The Mountains Bow Down

by Sibella Giorello

  “Lies, all lies. It’s all lies—”

  In the corner of the room a small organ waited to play a wedding march. For people who celebrated. I thought of DeMott, and our wedding, and felt a second wave of despair.

  “Please, stop saying—”

  The FBI taught me many ways to stay alive. I knew how to shoot a gun and dodge incoming bullets and think like my enemy. But they also taught me something so simple it seemed laughable at the time: how to breathe. How to breathe when every instinct insisted it was time to curl up and die.

  Taking a deep breath, I counted to four on the inhale. The air smelled of chemicals. Something acrylic. Epoxy or glue.

  “And it can’t be true,” she continued. “No, she wouldn’t—”

  I tried another four-count breath, but the chemical odor was so strong I tasted it at the back of my throat. I stared down at my hands, automatically clasped in prayer, and saw my engagement ring sparkling with its yellow and green rays. I looked away to the Berber carpet. It was the inoffensive color of oatmeal, but a section was torn on the podium and I fixed my eyes on the spot, using it for a focal point as I tried to bring my pulse down, resisting the urge inside that demanded, Run.

  She began speaking in tongues. “Shama-la-may, shaaaaama—”

  I squeezed my hands until the bones hurt and stared at the carpet’s torn nylon threads. Glued down. The epoxy was shiny and opaque like polished brown jasper, fine grains dusting the surface. When her voice rose, it sounded so desperate, my eyes climbed with it. She begged the voices to stop stop stop and I turned to see her fingers wound into her black curls, pulling on her hair. “Amma-shaaaama!”

  I reached over, wanting to hold her, then stopped. What if I startled her?

  No, worse.

  Dear God. What if she’s afraid of me?

  Blinking against the burn in my eyes, I found another focal point, a hole in the wall. No bigger than half an inch, it held white particles that gathered along the bottom curve. I stared at them, willing her to calm down until I could see nothing but the wall, the hole, the dust inside. Wall, hole, dust.

  She rocked forward, crying.

  Dust.

  Gray dust.

  I stood, my hands feeling too warm, and walked toward the platform. At the wall, I laid my cheek against the Sheetrock. It felt cool on my skin. The dust clung to the hole’s bottom curve. On the other side of the medallion a piece of stubbed metal protruded, a small bent hook that drooped toward the floor. Licking my finger, I tapped the hole, then rubbed my thumb over the grains. Drywall dust. Fine-grained gypsum.

  “No no no—shamma-la-ma!” She continued to rock back and forth, nearly catatonic.

  Standing at the edge of the platform, I could see how the hole was aligned with the protruding metal. Something once hung there. I kneeled on the carpet, inspecting the torn fibers. Tiny brown objects were stuck in the Berber loops and I pinched one, pulling against the snagged fibers. I held it up to the ceiling lights. The jagged edges looked like a comic rendering of lightning.

  I stood on the platform, watching her. I whispered, afraid of startling her. “Mom?”

  No response.

  I walked to the chapel door, unable to feel my feet touching the ground. A small table by the door held a stack of Bibles, like a black stalagmite. I shimmied one from the bottom and opened its cover. The spine crackled with disuse. Turning the soft pages, I worked toward the book of Micah and placed the brown fragment at chapter six, verse eight, pushing it deep into the binding to keep it from falling out. Putting it where I wouldn’t forget: alongside my father’s creed to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly.

  As I walked down the aisle again, I wondered if she was speaking in tongues, or some twisted language from the dark territory that had taken her captive. Standing beside the wall, I listened and brushed drywall dust into the Bible passage that reminded me that I was dust, and to dust I would return.

  Closing it carefully, tucking it under my left arm, I could feel my pulse tapping against the Bible.

  She was standing.

  Her eyes were no longer dull. Polished bright, they didn’t seem to see me. She lifted her hands and opened her fingers and I felt something chilling on my spine.

  Her hand moved toward her face.

  “No—Mom—no!”

