Before He Envies

by Blake Pierce

  When she was about two arm lengths away from the outcropping with the orange object, she thought of Ellington. These memories that were resurfacing were new to her in a way, bringing back a chunk of her early life that she had blotted out somehow. Because of that, it was not a part of her past she had ever shared with Ellington.

  Oh my God, he’d freak out if he saw me right now.

  She smiled, but it was fleeting. Because on the heels of that thought were those old memories, snapping at her heels like a rabid dog.

  Rope burns on her palms, ambulance sirens, her mother showing up drunk out of her mind, a policeman telling her that she had probably saved her instructor’s life…

  “Nope,” she said out loud to herself. “Not right now. No thank you.”

  She fought the urge to look down and instead craned her neck up, looking for another handhold. There was a convenient one just a bit out of her reach but she was able to reach it with a good, long stretch. Her abdomen ached and she grimaced as she pulled herself up.

  The outcropping was not large enough to rest on, but she was able to support herself by her right arm, taking some of the pressure off of her legs and abdomen. As she braced herself against the littler ledge, she could clearly see the orange shape that she and Timbrook had spotted down below. She grabbed it with her free hand and looked it over.

  It was standard belay device, often used by people climbing without a partner. It wasn’t a very sophisticated piece of equipment but it still took some fairly basic climbing knowledge to operate it, maintaining the rope as a climber made their way along the rock.

  She looked down for the first time to the four officers below; apparently, Waverly had come back out of the forest from the thin trail and joined them in the time it had taken her to reach the device.

  “It’s a belay device,” she called down. She turned it over in her hand and saw the same initials Petry said they had found on the underside of the Yorke’s helmet: M.Y. “It’s Mandy Yorke’s,” she added.

  Making sure everyone had eyes on her, she tossed the device down softly. She then wasted no time getting back down the wall. She was sweating a bit but she felt confident the grime she had placed on her hands would keep her safe. She found that getting back down was easier than going up. She remembered the trickier areas along the wall and took them easily. It again brought to mind that picture from her past but she tucked it away before it could properly frighten her.

  She felt instantly relieved when she was back on the ground. Still, she looked back up the short little route she had just taken and could not deny that she had enjoyed it.

  “Petry, do you recall anything in particular about the ropes that were found?”

  “Just that there was a fray in it, pretty clean.”

  “Any sort of knots stand out to you?”

  Petry shook his head, clearly not happy that he had no real answer to give. “None that I can recall.”

  “If that’s Yorke’s belay device,” Miller said, “what does it tell us?”

  “It tells us that a woman that was apparently a rather good climber dropped her belay device—a rather important piece of equipment when climbing alone. It could happen, for sure, but not often.” She considered something for a moment and then added: “I’d like to get a look at the rope. Is that possible?”

  “Absolutely,” Timbrook said. “You think we might have missed something?”

  “It’s too early to know for sure,” she said.

  But then she looked back up at that little outcropping she had just been resting on—and at the thousands of feet above it. Mackenzie did have a theory, but she wanted to see the ropes first. She was working her way through the theory as they walked back down to the parking lot. The hike down the stretch was much easier on her than the one going up.

  And while she was able to proceed without too much of the discomfort she had experienced on the way up, the growing memories started to wear on her now. They were front and center in her mind, demanding that she face them, demanding to know why she had blocked them out of her mind.

  “You probably saved his life, young lady,” the paramedic had told her as he wrapped up the rope burns on her palms. “Your instructor might very well owe you his life…”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Mackenzie, Timbrook, Waverly, and Petry all stood around a table just outside of the evidence room at the back of the Jackson Hole police station. Everything they had found from the area where Mandy Yorke’s body had been found was spread out on the table. The orange belay device had been included, recently tagged and catalogued by Petry.

  Looking at the ropes Mandy had been using when she died, Mackenzie felt her theory snap into place and prove itself correct. She picked up the rope and fed it through her hands until she came to a knot she had seen a few times but had never employed herself.

  “This knot…it’s referred to as a Munter hitch. It’s sort of a failsafe rope—complicated to make but simple to use. But climbers typically only use it when there’s no other options. It’s primarily only used in emergencies.”

  “Such as someone dropping their belay device?” Timbrook asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “So what exactly does that mean?” Waverly asked.

  “Well, I still find it interesting that a trained climber with skills like Mandy Yorke was clumsy enough to drop her belay device. This Munter hitch knot sort of backs it up, though. It’s usually only used in extreme cases. And if you put those two things together, it tells me that Mandy Yorke was trying to come down Exum Ridge in a hurry.”

  She then found the area in the rope that had been severed. As she had been told, it was a clean cut. It was not frayed or somehow torn jaggedly by relentless use. It had been cut cleanly.

  “So you firmly believe we can rule out simple accidents as the cause of death?”

  “For Mandy Yorke, without a doubt.”

  Petry took a step away from the table, looking back and forth between the pieces of evidence. He looked uneasy, like he was looking for any excuse to leave the room.

  “What is it, Petry?” Timbrook asked.

  “This is going to cause a shit storm.”

