. Across the dam she could make out one of the old buses that had been carting around the End-of-the-Worlders. The group was quiet at the moment, sitting on blankets in the grass next to the parking lot.

  “Are you sure you want to be here?” Hank asked. “It kind of smells.”

  “I’ve smelled worse,” she said.

  “The geese smelled after a few days, too.”