  With her nails, she clawed her cheeks. The scratches went white before blood rose like crimson ribbons. I ran toward her and she backed away, unblinking and scared.

  We stared at one another, suspended in time.

  Breathe. Breathe.

  Looking into my eyes, she drew her nails down her face once more. I reached down for my belt, fumbling for the phone, hitting Redial.

  “It’s me,” I said.

  “What now?” Geert asked.

  She was pulling her hands away, marveling at the glistening red on her nails.

  “Help,” I said.

  Geert burst through the chapel door followed by a red-faced man wearing the white officers’ uniform. He was followed by Nurse Stephanie who pushed a collapsible gurney, just like the one that carried Judy Carpenter’s body off the ship.

  I held my mother from behind, her arms pinned to her sides.

  She was writhing and I pressed my mouth to her ear, smelling shampoo and fear, and whispering words. Words about love. My love. My dad’s love. God’s love.

  The man in the officer uniform approached us like a bomb technician, listening for the ticking sound.

  “Mrs. Harmon, I’m Dr. Coleman,” he said. “I’m here to help you, dear.”

  His voice was accented—Irish, English—and she screamed.

  He turned to Nurse Stephanie, snapping his fingers. She unzipped a flat black case and extracted a hypodermic needle, using it to puncture a small glass vial. She filled the needle’s plunger. I squeezed tighter, wondering that I had never held someone so close yet felt so far away.

  Holding the syringe, the doctor walked closer, speaking softly and evenly, and I decided his accent was Irish. The brogue’s cadence swung when he was within striking distance, telling me to hold her still, don’t let her move, that’s it. I buried my face in her hair, unable to watch, and felt her body stiffen. Within seconds, it went limp.

  “There’s a good girl,” the doctor was saying. “Now you can have a rest.”

  She was no longer fighting. There was no resistance and I released my hold.

  She spun, hand open, and slapped me before I could catch her arm.

  Her black hair clung to the blood on her cheeks. When I looked into her eyes, they were no longer bright. Distant again. And now filled with hate.

  My voice cracked. “They’re here to help.”

  She swayed now, the drug taking over, and as her knees gave, the doctor caught her and lifted her to the gurney. He spoke to her in the Irish brogue.

  “There’s a nice girl,” he said. “There’s a nice, nice girl.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Danger to self. Danger to others.

  A black line at the bottom of the document waited for my signature.

  Grievously disabled. Requiring observation . . .

  I held the pen and listened to the doctor explain the laws that insisted it was fine to lock up my mother. When the doctor paused, drawing a hand over his thinning white hair, I turned to look at her room, directly across from the circular desk where I stood holding the paperwork.

  She was no longer crying out. No longer screaming.

  She was silent.

  I signed, giving permission for forty-eight hours’ observation—all the time left on the cruise—then handed the paperwork to the doctor.

  She lay on the bed, her high cheekbones raw, the blood still wet. Rubber restraints secured her arms. I couldn’t tell if she recognized me. Her eyes were drugged, disoriented.

  “I’m sorry.” The words seemed to fracture inside my mouth. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

  Rolling her head across the pillow, she turned away, facing th
e wall. The room had no window. No view. And I heard no murmurs from her lips.

  I had silenced even her prayers.

  Two doors down, I stood in the medical clinic’s small lab and called Jack, asking him to bring certain pieces of evidence from the purser’s safe. Then I flicked on the microscope and sat down.

  “Sucks, doesn’t it?” Nurse Stephanie stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Her waist seemed impossibly small.

  I set the Bible on the counter.

  “My mom’s crazy too,” she said. “Half the reason I live on a cruise ship nine months of every year is so I don’t have to see her. The other three months I stay busy avoiding her.”

  I looked over at her. “I need the same supplies as last time. Petri dishes, uncoated aspirin, distilled water.”

  She stared at me, then unhitched a hip and walked to the cabinets, keying them open and placing the supplies on the stainless steel shelf. When she turned to face me, she pointed two fingers at her eyes, then pointed them at me. “I see you,” she said. “I see you real clearly.”

