Scene of the Climb (15 page)

I bit my lip. “No,” I lied. “Grabbing snacks for my drive home.” I held the bag of chips. “How'd you get out here anyway? Weren't you supposed to give your statement? And wait, you don't have a car.” My eye twitched with rapidfire.

He laughed. “I got a ride. Cool place. You sure you're okay. You seem kind of weird. Something wrong with your eye?”

“I'm fine. Really hungry.” I tore into the chips.

“Looks like you've got the junk food bug too.” Andrew held up a handful of candy bars, chips and nuts.

Where was his camera gear? I'd never seen him without his earpiece and camera.

“Are you planning to film here at the falls?”

“Nope. Krissy sent me to prep the trail for the next shoot. Told me to scout this area on the way back. You know her, always focused on the best shot. She must tell me ten times a day, ‘On this production we air on the side of coverage first.'” He said this in a high-pitched tone, mimicking her voice. It unnerved me.

“It's not even her production. Dave's my boss, but don't tell her that.”

“Well, I better get moving,” I said, backing away, with a mouthful of chips.

“You do that. Be careful out there. Roads are slick.” He lumbered his way to the front doors and cocked his head over his shoulder as he pushed them open.

I drew a breath. Did he mean that as a warning?

Andrew had most definitely followed me here and run me off the road. Now I needed to figure out why.

The next morning I awoke with a start, sure I was late for work again. Remembering it was Saturday I let out a long breath.

Still, I had to let Greg know I'd get him my rough draft. It was overdue. What was wrong with me? I'd been given a break and couldn't make a deadline. Not a great way to make a first impression.

I felt like a schoolgirl as I left a message on Greg's voice mail outlining my plans and promising I'd have him a draft by end of day.

With that task complete, I sent Matt a text.

 

Time for a quick hike this morning?

 

Matt's phone, like his bike, was an extra appendage. It never ventured more than an inch or two away from his body. He must be asleep or in the shower since he didn't respond within seconds of receiving my text.

While I waited for Matt's response, I padded into the kitchen and filled Jill's ebony teakettle with water. French press sounded like the morning revival I was in need of. Water fumed on the stove as I ground nutty chocolate-scented whole beans. Jill's kitchen could have belonged to a five-star chef. It was outfitted with top-of-the-line appliances and gadgets, like the Burr grinder I held in my hand. On sale you'd be lucky to find one for less than $100. With the exception of the grinder (Jill was as addicted to coffee as me) the professional kitchen tools were completely wasted on Jill. Her meals consisted of salads and gobs of candy. Most of her culinary accessories sat unused in drawers lined with French parchment paper.

The kettle screeched on the stove, causing me to jump and spill freshly ground coffee on the pristine counter. Last night's run-in with Andrew had me shaken. I wished Jill was home. She was spending the weekend at Will's beach house. Her note promised she'd check in later.

I punched in Sheriff Daniels' number. I had to tell him that Andrew was stalking me. His phone went straight to voice mail, so I left him a message explaining my encounter with Andrew at Multnomah Falls.

Scooping the beans into the stainless-steel composting bin, I shook the rest into the base of the French press. As I carefully poured scalding water over the aromatic grounds my cell phone dinged.

I secured the lid of the French press and slowly pushed the grounds to the bottom. This process struck me as magical. I was literally turning ordinary water into thick coffee with my hands. I sucked in the aroma through my nose, and resisted the urge to pour myself a cup immediately. It needed to linger, but it smelled like heaven.

Allowing the flavors of the grounds to mesh with the steaming water, I hurried over to my phone.

Matt's message read, YOU want to HIKE?!

I shot back, No. I need to go back to Angel's Rest. You game?

Sure. An hour?

 

Perfect. Meet here?

 

Nope. On my bike. Gotta change. My place. 10:15?

 

Done. See you soon.

 

I looked at my watch. It wasn't quite 9:00. Plenty of time to enjoy my coffee and shower.

 

 

A little over an hour later, I pulled into Matt's driveway. He lives in a row of town houses on the east side of the river where rent's half the cost of the Pearl. The area is cute with bungalows, tree-lined streets and train stops every few blocks. Matt typically bikes over the Hawthorne Bridge to
The O
's headquarters downtown. Or on a rainy day, he can hop on MAX and take the train across.

I tugged on my Merrells. This was the first time since our disastrous hike I'd attempted to put them back on. Three layers of Band-Aids and moleskin should do the trick.

Matt stuck his head out the balcony doors from the top floor, “Hey, one sec. I'll be right down. You want me to drive?”

