I looked to the hook where his ballcap hung. I’d seen it hundreds of times but now I saw it anew. The US biathlon team logo is stitched over the bill: stick-figure skier in a lunging stride, rifle strapped to its back. World Cup races start next week. Eric’s racing, along with my brother Jimbo, and Stobie is the team armorer. I remembered the guys, as kids, trekking up to the Lake Mary biathlon course nearly every winter day after school to ski and shoot. Year in, year out, rifles firing, unburned powder falling into the snow and sinking with snowmelt into the soil.
My stomach tightened.
I remembered Lindsay driving me to the course to cheer my brother when the boys started holding races. She got interested; she got them organized and into the U.S. Biathlon Association. And that’s how Georgia was drawn in. The mayor saw the biathlon as a fine place to divert boys who were into civic mischief. So Georgia and Lindsay—already at odds over the volcano—became uneasy co-den mothers.
Mothers without children of their own.
Mothers with a loving blind spot. They had lobbied this year’s World Cup races to Mammoth. And then the volcano stirred again and they joined forces to prepare the town. But they could not bear to cancel the Cup. Oh, they got Squaw Valley as a backup but unless there is lava flowing here day after tomorrow, the races will proceed here as scheduled. Georgia would kill to watch her boys compete in the Cup on their home turf. Would have killed. Lindsay would…what? Sacrifice her good judgement to cheer on her boys, I thought sourly. While keeping a goddamn close on eye on ground deformation and quake patterns, I hoped.
I fingered the bubble-pack envelope, wondering if my unidentified gunpowder originated at the biathlon range. Thinking, the mayor’s dead, the volcanologist is weirdly interested in how she died, the FEMA guy is oddly devastated, and the cop I most trust in the world tried to get a jump on the crime scene. Thinking, these are the people whose job it is—or was—to keep us safe.
Eric had been looking where I looked—the target, the ballcap—and now he came back to the envelope I was mangling. “Never mind.” He laced his hands behind his head. “It all works out. I’m a jerk on the retrieval, you’re anal retentive with your powder. Save it for John.”
“No need.” I passed the envelope to Eric. “We’re on the same team.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“We don’t want to be late,” Walter said. He pried me from my scope, sent me home to change, collected me within the half-hour, collected Lindsay at six sharp, and in his fire-engine red Explorer he ferried us up the mountain toward the lights.
I had to wonder about this meeting. Why did Adrian Krom call it on the mountain, up at the Inn? Why not call it at the Community Center? Why call this meeting with just one day’s notice? Why call it at all, since we had a meeting a week ago and covered everything conceivable. I reached over the seat and tapped Lindsay. “Are you talking about raising the alert level?”
“No,” she said, “we’re still at ADVISORY.”
I sat back. The Geological Survey issues four-tiered volcano alerts, starting at NORMAL, meaning typical background activity, all the way through WARNING, meaning get the hell out. We’ve been at ADVISORY, meaning elevated unrest, for the past six months. I said, “If nothing’s changed, why’d he call this meeting?”
“Ask Walter,” Lindsay said. “He’s become such great pals with Adrian.”
Walter said, mild, “Adrian’s doing his job.”
I had to agree, although I did not care to say so in Lindsay’s presence. Walter had put his faith in Adrian Krom—just as I had—because Walter believes in authority. Just as I do. Adrian Krom certainly has the authority, and the resources, to prepare us for what looks like is coming. But Krom had gone beyond the mandate from FEMA. What Walter saw in Adrian Krom was a man who came to town and leased a condo and settled in and linked his fate to ours. And that, to Walter, was loyalty.
Lindsay said, “You think he’s a prince, Walter. He’s not a prince.”
Walter took the curves a little fast, throwing us all into silence.
Two curves later Walter’s headlights caught the silhouettes of stripped conifers, and I looked hard. Was this patch of dead trees bigger than last time I came this way? Treekills around Mammoth were old news—quakes breached a fault and gas has been leaking up from an old magma chamber, asphyxiating trees, along with a few people. What we do is tread carefully. Don’t camp near treekills. Don’t ski roped-off areas and if you do for God’s sake don’t do a faceplant.