  A shard of irritation bristled up my spine, rising with a force that told me I needed to bat it down, now. Right now.

  “Thank you for your help,” I said.

  She puckered her lips and sauntered away. I listened to her crepe soles squeak across the vinyl, then come back with the cup of distilled water and uncoated aspirin. She set them on the counter and left, and I snapped on latex gloves, dropping the white tablets into the water. Over at the desk, Nurse Stephanie was greeting someone.

  “Welcome back, Big Guy.” She sounded like Marilyn Monroe squeezed into medical whites. “Ready for your shot?”

  “Where is she?” Jack asked.

  When I looked up, he stood in the doorway holding the evidence bags. “Harmon, the purser told me what happened—is your mom okay?”

  “Is that the right evidence?”

  He looked down at the bag, as if suddenly remembering it. “Yes, I got the one you said. But what happ—”

  “Thanks.” I took the bag from him, removing the test tubes and the notes written on the prescription pad concerning the gray dust and the wood chips found on Milo’s and MJ’s clothing.

  “Harmon, is she . . . ?”

  I opened the Bible to Micah 6:8 and brushed my gloved fingers into the crease, depositing the brown fragment into the clean petri dish. I did the same with the gray dust from Genesis.

  Jack said, “Holy forensics, Batgirl.”

  I poured some salicylic acid water into the petri dishes, nuked them in the microwave, then scraped the powdered precipitates into thin sections, slipping them under the microscope. Then I compared them with the samples taken from the clothing and all the while, Jack watched from the doorway.

  “You’re going to have to let me in,” he said.

  “Okay.” I pushed back from the microscope. “I found some dust in the chapel. It contains wood fragments. It looks like a very strong match to the dust found on Milo’s clothing and the musician’s clothing. That means—”

  “Harmon, let me in.”

  “I’m trying to. The dust contains a specific heavy metal left behind after the acid dissolved all the softer minerals. It might be trace iron but I can’t pinpoint the chemistry with this equipment. The bottom line is Milo and MJ were both in the chapel and they both—”

  “Stop it.”

  His eyes were intense, focused. I willed myself to hold their gaze, refusing to look away. I breathed, taking in the bitter scent of the salicylic acid.

  “Jack, I’m fine. Really. Can we get back to the evidence?”

  At the desk, the phone rang and Nurse Stephanie answered, immediately launching into a lecture. The flu lady, again. The contagious fugitive. “Look, honey, I am not going to help you unless you get your butt in here.”

  I turned, bending my head over the microscope and fiddling with the focus.

  “Oh really? Well, I’ve got news for you. I can take you by force.”

  The minerals scattered across the thin section like stars. Like dust. Then they blurred and my eyes stung.

  “Because you’re a danger to other people and the law says we can. We just did it this morning with another nut so don’t think you can—”

  I didn’t hear the rest. Standing up, I started packing the evidence back into the bags.

  “Harmon, talk to me.”

  I placed a hand over my eyes, shielding them from his view, telling myself that the salt and proteins from my tears could contaminate the evidence. “Jack, I’m fine—”

  His arms wrapped around me. I pushed him away. He grabbed hold and I shoved him away again. He tightened his grip and the more I struggled against him, the more I felt like my mother, futilely resisting. I turned my face, his chest was there, and my mouth was buried in it. The sob that rose felt as explosive as magma, a thing held down too long, bursting at the surface. I tasted the cotton of his white shirt, smelled the clean warm scent of a man, and another sob came. I felt his hand against my back, pressing, staunching the wound inside.

  “Oh, that’s what’s going on.”

  I turned my face to the door. Nurse Stephanie wore a knowing expression.

  “Great move, honey. The tears work every time.” She gave a smirk, then walked away.

  Jack looked down into my eyes. “I’m holding out hope.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’m hoping we’ll find out she killed Judy Carpenter.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The elegant Bahamian purser waited by the hospitality desk, extending his hand as I approached.

