Mountain Rampage

by Graham, Scott

  Chuck gave the young man a reassuring tap on the shoulder. “You did great in there.”

  Samuel offered a pallid smile. “So did you.”

  “Let’s you and me never do that again, okay?”

  Samuel aimed his chin at the mine tunnel. “I’m never going back in there.”

  “You won’t have to. No one will.”

  With Clarence following, Chuck crossed to the far side of the mine site and angled up Mount Landen’s northeast ridge. Though he was breathing hard by the time he reached the ridge crest, he hadn’t escaped the questions presented by Officer Hemphill’s appearance at the mine.

  Clarence reached the top of the ridge a minute later. He bent forward, his hands on his knees, his stomach heaving. When his breathing calmed, he straightened and joined Chuck in looking north off the ridge into Fall River Valley far below. The valley was bisected by Fall River Road, a tan ribbon snaking through the trees. The park’s original route to the high country predated the construction of Trail Ridge Road by several decades. These days, the road was a little-used gravel byway.

  High above the valley to the north and west, the three tallest peaks of the Mummy Range, Ypsilon, Chiquita, and Bighorn, jig-sawed the skyline. The midday breeze coursing over the ridge was warm, the sky clear and blue.

  By this hour on any normal summer day in the Mummies, massive thunderheads should have been building above the mountain peaks, leading to afternoon storms that would lash the high country with rain, sleet, hail, even snow. But this was no ordinary summer. In contrast to the heavy summer rains and raging floods that had washed out roads and devastated downtown Estes Park a few years ago, this summer the park was gripped by drought attributable, scientists said, to the extremes of global climate change, just as the floods had been.

  Though the months-long drought was hard on the park’s flora and fauna, the string of cloudless days had made the students’ work at the mine easy these past weeks. Collapsible nylon shelters, toted by the students to the site at the beginning of the summer to protect their excavation work from downpours, remained stowed in stuff sacks at the edge of the site. Not once over the last seven weeks had the students been forced to don their raincoats.

  Chuck and Clarence sat facing west on a pair of rocks, the summit of Mount Landen high above them, Fall River Valley more than a thousand feet below.

  “Time to figure this thing out,” Chuck said.

  “What’s to figure?” Clarence asked. “My knife, human blood, white-man cop ready to lock me away.”

  “We’re not in the South Valley, Clarence.”

  “I’d be better off if we were. At least a few Albuquerque cops have the same skin color as me.” He flicked an angry hand. “You saw how he treated me. He’s got my arrest warrant all ready to go.”

  “He’s just getting started on his investigation.”

  “Easy for you to say. It’s not your knife they found.”

  “No one knows if a crime’s even been committed yet.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Whatever happened, he figures I did it.” Clarence gave his Latino accent free rein. “El Chicano. El spic.” His voice grew bitter. “I never should’ve come here this summer.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Clarence gave Chuck a level look. “Jan knows. Even the girls have felt it.”

  Chuck studied the north slope of Mount Landen. Narrow, stone-walled couloirs cut into the bare, alpine slope every couple hundred yards. Where the pitch of the slope lessened, the couloirs came together to form a funnel-like drainage that twisted and turned before disappearing into the forest on its way to the river below.

  He pressed his fingers into his thighs. For a year now, Janelle and the girls had shared their lives with him—a middle-aged white guy making his way through the world with his brown-toned stepdaughters and mocha-hued wife. He’d seen the heads turn; he’d read the appraising looks in people’s eyes.

  “They don’t mean anything by it,” he told Clarence.

  “So what. We’re still plenty different from the upstanding, white-bread folks of Estes Park, and different is all that matters.”

  “You’re overreacting. We’ll head back to town, find a lawyer, get this thing sorted out.”

  “No. No lawyers. I’m not guilty of anything. Somebody took my knife. I had nothing to do with it. I don’t need a lawyer.”

  “We’ve got to make sure—”

  “I said no,” Clarence repeated. “What we have to do is figure out what happened. And we have to do it on our own, before the cops stick it to me.”

  “They’ve got nothing to charge you with.”

