The Middle of Somewhere (27 page)

Dante pointed ahead. “Look! Isn't that a carn?”

Liz saw the pile of stones and smiled. “A cairn,
amigo
. Yes, it's a cairn.”

They reached the cairn and peered over the edge. A rough path through scree, a foot wide, ran diagonally across the face. The way off the mountain. Patches of snow and ice clung to shadows under the overhangs.

“Doesn't look too bad,” Dante said, convincing himself. “I should go first.”

Liz heard the unspoken clause. In case you fall.

She watched as Dante began the descent, the wind whistling up the face behind her, throwing rain against her back. He hadn't made it ten steps before his boot slipped a few inches, sending a cascade of stones down the slope. She tensed, stock-still. He paused a moment, and started again, with smaller steps. She was relieved to see the technique seemed to be working better. She exhaled and followed him. Her pole on the downhill side proved useless, as the scree was too loose to offer any support. She was desperate to make progress and her mincing steps frustrated her, but one look at the alarming distance she might fall kept her steps short.

The traverse ended a half hour later at a small level area, perched at the top of a three-hundred-foot cliff. A lake lay two thousand feet below. Liz stepped back, overcome with vertigo. She waited for the feeling to subside, then examined the narrow chute above them. The other way down. No way she'd have managed it. The sky above the chute was black as coal. The Root brothers were somewhere up there, perhaps searching for this trail. The cold hand of fear moved inside her again. She stood anchored to the spot.

Dante was putting away his poles, knowing they'd soon have to use their hands to descend. He reached for her poles to stow in his pack, but she gripped them tightly.

“Liz? They'll get in your way.” He saw her distress and placed his hand on top of hers. “Trust me.” Her grip loosened. He took the poles and handed her the water. She drank, the cool liquid erasing the metallic taste of fear.

They headed down to a scree-filled gully to the north, the only obvious route. Dante cut across to stable rock at the edge, but soon returned to the center, as the rock was dangerously slick. They placed each foot with care, but nevertheless set off landslides, which sent Liz's heart racing. A person could tumble to the bottom as easily. When she followed the flying stones with her eyes, it induced vertigo, so she turned away. Her thighs and calves ached from the effort of positioning each foot before putting weight on it, and from bracing herself when she slid. The strain of the descent showed on Dante's face. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his mouth was taut with concentration. He stopped frequently and watched her progress with concern.

Finally, the edge of a lake came into view. Halfway down the gully, they could see the entire circle of the lake carved in barren rock. Two shapes—orange and yellow—huddled near the north edge.

Dante said, “Are those tents?”

“Looks like it.”

He grinned at her. “Don't run, okay?”

She'd never been so glad to see signs of other people. She wanted to fly down to the lake. “I won't. It's a long way.” Liz knew they had about four thousand feet more to descend when they reached the lake. But the sight of the tents lifted her spirits, as did the increasing likelihood they had finally escaped the Roots.

They crept down the scree and talus, periodically trying the more solid rock at the edge. The rain began to ease. Liz's knees ached from the strain of the pitch, and her elbow hurt whenever she moved her arm, as she was forced to do several times when she skidded. Three sections required actual climbing where being short a limb terrified her. Dante gripped the rock face directly below her, showing her the footholds, or moving her foot into position. Once he was the foothold. Unable to move to the right because of her arm, she couldn't reach the jutting rock Dante had used. He braced himself and she placed her foot on his shoulder to attain the next hold. She thought about being stranded on the steep face of Whitney alone and her throat pinched shut.

They stopped for a brief rest and ate some trail mix. From here they could see most of the route above them. No one was there. Dante gave Liz two more ibuprofen and took three for himself. “A poor substitute for beer,” he said.

“As much beer as you want tonight.” Tears stung her nose at the thought of sitting with him, having a drink, being together, with no secrets waiting in the shadows.

“It doesn't seem possible.”

“I know.”

Two hours after they left the rim of Whitney, the gulley ended and they hiked along a solid path to the lake. The rain had nearly stopped. Liz had to resist the urge to run. As they neared the tents, a bearded man wearing a red beanie crawled out of the nearest one. He waved.

Dante reached for Liz's hand. She spun to face him. The furrows in his brow were gone. He looked like a little boy. She laughed and threw her good arm around him. They kissed, smiling as they did. Liz no longer felt afraid or exhausted or forsaken. The cramping in her chest, the tightness in her throat had gone. In its place, exhilaration. She was grinning like a fool and couldn't care less.

T
he man was Joe from Boulder, here to make a bid for the north face of Keeler Needle. He and his girlfriend had been playing Yahtzee, waiting out the rain. “You two look like you been in the Whitney blender.”

In their relief, Liz and Dante quickly told Joe about the Roots, and Brensen. Liz explained her arm was probably broken, and that they didn't know the way back to the Portal.

Joe frowned. “Holy crap.” He cast his gaze at the trail leading up the gulley. “You think those two followed you down?”

Dante said, “We haven't seen them since the top, but it's possible.”

