by Alex Barclay
‘Oh, sure,’ said Ren, standing up. ‘Anyone seen my phone?’
‘It’s in your back pocket,’ said Todd, too quickly.
The sky over Quandary Peak was one solid shade of promotional blue. Jeeps, vans and cars branded with the block-print logos of news channels, law enforcement and Search and Rescue stretched along Blue Lakes Road up to the trailhead. A large group had gathered from the Sheriff’s Office, Search and Rescue and Safe Streets. A cadaver dog and handler had been drafted in, last-minute. ‘The media loves a dog,’ Bob had said, deadpan.
He stood at the head of the group and talked everyone through what happened the day before. When he was done, he laid out a map, showing where Jean Transom’s body was when the avalanche hit, where Lasco had been found, and where the slide had ended.
Search and Rescue strapped on their packs and snow-shoes and started up the dark, steep path through the dense trees. Everyone making their way up behind them was used to hiking, skiing or snowboarding. Before Denver, Ren’s main weekend workout had been wandering around a DC mall, but it wasn’t long before her heart had warmed to the mountains. And even though her wardrobe now had a corner for Smart Wool and Marmot, she hadn’t quite made the move to lining her hiking boots up beside her heels.
She stopped in the first clearing and let anyone who was behind her pass by. The view was spectacular – endless green acres of snowy lodgepole pines. For a few moments she was able to forget why she was there. Breckenridge was only an hour’s drive from her house in Golden. There was no reason why she couldn’t come here more often. As she was about to move on, she saw Robbie Truax and Colin Grabien walk up.
‘Hey,’ she said.
‘Aw, hey, Ren,’ said Robbie. He stopped.
‘Hi, Ren,’ said Colin. ‘Bye, Ren – I’m going to keep on walking.’
‘Did you hear about the robbery?’ said Robbie.
‘No,’ said Ren.
‘Yeah – that’s why we only got here this morning. We were sitting on the wrong bank. Guys got away.’
‘Who was it this time?’
‘You’ll love this. There was celebrity involvement …’
‘What?’ said Ren.
‘They were all wearing masks made from celebrity mug shots.’
‘No way.’
‘I know – Nick Nolte.’
‘That is hilarious,’ said Ren. ‘Who else?’
‘They were all Nick Nolte,’ said Robbie.
Ren laughed. ‘That is just too funny.’
‘Not if you’re getting beaten around the head with the butt of an assault rifle by one of them.’
‘True,’ said Ren. She paused. ‘You know, they’re sending out a message: these are the only faces we’ll give you for mug shots.’
Robbie let out a breath.
‘Who did they assault?’ said Ren.
‘Everyone,’ said Robbie.
‘Everyone?’
Robbie nodded.
‘They took the time to do that?’ said Ren.
‘While three of them were taking the money, two went crazy on the staff. So – no extra time wasted.’
‘Hmm,’ said Ren. ‘So you didn’t have the most productive night.’
‘I was freezing my butt off out there. Sons-of-guns.’
‘You should write a book: “When Bad Language Happens to Good People”. Or “The F-word Diet”.’
Robbie smiled. ‘I couldn’t write a book that you’d never read.’
Ren laughed. ‘I’ll swap you a copy of yours for a copy of mine: “On Alcohol, Coffee and Premarital Sex”.’
Robbie was Mormon. He laughed.
‘So what’s going to happen with the robbery investigation while you guys are in Breckenridge?’
‘The rest of the guys back at Safe Streets are going to keep working on the robberies that have happened so far, but if there are any new ones, it’s business as usual for me, Colin and Cliff – we’ll just have to head back to Denver. Which sucks. I mean, we’re here to work on Jean’s murder, obviously, but we can’t shut everything else down completely.’
‘I guess not,’ said Ren. ‘But it does suck.’ She stopped to take a half-liter bottle of water from her pack. It was empty. Shit.
‘Ren?’ Mike called back to her.
She raised her head too quickly. ‘Whoa.’ She took a step back. Her legs went weak.
Mike jogged down to her. ‘Are you OK?’
‘My head.’
‘You got a headache?’ said Mike.