  “They’ll come up with something. Just you watch.”

  “I was watching. I saw a cop doing his job.”

  “We need to think beyond him—to the students, the workers next door. Somebody saw something. They had to. You can get Kirina to talk to the students. I’ll talk to the Falcon House people. They won’t say anything to the cops, but they’ll talk to me.”

  Chuck lifted an eyebrow. At the beginning of the summer, he’d made it clear that the field school’s female students were off limits to Clarence, full stop, no exceptions. Chuck had seen the looks every one of the Fort Lewis girls, even Kirina, had aimed at Clarence when he was at his most alive and magnetically electric. To his credit, however, Clarence had taken Chuck at his word and had focused his charms on the flock of female, college-age resort workers from Eastern Europe boarding for the summer in Falcon House.

  “You really think,” Chuck asked, “that whoever sliced somebody with your knife is going to turn around and confess what they did to you?”

  “Somebody’s sure to know something. And there’s plenty who will let me know what they know.”

  Chuck eyed Clarence. “How many are we talking about?”

  Clarence avoided Chuck’s look. “It’s been a whole summer.”

  “It’s been a month and a half.”

  “I don’t put notches in my belt.”

  “How many?”

  Clarence addressed the line of peaks marching away into the distance. “Three or four. Five, maybe.”

  Chuck shook his head. “Unbelievable. And how many guys over in Falcon House do you suppose you’ve managed to piss off in the process?”

  Clarence twisted to face Chuck. “All the guys living in Falcon House are a bunch of campesinos from México—cooks, janitors, dishwashers—sending their money home and counting the days till they can get back to their families.”

  “And the young women?”

  “They’re on their big summer adventure from Romania, Bulgaria, places like that. Ready to par-tay. They’re way out of those Méxicanos’ league.”

  “But not yours.”

  “Nobody’s out of my league.”

  “I bet you made one of the Mexicans jealous.”

  “So he did what, took my knife and stabbed somebody with it? What sense would there be in that?”

  “I’m still thinking it through,” Chuck admitted.

  “While you’re doing your thinking, let me tell you what I already know. Nobody’s going to come forward and tell the cops, ‘Hey, guess what. I stole Clarence’s knife and slashed somebody with it and they stood there and bled for a while and then they ran off into the woods and now they’re gone.’ Which means the focus is going to stay right on me.”

  “All the more reason to get a lawyer.”

  “Wrong. The cop said they’re going to call me in for more questioning, right? Later today, probably, or maybe tomorrow. When they do, I want them to see I got nothin’ to hide. If I come in all lawyered up, they’ll figure it’s me for sure. They’ll focus everything they’ve got on nailing me to the wall.” Clarence took a deep breath. “I have to show them I’m a victim of circumstance, that whatever crime was committed—if a crime was committed—was somebody else’s doing.”

  “Who do you suppose did get their hands on your knife?”

  “Could’ve been anybody. It’s not like
I was hiding it.”

  “Somebody must’ve grabbed it to do some whittling, like you,” Chuck reasoned. “They cut themselves by accident. They can’t bring themselves to say anything. Not yet, anyway.”

  “You saw how much blood there was. They’d’ve had to cut themselves pretty deep.”

  “Maybe they were drunk.”

  Clarence rolled his eyes.

  “Really drunk,” Chuck insisted.

  Clarence grunted. “Wasted,” he said flatly.

  “Blotto,” Chuck offered.

  Clarence’s mouth lifted in the start of a smile. “Blasted.”

  Chuck nodded. “Blitzed.”

  Clarence grinned. “Pulverized, dude. Totally, absolutely obliterated.”

  Chuck chuckled and bent over his pack, digging out his lunch. The faint rattle of tumbling rocks reached him from where Mount Landen’s rugged northwest ridge etched the skyline half a mile away.

  He looked up in time to see a Rocky Mountain sheep clamber into sight over the top the ridge. The sheep, a ewe, was followed by another ewe, then another. Gradually, three dozen more sheep ambled over the ridge, their hooves sending small stones clattering into a steep couloir below them. The animals fanned out, nipping at the dry, brown bunch grass on the slope as they made their way across the north side of the mountain toward Chuck and Clarence.

