The Mountains Bow Down (31 page)

Then it hit her. Her hands flew to her face and stayed there.

I nodded.

“What's wrong?” Claire demanded. “What's going on? Is Nadine dying?”

“Dying?” I said. “Who said anything about dying?”

“I can feel a spirit of death on this boat. And between you and me, Nadine looks half gone.”

“You know what's half gone, Claire? Your mind.” I pointed a finger at her. “And it's because of you she's suffering, opening your big mouth about my job and contacting my dad and now—”

“Raleigh,” she said, “somebody's going to die on this boat.”

“Somebody
did
, you moron.”

“Raleigh!” cried my aunt.

Claire took her arm. “Tell her, Charlotte. Tell her how I can predict these things. Remember how I saved Beryl?”

My aunt said, “I told you how she saved Beryl—”

“Your cat.”

Claire said, “I'm connected to
all
creatures.”

“Don't go near my mother.” I narrowed my eyes. “If I see you within fifty yards, I'll throw you overboard.”

Claire stomped out of the room, then slammed the door between our cabins.

A beautiful sound.

Then I told my aunt about the chapel, my mother carving her face. How the doctor subdued her and how she wouldn't be leaving the medical clinic until we reached Seattle. By the time I finished, Aunt Charlotte was leaning against the wall, looking like she might slip down the length of it.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

She said nothing. She only sighed. And her bosom heaved with the depth of it.

Chapter Twenty-seven

I
crossed the atrium with my hands in my pockets, covering the stones and feeling a heat radiating from them, searing my conscience. I climbed the spiral stairwell and vaguely heard the ship's historian down in the lobby giving a lecture on Skagway, tomorrow's port of call. Gateway to the 1890 Yukon gold rush, Skagway was a highlight on the travel itinerary.

But not mine.

I took the stones to get answers. What I got were questions.

Every cabin contained a safe, why didn't Judy Carpenter use theirs? Better yet, why did she bring these gems on a cruise, when they couldn't be worn? And why did Milo give her a jewelry box, with a loving inscription, right before filing for divorce?

By the time I reached the top of the stairs, more questions mounted and I felt the familiar sensation that I was holding a large map marked by a giant X—and no paths showing me how to get there. In some ways, every one of my cases felt like that, as if for eight years I'd been waking up to some continuing dark adventure that began: Here be monsters. That lost territory would require crossing again and again, and questions would always outnumber answers. Discouragement would claw at hope. Fear tearing at joy. And my only comfort was paradox. Deep inside, I could sense the unfathomable certainty that life did not rise randomly. By its own laws of mathematics and physics, the natural world disqualified itself from statistical accident. Planetary splendor above and atomic structure below, a world operating with breathtaking genius and design, all of this implying necessarily a designer. Chaos came in the moment, from my paltry human perspective, and most important of all, when the monsters roared, when I flailed haplessly through the swamps, forever asking outsized questions, somebody stood ready to provide comfort.

I was walking toward the movie set when the full burden of my choice struck, hitting the back of my knees like a lead pipe. I was impatient. Headstrong. Greedy. I was greedy for answers. And for control. Taking these stones could get me fired from the FBI, and that wasn't near the worst of it. My choice sent me into exile, severed from the one force capable of repelling the monsters. And walking with me.

The crowds swarmed down the promenade, shuffling between theaters and souvenir stores and bars. I moved through them, stepping over to a window. The sea had the hard look of slate, blue and gray, and when I lowered my head, offering up my surrender, I heard somebody yell, “Whales!”

I looked up.

It was like yelling “Fire!”

The hordes stampeded the promenade, rushing to my window, stepping on my toes, kicking my ankles. They smashed their faces to the Plexiglas.

“Where?!”

“Over there!”

“Where?”

“To the left—see!”

Staring over their heads, I watched the slate fracture and a slick black hill rose, climbing to a parabolic peak. A geyser blasted, spraying white mist over the water, and just as that whale descended, whipping a fantail, another rose and followed the same undulating pattern. In all, four whales came swimming alongside the ship, performing a sine-wave ballet so elegant it looked like a dream.

“Oh, look, it's a family!”

One whale. My mother wanted to see one whale on this cruise. One. Here were four. And the medical clinic had no windows.

Moving once more against the crowd, whose caps identified them as phillumenists, I walked the now-empty promenade and opened my phone. I resisted the part of my brain that wanted to call McLeod and find out the status of the blue bracelet. Maybe it was seeing that whale pod.

And maybe it was repentance.

But I didn't call McLeod. I called my sister Helen.

“Dr. Harmon,” she answered on the fourth ring.

One of those annoying PhDs who grafted the letters to themselves, Helen worked as a full professor of painting at Virginia Commonwealth University.

I said, “It's me.”

“What's wrong?”

Our relationship limped along beside our mother's mental health, or lack. Whenever Nadine Shaw Harmon's fragile world cracked, I informed Helen. Because Helen was busy. Helen was always very busy.

“Mom's in the medical clinic. Under sedation.”

“Oh, that's just great.”

“Helen, she was hearing voices—she was hurting herself.”

“Didn't I tell you not to take that cruise?”

Well, yes, she did. But as usual, my sister was conveniently skirting the specifics. She told us not to take the cruise—until July. When her work schedule opened up. And Helen deciding not to come meant Claire took her place. Claire, the cross to bear. Claire, who kicked my mother over the edge.

I wanted to tell Helen it was all
her
fault. But I wanted something else more. Taking a deep, deep, breath, I blew it out. “Do me a favor. Please.”

“What?”

