Scene of the Climb (14 page)

Fingerprinting didn't take long. I exited the building with black residue on my fingertips and a seething stomach. Was someone trying to scare me, or just make me look like an idiot?

Before I headed home, I needed air and space to think. I maneuvered my Subaru out of the parking lot and in the opposite direction from the Pearl. Despite the misty rain, I rolled my window down and blasted Sinatra.

I drove aimlessly for about fifteen minutes. After my arm lost feeling from the frigid, wet rain, I finally succumbed and rolled the window up. With no particular destination in mind, I soared along Highway 30, mesmerized by the rhythmic motion of the wiper blades and Sinatra's crooning lyrics. Commuter traffic had already returned home. I imagined cozy families tucking in to soup and crusty bread as I breezed by hillside homes lit from the inside on the gloomy evening.

Before long I was en route to the Gorge, following I-84 east along the Columbia River. Birds scattered above my windshield as jets rumbled to land at the Portland airport. A tree-covered island divided the river, as I sped past big-box stores and outlet malls. A paper mill puffed out pristine white clouds of waste into the air.

I felt myself being drawn to the old historic highway as highway signs directed me to the route.
Why not?
I thought, as I turned onto the scenic road. At 7:00 I had at least a half hour of daylight left. Plus I figured I could return via the freeway, which would shave off fifteen or twenty minutes.

Every five minutes a car would pass by me in the opposite direction—toward town, but otherwise the highway was void of traffic. The wind picked up as I continued east. Fir trees bowed as I passed. I switched the wiper blades to high and hunched forward over the steering wheel to see through the foggy windowpane. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

Ignoring the nagging voice urging me to turn around, I zoomed around slick corners. Wind forced the car over the centerline. A horn blared. I clutched the steering wheel and directed the car on the right side of the road. My rear defrost had been on the fritz for a while. Thick steam enveloped the back. There wasn't much hope of it clearing, unless I rolled all the windows down.

Suddenly, headlights appeared through the foggy window, headlights that looked like they were about to touch my bumper. Crap, there was no space to pull over. The margin between my car and the moss-covered guardrail was less than a foot. I eased my foot off the gas, slowing in hopes the car would pass.

It didn't.

My heart rate quickened around “s” curves. The car behind me kept on my bumper. I couldn't make out the driver through my foggy window. The intense beam from the headlights filled my entire backseat.

I hit a straight stretch of road and rolled my window down again. Pellets of arctic water ricocheted off my skin. I clutched the steering wheel with my right hand and stuck my left hand out the window. I frantically waved with my left hand to motion the car ahead of me.

The car didn't budge. It made a revving sound with its engine and lurched close to my bumper. I dug into the wheel, bracing myself for impact.

A new switchback of curves lay ahead. I decided to step on the gas. Maybe if I sped up, the car would back off. Rain from the open driver's side window pelted my head. Water dripped down my cheek. I didn't dare remove a hand from the wheel to wipe it away. Sailing around a curve at 60 mph (twice the posted limited) I was sure I would lose control.

Yellow caution signs warned of falling rocks.

Somehow I managed to stay on the road. The car tailing me remained less than a foot from my bumper.

As soon as we escaped the curves, I motioned for it to pass, again.

This time when I stuck my arm out the window, it flashed its lights to high beams and laid on the horn. I jumped forward, my seat belt cinching around my neck. The sound of the horn echoed through the empty forest, bouncing off the windy trees. My hands shook.

I didn't know what to do. The first trail entrance was probably at least another five miles ahead. I could pull into a parking lot when I got closer, but until then I was stuck. There wasn't a sign of another car as far as I could see.

At that moment, the car behind me revved its engine again and surged toward me. I slammed on the brakes and fishtailed over into the left lane.

The car flew forward in the right lane, its horn blaring as it passed me. I tried to catch a glimpse of the driver or the car, but it was too dark to see anything. Another horn blared. This one sounded different. I returned my gaze to the road in front of me in time to see a car headed straight for me in the left lane. I swerved to the right lane and skidded to a stop.