  Chuck scanned the grazing sheep, looking for trophy rams. His eyes fell on animal after animal. Each was a ewe, a first-year lamb, or a juvenile male with nascent, half-curl horns—yet a herd this big should not be without two or more adult rams with broad chests and fully curled horns.

  Chuck slid his sandwich from its baggie and bit into it, waiting to spot the heavy-horned rams sure to trot over the ridge to unite with the herd at any moment.

  The sheep continued to graze their way across the north slope of the mountain. By the time Chuck finished his sandwich, the sheep were well clear of the ridge—and not a single adult ram had topped the rocky crest to join them.

  NINE

  Chuck’s phone pinged several times to announce incoming texts when the van reentered service range on the way back to the resort. Throughout the van, phones dinged and chimed, prompting the students to stop talking to one another and set their thumbs to work.

  Chuck pulled the van to a stop at Raven House fifteen minutes later. The students grouped at the rear door to retrieve their packs, then stood with their packs in hand, waiting for Chuck to address them.

  Chuck slipped between the students to the rear of the van, grabbed his pack, and backed away a few steps. What was there to say?

  His eyes roamed from old, rundown Raven House with its warped, clapboard exterior to new, stucco Falcon House capped by its shiny, green metal roof. Between the two buildings, amid tufts of buffalo grass, he spotted the shallow divot dug by the police the night before to gather the blood that had soaked into the ground.

  Someone knew something about Clarence’s knife and the human blood, and that someone was either one of the students standing before him, or one of the Falcon House employees.

  Who might it be? He hadn’t a clue.

  He glanced across the fields toward the cabin. Janelle’s glare as he’d left this morning had made clear the risk he’d taken in heading to the mine with the students so soon after Rosie’s seizure. He assumed Rosie hadn’t suffered a relapse today because he’d gotten no voicemails or texts from Janelle—though the absence of any of her usual, chatty messages was a bad enough sign by itself.

  When they realized Chuck had nothing to say, the students turned and headed up the walk to Raven House. Chuck slung his pack over his shoulder and motioned Clarence and Kirina to his side.

  “Stick close to the dorm,” he told them. “I want to know who’s talking to who, whether anybody’s acting shady.”

  A corner of Kirina’s mouth drew up. “Acting shady?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I can tell you one thing. Whatever this is, no one from Team Nugget is involved. My girls aren’t thieves, and they’re not knife-wielding maniacs either.”

  Clarence declared, “My guys aren’t involved either. I’m sure of it.”

  Breaking the students into two work teams had been Clarence’s idea. Chuck had expected problems when the students had self-selected their teams along gender lines. To his surprise, however, the members of the two teams had gotten along well with each other at the mine and during their off hours throughout the summer.

  “Nobody’s accusing anybody of anything at this point,” Chuck said. “Just keep your eyes open, okay? Both of you.”

  He hurried across the fields, past the lodge and conference center, and up the curving drive through the woods to the cabin. He owed Professor Sartore a call, but Rosie took priority—as did squaring things with Janelle.

  He released his bottled-up breath when he saw the pickup still parked where he’d left it upon returning from the hospital the night before. But a vehicle he didn’t recognize—a rugged SUV with a Rocky Mountain Elk Foundation sticker on its bumper and a mountain bike attached to a rack on its roof—was parked next to the truck. Janelle opened the cabin’s front screen door as Chuck approached, allowing Gregory, the young doctor from the emergency room, to step onto the wooden deck ahead of her.

  Gregory hailed Chuck from the uncovered porch with a wave and a wide smile. “Yo, dude.”

  Chuck stopped at the bottom of the short flight of stairs leading to the deck. “Hey.”

  Janelle, trailing Gregory out the door, came to an abrupt halt at the sight of Chuck. “Gregory called and asked if he could make a house call,” she explained.

  Gregory flipped his blond hair out of his eyes with a toss of his head. “I finished my shift. Figured I’d swing by, make sure Rosie was cool.”

