Trial by Ice and Fire (18 page)

TWENTY-THREE

T
HE LITTLE
V
ICTORIAN HOUSE
feels way too small inside. Like the walls are slowly moving in, the ceiling dropping down an inch each time I blink my eyes. I want to be outdoors, where I can sense the upward pull of the sky and gulp lungfuls of fresh air. But I endure it so that they'll think I'm all right. That everything's just fine.

An entry hall the size of a walk-in closet leads either into a living room, into a cramped kitchen, or up a narrow flight of stairs to a second floor. The tiny living room is furnished with a pair of oversized slipcovered chairs and a matching couch. The three pieces are crowded with chunky pillows. McGee has sunk so deep into one of the chairs that I'll probably have to use my truck's winch to get him out. The other chair embraces Sheriff Buchanan's large backside. Cali and I sit side by side on the couch, with Lester getting stroked on Cali's lap. The cat glares up at me while wrinkling his nose disgustedly at the lupine scent on my clothes.

“You should get checked out at the hospital,” the sheriff tells me.

“I'm fine.”

McGee is watching me with his wet, assessing eyes. In his gaze I sense something beyond the normal measuring of what's going on in his protégé's head and heart. Concern, I think. I'm not sure if it's for my well-being or for the office's.

On the wall facing me is the framed cover from an old issue of
Life
magazine. The ash-streaked face of a man is shown with a burning forest behind him. “The West on Fire!” the caption reads. The date of the issue is August 1974. I recognize the man pictured there from the cover photo of
Smoke Jump
. The father Cali never knew.

Above the fireplace's mantel is a battered Pulaski—a sort of combination shovel and ax, used by smoke jumpers and Hot Shot crews for cutting fire lines—that could have belonged to either Cali or her dad. Law-school casebooks and novels teem on the full-length shelves running over two entire walls, along with trophies and plaques honoring Cali's achievements on slalom runs. There are candid pictures of her and her mother, photos her mother must hate. In each of them the actress is caught in a rare awkward moment. In one her mouth is open as if she's speaking to someone out of sight. In another her eyes are closed. In a third she's caught at an unflattering angle that shows lines of flesh beneath her chin.

“I've talked to the rangers and they've come up with nothing,” the sheriff is saying. “It was probably too late by the time they got word. The tourists that go to the Taggert Lake parking lot usually just drive in, snap a few pictures, and leave. They couldn't find anyone who even remembered seeing
your
truck, Agent Burns. They say they'll keep asking around, though.”

It had taken us a long time to stagger back to the Pig. Without skis—mine were buried somewhere beneath a thousand tons of snow and Cali had abandoned hers up on the ridge—we postholed through knee-deep snow like drunken cowboys for much of the way. When we finally made it down, the empty lot in which we'd left the truck in the predawn hours was half-full of cars and RVs. I used the cell phone to call the rangers and the sheriff and then started canvasing the crowd myself. People had shied away from me, not liking something they saw in my manner or in my eyes. In any event, I'd met with no better results. No one had noticed Armalli's Ford F-150 pickup. No one had seen a big Teton County Sheriff's SUV.

Before I can formulate a civil way to put it, McGee bluntly asks for me, “Was Charles Wokowski on duty this morning?”

Buchanan stiffens in her chair, a scowl sharpening her matronly features and tone. “He supervised the swing shift, Mr. McGee. Midnight to ten
A
.
M
. I saw him myself when I came in this morning at nine.”

McGee looks at me with his shaggy eyebrows raised high as he rolls his cane back and forth between his spread legs. Wondering if I'm disappointed, I guess. And I am. Wokowski is undoubtedly in the clear now. For this, at least. The faint etch of his name on my suspect list has faded completely. There's no way he could have hiked two hours, fired either at me or the slope, and gotten down and back to town by nine o'clock without anyone taking note of his absence.

“And I think you owe him an apology, Agent Burns,” the sheriff adds. Her voice is stiff with straightforward Western reprove.

After meeting her gaze for a moment I nod slowly in agreement.