Whew, that was close.

Each muscle in my body twitched in shock. I was okay.

The Subaru had slammed to a stop literally inches from the guardrail. Another second and I would have smashed right into it. Is that what the car tailing me was hoping for?

I needed to move. The sun had completely sunk in the sky and the remaining dusky light barely made it through the thick trees. If a car came up behind me, they'd never see me in time to stop.

Before I continued on I needed to check my tires. The force with which I'd pressed on the brake pedal left my right calf muscle tight. I could smell burning rubber and hoped my tires weren't destroyed. Exhaling deeply, I carefully exited, checking behind me to be sure no one was coming. The wind blew strands of hair in my eyes.

First I checked the front of the Subaru. Smoke or steam, I couldn't be sure which, given the smell from the tires, billowed from the sides of the hood. My headlights lit up the moss-covered guardrail, revealing deep cracks and chunks of missing cement. I wondered if the barrier would have held on impact. My left eye twitched.

Damn, I wish I knew something about cars. I quickly checked the driver's side. I couldn't fit between the car and wall, so I crouched near the front tire. It looked okay—I guess. Hopefully, they would hold long enough to get me home.

Light from the opposite direction reflected on the windshield. A car slowed on the left side of the road directly across from me.

I stood. Spots danced across my vision. I could feel my entire body sway. I grabbed the hood of the car to steady myself.

“Hey! You okay?” the driver on the other side of the road called from the window of his Cadillac.

“Yeah, I'm fine. I was run off the road. Trying to make sure my car's okay before I continue on.”

“Run off the road?”

I nodded. “You didn't happen to see a speeding car go by, did you?”

“Sure did,” the driver yelled across the highway. He looked to be in his seventies and wore a cowboy hat on his head. “Stupid kids. Must have been doing sixty when they passed me.”

He was probably right. It wasn't someone out to get me. More likely a group of teenagers out for an evening joyride and messing around.

“Did you see what the car looked like?” I asked.

The driver leaned out the window. “It was pretty hard to tell since they were flying by, but it looked like a van to me.”

A van, like the Race the States van? “Was it white by chance?”

“Yep. Sure was, miss.”

My heart skipped a beat. I stood in the rain dumbfounded. Someone from the crew must have been following me. Had they meant to scare me? Or was something more sinister at play? Had someone actually tried to harm me?

If so, who? Who had access to the van? I'd seen both Krissy and Dave drive it, but did anyone else have a set of keys? Could Alicia have followed me out here?

“You better get moving. Not a safe space to be stopped.” The driver motioned to me.

“Thanks.” I waved as I made my way to the driver's side. “I appreciate you stopping.”

He tipped his hat and drove off.

With a quick look behind me, I made sure the road was clear before opening the driver's side door and jumping in. I turned the engine and steered the car to the center of the lane. My hands felt clammy on the wheel. I exhaled to try to get my heart rate to return to normal.

Kids. It had to be kids. Right? But if it really had been teens out for a joyride you'd think they'd have blown past me. Why would they tail me for miles and try to run me off the road? That didn't sound like teenagers messing around.

A mile ahead I spotted the turnout to the parking lot for the always-popular Multnomah Falls. I could hear the roar of the falls before I could see them. Although it was late in the evening midweek the parking lot was still three-quarters full. Tourists with cameras and backpacks trekked from the parking lot under the highway to the falls.

I steered the Subaru into an empty space with a view of the Multnomah Falls Lodge across the street. Pops had loved the lodge. He used to take me out this way for Sunday drives and hot cocoa.

One of the first filler pieces I'd written for
Northwest Extreme
was about the lodge. It was constructed in the 1920s with Cascadian stones and Oregon timber. Its long slanted roof, cobblestones and peekaboo windows reminded me of a German village. The day lodge consisted of a gift shop and coffee shop and a public restroom on the main floor. For visitors who were more inclined to fine dining, the restaurant served world-class meals in the fireside room with heart-stirring views of the falls. In the summer months a patio opened with the powerfully peaceful sounds of the falls for the backdrop to dinner.