“Sure.”

I locked my car and grabbed my day pack from the trunk. The early-morning sun had baked yesterday's rain off the pavement. Sunglasses were a necessity. Hard to believe after last night's deluge. I dug through my bag for a pair of brown-rimmed shades and pushed them over my nose. Maybe I could hide my fear behind them. The thought of climbing Angel's Rest again made me short of breath, but I had to see if I'd missed something on the trail. And the fact that I was willingly climbing the peak again must mean I'd gained a small notch of confidence in my outdoor skills, right?

Matt bounced down the stairs in his standard attire—shorts and a
GEEKS RULE
T-shirt. “Changing” must have meant swapping his Converse for the hiking boots laced on his feet. “Nice outfit, Megs. You look like an official adventurer.”

I probably did with my expensed REI hiking gear and the Merrells.

“I can't believe you're willing to go for a hike.” He walked around the side of his red Ford truck and unlocked the passenger side door. “Hop on in,” he said as he held the door open for me.

In the sunlight his blond hair streaked with white. I realized it's much, much lighter than mine. Perfectly acceptable for dating. We're off by at least three shades.

“I know. I'll fill you in on the drive. It's kind of a long story.”

“Got it.” He secured my door and disappeared behind the truck.

It took longer than it should have for him to get in. I unbuckled my seat belt and turned to look out the window. He was kneeling in front of my car, examining the headlights.

“What are you doing back there?” I called from the window.

“Your bumper is kind of crooked and your front tires look really worn down.” Matt stood and came around to the driver's side. The truck leaned to the left as he squeezed in. “You need a tune-up.”

I laughed.

Matt looked at me in surprise. “Look, I'm only trying to keep you safe.”

“Sorry,” I said, reaching over and patting his knee. “It's not that.” I sighed. “It's a long story. You want to head out in the direction of the Gorge and I'll fill you in?”

Matt maneuvered the truck in the direction of Angel's Rest. I filled him in on the events of last night.

When I finished, he shifted around a corner and gave me a wary look, “Jesus, Megs, this is getting serious. But why go back? I don't get it.”

“I want to see if there's anything on the trail. It's not raining. Maybe we can make our way to the deer trail? Maybe I can figure out what the missing photo is. Andrew had to have left a clue somewhere.”

We caught air. The Ford hit a small bump in the twisted road. Old growth tree roots snarled to the surface of the cracked pavement. I held on to the side handle above my window, narrowly avoiding hitting my head on the top canopy.

“Sorry about that,” Matt said, shifting once again, slowing. “You're playing with fire here. I think it's time to call the sheriff.”

“I did. I left him a message this morning. You don't understand.” I hated the pleading tone in my voice. “I have to find real evidence. I know it's Andrew. I have to prove it.”

“Don't freak out when I say this, okay?”

“I won't. What?”

“I'm serious. You have a tendency to . . . well . . . flip out on me.”

The truck lurched. A small deer sprinted across the highway and disappeared into the trees on the other side of the road. Matt's quick reflexes spared both us and the deer. According to Gam, seeing a deer in the wild was a sacred blessing in Native American cultures. I'd take any sign I could get.

“Good save.” I exhaled and hit the dashboard. “That was a close one.”

Matt clutched the steering wheel, his eyes focused on the road ahead.

“I promise, I'm not going to freak out. Tell me what you're thinking.”

“Okay, here's the deal.” Matt's eyes didn't glance in my direction. They stayed firmly glued to the highway.

“Maybe you should listen to your boss and leave it alone. This is getting too dangerous.

“But,” I interrupted, “I thought you said we should work on this together.”

“I know, I know. Calm down. See, you're doing it.” Matt laughed and beamed at me before returning his gaze ahead.

“I'm not saying you can't look into the contestants. I mean, you have to for your feature, but you can't just go around accusing someone of murder.”

He steered past a group of hikers parking on the side of the road.

“Here's the thing, Megs. I have a feeling you're wrapped up in this because of your dad. It's like you have to prove something. I'm worried about you.”

Rather than inflaming me, his input made sense. He was right. I did have something to prove, for Pops, for myself. I stared out the window allowing his words to sink in.

 

 

I'll never forget where I was when I received the call about the accident.

I'd been packing my college apartment. For months Jill and I had plotted our post-graduation plans. We were heading south for a month. Her internship wasn't due to start until early August, and I had no job prospects at the time. I'd scrimped and saved enough cash from my collegiate newspaper job to afford gas and food for the road trip. Plus, thanks to those glossy graduation announcements Mother forced me to send out, checks from relatives and family friends poured into my mailbox for weeks before graduation. As much as I wanted to join my friends at weeknight bar raids, I opted to tuck it all away for our post-grad blowout.