  Chuck’s eyes went from the young doctor to Janelle and back. He addressed Gregory, keeping his voice even. “I take it everything’s…cool?”

  Janelle spoke first. “I told him she was doing fine when he called.”

  Gregory shrugged. “I got a few hours of shut-eye last night, after you guys left. Usually I go straight home and hit the sack at the end of my shifts.”

  Chuck knew he should say something appreciative. Unlike the doctor, however, he hadn’t gotten any sleep last night. Besides, his appreciation would be expressed through his payment of the medical bill.

  “Guess I’ll get going then,” Gregory said when Chuck didn’t speak. The young physician turned and pointed a friendly finger at Rosie and Carmelita, who stood together behind the screen door. “Glad to see you doing so well, Rosie. And you, Carmelita, take good care of your little sister for me, okay?”

  “Okay,” Carmelita said with a shy smile before looking at her feet.

  Chuck stood aside to allow Gregory to descend the stairs. When the doctor was well down the drive in his SUV, Chuck climbed the steps to Janelle and summoned a smile. “She’s really doing okay, huh?”

  Janelle rigidly accepted a peck on the cheek. He turned at the sound of pounding feet to see Rosie hurtling herself across the porch at him.

  “Chuck!” she cried, diving into his arms. “I’m all better now. I’m the bestest ever.”

  Chuck lifted her and settled her on his hip, her legs dangling past his knees. “You are, are you?” He looked to Janelle for confirmation.

  “She slept late this morning,” Janelle said. “She’s been her usual, rip-roaring self since lunchtime. It’s all I’ve been able to do to get her to stay inside and take it easy.”

  Chuck lowered Rosie to the porch and crouched to speak to her and Carmelita, who had trailed Rosie onto the deck. “Why don’t you two rip-roar back inside. Your mamá and I will be along in a minute.”

  Rosie followed Carmelita into the cabin. Chuck tossed his pack on one of the plastic deck chairs arrayed on the porch and motioned Janelle to follow him down the steps. He dropped the truck tailgate and took a seat on it. She hoisted herself up beside him.

  He allowed the quiet of the surrounding fore
st to sink in, the only sound the call and response of a pair of magpies flitting from branch to branch through the ponderosa trees above their heads.

  Janelle turned to him. “Where do we start?”

  “She’s really okay?”

  “She’s sniffling a little, but it’s pretty much gone, like the doctor said.”

  “Gregory,” Chuck said, an unintended edge to his voice.

  “We’re talking about Rosie,” Janelle replied, her chin held high.

  The afternoon sun reflected off the tiny jewel affixed to the side of her nose. The gold flecks in her hazel eyes shimmered. Chuck swallowed. God, she was beautiful. The young doctor’s ogling of Janelle last night had lacked any semblance of professionalism—but who could blame him for taking advantage of the opportunity for another look today?

  Chuck took Janelle’s hand in his. “I’m sure Clarence has texted you by now.”

  She shook her head no.

  Chuck stifled a groan. He kept it brief—the tunnel-floor collapse, the appearance of the officer at the mine with the photo of Clarence’s bloody knife, and the suspicion that the blood was human.

  Janelle slid her hand free of Chuck’s as he finished: “The cop said they’ll follow up. Later today, maybe tomorrow.” He read the look in her eyes. “And no, I’m sure Clarence doesn’t want you to say anything to your parents.”

  Too late, she looked away.

  Chuck continued, “He’s refusing to let me get him a lawyer. Says it’ll make him look guilty.”

  She turned back. “But you disagree.”

  “I do. He’s got a point, though. There’s no actual crime involved. Not yet, anyway.”

  “What do we do next?”

  Chuck closed his eyes. All he wanted to do next was sleep.

  He opened his eyes and looked down the drive toward the Y of the Rockies lodge and conference center. “Parker,” he said.

  TEN

  As he drove down the two-track, Chuck called Professor Sartore. In addition to the text he’d sent the professor in the morning, he had emailed Sartore a brief rundown of the previous night’s events before setting off for the mine after breakfast.