by Wendy Tyson
EIGHTEEN
They started along the path by the pool. While most of the search party members headed into the woods near the ruins of the old stone wall and fanned out by the bones of the former church, Allison and Jason walked toward the cliff and the trail that led down to the river. They walked in silence, aware that just a week ago a woman had died along this path. Overhead, stormy cumulous clouds gathered in a pack between the mountain peaks, their shadows casting a wide net over the valley. The heat hadn’t let up, but the rumble of thunder in the distance said that it soon would—as did the brisk breeze.
Jason looked upward, squinted, and took Allison’s hand. “Hurry up. I’d say let’s split up to cover more ground, but I don’t want us separated in this either. We’ll stick to the path and, if we can before the rain starts, check out the river bed below.”
Allison nodded. She’d never been much of an athlete, and her only time spent outdoors as a kid was during her family’s once-a-year excursion to Knoebels Amusement Resort an hour and a half away. Her father had made them all cram into one tent to save money on campground fees. Since then, Allison associated the word rustic with cramped and miserable. She loved this area of Italy, but she knew that when it came to steep hikes and dangerous climbs, her view was that of Vaughn’s: not for me.
Allison walked carefully in the center of the trail. It started off relatively flat, but by a quarter of a mile in, it started to pitch downward. The ground underneath, peat that had gone dry from a few rainless days, rolled under her hiking boots, making her feel unsteady. She concentrated on listening—for rustling, yelling, calling, anything that might give away Sam’s location.
In another eighth of a mile, they reached a crossroads. To the left was a steep climb toward a clifftop. To the right, the trail continued its descent toward the river. Allison could hear the water rushing below. It occurred to her again that this was the trail Shirin had taken the fateful evening of her fall.
“Go right,” Allison said between huffs. She reprimanded herself to make better use of that gym membership.
The path got steeper and steeper as it marched resolutely toward the river valley. On the left side, the trail gave way almost immediately to the cliffs: rocky outposts that plunged nearly vertically to the river below. On the right side of the trail was forest—now lush and green and shadowed, but no doubt dark and ominous the evening Shirin fell.
A few hundred feet and it was obvious where the accident had occurred. The trail went from dry and smooth to trampled and wide. Someone had created a seat from an old tree stump, and cigarette butts circled the makeshift stool. The cliff in that section was particularly rocky, with a slight overhang before the rock dropped to the river below.
Had it not been for the litter and the knowledge of Shirin’s death, this would have been a cozy spot—a nice place to look out over the wild river and the flower-dotted meadows beyond. Instead, Allison felt a shiver run the length of her spine. Something bad had happened here. The boot prints told only part of the story.
Jason stopped walking. He looked out over the river, then backwards toward the tree stump and the trees beyond. “I take it this is where she fell?”
“Shirin? I think so, at least based on Karina’s description.”
A buzz started in the distance and grew louder. “Chopper,” Allison said. “Perhaps they’re broadening the search.”
“Or they’ve found him.” Jason spun around, toward Allison. His eyes looked distant, as though contemplating a problem. He frowned. “Something is odd.” He squatted, placed peat between his fingers, and rubbed. “Did it rain the night Shirin died?”
Allison thought back. “Yes.”
“Was it pouring?”
“For a little while, maybe. Not too bad.”
“And they say she slipped?”
“She slipped off the trail. They saw the skid marks the next day.”
Jason’s frown deepened. “If it was raining, how did the tracks remain?”
Allison shrugged. “As I recall, the rain had ended earlier. By the time she was out, it was just misty.” She knelt beside him, not sure what she was looking at. “Why?”
“This material—” Jason held out a palmful of peat “—would be easier to slip in when dry. It gets smooth and dusty, like it is now.”
Allison immediately saw where he was going with this. “So if it had been raining, she would be less—not more—likely to slide over the edge.”
Jason stood, clapping the dirt from his hands. “Right. That doesn’t mean she couldn’t have tripped over something.” He glanced around, shook his head. “But there are no exposed roots or other detritus here.”
“There could have been that night. Detritus, that is. And it was dark.”
“Perhaps.” Jason chewed on his lip, a habit he had when thinking deeply about something. “They definitely saw skid marks in the peat?”
“Yes, that’s what was told to me.”
“I want you to trip, Allison.”
Allison’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
Jason smiled. “Not over the side. Just here, now. Feign a trip. Pretend you lost your footing while walking quickly down the path.”
Allison did so. She forced her feet to flounder, made a mock trip, and landed softly on her bum. She rose quickly, wiping the dirt from her knees.
“Now look.” Jason pointed to the path. There were gouge marks where her feet had hit the ground, and a spot where she’d landed. No skid marks, though.
Jason reached out to her. “Give me your hand. Just relax and go with it.”
He started to pull her. At first she felt her feet tripping, but she dug her heels in and slid.
“See?”
She did. When she looked at the path, there were two holes where she’d started to fumble and lines where her heels had dragged.