  “I’m used to navigating shit storms,” Mackenzie said. “Let me guess. There’s pressure on the local PD to keep any rumors of a killer away from the public due to concerns of lower park attendance and revenue. Something like that?”

  “Exactly that,” Timbrook said. “It’s one of the reasons I’m getting so much grief from the sheriff and his little peons about trying to label it as a murder case. It’s also one of the reasons, I think, he’s choosing not to waste his time with the case. The less he knows, the less involved he can be.”

  “And if it turns out to be a string of murders,” Waverly said, “he can blame the lack of information to the public on the sergeant he put in charge.”

  Timbrook nodded sadly and the look in her eyes made Mackenzie once again think of the time she had spent in Nebraska as a detective. She really wanted to think times had changed since then—that Timbrook was not getting the run-around because she was a small-statured and attractive woman. But really, at the root of it, Mackenzie was pretty sure that’s exactly what was going on.

  “You think it was the same killer at both sites?” Timbrook asked.

  “Wait, hold on,” Petry said. “That seems like one hell of a stretch.”

  Mackenzie bit her tongue, but she was pretty sure those above Timbrook had something of a mole assisting her with the case. Sure, Petry was apparently the go-to on rock climbing information, but it was clear that he was doing everything he could to keep denying that they could very well be looking at two murders committed by one person.

  “Can you tell me how it’s a stretch?” Mackenzie asked.

  “Look…let’s give you the benefit of the doubt and say that there was some sort of foul play involved with Mandy Yorke. That does not mean we can cast that same scrutinizing eye at the death of Bryce Evans.”

  “I
saw scuff marks in the dirt at the top of Logan’s View as well as a dent in the victim’s head that suggest otherwise.”

  “He fell almost thirteen hundred feet,” Petry exclaimed. “Of course he’s going to have some dents in his head.”

  Mackenzie sighed and then looked Petry in the eye. He looked away almost at once—an action that told her he would back down pretty easily if things were to escalate into an actual argument.

  “I appreciate the train of thought you’re implying,” she said. “And it’s clear that you want this solved just as badly as everyone else. But I was called in to assist on this case, meaning it is now under FBI jurisdiction. As seeing as how I’m the only federal agent on the case, it’s basically my show. Trust me…I hate pulling the FBI card, but I will if I have to.”

  She paused here, letting this sink in, making sure he wasn’t going to try to talk her down. When he remained quiet, Mackenzie went on.

  “Based on what I’m seeing with Yorke’s rope and Evans’s forehead, as well as the site of where I believe he was pushed, we will not be pursuing this as two murder cases. While I’m not fully prepared to say it was the work of the same person, I am heavily leaning that way. I’m happy to discuss my thoughts and theories, but I will not tolerate relentless questions. Is everyone okay with that?”

  Timbrook and Waverly nodded in unison, Waverly going so far as to say: “One hundred percent.”

  But Petry only looked at each one of them for a few moments and then gave a defeated nod of his head. “Yeah,” was all he said as he walked quickly for the door and took his leave.

  “Sorry about Petry,” Timbrook said. “He’s actually a great police officer, but he’s also one of the boys. Worse than that, he sort of looks up to the older generation, the old farts that still look down on little old me, wearing a badge and being in charge of a few things around here.”

  “Every station has a few of them, I suppose,” Mackenzie said. “Now…you two know the area much better than I do. Do we have names and addresses for the next of kin for either of the victims?”

  “Well, like you saw in the reports, Mandy Yorke has no family in the area. Her parents were both killed in a car accident when she was seventeen. The grandmother that raised her after that is in a retirement home in California. The orderlies say that when they informed her that Mandy had died, she was unresponsive. They say the poor woman can barely remember her own name most days.”

  “And what about Bryce Evans?”

  “His mother lives just outside of town. His father passed away about a year ago. When I spoke with his mother just after his death, she told me that Bryce had probably gone up there for sentimental reasons. She said it was where they spread his ashes.”

  “Did she seem open to helping?” Mackenzie asked. “I’d like to speak with her myself.”

  “Yeah, I can make that call,” Timbrook said. She then left the room, presumably to do exactly that.

  Mackenzie looked back at the items on the table: the helmet, the back cracked and basically obliterated; the rope, severed near one end and with a Munter hitch knot several yards away from the cut.

  In her mind’s eye, Mackenzie envisioned Mandy Yorke rappelling down the side of Exum Ridge, looking up and seeing someone up at the top. Maybe with a knife, maybe staring down at her with a maniacal smile. And all there was beneath her was wide open space.

  “You can do it, Mackenzie,” she heard in her head.

  And upon hearing it again, she remembered what it was like to be hovering there in open space, nothing but open air beneath her feet and the knowledge that one wrong move could potentially end her life

  It was all the motivation she needed. Sore abs and legs be damned, she was going to find out who had killed Mandy York and Bryce Evans.