Our plan was to pack everything. I'd drop off my stuff and store it in the farmhouse until we returned. Jill had already secured her Pearl apartment. She'd leave her stuff there and we'd hit the road.

“Thirty Days South” we named our trip. Starting from Portland we'd drive south, wherever the road led us. We'd eventually land in Mexico, but whether the route took us through California or Texas we'd let our instincts decide. We had to do something radical before we dove into the working world.

Then the call came.

I was sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor between half-filled cardboard boxes. Finals were complete. The window was open, letting in the June sun, the scent of blooming strawberries in our window boxes and the sound of college kids initiating summer vacation. I'd dumped the contents of my dresser drawers in front of me and was trying to decide which ratty, collegiate T-shirts to keep and which to deliver to the Goodwill on our way out of town.

My cell phone beeped—Mother. Ugh. She probably wanted to lecture me for the hundredth time on how much better use of my summertime I could make job hunting versus embarking on a childish trip.

“Maggie.” Her voice was shaky. She never called me Maggie. Pops called me Maggie. Something was wrong.

“What's going on?” I clutched a tie-dyed T-shirt in my hand. It could probably go.

“Are you sitting down?”

I looked around the cluttered space. “Yeah . . . why?”

“It's your father. There's been an accident.”

I dropped the T-shirt and punched the speaker button on my phone. “What kind of an accident?”

“He was on his bike. Riding to town. Someone hit him.”

Pops was regimented when it came to safety. He had more lights on his bike than a small plane. He always wore a helmet.

A mild calm came over my body. He'd probably broken his arm or something.

Pops rode his bicycle all around town. He owned a beat-up rust red Ford pickup truck, but he preferred his bike. The bike was like his second child. He spent hours in the barn tuning it. I'm not sure how professional cyclists would categorize the bike—a hybrid? Pops found it at one of the swap meets he frequented. It was a classic road bike he outfitted with dirt track tires. When I'd stop by for Sunday dinners, I'd usually find him in the barn, covered in grease. He liked to tinker. He said it cleared his mind, made room for the words to come out.

Dead air came through the phone. The sound of my classmates laughing on the common lawns outside felt sinister.

“What is it? Did he break something?”

More silence. I grabbed the shirt again and balled it in my hands. “Mother?” It felt like my throat was closing in. “Mom?”

“He's dead, Maggie. He's dead.”

Not possible. It couldn't be true. Not Pops. He was safe. He was always safe on the road.

“Maggie? Did you hear me?”

My hands felt funny. I'd wrapped the tie-dyed T-shirt tightly around them, cutting off all circulation. They were turning purple in color and losing feeling. I didn't care.

“It can't be true.”

“I'm so sorry.”

The next weeks were a blur. I'm not sure who packed the rest of my stuff. Probably Jill or Matt. I moved in a daze through the funeral. We cancelled our road trip. I moved in with Jill, unable to face seeing the farmhouse without Pops or his bicycle in it.

Instead of spending the summer on the road, I curled in a ball on Jill's couch. I didn't shower for days. I ignored the sound of children playing in the fountains below and the long evenings of sunlight. I refused to speak to Mother. She called daily. I hit “ignore.”

Jill begged me to come to barbeques, a weekend at the coast or for coffee outside on the deck. Gam urged me to join her for walks along the river, healing workshops, or for a slice of her homemade cherry pie. I refused. Pops was gone. My world had tilted on its axis and I didn't care if it spun itself into oblivion.

No tears would come. I tried pinching myself. I tried force—an attempt at guttural sobs like dry heaves. None would flow.

After weeks of cocooning myself in Pops' blue striped pajamas without consideration of a shower, Jill dragged me into the tub. She'd drawn a warm bath infused with jasmine oil, lit candles and opened the bathroom windows to allow the evening breeze to enter. My sleep (the little I'd been conscious of) had been tangled with nightmares and strange dreams. I must have dozed off in the bath, lulled into a moment of peace from the water cleansing my sweat-stained skin. It might have been a dream. It could have been a vision. But, with my head resting on the cotton pillow Jill secured to the edge of the claw-foot tub, I allowed my eyes to close. My entire body froze as if I'd been paralyzed. For a second I panicked. I tried to wiggle my toes. Nothing. I tried to move my head from side to side. Nothing. Pops' deep kind voice resonated in my ears. I relaxed into paralysis, afraid any slight movement might make his voice disappear.