“You think someone dragged Shirin over the cliff?”
Jason shrugged. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Look, I’ve been mountain bike riding and rock climbing since I was a kid. I know trails, and I know what the consistency of a trail means in terms of traction, speed, etc. If this woman had stumbled and fell, she wouldn’t have left track marks. Sliding—like you would do if it were very slick or if someone were pulling you—makes more sense.”
“If the peat had been wet, it wouldn’t have been very slick.”
“Exactly.”
The sound of propellers got louder. Allison looked up to see the chopper flying overhead, in the direction of the castle.
“I think they found him,” Allison said. Just then, her phone buzzed. It was Elle texting her to say that Sam had been located. Allison read Jason the text. “Thank God.”
But Jason wasn’t listening. Instead, he was on his hands and knees with his head hanging over the cliff.
“What are you doing?” Allison rushed toward him, afraid he would fall. “Are you nuts?”
“Look at this.”
Sensing the urgency in his voice, Allison got down on her knees. Jason took her hand and pulled it gently over the side. She gripped the trail hard with her knees and free hand.
“Relax, you won’t fall.” Jason rubbed her hand against something embedded in the rock. “Feel that?”
“It’s metal. A stub of some sort.”
Jason let go of her hand. “Hold my legs—just in case.”
“Jason, no—”
But it was too late. He’d shimmied his way down, toward the cliff, so that his head was hanging completely over the side. Allison kept her mouth closed and her body on the back of his legs. She knew Jason was well-equipped to deal with this situation—and not a man given to reckless endeavors. Still, her heart was pounding madly against her ribcage.
“Jason—”
“Hand me my phone, Al.”
“But—”
“Please? It’s
in my back pants pocket.”
Allison reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Now what?”
“Turn on the camera and give it to me.”
Allison did. He snapped a picture, then twisted his hand behind him and handed her the phone. After a moment, he pushed himself backwards so his body was again fully supported by solid ground, her signal to stand back up.
“Just as I thought.”
“What is it?”
Before answering, Jason stood, stretched, and then walked to the tree stump that had been used as a stool. His face was a study in concentration. He examined the bark on the tree and the trees nearby. Seemingly satisfied, he turned back around.
“That thing you felt? That’s a climbing bolt.” He must have noticed Allison’s confusion, because he added, “When you’re rock climbing and don’t want to tie into a tree or something, you place a bolt and a nut into the rock. You have to drill, though. It takes skill—and forethought.”
He walked over to the trees on the other side of the path. “If your girl merely tripped, there would be no skid marks. If she skidded, possibly, but she could also have been dragged.” He rubbed the thick trunk of the closest tree. “It’s possible that if someone tied off using a tree, you would see wear in the places the rope was secured, especially if it was a big guy. He’d tie the rope around the tree and then pull it across the path and use it to secure himself against the face of the cliff.”
“Where he could reach up and grab her ankle.”
“Exactly.”
“But then the rope would be visible.”
“Yes, and if she had seen it, she might stop and wonder what it was or avoid the area all together.”
“If she stopped, though, the killer would have a chance to reach up and grab her.”
Jason nodded. “While that’s true, if she had any suspicion that foul play was at hand, she could turn the other way before getting close.” He ran a hand over his thick brown hair, getting the damp strands away from his face. “Plus, the trees. They would give him—or her—away. If there were marks on the trunk, then the police would know something was going on.”
“So you think they put the bolt in place to stay out of sight.”
Jason nodded. “Tying off using the tree would have been risky. But there are risks with this method too. For one, noise. To drill that hole would mean loud sound.” He looked toward the river, the din of which made hearing difficult. “But the river would mask most of that, especially if done during the day.”
“Leaving the bolt is risky too.”
Jason shook his head.
“I think whoever did that thought they could remove it. It looks chipped, as though they tried to pull it back out and failed. And it’s nestled in there pretty good.”
“I wonder if the inspector knows that bolt is there.”
“Doubtful. He’d have had to have been looking for it.”
Allison grew quiet. Jason was giving voice to her suspicions—that someone wanted Shirin dead and had gone to some lengths to make it happen. Lightening flashed in the distance, and Allison felt the first sprinkles of rain. She shuddered again, and not from the chill of the water against her skin.
Jason asked, “There’s only one thing: in this cosmopolitan crowd, who would know enough about climbing to do this?”
Allison wrapped her arms around her chest, warding off more than the bitter drops of rain. “I think I can answer that.”
NINETEEN
“The husband, Douglas,” Allison said. “He’s a climber.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“I saw him with his gear the day Shirin died.” Allison pictured the two of them on that fateful afternoon. Shirin with her tan legs and bourgeois attitude, Douglas with his cocky avoidance. “He’d been climbing.”
“Or so he wanted you to think. He could be a poseur—someone who likes to pretend he’s into certain things.”