This treekill looked no larger. Okay, then. Steady at ADVISORY.
We topped the road and parked at the shuttlebus plaza, getting out near the statue of the woolly mammoth. Once, the real thing roamed here and now its iced effigy rears in bronze, town mascot. Our nod to the Pleistocene.
We were on the broad shoulder of Mammoth Mountain, two thousand feet below its summit. I glanced up. Impossible not to. The mountain’s great bulk showed by starlight—a hotshot’s mountain with headwall chutes and plenty of vertical drop. I once took a header down the chute known as Grizzly, which in my opinion should be skied only by paramedics. Down here on the shoulder, backing into the mountain, were the lodge and lift stations, where I used to earn my paychecks. Across the shuttle roundabout was Mammoth Mountain Inn, alpine fancy, where I endured my senior prom. Light spilled from the Inn and mixed with the inky night to grease the snow with a butternut glow.
We trudged toward the Inn, snow coating our boots like spats.
Mike Kittleman was on the porch, sweeping loose snow. Walter and Lindsay went inside but I paused to watch Mike.
Only Mike would wear a jacket and tie to sweep the steps. He always strives to look his best but he’s a swarthy guy who no matter how close he shaves looks like a thug. Or maybe that’s just through my eyes. Mike is another of the guys in my brother’s circle. I’ve known him since we were kids. We didn’t really have much to do with each other as kids—it wasn’t until we were in our teens that our lives intersected. I glanced across the roundabout to the gondola station where we worked together one summer loading mountain bikes and learned to loathe each other.
Long time ago.
I looked at Mike now. He’s the soul of the work ethic. He’s worked his butt off at every job he ever held and accepted overtime like it was a certificate of honor. These days, he’s been working road construction on the evacuation route, along with my brother and a dozen others who finds it pays better than selling lift tickets or ski patrol.
And yet here he was sweeping snow.
I knew he saw me. “Hi Mike. Thanks for clearing the steps.”
He glanced up. “It’s for old people. It’s so old people won’t slip.”
“And the rest of us?” I smiled, making the effort. “So, you working for the Inn now?”
He reburied his attention in the broom. “For Mr. Krom.”
Ah, that explained the tie. I’d seen him moonlighting for Adrian Krom—delivering the bulletins Krom generated, taking notes at meetings—and he always dressed the part. But still. “Is this some kind of memorial? For Georgia?” I sure wasn’t dressed for it.
The cloth of his jacket pulled tight across his back and for a moment I thought he was hunching into a sprinter’s crouch. Anything to get away from me. But he stayed put, frozen as the bronze mammoth. He tunneled me a look. “What do you mean?”
“I mean is this a memorial? Mr. Krom…Adrian…seemed upset about her death.”
“Just go in. O-kigh?”
“Okay.” Why’d I bring up Georgia? I thought again of the biathlon team, back when Lindsay and Georgia had organized the boys into a team. Mike had been one of those teenage biathletes, but he had a temper and he took offense quickly at the needling that was part of team camaraderie. He threw a punch almost as well as he shot his rifle. Finally Georgia got fed up with his fighting and kicked him off the team, kindling Mike’s hatred. I thought, now, Mike was fully capable of holding the old biathlon grudge against Georgia beyond the grave. In fact, he was capable
of carrying it to his own grave. And he was clearly working his way into the new power structure in town, with Krom. If Krom was holding a memorial for Georgia, I guessed that wouldn’t sit too well with Mike.
I headed for the door.
Mike pulled himself erect, the consummate doorman, but for his right thumb which began digging mercilessly at the knot of his tie.
CHAPTER EIGHT
There was a huge map pinned to foamboard on an easel by the fireplace.
There was a coffee urn and styrofoam cups, but no flowers. The DeMartini twins were here but without harp and guitar, meaning no Pachelbel Canon, no memorial service. People were dressed pretty much as I was, mountain spiffy, meaning nice shirts with jeans, and the good boots. The only tie, other than Mike’s, was Walter’s, with his chamois shirt. Lindsay would normally wear her silk pantsuit to a place like the Inn but she hadn’t bothered to change from her field clothes. That had won a frown from Walter.