‘Yes. Ow.’ She pressed two hands to her forehead. ‘Shit, that’s bad.’ She turned to Robbie. ‘You go ahead.’
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ said Robbie.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve got it,’ said Mike. He turned back to Ren. ‘Did it come on all of a sudden?’
‘Yeah,’ said Ren. ‘Let’s just keep walking.’
Mike eyed her. ‘OK, if you’re sure.’
‘Yeah. Come on.’
‘Sounds like those teeth are gritted,’ said Mike, taking her hand and pulling her up.
‘I’m fine.’
They walked for another minute or two and Ren stopped again.
‘Did you drink any water today?’ said Mike.
‘Em, no. Coffee.’
‘And last night?’
‘Em … alcohol.’ Which I probably reek of anyway.
‘Right, you’re going back down,’ said Mike.
‘No way,’ said Ren, taking a step forward, then swaying on her feet.
‘You’ve got altitude sickness,’ said Mike.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Oh, please. Yes, you do.’
Someone once described altitude sickness to Ren as your body trying to suck your brain down through your spinal column. She couldn’t shake the image.
‘It’s not altitude sickness,’ said Ren.
Mike rolled his eyes. ‘Down,’ he said. ‘We’ll meet you down there.’
‘No,’ said Ren. ‘No. I need to see what’s going on up there.’
‘We’ll have photos.’
‘Yeah, but –’
Mike gave her the look that told her to stop. ‘Will you be OK getting down?’
‘Sure, I’ll –’
‘Whoa …’ He reached out and she sank against him. He held her upright to stop her fall.
‘Are you OK?’ he said.
‘I thought I was going to black out.’
‘I’m waiting here, radioing ahead, and you are going to see a doctor –’
‘No way. I’ll feel like a loser going to a doctor for altitude sickness when I’m coming from Denver … and I’m –’
‘What? An FBI agent? People expect FBI agents to be dumb.’
Ren smiled. ‘Yeah, I’m still not going.’
‘I have no idea how you forgot to keep drinking water when you arrived. Do you think your brain needs less oxygen that everyone else’s?’ He paused. ‘Or just more alcohol?’
‘Just the alcohol,’ said Ren. ‘Partying at altitude – cheap, but not so cheerful.’
‘Right, here’s the deal,’ said Mike, ‘go see Charlie Barger – on Ridge Street.’
‘Is everything on Ridge Street?’
‘It’s a long street.’
‘Charlie Barger sounds like a thief. The name, I mean. Like a Dickens thief.’
Mike stared at her. ‘Now I think the altitude is really starting to work on your brain. Charlie is a retired doctor. And I can promise you he won’t steal anything …’
Up on Quandary, the charge of the avalanche had been replaced by an unjust calm, like the smile of a man who had gotten away with murder. And the day before, Quandary Peak had, twice-over. The area looked untouched, except for the tree limbs – broken by the force of the slide – that protruded from the snow. The hole that Sonny Bryant had been pulled from was still there; his glove, with a light dusting of snow, lying beside it.
Search and Rescue moved in with probes. Anyone who had cameras took pictures. And the dog ha
ndler released her beautiful border collie to track the smell of death.
11
Charlie Barger lived in a three-story Victorian house, all peeling paint and haunted charm. The garden was an overgrowth on the pretty street – moments away from a council warning. Ren rang the doorbell. A redhead opened the door, dressed in pink thermals with tiny dogs on them. She was wearing frayed imitation Uggs.
‘Hello,’ said Ren.
‘Yeah.’
‘Mike Delaney from the Sheriff’s Office sent me to see Dr Barger. I was up on –’
The woman was staring past her.
‘I’m sorry. Is that OK?’ said Ren.
The woman faked a smile. Her clothes made her look younger than she was. There was something worn about her face, the skin dry and loose.
‘Yeah, come on in.’ She had no interest. ‘He’s out back in his study. It’s past the bathroom on the right.’ She called out: ‘Dad. It’s for you.’
Ren walked into the hallway after her. Her sour air seemed to have tainted the entire place.