Multnomah Falls attracts over two million visitors from around the globe each year, easily making it Oregon's premier tourist attraction. The vast majority of visitors never make it to the top, since the falls actually consist of two steps. Most visitors make the short paved climb to the Benson Bridge, which rests above the base of the falls. It's not my favorite spot. The rustic moss-covered bridge was built of cement with slats for viewing the 64-foot drop beneath your feet. It does offer spine-tingling views of the first step that plummets 542 feet above, but it's not for the faint of heart.

One summer when I was about ten or twelve, Pops and I hiked to the Benson Bridge. He held my hand the entire way—urging me on despite my fear. I remember his salt and pepper beard, the tilt of his wire-frame glasses and how he smelled like citronella.

Throngs of tourists in raincoats pushed past us. When we finally made it to the foot of the Benson Bridge he leaned over and said, “Maggie, you've made it this far. Won't you feel proud of yourself to stand above the mighty falls? I'll hold your hand the whole way.”

He was commandingly patient with me (and everyone else he encountered). “Take your time, sweet one.”

I remember the feel of the spray from the icy water. Gam had told me the legend of the falls. Native Americans believed it was created for a princess who desired a private space to bathe. I imagined myself adorned with Indian jewelry, diving from the bridge into the pool of glacial runoff at the base. Flying freely through the narrow carved-out cliffs, I waved to the birds floating in the sky and the trees jutting from the basalt rock. Landing without a splash headfirst in the pristine water I swam to the bottom of the deep pool to touch the slippery rock base. Returning for air, I glided on my back in the sun for hours.

If the princess in my vision could dive into the plunging falls, I could walk across a bridge. Finding my determination, I thrust my hand in Pops' and crept onto the bridge. His hand was rough and his fingers stained with newsprint. He didn't let go despite my nails digging into his skin.

It took us twenty minutes to walk the span of the bridge. Pops held true to his promise. Coaxing and encouraging me the entire way. Once I was safely on solid ground, he treated me to a chocolate swirled ice-cream cone at the base of the falls to celebrate my mighty accomplishment.

Shaking myself to the present, I realized I'd completely forgotten about that trip until this moment. I turned off the engine and pried my hands from the steering wheel.

I needed to get out of the car. Maybe a coffee or soda from the gift shop would settle my rattled nerves.

I pulled my raincoat over my head and clicked the locks shut. Scurrying on a pedestrian bridge leading to the lodge, I passed by tourists with drenched hair returning from the jaunts to see the falls. Small hungry children whined and pleaded with parents for candy bars and rainbow-colored lollipops. A group of Japanese tourists with name badges and cameras posed for a group photo. I couldn't believe this many people were out past dusk on a random April evening. My eye continued to twitch. I rubbed my index finger on thin skin near my temple, but couldn't get it to stop.

The gift shop was equally packed. I ignored the collection of postcards, thimbles and Oregon black raspberry jam at the front of the store. A woman's voice came over a microphone announcing the shop would be closing in five minutes. Customers should please bring their purchases to the counter. This excited the foreign crowd as a line quickly queued.

I pushed my way to a wall of snacks and refrigerated drinks. I'd skipped dinner. It was 8:00. Grabbing a bag of Doritos, a can of Coke and tropical Skittles, I turned to take my place in line when someone bumped into me.

“Oooh, sorry,” I started to say when I locked eyes with Andrew.

His black raincoat dripped water onto the floor around him. He looked winded, as if he'd been running. His cheeks flushed red and small beads of perspiration formed on his forehead.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded, my mouth hanging open.

He wiped his sweat from his head.

I took a step back.

He stared at me for a second before glancing around the store. “Scouting locations for Krissy.”

Fear rose in my throat, tightening my vocal cords. I swallowed hard, trying to loosen them. What were the odds Andrew would be at Multnomah Falls at the same time as me? He must have tailed me. Was he trying to send me a message?

“You look kind of shaken up. Something wrong?” Andrew's words sounded innocent and thoughtful, but the snarl on his lips made me quiver.