The Inn’s great room was packed. The room is styled on the lofty old national park hotels, with colonnades of sugar pine and Paiute-weave carpets and a boulder-framed fireplace large enough to roast a bear.
If Adrian Krom called the meeting here to pull in a crowd, it worked.
I buffeted my way forward and ran into Stobie. I hadn’t seen him since he pulled Georgia’s sled down from the glacier. “Hey babe!” he boomed, the easygoing Stobie I’d always known, not the tense guy on the recovery mission. He caught me around the waist, dipped me, and whispered, “Beer.”
I whispered back, “I think there’s coffee.”
“Bill’s birthday. Beer. Designer. Club. Monthly.” Stobie righted me, then bellied through the crowd toward his buddies—Eric and my brother Jimbo. The three biathletes, lifelong friends, lounged against a colonnade, shooting the shit, hanging out.
As if all was normal.
And then I caught sight of Bill Bone himself, over at the snack table restacking the sugar packets. Beer? I thought. Well, Stobie used to bus dishes for Bill at the Ski Tip, so Stobie would know. I suddenly was desperate to get Bill’s birthday gift right. I knew he wouldn’t care—he’ll be monumentally touched no matter what we get him—but it mattered to me. We’re a community, Georgia always preached, we’re more than L.A.’s playground. And no matter how windy Georgia got I’d always find myself grateful to be included. And now we were a community without our longtime mayor, a community without an insurable future, and if we intended to keep acting like a community then we should goddamn know what the proprietor of the Ski Tip Cafe wanted for his birthday.
I checked my parka and then scanned the room for the man who’d called this meeting. I spotted him finally, the burly man light-footing his way through the crowd, turning anxious heads. A touch more formal than his guests. Brown sweater, brown cords, brown hair, deep tan. Every time I’ve seen him he’s wearing brown. Actually, I hadn’t seen him since Red’s Meadow, four days ago. What stayed with me was my hand in his. I’d had the impulse to keep holding on, because Adrian Krom’s the closest to a safety net we’ll get.
Mike Kittleman came inside and flattened himself against the far wall. He stood alone.
I spotted Lindsay and Walter, who were chatting with Jefferson Liu. Jefferson stepped up from his position as head of the town Council to become acting mayor, after Georgia disappeared. And Adrian Krom held his position as Emergency Operations Chief at the pleasure of the Council, and the acting mayor. I guessed silver-goateed Jefferson qualified as one of Mike’s ‘old people’ and I could see why Krom would not want him to slip and fall.
I came up beside Linday, and nudged her. “Anybody else here from the Council?”
She said, tight, “All of them.”
Then it’s big.
There was a shifting in the room toward the fireplace, where Krom leaned against a table. He could not have chosen a better frame: the hearty fire at his back, the table a huge chunk of red fir polished to a cinnamon gleam. Krom held up a hand and the nervous chatter ceased. He said, “It’s been, what? Couple of months. You all know me. Right?” He paused. The room was still. “No, you don’t. Let me reintroduce myself. I’m Adrian Krom. I’m your worst nightmare.”
In the strained silence, somebody giggled.
“You say no? I say yes. I’ve been your best friend. It’s not working, chums.”
I began to grow worried.
He moved to the easel. The map showed the geography of the town and the greater environs. “Look hard. You know the geography. What the hell were you thinking? I’ve walked it. Have you? Scared the bejesus out of me. It’s time to scare the bejesus out of you. If you’re not scared, if you’re not prepared to see me and this map in your dreams, then go home and watch TV.”
Nobody moved.
“Then let’s get serious.” Krom flipped an overlay, superimposing it on the map. It looked like a child’s drawing, a crooked line and two circles alongside. “This,” he dragged a finger along the line, “is the Bypass.”
I glanced at Lindsay, who’d gone on alert. Was Krom trying to start a war? The Bypass is hers—an escape route, currently only half-done. She’s the one who walked the geography and conceived the Bypass, she’s the one who pushed the Council to fund it, and she’s the one who named it. A mile was already bulldozed when Krom first came to town.
