Yosemite Fall (National Park Mystery Series)

by Scott Graham

  Alden lay face down in the dirt. He moaned. His legs twitched and he reached a hand for the back of his head.

  “You didn’t kill him,” Chuck said to Clarence.

  “He didn’t get what he deserved, then.”

  “I need you to tie him up.”

  “Por supuesto.”

  “The girls,” Chuck said, turning to Janelle, his tone urgent. “Where are they?”

  Her face was pale in the shadowy light. “With Juanita.”

  “The Latina woman?”

  “They’re in the crowd, safe, with everyone else.”

  “You barely know her.”

  Janelle held herself erect. “I know her well enough. You didn’t follow me to the truck. Clarence and I had to come looking for you.”

  “I have to get over there,” Chuck said, thinking of Alden’s threat—and his use of the term we. “The girls.”

  Janelle’s voice trembled. “What do you mean, ‘the girls’?”

  By now, a handful of spectators, silhouetted by the spotlights directed at the tower behind them, made their way through the campground toward Columbia Boulder.

  “There isn’t time to explain.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Janelle said.

  A wave of nausea rolled upward from Chuck’s stomach, causing him to stagger.

  Janelle lifted his wounded arm away from his body. Blood dripped from the wound to the ground.

  “It’s okay,” Chuck said, tugging his arm from her grasp.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Janelle said, but her eyes roved toward the tower and the girls.

  “I’ll be all right,” he insisted.

  “Press your arm against your side,” she directed. “Hard. Don’t let up. You have to maintain pressure. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Chuck pressed his injured arm to his ribs as instructed. The flow of blood from the wound slowed to a trickle, but the pain intensified. Wincing, he said to Clarence, “You’re in charge here. Don’t let anybody touch the gun until the rangers get here, and be ready with it yourself. I don’t trust anyone right now.”

  “You got it, jefe,” Clarence said.

  The screech of a siren reverberated down the valley, coming from Yosemite Village, as Chuck led Janelle past the boulder and into the thick stand of trees north of the campground. They wound through the forest until they drew even with the bathroom.

  Half a dozen members of the YOSAR team, ball caps low over their eyes, entered the circle of light around the building. They melted into the shadows beyond the bathroom. Behind them, two Latino men entered the lit area surrounding the bathroom. Dale came into the light next, following the two men.

  Cries of surprise rose from the foot of Columbia Boulder, where the YOSAR team members aimed phone lights at Owen and Alden on the ground, with Clarence standing over them. From up the valley, the sound of the siren grew to a piercing wail as the emergency vehicle neared the campground.

  “Dale!” Chuck hissed from the trees.

  Dale halted. So did the two Latino men, their heads turning toward the sound of Chuck’s voice. The two men continued toward Columbia Boulder after a pause, while Dale walked toward Chuck and Janelle.

  “Chuck?” Dale ventured as he approached the north edge of the campground.

  Chuck stepped from the shadows of the trees with Janelle.

  “It is you,” Dale exclaimed. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “That’s what I want to ask you,” Chuck said. A second wave of nausea rocked him back on his heels as the pain from his wound increased. “That’s close enough,” he warned when Dale was five feet away.

  Dale stopped.

  Chuck dug his phone from his pocket with his right hand, his throbbing left arm pressed to his side. Blood ran down his ribcage, gathering at the waistband of his jeans. Working his phone with his thumb, Chuck turned on the light and shone it in Dale’s eyes.

  Dale shielded his face with his hand. “What is this, some sort of interrogation?”

  “That’s exactly what it is.”

  Lowering his hand, Dale looked straight at Chuck. “If this has anything to do with Ponch’s death, I’ll tell you everything I know, everything I’m thinking.”

  Chuck kept the light steady on Dale’s face.

  “The explosion would not have sent Ponch over the edge,” Dale said. “I’m convinced of it. Someone had to have pushed him.”

  Chuck asked, his voice tight, “The same way Owen pushed you today behind the post office?”

  In the light of Chuck’s phone, Dale blanched. “I didn’t . . . I wasn’t . . .” He took a deep breath. “That was a mistake. I fully admit it. Owen seemed so sad, so alone, like he needed comfort. I just . . . I couldn’t help myself.”