Ren knocked on Dr Barger’s door. He opened it and from the grim hallway she was brought into a warm, old-fashioned study, a blend of academia and small-town, personalized medical attention. Leather, mahogany, walls of photos, ethnic artifacts, a thick bunch of laminated conference IDs on lanyards hanging from a nail in the wall. Lying on the floor along one wall were curving stacks of papers and files.
Ren pointed to them. ‘Don’t you worry they’ll fall over?’
Dr Barger turned his drooping eyes to her and smiled. He was in his late sixties, early seventies, with a lined, but healthy face.
‘I know most of what’s in there,’ he said. ‘So you’re Mike’s friend?’
‘Yes,’ said Ren, ‘we’re working together.’
Barger nodded. ‘I’m guessing it’s the body on Quandary.’
‘Yes.’
‘And Mike was worried that, with your headache, you’d end up being another corpse.’
Ren smiled. ‘Probably.’
Barger ran through all the checks and sat back on the edge of his desk. Ren eyed him with panic tugging at her chest. Every time she went to the doctor, she secretly expected him to tell her it was all over, that he had uncovered something terrible.
‘Water, water, water,’ said Barger. ‘No alcohol. No coffee.’
I don’t know which is worse. ‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘How can you function otherwise? You’re dehydrating yourself. If you were at sea level, there’d be twenty-one per cent oxygen in the air. Up here, it’s eleven. And there’s a lot of tissue fighting for that. Your brain needs the most, so it’s the first thing to go.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘You could end up with the cognition of a small child …’
‘I don’t need oxygen deprivation for that.’ Ren smiled.
Barger smiled back. ‘You can’t fool me.’
‘I can’t do no coffee, though,’ said Ren. ‘That would mess with my brain more.’
‘Then just drink extra water.’
‘OK. Thank you. And thanks for taking the time to see me.’
‘Not a problem. Tell Mike I said hi.’
‘I will …’ She stood up. ‘Um, what do I owe you?’
‘Seventy dollars.’
Ren paused. ‘Oh, OK.’ Thief.
As Ren walked to the front door, Shannon Barger was ahead of her, walking into a room on the right-hand side. Ren couldn’t help glancing in. She saw the muscular back of a man bending to pull on a pair of jeans. Commando. Shannon caught Ren looking as she turned back to close the door. Apparently the only real smile Shannon Barger had to offer was a smug one. s
Casey Bonaventure, auburn-haired and full-lipped, stood in front of her cameraman at the base of Quandary Peak. Mike Delaney and Bob Gage stood a few feet away from her.
‘That wardrobe choice must have slayed her this morning.’ Mike’s voice was low in Bob’s ear. ‘Serious, glamorous, outdoors. Crime scene, pretty mountain, viewers …’
Casey was dressed in a green ski jacket and matching pants. She sucked in an icy breath and started.
‘A chill wind has blown through the picturesque resort town of Breckenridge …’
‘Sweet Jesus,’ said Bob quietly.
Casey went on. ‘On the snow-white slopes of Quandary Peak, the discovery of the body of a dead female set in motion a chain of events that ended in a second tragedy when an avalanche claimed the life of a local volunteer rescuer. And a third tragedy when the body of the dead female was swept away in the slide. Sheriff Robert Gage and Undersheriff Mike Delaney, also at the scene, escaped with minor injuries. County Coroner Denis Lasco remains in a stable condition at Summit County Medical Center.
‘In contrast to the sun you see shining here this afternoon, a dark cloud has descended on the quiet community of nearby Breckenridge as they awoke to a terrifying tale of high-altitude horror. Mystery surrounds both the death and the identity of the female, who has been described as “in her thirties or forties”. A source close to the investigation has indicated that this was not a skiing accident, that this woman was the possible victim of a homicide.
‘Law enforcement officers are working tirelessly to develop leads, their task made all the more difficult by the absence of the body. The FBI arrived early this morning, no doubt to offer up additional resources.’ She paused. ‘Let’s hope, for all our sakes, this is one trail that will not run cold. I’m Casey Bonaventure –’
When she had finished signing off, she saw Bob to her left. He had turned at an angle to talk to Mike. ‘No one can accuse the girl of not writing her own reports.’
‘Shit. Here she comes,’ said Mike, quickly stepping back to his right.
