Dead Five's Pass (3 page)

Janis ground her teeth, clenched her fists.

“What about me, Marc? When do I become a responsibility? When do I factor into your priorities? Just don’t go. I know they’re going to call; they’re short on numbers this season, but it’s dangerous out there and I don’t trust…”

She trailed off and looked away, wiping her face on the sleeve of her silk robe.

Me, her? Probably both.

Marcel walked to her, placed his hands around her waist. She flinched at his touch as if he were some stranger.

“I know you don’t trust her. I’m not sure I can.” Even saying that felt like a betrayal to her memory. “But it’s all the more reason why I have to go if they call. How can I let Carise go out there on her own? She’s a danger to herself, not least any climbers stuck out there in the pass.”

“She’s a drunk! Reckless, and she’ll get you killed too. Mark my words.”

Janis pushed him away, turned her back.

Marcel turned away and sighed. He knew Carise wasn’t reckless. That was just the way the newspapers spun the story of when that poor guy fell to his death. That could have been anyone in her position. The kid just didn’t attach the rope properly; it was just one of those things.

“We’ve been through this so many times,” Marcel said, trying to ease the situation. “Can’t you just give me this one and then next season I’ll make sure I’ve trained up a replacement? The season’s closing next week, and this will likely be the last rescue situation.”

Janis turned to look at him, her face like cold stone. “It seems you’ve made your choice then.” She pushed past him and slammed the bedroom door behind her.

He kicked out at a kitchen cabinet, smashing the door off its hinges.

“God dammit!”

He left the wooden door splintered on the kitchen linoleum and collapsed into his battered, old armchair in his study, slamming the door behind him.

The walls seemed closer every year, and the framed newspaper front pages yellowed a shade darker. It was so long ago that he was the hero of the town—him and Carise.

For five years straight, they successfully rescued every endangered climber and spelunker.

Superman and Lois, they were called. Him for his physical prowess and ability to traverse the landscape, and her for her unwavering loyalty and smarts.

That all died the night the kid did.

He haunted them both, but unlike Carise, Marcel didn’t hit the bottle. He just walled in the self-pity and grief, dreamed of what their baby would have looked like if it didn’t die inside her. Dreamed of what he could have done to have prevented it—if he had even known she was pregnant. Hell, she didn’t even know until it was too late. What else could he have done?

Marcel switched on his CB radio and scanned the channels for more information on the bloodied and frightened girl the truckers saw. She must have been with someone else. It’s not common at all for a single climber to go out alone.

While he scanned the conversations—most of it traffic complaints—he picked up an old, folded newspaper from his desk. It showed a picture of him and Carise smiling together on the mountainside, successfully escorting a stranded climber to the rescue chopper. It was a particularly daring and dangerous rescue, but in that moment of the photograph, he and Carise were never closer. Happiness was etched into each wrinkle on their faces.

Why must have it all gone so wrong so quickly?

Marcel put the paper away in the desk drawer and waited for the call.

* * *

Carise pulled into the small parking lot at the front of the station. The snow fell heavier and the temperature dropped to ten below. It’d be far colder than that on the mountainside if anyone was exposed to the frozen winds. She pulled her collar up and stepped from her truck.

The station was surrounded and protected somewhat from the weather by a ring of yellow aspens and larches. Their thin, tall trunks on three sides of the single-story wooden cabin made the place feel like it was in the middle of nowhere. And yet just five minutes away was the town of Smokeywood. Only the tracks in the dirt road indicated that anyone traveled to and from the remote station.

It’d been some time since Carise had rendezvoused here. She stepped through wet snow towards the entrance, her nerves strained. She didn’t know what kind of reception she would get. But it was a good sign that they called her.

Inside the station it smelled of hot lemon and honey.

Marge sat at her desk with a computer monitor and a switchboard in front of her. Her wiry gray hair teased into a mock beehive poked up from behind the monitor. Steam rose all around her, infusing the air with her special blend of tea.

“Want a little something stronger in that?” Carise said as she approached the desk. Trying on her best
you’ve not seen me in a while but I’m okay
smile.

Marge’s wrinkled face cracked a wide, genuine grin.

Her outdated and overly large plastic spectacle frames—purple no less—rode up the bridge of her nose as her eyes crinkled to narrow slits beneath old folds. She held out a hand, leathery brown and spotted, the skin thinning so Carise could see the blue veins beneath. It had a slight tremble to it, and Carise knew it wasn’t from the cold. Marge was pushing 80 and yet she had such light about her. In contrast, Carise felt like a lump of coal made from the heaviest iron.

Still, she took Marge’s hand and embraced it between both her hands.

“It’s so good to see you again, darlin’,” Marge said with all sincerity. “How’re ya doing now?”

It’d been the first time in months anyone had asked that, and yet Carise didn’t really have a suitable answer, so she just nodded and said, “I’m doing okay. It’s real good to see you too.”

“Now about that something stronger, what have you got?” Now Marge’s face was all mischievous and secretive. The old girl always loved a little nip of something in her tea, and Carise couldn’t blame her. Must be cold sitting there all day and most nights manning the switchboard and phones.

Ol’Marge was like the standing stones in Dead Five’s Pass. She just belonged. Was seemingly here before anyone else, and would still be here after everyone had left.

“How about a little of this?”

Carise took the half bottle of whiskey from inside her jacket, and realized she didn’t remember taking it from the glove box of her truck. Was it getting that bad that she couldn’t even recall reaching for the bottle? Or was this another bottle that she kept in her jacket’s inner pocket?

Marge held out her mug of lemon and honey tea and accepted a shot.