  “What did you do to him, Dale?” Chuck demanded.

  “I tried to hug him, that’s all.”

  Chuck’s jaw dropped. “You made a pass at him?”

  “My gaydar was off. It happens. He didn’t take it too well.”

  “You’re . . . you’re . . . unbelievable,” Chuck muttered. He killed the light and pocketed his phone.

  The ranger vehicle skidded into the gravel parking lot and sped around the perimeter of the lot to the front of the campground, its siren blaring and roof lights flashing.

  “The girls,” Janelle urged. She tugged Chuck’s uninjured arm as the vehicle slid to a stop beside the climbing tower and the wail of its siren died away.

  Chuck began, “I need to ask—”

  But Janelle cut him off. “Carm and Rosie first. You said so yourself.”

  She dragged him toward the climbing tower. Chuck glanced back to see Dale continue on in the direction of Columbia Boulder.

  Janelle maintained her grip on Chuck’s right arm, jogging with him toward the tower. Chuck’s injured left arm jostled against his side. Lightning bolts of pain shot through him. Blood flowed from the wound, less than at first as the injury began to clot, but enough to make his side wet and sticky.

  Ahead, the front doors to the park ranger vehicle swung open. Two uniformed rangers, a man and a woman, stepped out, their hands on the guns at their hips. Onlookers pointed the two toward Columbia Boulder. The rangers drew flashlights from their belts and entered the campground at a fast walk, the beams of their lights bouncing off tents and picnic tables.

  Chuck and Janelle angled away from the approaching rangers. After the officers passed, he hurried with her toward a knot of people standing at the foot of the tower, Juanita among them.

  Rosie and Carmelita broke from the group when Chuck and Janelle drew near. The girls buried themselves against their mother, their arms wrapped around her waist.

  Chuck scanned the brightly lit area in front of the tower. Spectators and climbers stood in clusters, talking and gesturing toward the campground. Caleb, Mark, and Bernard stood with their heads close, engaged in what appeared to be an intense discussion.

  They turned when Chuck hurried over to them.

  Chuck searched the darkness beyond the three men. “Where’s Jimmy?”

  33

  “Jimmy?” Caleb asked, frowning. He pointed into Camp 4. “He probably headed that way.”

  Chuck turned a quick circle. He was certain Jimmy hadn’t passed through the campground to Columbia Boulder, nor was there any sign of him at the tower. But he couldn’t have gone far on his crutches.

  The wails of more sirens rose from the east as additional emergency vehicles left the village and sped down the valley toward the campground.

  Chuck wiped his sweating face with his right hand.

  He didn’t have much time. He needed to think, to focus.

  Alden had wanted the ring.

  Chuck dropped his hand to his side.

  Greed. A century and a half ago, Rose. Now, Alden.

  But it was Jimmy who had told Alden how much the ring was worth.

  Pressing his wounded left arm to his ribcage, Chuck rounded the clim
bing tower, leaving Caleb, Mark, and Bernard behind.

  The spotlights struck the tower, throwing a long shadow across the parking lot. The big, boxy Bender Archaeological pickup truck was parked in the second row, deep in the tower’s shadow.

  Chuck stole to the first row of vehicles and supported himself on a parked car, his thoughts growing foggy and disjointed. He collapsed to his elbow on the trunk of the car and stared into the shadow cast by the tower. He blinked to clear his vision. The pickup truck sat between a pair of mini-SUVs on the far side of the second row of cars, and well above a small sedan parked nose to nose with it on the near side of the second row. The quiet snick of metal on metal came from the rear of the truck.

  Chuck stifled his breathing. He entered the shadow of the tower, crossed the gravel driving lane to the second row of cars, and ducked behind the sedan that faced the truck. Peering woozily around the low-slung car, he caught sight of Jimmy standing at the opened tailgate at the back of the pickup. Jimmy’s crutches, tucked beneath his arms, tapped the edge of the tailgate as he unzipped and pawed through the pockets of Chuck’s gear duffle.

  Chuck crept through the shadow along the side of the sedan, the screech of sirens from the approaching emergency vehicles providing him cover. He wavered at the front of the car. By now, blood from his wound soaked his pants from his waist to his knee. White stars flashed before his eyes. He toppled sideways between the sedan and truck, striking the grill of the pickup with a resounding thump. He bounced off the truck and collapsed across the sedan’s hood.

