Alpine Gamble (7 page)

Later, I would remember his pleasure with sadness.

ALMOST
NOBODY
IN Alpine comes by
The Advocate
over a weekend, which is why I was surprised to see a small beat-up car parked in my usual place. I was even more astonished when I heard someone call to me as I approached the office door.

A young woman in jeans and a plaid shirt had emerged from the old car. Her slightly freckled face needed no makeup. Its classic bone structure and natural contours were sufficient for beauty. She moved effortlessly, though her voice had a slightly reedy quality.

“Do you work here?” she asked, gesturing toward the newspaper's unprepossessing one-story building.

“I'm the editor-publisher,” I said with a wary smile. “Emma Lord. Are you looking for me?”

The young woman, who looked to be about thirty, put out a slim, freckled hand. “I'm Skye Piersall. I'm looking for
somebody''
She pushed a stray strawberry-blonde lock off her high forehead. “Can you tell me about the hot springs project?”

Since Skye Piersall appeared to be neither armed nor dangerous, I invited her inside. “I can give you a copy of this week's paper,” I said, stepping behind Ginny's reception counter.

“I've seen it,” Skye replied. “Frankly, it doesn't give much in the way of details.”

That was an understatement. “There've been some developments since we went to press. Where are you from?”

Skye Piersall leaned against the counter. Up close, there were fine lines around her eyes and mouth. Perhaps she was closer to forty than thirty. Or maybe she'd spent too much time in the sun. “Seattle—more or less,” she answered with studied vagueness. “I move around a lot. I'm with CATE—Citizens Against Trashing the Environment. We deal more with aesthetics than ecology. This is a fact-finding tour.”

“I see.” I'd never heard of CATE, or if I had, it had slipped through the cracks in my mind.
The Advocate
received a weekly barrage of information from so many groups and organizations that I tended to deep-six all but the most pertinent. “What facts are you looking for?”

Ginny had a desk and two chairs behind the counter which she used when helping customers lay out complicated classifieds, or when she occasionally pitched in on the regular advertising copy. I indicated the extra chair and sat down. With a faint show of reluctance, Skye joined me.

She pointed to my hot springs piece on page one. “Have Blake and Stan made some progress since this came out?”

I regarded Skye curiously. “You know the developers?”

Skye laughed, a heartier sound than I expected after the reedy voice. “Of course. CATE members get to know all of these people. We have offices up and down the West Coast, so we often cross paths with the same soldiers from the opposing army. Last year, these two were trying to start a retreat center in the San Juan Islands. CATE rallied the local residents and put an end to that idea.”

Congratulations were probably in order, but I refrained. I was a journalist, and therefore trying to keep an open mind. I explained that Blake and Stan had made an offer that had been accepted. I elaborated on as much as I knew of their ambitious plans. I also pointed out the topographical problems involved. And I added that while the locals didn't favor out-of-state intrusions, they badly needed jobs.

Skye listened attentively. “I'd like to see the site. Can you show me a map?”

I hesitated. “Are you on speaking terms with Blake and Stan?'

Skye laughed again. This time the sound wasn't quite as pleasant. “Oh, definitely! What we say to each other varies wildly.” Her green eyes were unreadable.

I explained my own minor involvement. “You'd probably run into us somewhere along the trail this afternoon anyway, so you might as well join us. If Blake and Stan share your tolerance, they won't mind.”

But Skye had turned thoughtful. When she finally spoke, there was a defensive note in her voice. “Okay, why not? If it's a steep climb, Blake will have to shut up or he'll get winded.”

“True. And Stan doesn't talk as much.”

The enigmatic expression had returned to Skye's face. “But he says more when he does.”

I shrugged. We agreed to meet at the Burger Barn around one. There would be room for all four of us in the Range Rover. Blake and Stan might not be thrilled at hauling along the enemy, but I'd been put on the spot.

By the time I got home with my camera and a couple of rolls of film, Stan was just leaving. He had seen blue jays, a downy woodpecker, several robins, a pair of purple finches, and countless sparrows. Even Stan
didn't seem much interested in the noisy, contentious crows that flapped among the trees and often frightened the smaller birds away.

“Maybe I'll sight the cedar waxwings next time,” he said optimistically.