  “Miss Harmon, I am so very sorry to hear about your mother. If there is anything I can do to better a bad situation, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  I nodded, still not able to say anything without risking tears. Jack had gone back to consulting on the movie—and watching Milo—but I followed the purser to his office behind the hospitality desk, waiting as he opened the enormous safe with the strange key, placing the evidence inside.

  “May I ask how you heard about my mom?”

  He locked the safe again, then offered one of the balletic bows. “Miss Harmon, cruise ships are floating cities populated with interlopers. Please forgive me for being among the busybodies, I was simply concerned.”

  “Forgiven,” I said. “But it’s safe to assume you heard about Ramazan and Serif too?”

  “The pornographers,” he said with distaste.

  “You asked how you could better the situation. I’d like to see their work schedules, beginning with the time we left Seattle until today.”

  He leaned back, the dark eyes evaluating me. “And you’ve cleared this request with Officer van Broeck?”

  Geert. “No, sir, I have not.”

  “I am pleased to hear you tell me the truth. I will take your request under advisement, and I will be in touch. Until then, do try to enjoy the remainder of your day.”

  MJ was pounding the piano keys in a lounge that resembled an English gentlemen’s club. Dark walnut paneling, deep green wingback chairs, two billiard tables—and a black grand piano where the musician’s hands leaped like mad cats. Unlike the music last night, she played something that sounded almost cacophonous.

  I’d found her through one phone call to Geert. At any given moment, his Ninjas seemed to know where everybody was on the ship, even somebody hiding in this lounge that was closed until later in the afternoon. The piano was tucked behind a billiard table and MJ’s back was to the entrance. The place was empty, not even a Filipino bartender to say yes to every question, and I waited, listening to the assaultive chords. Finally, when she stepped on the foot pedal, extending the bitterness, I walked up behind her. Cheap tricks were not my way, but time was running out. And I needed her to talk.

  “That’s bleak music,” I said.

  “Oh!” Her hands flew off the keys. The chord dropped dead. “You scared me!”

  “I’m sorry.” I meant it. Manipulating her made me feel like the liar my moth
er knew me to be. “May I talk to you for a moment?”

  She had already pulled out the fall board, dropping the cover over the keys, letting it land with a felt-cushioned thud. “I need to go,” she said. “We’re filming this morning. I’m already late.”

  She reached for the sheet music and I touched her wrist. She recoiled as if scalded.

  “You were in the chapel?” I asked.

  Her eyes were darting. “What?”

  “Milo was there too. And I doubt he went in there to pray.” I hated this part, poking her again. “Did you meet in there before or after Judy’s hanging?”

  “No—!”

  “So she wasn’t dead yet?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “MJ, I have proof.”

  Her face fissured like an cracking eggshell, the lines of worry spreading down her face from those sad eyes, that soft mouth trembling. “He took pictures.”

  When I didn’t respond, her hands dropped into her lap, the palms open, a gesture of devastated supplication. Under the lamp for the sheet music I could see her fingers, the tips enflamed while slivers ran like dashes down both palms.

  “What happened in that chapel?”

  She saw me staring at her hands and tucked them under her arms. “You saw the photos. What more do you want?”

  “MJ, there are no photos.”

  “Then how—” She stopped. “Then you’re making it up.”

  “No, I have proof. But not from photographs. I also know about your dope conviction.”

  The sheet music rested disheveled on the thin shelf above the fall board. Her eyes were scanning the lines, searching.

  “Cooperation is your best option. I’m sure you learned that when you got busted.”

  “I never meant to hurt Judy.”

  I waited. She turned, her eyes now scanning my face.

  “It started years ago, when I was dealing pot. I was a mess. And Milo, I believed him.”

  “About what?”

  “He told me they had an agreement.” She picked at the slivers in her left hand. “And I saw myself as damaged goods. And here was this movie star, paying attention to me. Me, screwed up MJ.”