Carise handed her the bottle. “You should probably keep this, you know, just in case it gets a little too cold and you fancy a tipple.”

Marge’s eyes widened slightly as she took the bottle. She nodded while she placed it in the desk drawer almost like a mother putting away a child’s toy after they’ve been naughty. It was a kind gesture, really. It was obvious between them that Marge suspected she was more than just a casual drinker, and that was the first act of support Carise had had since she started drinking again. She appreciated the lack of judgment from the old girl.

“Thanks, Marge.”

“I don’t know whatever you mean, m’girl.” She twinkled another kindly smile and then got down to business. “We’ve recovered the girl, but please, prepare yourself. The poor thing’s in quite a state and we can’t really get much out of her. Frank isn’t exactly trained for such things. He has more empathy with his horse than a fellow human. All we know is that she was with her boyfriend. He was the one who made the initial call. But we can’t contact him now. We need to get as much info from her as possible. But take your time; she’s real scared.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all we ask, darlin’. She’s in interview room one.” Marge pointed across the reception to her left. There were only two rooms and room one was the first.

As Carise reached for the handle, Frank rushed out of the door, skin pale as the morning’s fresh snow and sweating like melting ice. His long gray hair stuck to his face; the lank strands following the profile of his gaunt cheeks.

He looked up at her with barely a look of recognition, whispered, “Good luck,” with a coarse and tired voice. A voice of defeat and…fear?

4

Michael heaved again as he helped bury the bits of body. It seemed respectful to bury the remains.

He stared up the pass, stupefied by the situation, and what could have possibly done that to someone. Dave, having found the body, must have sensed his anxiety, related to his panic. He gripped Michael’s shoulder and bent his head down to look into his eyes.

“Mike, take a deep breath. We’re gonna call this in and move on. We’ll be all right, eh?”

“Thanks, Brick. This is kinda fucked up.”

“Yeah.”

Nate came out from the tent, followed by Mouse. “No damned signal, guys,” Nate said, waving his cell phone, trying to light up those bars.

“Well, I can’t stay here—with them.” Mike pointed to the shallow grave and stones, which now seemed to leer down at him with malicious intent. He tried to tell himself they were just rocks, but there was something entirely alien about them.

Mouse nodded his head in agreement and said, “And I don’t want to wait around until whatever destroyed that poor bastard decides it’s still hungry.”

“You think he was snapped and mangled for food?” Michael asked.

“Jesus, guys,” Nate said, dropping his arms to his side before wiping the snow from his brow. “Stop trying to spook each other, eh? We have no idea what’s gone on. But I agree anyway, we should move on and see if we can get a signal. Going by these satellite images, the cave’s just up through the pass. It shouldn’t take us any more than half an hour, even in this shitty weather. If you wanna go back to the truck, that’s a three-hour trek. I suggest we go on.”

Probably because Nate came from a wealthy and respected family and perhaps also because he was one of the university’s most gifted medical students, he seemed to have an authority about him that the others—Brick and Mouse—looked to. Michael supposed he did also, to an extent. And what he was saying made logical sense.
That’s what good doctors do,
he thought: make logical decisions in difficult situations. As much as he wanted to get to his truck and get out of there, he couldn’t think of any logical reason why it was a better choice than finding shelter and hopefully a phone signal. The poor guy buried under the snow deserved to be found, identified, and laid to rest properly.

“Okay. You’re right, Nate. As long as you’re confident of navigating us there, I say we find shelter in the cave.”

“I’m confident I’ll find the way,” Nate said, with the barest hint of a smile on his face.

Michael was appreciative of Nate’s attempt to keep things calm, but even he could tell Nate felt the strain and that underlying terror as much as the others did. It was like an unspoken energy that no one dared to acknowledge lest it manifest itself and slaughter them all.

“Right then. Onward to the cave. Lead the way, Nate,” Michael said.

All four cleared away their belongings into their backpacks, abandoned the tent, which in truth wasn’t up to this weather, and headed up the pass.

“This will be easy,” Brick said with his low, rumbling and portentous voice. “Just follow the poor bastard’s footsteps.” He shined his flashlight ahead into the pass, the beam of light making shadows of the deep tracks.

He was right, the victim had left a trail up through the pass.

“What if he didn’t come from the cave?” Mouse asked.

“Given all the posts on that climbing forum, I think this is probably the guy. There was no one else talking about coming up here. I’ll double check as we go—just in case.”

They walked in single file like a march of beetles following a trail to shelter, rope to rope.

Fear teased and pinched at Michael’s psyche. He focused on one step, then another, all the time trying to ignore the feeling of doom that sat within his guts. He looked at the others, but they didn’t seem as bothered: Nate was talking with Brick about some trivial hockey thing, and Mouse was humming along to his iPod.

Michael said a silent prayer to himself, all the while trying to get the image of walking to his grave out of his mind.

* * *

The stench of rotting meat assailed Carise’s nostrils. The interview room was thick with it, sweet and putrefying. It caught in the back of her throat, stuck there like the aftertaste of curdled milk. Carise blinked away the tears in her eyes, focused on the girl.

She sat huddled in the corner, her arms wrapped around her raised knees, her face buried against her thighs. Her wet black hair, tangled with twigs and dirt, hung down the front of her legs.

Her trousers were shredded lengthways. Between the sliced fabric were the signs of flesh wounds: black and red strips, mostly dry and clotted now.

The room was well-lit by a series of overhead tube lights. Those tubes, along with the white tiled walls and stark furniture—just a pine-wood bench and table with a single chair—gave the place the feel of a psychiatric clinic. Carise tried not to dwell on that memory too much, despite how much it reminded her of her grief counseling sessions.