Somewhat awkwardly, I told him about Skye Piersall. His thin features changed dramatically, and I thought there was alarm in his dark eyes.

“Skye Piersall is
here!
Oh, God!” He turned around on his long, thin legs, a hand to his balding head. Then slowly, almost shyly, he looked at me from over his shoulder. “Skye's a terror when it comes to preserving the natural environment. This rock, that tree, those ferns—everything is sacred. She hates anything man-made. If Skye had her way, she'd live naked under the stars.”

Strangely, the idea seemed to calm him. He was now smiling and looking back off into the evergreens. I wondered if he'd seen another bird. Or maybe the image of Skye Piersall. Naked.

Whatever I imagined about Stan Levine's reaction to Skye Piersall, the initial encounter was uneventful. He and Blake greeted Skye politely, but with reserve. On the way up to the turnoff, I was left to make small talk. I filled the Range Rover's empty air with an account of the Iron Goat Trail and the enthusiasts who spent their spare time preserving the Great Northern Railroad's old route.

“They come from all over,” I pointed out, “though they're restricted by the weather. Some of them use their vacations and camp out along the way.”

None of my listeners, with the possible exception of Stan, seemed to give a damn. I switched to the topic of mountain goats and the National Park Service proposal
to blast them off the ridges. Blake was indifferent, Stan reacted with a frown, and, to my surprise, Skye endorsed the idea with enthusiasm.

“That's where CATE differs from other organizations,” she declared, setting her jaw. “It isn't only humans who harm the environment. Animals cause great damage, too. The worst of it is, you can't reason with them. Of course some people are just as bad.” Her green eyes flashed at Blake and Stan. Neither responded, though I thought there was a faint smile on Blake's lips and Stan seemed to stiffen a bit.

Fortunately, die drive was brief. The Californians obviously knew their way, which was more than I did. After we'd bumped along for a short distance on a rough washboard of a road, Stan pulled into what passed for a parking area under the huge power lines that cut across the Cascade Mountains.

The trail began nearby, a narrow, steep incline almost immediately swallowed up by trees and underbrush. Standing next to Blake, I hesitated. Despite living amid raw nature, I wasn't exactly the hearty outdoor type. My so-called hiking shoes were a pair of sturdy Rockports. Fortunately, my companions pretended not to notice. The two Californians and Skye Piersall were properly attired in laced-up boots that looked as if they could have scaled K2.

The ascent was taxing. Except for safety ropes tied to trees, Leonard Hollenberg obviously hadn't bothered to maintain the trail. Despite the sun, which occasionally filtered through the evergreens, the air turned chilly as we gained altitude. Upon reaching the last quarter mile, the ground itself grew muddy. I was about to remark on a patch of dirty snow between two rotting logs when the trail took a sudden dip and we saw a wooden sign that read: HOT SPRINGS—USE AT OWN RISK.

“Here they are,” Blake announced, his expansiveness
held in check by a shortness of breath. “What do you think?”

I thought that the series of three small pools with their blue plastic linings were ugly. The nearby ground was discolored from the minerals, the corrugated tubing that carried the water out of the rocks was strictly utilitarian, and the pockets of old snow were pockmarked with debris. Worse yet, the mountain air was tainted with the smell of sulfur. The only saving grace was the view of Windy Mountain and the surrounding foothills.

“It's … rugged,” I said finally, sitting down on a streaked boulder and panting.

“It's relatively unspoiled,” Skye remarked, taking in the vista between the western cedars. “I'd like to see it stay that way.”

At the moment, I didn't care if Blake and Stan put up a Ferris wheel. I was hot, tired, and vaguely disappointed. Somehow, I'd expected rippling waterfalls, sylvan pools, and a shady glen that hinted of primeval romance. The only bit of charm was a birdhouse made of cedar shakes which sat on a sturdy vine maple pole about six feet off the ground. Maybe Stan had put it up to encourage nesting. I was too beat to ask.

Fists on hips, Skye was studying her surroundings. “Second-growth timber,” she noted. “From when? The Twenties?”

Stan nodded. “Most of this area was logged in the first quarter of the century.” He looked past Skye to where I was sitting. “Right, Emma?”

“Right.” Carl Clemans had been ahead of his time, reforesting the land. The timber after the 1929 harvest had been limited to isolated parcels, mainly beyond the summit and to the north of Stevens Pass.