“Holy crap.”

Liz said, “We haven't run into anyone else in two days and thought the trails might be closed. But you're here, so . . .”

Joe looked at his feet. “We've been here two nights, but didn't bother with a permit. Figured we'd bag the Needle and be out of here before anyone noticed. This late in the season we didn't think it'd be an issue since they don't patrol up here much.”

A woman wearing French braids crawled out of the tent and joined them. She introduced herself as Trina.

She listened intently as Joe filled her in. “We heard a chopper this morning. Remember, Joe? Thought it was kinda late for resupplying a ranger station.”

“We saw it fly over Guitar Lake,” Dante said. “Low.”

Joe said, “Someone's looking for those creeps, that's for sure. The weather's clearing up, so they might decide to come down this way. If I were running, that's what I'd do.”

Liz exchanged looks with Dante. “We hadn't thought about it that way.”

Trina nodded toward the second tent. “I'll wake up Marshall. We should pack up and get out of here, just in case.”

Liz and Dante found seats where they could monitor the trail while the climbers broke camp. Trina spoke with Marshall through his tent door. A moment later he popped out like a spider darting onto its web. A wiry man sporting black-rimmed glasses, he moved with breathless efficiency. He stowed his sparse gear in his pack in minutes, then helped Trina and Joe with theirs.

Joe hoisted his pack and waved to Keeler Needle, its tip buried in cloud. “Next time, big guy.”

Marshall was familiar with the trail and led the way, followed by Trina, Liz and Dante. Joe took up the rear. Marshall hiked well ahead of the group, but Trina set a moderate pace. Liz shadowed her, step for step, allowing herself to relax a little. Simply hiking with four people instead of one made her feel less vulnerable. Marshall waited at difficult junctures for the others to catch up, and he and Joe assisted Dante in helping Liz down tricky sections. In several places the route was indistinct or, to Liz's eye, completely invisible. If she and Dante had been alone, they could easily have lost their way. As they descended, the air thickened and Liz took full breaths for the first time that day. The knots in her shoulders and neck began to loosen. The way was steep, but the footing was stable—at least compared to the gulley.

They passed Lower Boy Scout Lake and arrived at the edge of a vast granite face. Liz scanned for the route but saw nothing but dead ends.

“Ebersbacher Ledges,” Trina informed them. “Lots of people get tangled up here.” They navigated the steep, circuitous route, and dropped to a streambed where the path was choked with willows. After fighting their way through for a half mile, they came upon a stream crossing. A rustle on the far bank startled them. Marshall paused midstream. Liz clamped her hand on Dante's arm, her heart in her throat. The willows parted and a woman in uniform appeared—a ranger. She moved onto a flat rock and a policeman pushed through the growth and stood beside her. Dante turned to Liz, his eyes sparkling. Relief coursed through her limbs. “At last,” she whispered to Dante, “saved by a ranger.” He stifled a laugh.

The hikers picked their way across the stream and assembled on the bank. The ranger extracted a notepad and pen from her pocket and asked for their names.

“Elizabeth and Dante, we've been expecting you, though not coming this way. But I don't have any record of the other three.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Joe said. “We were flying under the wire.”

The policeman, a trim man in his forties, spoke. “We have a bit of a situation here. We've asked the Park Service to close the trails, due to an interdepartmental manhunt.”

“Which is one reason,” the ranger said, staring pointedly at the climbers, “we like to know where folks are.”

Joe lifted his hands in apology. Marshall stared off downstream, impatient to continue.

The policeman pointed at Liz's arm. “Are you injured?”

Liz nodded. “You're looking for Payton and Rodell Root, right?”

“We sure are. Where'd you last see them?”

“They were less than a mile from the summit,” Dante said.

“And that was when?”

Dante consulted Liz. “Maybe noon?”

The policeman gestured to the trail behind him. “Let's take this conversation someplace more comfortable. It's not far.”

The ranger and the policeman led them to the main Whitney Trail and down to the Portal, about a mile. As they walked along a narrow paved road toward the parking lot, several official vehicles, including an ambulance, came into view. More than a dozen police officers, rangers and other personnel stood in small groups. A tall, beefy man in a black nylon jacket met them as they approached, introduced himself as FBI Agent Gutierrez and took their names. When he found out the climbers had no contact with the Roots, he let them go.

He spoke to Liz. “You need someone to look at your arm right away, or can I ask a few questions first?”

“I'm okay. But can we sit down?”

They moved to a picnic table a short distance down the road. A map of the area was spread across it. Someone brought them each a sports drink, which they quickly emptied. Gutierrez explained the Root brothers were wanted on a number of drug charges, and in relation to the suspicious death of their father.

“What about Matthew Brensen?” Dante said.

“That, too.” He gestured at the map. “Now, I want to hear the whole story, but first show me where and when you last saw them.”

Dante located the spot on the Whitney Summit trail. “Around noon, they were about here.”

“And they were heading toward you?”