I still don't like him. I'm still feeling the sting of his insults. And I still think he's pursuing Cali too hard even if it's not with criminal intent. What about the old man, Cali's defendant, falling down some stairs shortly after Jim lost track of Wook? But I don't allow myself to dwell on it. Now, more than anything, I want to find Armalli and make him pay for burying me beneath that slope.

There's a tentative knock at the door. Cali starts to get up to answer it but both the sheriff and I simultaneously shake our heads at her. Being smaller and quicker, even when this stiff and sore, I beat the sheriff into the entry hall.

Standing on the porch is Bill Laughlin, Cali's self-appointed uncle, dressed in jeans, boots, and a short-sleeved Western shirt. I open the door.

“Heard about the avalanche,” he tells me in his laconic manner, staring down at me without smiling. “Came over here straightaway.”

“Cali's fine. Me, too. But thanks for coming.”

With more than expected gruffness he says, “You should've known better than to take her up to that aspect. Even in weather like this, it could slide till July. You should've known that.”

Rebuffed, I back away from the door and motion him in. He's right. I should have known better. Especially after I dug that pit and saw the signs. And I sure as hell shouldn't have assumed it was only Roberto following us.

Once I get out of the way, the sheriff greets the mountain legend formally but with obvious respect. Cali, having heard his voice, comes into the entry hall behind her to embrace him. He stoops down to return her hug with his long, corded arms wrapping around her waist. While doing so he gives me another gray-eyed look. I notice that one of his pupils looks enlarged, and I wonder if his aneurysm is bleeding.

The cramped living room is packed to capacity with the five of us in it. The sheriff had given up her chair for Laughlin and squeezed in with Cali and me on the couch. McGee managed to lean forward from his deep chair to shake the hardman's hand when Cali introduced them. Lester is nowhere to be seen. He'd left with a hiss when we returned to the room. Like me, especially after this morning, he's probably not a fan of crowded spaces.

Cali tells the story of what had happened on Mt. Wister again for Laughlin's benefit. He listens without expression on his sun- and age-etched face. During her recital he looks toward me a couple of times, frowning. I find myself looking away each time—especially when she mentions the pit and the sugary pellets of snow we'd found and ignored. As before, when reporting to McGee and the sheriff, Cali makes no mention of the fact that I'd assumed it was my fugitive brother trailing behind us.

“You got any idea who it was?” Laughlin asks me when she finishes.

“Yeah. There's some crazy kid—a schizophrenic—named Myron Armalli with a history of stalking. Do you know him?”

Laughlin shakes his head.

“He grew up near Mom's ranch,” Cali says, “but I didn't really know him. Then he said some things to me in court not long ago, when I was prosecuting him for a misdemeanor. He said I would regret oppressing him or something like that.”

The sheriff adds, “He was trouble as a kid. Burned some horses, we think, and bothered a girl in his school. He worked ski patrol on the mountain for a while but was fired for being unreliable. Since then he's been in and out of our jail, for causing public disturbances and things like that. We think he's squatting up on some land his family used to own near Ms. Reese's property.”

“He's probably had some avalanche training,” I say. “Working with the ski patrol.”

Both the sheriff and Laughlin nod thoughtfully. “Tell us again what you saw,” the sheriff says.

I close my eyes for a second and try to picture the distant figure I'd seen. “He was maybe a half-mile behind us, crouching down near where our tracks would have been,” I explain. “All I could see was a dark-colored parka and a backpack. I think the backpack was darker, but the light was bad and it could have been green, dark blue, or even red. Then the clouds came down again and we couldn't see him anymore. The next indication I had that someone else was out there was when we heard the shots, which sounded like they were coming from below. Maybe a little ways up on the mountain opposite us.”

I can hear the three shots cracking again in my ears. And then the explosion before the mountainside gave way beneath my skis. Twin droplets of cold sweat run down my flanks and I rub my forehead with my sleeve.

“Do you have any idea what caliber?” the sheriff asks.

“No. Not really. It was echoing all over the place. And I was more worried about one of us getting hit, or . . .”

We're all silent for a moment. I imagine them imagining
me
buried beneath all that snow. No one's looking my way now but Laughlin.