But until the Bypass is finished, there’s only one road out of town: Highway 203, which leads to the major through-road in the eastern Sierra, Highway 395. That highway runs all the way south to Los Angeles and north to Nevada, following the Sierra scarp like a fault. You can’t go anywhere north or south without taking 395.
Highway 395 runs through the caldera, the gigantic crater that encircles Long Valley and Mammoth Mountain and our hometown. You can’t escape to anywhere without taking 395.
That’s why any road out of town must connect to 395. Problem is, 203 connects with 395 in a very dangerous place in the caldera—near the heart of the awakening volcano, where the magma has been rising.
That’s why, when the the volcano got serious, Lindsay said we needed a second way out, a way to connect with 395 at a less dangerous place. She’d been saying this for decades, but this time she said now.
Lindsay was glaring at Krom’s map. He’d drawn a line, extending the half-built Bypass to show the finished route. When finished, it will connect with 395 well north of the caldera’s growing magma chamber.
We all stared at the Bypass on the map, our lifeline. There was a camera flash and then the Mammoth Times editor Hal Orenstein slipped to the front of the crowd, his stringbean form hunched to angle a shot for the local paper.
Now Krom studied the drawing anew, as if the flash had illuminated something revealing. He let the moment run, then turned to us. “Why are you building this? Isn’t the point to evacuate and live to tell the tale?”
I reached for Lindsay but it was too late. She was on her way.
“I know your attention is on the caldera,” Krom was saying, “and rightly so—but what exactly is the point in running your new escape route smack dab through this?” He fingered the circles. “Volcanoes, chums.”
I saw what he was doing. It wasn’t fair. He was diverting attention from the active caldera to the Inyo System, which is another volcanic system entirely. Inyo’s volcanoes have been dormant for hundreds of years. They’re dormant now. Otherwise, Lindsay wouldn’t have championed a road that ran right past them.
She strode up to the easel and peered at Krom’s drawing. She shook her head, as though she couldn’t believe the line he had drawn was the Bypass and the crude circles he had drawn alongside were meant to represent the old Inyo explosion craters. She said, “Are you a volcanologist, Adrian?”
“I’m trying to run a meeting, Lindsay.”
“Are you a volcanologist?”
He folded his arms.
“Are you a volcanologist?”
“For anyone here who doesn’t know, I’ve worked around volcanoes for over a decade.”
�
�Not Inyo, you haven’t.” She drummed her fingers on the drawing. “I monitor the Inyo system every day and I assure you it’s quiet.”
“Can you assure us it will be quiet tomorrow?”
She smiled, almost in pity. She took the marker from the easel tray and went to work on Krom’s overlay and when she’d finished, the map was marked with circles and stars and crosshatches, crude as his. “Vents,” she said, “and domes and fumaroles and seismic hot spots. The whole system is capable of mischief. We live in active country. There’s no way around it. You have to go through it. You can’t build a road that does not go through it.”
A chill ran through me. I thought, suddenly, no way out.
“You understand now, Adrian?” She tossed the pen to Krom.
He caught it. “Do you work for FEMA, Lindsay?”
She eyed him. She saw the tables turn.
Say something, I thought.
“Lindsay?” he said, gauging the attention of the room, “are you on staff with the Federal Emergency Management Agency?”
She said, icy, “I consult.”
He smiled. “FEMA worked hard to overcome its past troubles. I’m certain they welcome your expertise.”
“Yes Adrian. They do.”
“Delightful. And so you know how to work the channels to get the resources?”
“We’re building the road.”
“Who calculated capacities? Who ran the numbers on visitor population fluctuations? What’s the peak vehicle load, adjusted for weather and disrupted communications?”
“There is nowhere else—adjusted or not—to build an escape route.”
“How many emerg-ops have you run?”
She said, “You mean like Rainier?”
That sent a puzzled buzz through the room. But I sucked in a breath, as did Walter and acting-mayor Jefferson Liu, beside me. I thought, now she’s the one being unfair. Rainier was Adrian Krom’s worst nightmare, the volcano that nearly ended his career. But he’s been working his way back. The last thing he needed here was to have to defend himself for a mistake he’d long ago corrected. The last thing we needed, I thought, was to question the capability of our emerg-ops guy.
Volcano Watch Page 4