  ***

  Janelle Evans looked rather well put-together to have just lost her son. That was Mackenzie’s first reaction, anyway. But within a few minutes, she realized that it was all a front. The woman was in pain. She was trying to mask her grief with makeup and a plastic smile. But there was nothing in her eyes—no sparkle, no glint, nothing. The wine glass sitting on the coffee table just before noon suggested that Mrs. Evans was masking her grief in several different ways.

  She’d answered the door as if it were any other day, greeting Sergeant Timbrook warmly. When Mackenzie introduced herself, Mrs. Evans looked slightly shocked but shrugged it off as she led them into her living room.

  Mackenzie looked around for any sign of recent grieving: photo albums, spent tissues, anything. But Mrs. Evans apparently kept a very tidy home and was trying to hide any signs of her sorrow. Mackenzie didn’t quite understand it, but she did know that people chose to deal with their grief in various ways. Who was she to judge how this woman chose to respond to the tragic death of her son?

  “Mrs. Evans, I’d like to ask you a few questions about Bryce. Would that be okay?”

  “I’ve already told Sergeant Timbrook and her folks everything I know, but I suppose so. Have there been new developments?”

  “Well, Mrs. Evans,” Timbrook said, “when we last spoke, there was another case that we were looking into. I did not mention it at the time because there was no direct link—and there may still not be one. But it’s similar enough for us to take precautions. There was another climbing-related death three days before Bryce’s accident. We need to start looking at both cases from a different angle.”

  “Are you…are you thinking someone did this on purpose?” It was the first time Mackenzie had seen Mrs. Evans visibly rattled since she had opened the door for them.

  “We aren’t one hundred percent certain,” Mackenzie said, “but it is a strong enough suspicion that we have to look into it. Which is why I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “Of course,” she said. There was now something in her eyes—some faraway look that made it appear that she might fall asleep at any moment.

  “For starters, you told Sergeant Timbrook that Bryce had climbed up to Logan’s View as a sort of remembrance. For his father, is that correct?”

  “Yes. He mentioned it to me the day before he went. I guess I decided not to really listen. It always terrified me to know that he was rock climbing. Such a foolish and dangerous thing to do in my opinion.”

  “Do you know how long he had been rock climbing?”

  “Well, it was about five or six years ago when his father took him climbing to the top of Logan’s View. A bonding thing. I guess it was probably two years or so before that when he started to practice, you know? Something to do with his dad on the weekends. Bryce never really did much climbing after his father died, though. He was still active…just not as enthusiastic. He mainly did smaller climbs, just stuff to stay in shape. He was very private about it.”

  “Do you know if he ever climbed with a partner?”

  “No one consistent. He had a friend that did it for a while, but he moved. I think he went to some meet-up thing last year—a meeting with other climbers. There was one other guy he climbed with for a while but that petered out.”

  “Do you know anything in particular about this meet-up?” Mackenzie asked. She noted in her head that Malcolm Morgan had also mentioned these groups.

  “No. I didn’t ask questions. Like I said…he kept the climbing private. And I was fine with that. I figured it was a way for him to stay close to his father.”

  “And what about his father? Was he always a climber?”

  “No. That’s a funny story, actually. Bryce was invited to a birthday party when he was ten or eleven. It was at this gym where the boys all played dodge ball together. But they had one of those rock walls there. When I picked Bryce up from the party, he was halfway up the wall. And he loved it. He would jump on those walls whenever he saw one. Somehow, it eventually became this thing between him and his father. Mike…his father…he got some instructor to give them lessons.”

  “Lessons?” Mackenzie asked. “How long ago was this?”

  “Oh, I don’t
remember. But that was Bryce…even after his father died. Even though he wasn’t as enthusiastic about climbing, he was always wanting to learn. He’d read books and watch documentaries. Things like that.”

  “Do you know if he was seeing an instructor, even after his father died?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure. If he was, I knew nothing about it.”

  “Do you have any idea where these climbing meet-ups took place?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “They’re usually at bars or parks,” Timbrook said. “Around here, they aren’t too hard to find. There’s several that take place in Jackson Hole and surrounding areas every month, so long as the weather cooperates.”

  Mackenzie took note of this and slowly, an idea started to pop into her mind. Rather than fixate on it and make assumptions, though, she figured she should finish questioning Janelle Evans while she could. If she was putting on such a strong facade now, it would likely break apart any day now.

  “Bryce was married, correct?”

  “Yes. For a few months.”

  “Where is his wife now?”

  “I’m not sure. Her parents came into town after it happened and they went away somewhere. She…well, his wife was a wreck. Poor thing just sort of collapsed on herself.”

  “Does she have a sturdy alibi?”

  “Yeah, she was at work. We’ve got at least a dozen people that can back that up.”

  “What about close friends? Did Bryce have many?”

  Mrs. Evan shrugged and frowned—the first true sign of sadness she had shown so far. “He was quite popular in high school. But when he decided not to leave town for college—to stay here and attend community college—he sort of changed. He didn’t care about friends. I don’t know why.”

  Mackenzie and Mrs. Evans shared a look before Mackenzie got to her feet. “Mrs. Evans, thank you so much for your time.”

  “We’ll keep you posted if we find anything,” Timbrook added.