The hardman, in his slow, gruff voice, fills the silence by telling some avalanche stories of his own. He recounts the time his tent and partner had been swept off Mt. Robson in the middle of a storm, just seconds after he stepped outside to answer a midnight call of nature. Another concise story begins on Mt. Logan in the Yukon but shifts without warning to another place and year. He seems to be getting confused, starting to ramble. His words pick up a slight slur at their tail ends.

The second story dies away without ever ending. Another awkward pause follows. Cali is staring at him, her green eyes damp and shiny.

The sheriff says to McGee, “Bill Laughlin is a town treasure. Literally. He used to give a slide show every winter, and I swear, half the town would turn up. Climbers and sane people alike, just to hear him talk.” Smiling, she says to Laughlin, “You should do that again this year.”

But that's not an inspired idea. As fit as he looks, with his corded arms showing beneath his shirt's short sleeves, and the way his lean waist doesn't really need the piece of old rope he uses for a belt, it's pretty clear that his mind is being affected by the ballooning vein within. It's invading his thought processes and his memories. I feel bad for him. It would be better for a legend like him to go out in a blaze of glory on a high peak.

I've been unconsciously massaging my own neck and upper back, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. I notice I'm doing it only when Cali tries to take over. Her hands knead at the twin triangles of sore muscle between my shoulders and neck. With a jolt of apprehension I feel McGee's eyes on me. And Laughlin's. And the sheriff's. All of them speculating.

I shrug off Cali's hands, saying, “I'm all right. Really.”

Laughlin stands up and slaps his lean thighs, like he's somehow aware that his speech had become rambling. He makes for the door without much of a good-bye. I follow him out, taking with me the folder that has Armalli's booking photo in it. Cali doesn't come after us.

“I appreciate you coming by,” I tell him. “I know Cali does, too.”

“No worries,” he replies distractedly as we cross the lawn toward the gate between the tall hedges.

“Can you hold up just a second? I've got something I want to show you.”

Bill Laughlin stops with one hand on the gate. When he turns to me his lips are locked tight into a thin white line, and there's a faint flush coloring the leathery skin on his face. He looks back at the house instead of at me.

Not wanting to delay him or cause him any further embarrassment, I hurriedly open the folder and pull out the photo of Myron Armalli. I hand it to him. “Have you seen this guy before?”

Laughlin does little more than glance at it. “This the guy who's been after Cali?”

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure—almost positive. Do you recognize him?”

Laughlin glances down at it again and pushes it back at me. “Don't think so. Looks like a hundred kids around here.”

“Think back to the night you chased off the guy who was trying to get in Cali's window. Could this be him?”

He takes another look down at the photo in my hands and starts to shake his head. But then he stops. His calloused fingertips rub against the back of my hand as he takes back the photo. “Wait a minute. Maybe I have seen him before. A couple of times when I've been walking around the neighborhood, this guy's been sitting in an old pickup. Just sitting.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, feeling myself getting excited. Feeling, in a way, as if I'm putting on my armor, getting girded for battle. Weak as it is, this is the first bit of solid evidence that will stand up in court. If Laughlin lives that long. And if this ends up in court—if
Armalli
lives that long. “When have you seen him? And how many times?”

But now Laughlin goes back to shaking his head. He hands me the picture for the second time. “Couldn't say. I've seen him around, is all. I live only a couple of streets back, so I'm walking around here a lot. Always assumed this guy just lived on the street.”

I give him a card with my cell-phone number written on it. “I'd appreciate it if you'd keep an eye out for him and call me if you see him.”

Laughlin nods. “I'll do that.” He turns to go.

I hesitate, feeling bad for him and feeling embarrassed for greedily having put Cali in danger this morning, then add, “If you ever want to do any climbing, let me know. I'd love to tie into a rope with you sometime. It'd give me something to brag about.”

He laughs shortly and looks at the ground. “I'm not much good on the rock anymore. Too damned old. But I still can hike. Maybe I'll belay you sometime. I'll let you know.”

He opens the gate then turns to latch it between us. He looks steadier now, out on the street. I flatter myself by thinking that maybe my words have reminded him of his former strength. After taking two steps, he turns back to me.