  A second ranger vehicle turned into the parking lot, its siren blaring. The car’s headlights swept across the lot, lighting Jimmy as he crutched alongside the truck toward Chuck.

  “Where is it?” Jimmy demanded, rounding the front of the pickup. “Where is it, goddammit?”

  Chuck lay sprawled on the hood of the sedan, unable to move.

  “Ah,” Jimmy observed. “Not doing so well, are you?”

  “Alden shot me,” Chuck said, his voice weak.

  Another set of headlights swept through the parking lot as a third ranger sedan swung into the campground. The flash of the vehicle’s headlights across Jimmy’s face revealed a predatory look in his eyes.

  The headlights swept on, returning Jimmy to shadow. Chuck could only watch, dazed, as Jimmy lifted one of his crutches and brought it down hard on Chuck’s wounded upper arm. Chuck cried out and tumbled to the ground between the truck and facing sedan. Pain from his arm sizzled through his back and neck.

  Jimmy crutched forward, swinging his left leg in its soft ankle cast, until he loomed over Chuck.

  Chuck summoned the last of his strength and lashed out with his foot, striking the cast a solid blow at the spot where, two days ago, Jimmy’s left foot had protruded sideways at his ankle.

  Jimmy howled, his screech drowned by the dying sirens of the arriving emergency vehicles. He dropped his crutches and fell to the gravel beside Chuck, between the truck and sedan.

  “Jesus!” Jimmy cried out between agonized moans, gripping his lower leg.

  “You’re finished, Jimmy,” Chuck muttered, his words slurred.

  Jimmy released his leg and collapsed to his back at Chuck’s side, choking back a groan. “The hell I am.”

  The flow of blood returning to Chuck’s brain as he lay on the ground enabled him to think clearly. “Alden knocked Ponch off Half Dome. He said he was aiming for me.”

  Jimmy took a shaky breath. “It was his idea to go after you up there, not mine.”

  Chuck twisted his head to look at Jimmy. “He wanted the ring.”

  “I want it, too. I need it.”

  “He said the same thing. He said you made promises to him you didn’t keep.”

  “Couldn’t keep.” In the dim light, Jimmy’s face turned to stone. “Thorpe,” he snarled.

  “You met up with him, didn’t you?”

  “Thursday night,” Jimmy confirmed.

  “You cut his wingsuit.”

  “One little snip. Just enough to mess it up a little, to make sure he turned away from the gap and pulled his chute early. He didn’t deserve the big, fancy arrival he was planning for the reunion.”

  “The seam separated all the way up into the airfoil. One of the stays came loose. It slashed his ankle. I’m sure that’s what made him wreck.”

  Jimmy didn’t respond.

  “You knew,” Chuck said, his voice harsh, demanding. “That morning, as soon as he went missing.”

  “Yes.”

  “You released the auto-belay. You fell on purpose.”

  “I had no other choice. I couldn’t have people looking my way.”

  Chuck cocked his head. Jimmy hadn’t wanted anyone looking his way after Thorpe’s death—because of something the two of them had been involved in, together.

  “MoJuice,” Chuck said.

  “MoJuice,” Jimmy repeated in agreement.

  “The energy drink. The one you have a stake in.”

  “If they’d ever fucking IPO it.” Jimmy shifted on the ground, grimaced, and again clutched his leg.

  Chuck stared at Jimmy’s profile, the scorpion-tail beard curling skyward. A century and a half ago, the prospector, Rose, likely had murdered his fellow mine owners for money. Two days ago, Jimmy had done essentially the same thing to Thorpe, for the same reason.

  Chuck said, “The MoJuice people have been claiming for years they’re about to go public—this year, too, right?”

  “Thorpe’s girlfriend,” Jimmy growled in response, “in Fresno. He told her the IPO was sure to happen. She started spending money like she’d turned on a spigot, and she got him going, too.”

  “His new camper van.”