“We thought so. The storm was terrible, so we couldn't really tell. We only wanted to get off the mountain.”

Gutierrez called over two men from the Sheriff's Department and relayed the information. The men left and Dante related their encounters with the Roots, pointing out the locations on the map. Gutierrez asked Liz a few questions, but otherwise she let Dante talk. Told all at once, the magnitude of their ordeal struck Liz anew. She could feel Dante's eyes on her from time to time, but she kept her gaze on the map. He was telling their story, and it was in the past tense, but the terror she experienced on the summit was very much alive inside her. She leaned against Dante's shoulder and fell silent. Her arm throbbed and a tide of exhaustion rose within her. She closed her eyes.

“That should do it for now,” Gutierrez said. “An officer can take you to the hospital in town, get that arm taken care of.” He shook their hands, thanked them and handed them his card. The policeman whom they'd met on the trail approached and asked about their car. Dante explained they'd left it in Yosemite Valley and had planned to take a bus back.

“It's a little late in the day for that. If it's all right with you, I'll call down to the Sierra View Motel and set you folks up with a room. Won't be anything fancy, mind you.”

“Sounds like heaven,” Dante said.

He accompanied Liz to the hospital, then left to buy clothes for them while Liz received treatment. She had been waiting in the lobby a few minutes when he returned, fresh from a shower, wearing tan cargo shorts and a navy T-shirt. She looked down at her elbow cast, brilliant white in contrast with her tanned skin and dirty, soot-stained clothing.

“Oh, Liz. Your poor arm!”

“It's okay. Only six weeks to go.” She stood and placed her hand on his cheek. “I'm glad you haven't shaved your beard.”

He smiled. “We can discuss its future over dinner at the steakhouse.”

“I hope I'm not too tired to eat.”

“Don't even think that,
carina
.”

They walked the three blocks to the hotel. The late-afternoon heat rose from the sidewalks, dulling her senses. They crossed the main street to the hotel and climbed the exterior stairs to the second-floor rooms. Liz stopped halfway. Her legs, encased in stone, balked at the command to climb higher. After a rest, she managed the last steps. Dante opened the door to their room and ushered her inside. It was basic, but clean, and contained everything Liz needed: running water, a real bed and Dante.

She collapsed onto the edge of the bed. A pair of gray capris and a blue-and-white striped T-shirt lay beside her. “Thanks for getting these.”

“They didn't have much of a selection.”

“Yeah, but I bet every single piece was clean.”

“Good point. I'll start a bath.”

She considered lying down but feared she'd never be able to get up again. Her eyes went to the window, and the open curtains, and the door. She rose with effort, peered out at the parking lot and pulled the curtains shut. She hung the chain across the door and threw the deadlock, exhaling deeply as the bolt slid home.

•   •   •

They ate dinner at the steakhouse, choosing a table at the back. The food was delicious, but neither of them could manage more than half of their steaks. “My stomach has shrunk,” Dante said. “How sad.”

By the time the check arrived, Liz felt she was melting into the booth. They left the restaurant, crossed the parking lot, climbed the stairs and locked the door behind them. Liz undressed and slid between the sheets, so smooth against her skin, raw and taut from sun and wind and cheap soap. Dante climbed in and encircled her in his arms. She laid her head on his chest.

She said, “It's not rational—I know we're safe—but I'll feel so much better when they arrest them.”

“I know,
carina
. So will I.”

They fell silent then, and Liz soon fell asleep, Dante's heartbeat a metronome of solace.

The next morning they had breakfast at the Lone Pine Diner, feasting on eggs, bacon, pancakes, home fries and a side of waffles. Liz watched Dante transfer another pancake from the stack to his plate.

“You should be proud of your stomach. Such a quick recovery.”

He nodded and returned his attention to his plate. His phone vibrated on the table. He tapped the icon and put the phone to his ear. “Hello? Yes, speaking. Good morning, Agent Gutierrez.”

Liz put down her fork.

“Yes, I see. Yes, Liz is fine.”

Her mouth was parched. She sipped her water. Dante was listening and nodding. She raised her eyebrows at him, hoping for a signal, but he didn't notice.

“Thank you very much. Yes, you, too.” He said good-bye and tapped the screen closed. He reached across the table and took Liz's hand. It was trembling. “It's over, Liz. They captured the Root brothers in the lower Kern Valley. He couldn't give me any details, but wanted us to know they're in custody.”

“Thank God.” She let out a long breath, one she felt she'd been holding for a week, and imagined Payton in handcuffs, staring defiantly out of the rear window of a police cruiser. “The agent couldn't tell you anything?”

“No, because of the ongoing investigation. The same as on TV.”

“I guess we'll read about them in the paper.”

“I might prefer to forget about them.”

She nodded, suddenly unable to speak. Dante squeezed her hand and she let the tears fall.

They finished eating and went back to the room. The sunlight filtered through the curtains as it had through their tent, a dim amber glow. They returned to bed and made love, their every breath a whisper of tenderness, and faith.