‘One, two three,’ said Casey, signaling to the cameraman. She paused. ‘I’m here today with Sheriff Robert Gage of the Summit County Sheriff’s Office. Hello, Sheriff Gage.’
‘Hello, Casey.’
‘How are you holding up?’ she asked with a concerned face.
‘I’m doing OK,’ said Gage. ‘My thoughts now are with the family of the brave young volunteer who lost his life.’
‘As are all our thoughts,’ said Casey, ‘Is there anything else you can tell us about yesterday’s events?’
‘I think you got it all covered, Casey. I can confirm that the body of a woman in her thirties or forties was discovered yesterday afternoon on Quandary Peak. During our recovery of the body, an avalanche was triggered.’
‘And the body?’
Bob paused. ‘Was lost in the slide.’
‘And this morning’s search is to recover that body?’
‘Yes, it is, Casey.’
She kept the microphone to his mouth. Bob was done.
She held her breath, then struck up again. ‘And the volunteer rescuer? Do we have any more information on him or her?’
‘Not until next of kin have been notified. No.’
‘And the FBI presence here today? That would confirm reports of a homicide?’
‘The FBI presence here today is a welcome addition to the team investigating yesterday’s events.’
Casey held the microphone steady. Seconds went by before she nodded. ‘Thank you, Sheriff Robert Gage.’
She turned back to the camera. ‘We’ll see you at the top of the hour with an update on the story unfolding here at Quandary Peak. Who knows where this particular trail will lead? I’m Casey Bonaventure …’
After sign-off, she turned back to Bob. ‘Bob –’
‘Casey, sweetheart? Don’t come crying to me when your producers prematurely ejaculate all over a story. They send you out too early for anyone to make any sense of my crime scene, your story, the victim’s ID, what in the hell happened – everything. Every time you show up, we tell you we have nothing yet. And every time, you stick that damn camera in my face and expect me to do the hard work. To do your job. I have my own job.’
‘You know where I’m coming from,’ said Casey.
‘Yo
u’re paid to talk,’ said Bob. ‘I’m not. But, if I have to, I’d rather have something to say.’ He muttered as he walked away. ‘How about a snowy cascade of suspects, a winter wonderland of weirdoes, an icicle of … something that begins with “i” …?’
12
Ren sat at her desk in the Sheriff’s Office, a bigger, cheaper, shinier desk than the one she had at Safe Streets. She was thinking about self-sabotage – not for the first time. Altitude sickness could happen to anyone. But she had drunk a lot of contributory factors. There was a bottle of Fiji in front of her. And three more on the floor beside her. Robbie Truax, Colin Grabien and Cliff James walked in.
‘Aw, look at her,’ said Robbie.
Ren smiled patiently.
‘The loser,’ said Colin.
‘Are you feeling better?’ said Robbie.
Ren nodded. ‘I am. I have drunk more water in four hours than –’
‘Alcohol, hopefully,’ said Colin.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. ‘I actually wasn’t drinking last night,’ she said. ‘I had just arrived here, as you know.’ She turned to Cliff. ‘So, what did I miss?’
‘Not a lot, I’m afraid,’ said Cliff. ‘The cadaver dog sat down, barked – his “alert” to show he picked up a scent – but his handler said that could have been from Sonny Bryant. Apparently the smell of death kicks in the moment a person dies. And we all smell the same dead, so it’s not like the dog can distinguish …’
‘Do we?’ said Robbie.
‘Yup, apparently,’ said Cliff.
‘That’s kind of depressing,’ said Ren.
‘Oh, you want to smell especially different when you’re dead?’ said Colin.
‘Shut the fuck up, Colin,’ said Ren.
‘So the dog was indicating there was a scent there, but he didn’t physically find anything,’ said Cliff.
‘So,’ said Ren, ‘what’s the plan for going back up?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Robbie. ‘It was risky heading up there to begin with. SAR’s saying no way.’
Ren took another mouthful of water. ‘Shit.’
‘You want to look at the photos?’ said Robbie.
‘Sure. I love your photos. You really are very good,’ said Ren. ‘You could have an exhibition – Truax: Scenes from Scenes.’ If the location was interesting, Robbie shot landscapes from crime scenes.