  “And lots more. She bought a house, electronic crap for her kids, a car for her parents. She convinced Thorpe my working for Camp 4 meant I’d gone over to the dark side, that I wasn’t a renegade anymore and wasn’t worthy of MoJuice. She got him to file suit to remove me from the agreement on some technicality. He offered to buy me out for, like, pennies on the dollar. I told him to go to hell. I wouldn’t take it. I couldn’t.” Jimmy turned his head to Chuck. “He wasn’t supposed to die. I only wanted him to drop the suit. I was just trying to put some fear into him.”

  “The same as with me and my family,” Chuck said. “You tried to scare us, too.”

  “It didn’t work,” Jimmy confirmed, “which shouldn’t have surprised me, knowing you. But I had to try. I talked to Alden from the hospital. He told me Owen had mentioned your wife was making a big thing about the airfoil. I knew you’d put two and two together if you stuck around. I sent Alden after you when you crossed the valley. All things considered, though, I’m glad you didn’t scare so easy.”

  “Because of the ring.”

  “People think Thorpe and I got rich off our sponsorships.” Jimmy let out a harsh guffaw. “What a crock. I’ve been broke every day for the last twenty years. If MoJuice would just IPO, I’d be a millionaire. I could pay Alden fair and square for all the time he’s put in for me, like I’ve promised him. But those ’Juice assholes just keep on keeping themselves private.”

  Chuck turned his face to the star-studded slice of sky showing between the two vehicles. The air beneath the parked cars smelled of exhaust and motor oil. His eyelids fluttered, his clarity of mind giving way once more to anemic fog and bleariness. “You’re a murderer, Jimmy,” he said, his words coming with great exertion. “You murdered Thorpe.”

  “I scared him,” Jimmy countered, his voice sharp. “That’s all I wanted to do.”

  “You cut his airfoil. That’s murderous intent. They’ll put you away forever.”

  “No, they won’t,” Jimmy hissed. He sat up and glowered down at Chuck, his eyes burning. “No one else knows. And no one else is going to know.”

  Chuck stared dully up from the ground as Jimmy untied his bandanna from around his neck. He put the red cloth to Chuck’s nose and mouth and pressed down, crushing the back of Chuck’s head into the g
ravel and cutting off his air supply.

  Chuck clawed at Jimmy’s wrists, unable to breathe through the bandanna and Jimmy’s pressing hands.

  Jimmy threw his good leg over Chuck. “They’ll think you bled out,” he said through bared teeth. Rising between the facing vehicles and locking his arms, he bore down on the bandanna covering the lower half of Chuck’s face.

  Chuck convulsed. He thrashed the air with his hands and pounded the gravel with his heels.

  Jimmy lifted his shoulders, grunting with effort, his fingers clasped over Chuck’s nose and mouth.

  Chuck lost focus, his eyes closing. Then, in an instantaneous clamor of noise and motion, the truck roared to life and sprang forward, smashing Jimmy between the front of the pickup and the facing sedan.

  The truck engine growled and its rear wheels spun, pinning Jimmy in place between the vehicles, his body limp and lifeless.

  Chuck slapped the bandanna from his face and drew a deep, shuddering breath.

  The truck’s wheels stopped spinning and its engine died. A pair of feet in familiar white sneakers appeared below the pickup’s underbody as Janelle stepped from the cab.

  She dragged Chuck from beneath the vehicles and collapsed to a sitting position beside him. She cradled his head in her lap and stroked his forehead, her falling tears dotting his face.

  He lifted a shaky finger to wipe a streak of wetness from her cheek. “It’s okay,” he told her, his voice weak. “I’m all right.”

  “I couldn’t think what else to do,” she said, her words catching in her throat.

  “You did great.” His hand fell to his chest. “You weaponized yourself.”

  She raised her chin. “You’re right,” she said. “I did.” Through her tears, her eyes glinted, unwavering. “Don’t nobody mess with an Ortega.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  With each installment in the National Park Mystery Series, my appreciation grows for the time, effort, and intelligence provided by my early-draft readers. This time around, those readers include Anne Markward, Chuck Greaves, Margaret Mizushima, John Peel, Kevin Graham, and always my first reader, my wife Sue. My thanks go as well to Kirsten Johanna Allen and Anne Terashima of Torrey House Press for their keen editorial skills, and for their work on many levels to protect and preserve our national parks and public lands across the West.