They were walking back toward the castle. Allison held Jason’s hand in her own, as much for reassurance as a gesture of appreciation. She felt chilled and vindicated. While Jason’s hypothesis was just that—a theory—it felt right. Shirin had been murdered.
Allison said, “But you said someone would have planned that exact spot well ahead of time. If Douglas had killed his wife in a fit of anger or passion, that doesn’t add up.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t. If Shirin was murdered, whoever did it planned the incident quite carefully. The killer would have had to have scoped out the spot, drilled the hole, and attached the stud and the bolt. But it was a perfect place, Al. Close enough to the river to hide the noise, and a place where the path was hidden from even the castle’s highest towers.”
“Plus, the path comes dangerously close to the edge. It’s easy to believe someone not used to hiking could trip and fall.”
Jason nodded. He squeezed her hand, then let go. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he stared at the picture he’d taken, then placed his mobile away distractedly. “Would this woman have gone into the woods at night, Allison?” he asked. “Alone?”
“I don’t think so. She wasn’t much of an outdoor enthusiast.” And that had bothered Allison too. Why had Shirin been there? Had someone been with her? She voiced the question aloud.
“The police should have seen some sign if there had been someone with her. Footprints, something.”
“Even if the path was damp?”
Jason considered this. “I would think so.”
He grabbed her hand again, started walking faster.
Allison thought about the trail. “There is another possibility.”
“What’s that?”
“The path is lined on the right with trees, but there is a border of ferns and grasses between the trees and the trail. It’s possible someone was with her—someone who lured her into the woods—and that someone stayed off the path.”
“Hiding their presence.”
Allison nodded.
“That could work. There might be trampled ferns, but the police, already predisposed to think this an accident, could miss that—or blame it on weather or animals.”
“When you really think about it, this all seems a little farfetched. A hidden rock climber, a nighttime walk along a path. Someone would have to be sure she was going to go by at that time. Or they would have had to lure her. And they would have to have time to get themselves in place.” Allison looked at Jason. “Would Douglas have had that time? I don’t know. He was still at the castle when I left.”
“It’s a question for the police.”
Allison smiled weakly. “Yes, I suppose it is. We should tell them.”
They were nearing the spot where the trail forked toward the castle. Allison could hear commotion on the grounds. As the castle came into view, she saw a circle of people standing around one man—Sam Norton. The chopper was gone, but the half dozen police cars and an ambulance remained.
Allison said softly, “Damien, Elle’s late husband.”
“What about him?”
“He died under similar circumstances. What if he was murdered and the killer used a similar tactic?”
“Then we should check—”
Only Jason didn’t have time to finish the thought before Karina emerged from the trees beside them, her face flushed and her brow damp. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she said.
“We were out looking for Sam.”
Karina said, “He’s been found.”
“That’s great news.”
“Elle needs you,” Karina said to Allison. She turned away and it was then that Allison noticed the tattoo on the back of her neck. A gothic sun, so tiny that it was barely visible. Even a tattoo looked elegant on Karina’s long, slim neck.
“Why isn’t she with her father?”
“She’s upset. She asked for
you.”
Allison nodded, mulling over the reason for Elle’s absence. “I’ll go to her now.”
Karina nodded. Her back to them, she straightened so that her shoulders squared above thin hips. She was wearing gray hiking pants and a black tank top. Her silky blonde hair was pulled into a bun. Flaxen strands had meandered out of the bun and stuck to the damp skin on her neck. She swatted at the strands like she would an insect.
“Don’t upset her further,” Karina said over her shoulder.
“Why would I do that?”
“She’s in a fragile state of mind.”
“Okay…because of Sam?”
“Because of Sam’s condition.”
They’d reached the clearing where Sam was now seated on a folding chair pulled from the ambulance. The attendant and Hilda were swabbing wounds on his face, hands, and arms. He had a black eye and at least one bruise was blooming along his jawline. He seemed disoriented—at best.
Allison scanned the crowd for Grace. She was sitting on a blanket beside Mazy Coyne. Relieved, Allison watched Jason jog toward Grace while she found Elle.
“What happened to Sam?” Allison asked Karina. They were headed toward the castle, where Elle remained. “And why is he outside, not at the hospital, or in his rooms?”
“He refused to go with anyone. They had to tranquilize him. They’re waiting until he settles down. As for what happened to him?” Karina slowed enough to give Allison a pointed look. “No one knows.”
Elle was lying flat on her back in her rooms, wearing only her underwear.
Allison waited until Karina left the suite before saying, “You’re not even dressed.”
Allison grabbed jeans and a t-shirt that had been haphazardly thrown across a chair. She tossed them on the bed. Elle continued to stare at the ceiling.
“Please get dressed. It’s only a matter of time before the inspector wants to talk with you.”
No movement. Allison was reminded of Maggie McBride—much younger, but no less petulant. She found her patience wearing. “Elle, you have thirty seconds before I walk out of this room.”