Skye gestured at the pools. “Who did this? The seller?”

Blake regarded the plastic-lined holes in the ground.

“No. The people who use the springs fixed them up. Or so we were told by Mr. Hollenberg.”

It figured. Leonard wouldn't bother himself. Maybe he wanted to get rid of the property before somebody took a tumble and sued his broad butt off.

Skye was laughing, somewhat derisively. “I think you two are crazy. Even crazier than usual. Look at this terrain—it'd take a mountain goat to get around here. Why did you pick this place? There are mineral springs all over the Pacific Northwest in more feasible locales.”

Stan, who had been eyeing the birdhouse, now turned to frown at Skye. “You know the answer to that. Most of the others are already tied in with some kind of resort or are on government-owned property. Scenic was available. We'll have to make the best of it.”

“How?” Skye snapped. “By bulldozing and blasting?” Now her laugh was scornful. “That's the only way you
can
create a building site. And CATE won't stand for it. We're prepared to fight you every inch of the way.”

Though Stan was frowning, Blake appeared unperturbed. “Right, we're as seasoned at litigation as you are. Our Suits versus your Suits. We're prepared to put this on the ballot and let the locals decide. We can offer jobs. What will CATE give these poor out-of-work bastards? Spotted owl crap and a free dip in the springs?”

Skye was glaring at Blake. “We have the law on our side, Fannucci. The environment is protected.”

“This is private property, sweetheart,” Blake retorted. “Check your Washington State laws. You're blowing smoke. Go save a whale or some other worthless animal.”

“Like you?” Skye shot Blake a withering look, then started back toward the trail. I finally got up and began snapping a few pictures. I could get a shot of Skye in
the so-called parking lot, unless she decided to walk back to Alpine. I wouldn't have put it past her.

But she hadn't. By the time we had put the sulfuric stink behind us and arrived at the bottom of the trail, Skye was leaning against the Range Rover, wearing a stern expression. Approaching her gingerly, I asked if I could take a photo.

She shrugged. “Why not? It's good publicity for CATE.”

I got her to pose at the trailhead. As a rule, my photographs are never as good as Carla's. Or Vida's, for that matter. But the sun was behind me, the shadows weren't overwhelming, and I was careful about framing and focus. The only distraction was caused by Blake and Stan, who were posting a sign that they had removed from the Range Rover. Signaling to Skye that I had finished, I turned to read the message on what appeared to be professionally printed tagboard:

HOT SPRINGS CLOSED FOR RENOVATION. PRIVATE PROPERTY—PLEASE DO NOT USE TRAIL. THANK YOU.

“Great,” Skye muttered. “VineFan not only wants to screw up the environment, it wants to prevent other people from enjoying the natural wonders.”

Ever the fence-straddler, I tried to keep the peace. “But the intention is to let everybody have access to the springs. There are plenty of people who could never hike that trail.”

Skye sniffed in derision. “Sure, everybody who can afford their price. You call that magnanimity?” She paused, but didn't wait for my response, which would have been lame at best. “Have you shot those two yet?”

I explained that I had, up at the hot springs.

Skye gave me an ironic half smile. “Good. It's a wonder somebody else doesn't shoot that big-mouthed Fannucci. With a gun. He's tempting Fate.”

As it turned out, both Blake and Stan were tempting much more.

The Californians dropped Skye off at the Burger Barn, then drove me up to my house on Fir Street. The short ride back to Alpine had been quiet, though the tension in the car was palpable. After Skye got out, Blake had made a remark about her narrow-minded tenacity. Stan had merely shaken his head. I kept my mouth shut.

It was going on four o'clock when I returned home, too late to start any major weekend projects. I got out the new laptop I'd bought recently and wrote a letter to my old friend from
The Oregonian
, Mavis Marley Fulkerston. The laptop had maxed out one of my two major credit cards, but I hoped the expense would be tax deductible.

Except for the anticipated arrival of Adam and Ben, the news from my end was thin. A retired journalist, Mavis always appreciated anecdotes about life on a small-town weekly. Or so she assured me. But Mavis is basically a very kind person.

I was recounting our first batch of personals when the phone rang. It was Leo, sounding vaguely sheepish.