“Call Dr. Simpson.”

“You mean there's no doctor on that ship?”

“There's a doctor. But I'd like some advice from somebody who knows her.”

“Advice—about what?”

“How to get her home.”

“The same way you got her out there. On an airplane.”

“Let me explain the numbers, Helen. Six hours at thirty-five thousand feet with zero ability to cope.”

“Don't get mad at me, you were the one insisting on that cruise,” she said. “And for that matter why don't
you
call Dr. Simpson.”

“I can't remember the name of his retirement home.” No longer a practicing physician, my parents' doctor was the only one my mother trusted, and even that trust was tentative. But the man never locked her up.

“You're asking
me
to call every nursing home in Richmond,” she said.

“Helen, they've got restraints on her arms. Her biggest fear just came true. Don't you understand?”

“Oh, I understand. I understand that you didn't take care of her. Now you wondering if I'll take over your responsibility.”

Actually, I was wondering if grace was overrated. In which case I could just kill her.

But my mouth stayed closed.

Finally she said, “I'll see what I can do.”

And hung up.

The crowd outside the Tiki Bar had diminished, probably because of the whale sighting, but Vinnie Pinnetta wasn't backing off his bouncer routine. As I approached, he crossed his thick arms and dropped his voice to a rough whisper.

“You think you can just come and go? This is a live set.”

“I'll just stand here and yell for Jack.”

He leaned forward. The brow bone came out like an awning. “I know what you're up to.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You're the type can't let nobody have any fun.”

“Fun. You mean fun like murder?”

“When somebody kills themself, it ain't nobody's fault. You Fed types just wanna make points, pinning this on somebody. Make it look like you're working.”

After dealing with Helen, the guy was child's play. I smiled. “Are you going to let me in, or should I start yelling?”

He stepped aside.

Hands in my pockets, I searched the Tiki Bar for Jack and found him standing behind the second cameraman, across from Martin Webb and Sandy Sparks. The director was watching Larrah Sparks act out the scene behind the grass-skirted bar. She pulled a beer tap, filling a glass, then she wiped her hand across her forehead—to show exhaustion, I guessed. Setting the glass on the bar, she pushed it toward Milo. He sat at the end, palm open. Foam dribbling down the glass counter, leaving a wet trail to his hand.

Larrah began wiping down the counter. She leaned forward, vigorously scrubbing the bar, which explained the purpose behind that teeny-tiny top.

“Lean down more,” Webb whispered, directing. I'd learned that these comments could be edited from the sound later.

At the crowded tables, the extras playing cards whistled a catcall. Larrah looked up, showing surprise—her blue eyes darting around the bar, not very believably.

“Yo, Blondie,” an extra called out. “Get over here.”

But she moved away. Webb raised a hand, motioning to the second camera. It was manned by a younger man with the bushy blond ponytail. At the director's signal, the cameraman drew closer to the bar.

“Lean down,” Webb whispered again.

Larrah leaned down, exposing more cleavage.

I glanced at Jack. He met my eyes, then began taking slow steps backward to where I stood.

“Blondie!” hollered the same extra. “Get over here!”

He was burly. Unshaven.

She gave him a dewy expression. “What do you need?”

“
You
. Over here. Now.”

She toughened up. Too quickly, if anybody wanted my opinion. But they didn't. Not anymore.

“You want a drink, come get it.”

The extra stood, kicking back his chair. Unfortunately the chair was one of those heavy captain's style, weighted at the bottom, and rather than topple, it tilted. Catching the arms of the chair beside it, the chair hung, comedically suspended above the floor.

The extra waited.

“Keep rolling!” The director gritted his teeth.

The extra swept his boot into the chair's leg, crashing it to the floor. When he turned to face the bar, his neck looked wider than his head. And the brain inside that small skull convinced him to kick more chairs. None went down easily.

“Stop with the chairs!” Webb hissed. “Just get to the bar!”

The man lumbered toward Larrah. “Nobody tells me ‘No.'”

She shook her platinum mane. “I just did.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. What'll you have?”

“What'll I have?”

Reaching over the bar, he grabbed her long hair. Larrah screamed and clawed at his arms, then clamped both hands on his thick wrists. Her own biceps flexed with impressive strength. The burly actor seemed to struggle holding on to her.

He delivered the line again: “What'll I have?”

They were both glancing down the bar. So were the extras. And Webb. And Sandy Sparks next to him.

Everybody looking at Milo.

The actor was draining the glass of beer.

“Milo!” Webb was seething, his face purpling. “That's your cue—
What'll I have!
”

Slamming down the empty glass, the actor jumped off the bar stool and raced toward Larrah. A ragged run, nearly sideways.

Maybe it's the shoes
, I thought doubtfully.

Reaching the struggle, he punched the extra in the head. Dazed, the man released Larrah, dropping her like a block behind the bar.

Staggering backward, tripping over the chairs he'd kicked, the extra clutched his right eye.

“I'm seein' stars!” he cried.

“Cut!” Martin Webb launched out of his chair. “Cut-cut! Cut!”

Milo leaned against the bar, his mouth puckering.

“What are you
doing
?” the director yelled. “You don't
hit
him.”

“Yes I do. It's in the script.”

“Not
then
! Not until the fight at the table!”

Milo shrugged. “I improvised.”

Webb grabbed his hair.

“It's a fight scene, Martin.”

“Improvised? You
improvised
? I'll tell you when to improvise.” Webb was screaming again. “And quit drinking the props!”

“You told me to stay in character. My character's drowning his sorrows. Your words.”