Last Safe Place, The (14 page)

“They can do that, can they?” Theo asked. “Come get you off the mountain?” Pedro nodded. “Good. If I die up there, I don’t fancy being a snack for the bears, a little dark meat to vary they diets.”

Pedro laughed again and Gabriella watched Theo thaw to something like room temperature. The old man loved it when people laughed at his jokes. She suspected Pedro had figured that out.

Reaching into his pocket, Pedro fished out a key ring. Gabriella noticed that every key was meticulously labeled and Pedro saw that she noticed.

“I am only a leetle OCD,” he said. “Not enough so I label my sock drawer or arrange the soup cans in the cabinet in alphabetical order.” He removed a key from the ring and handed it to her. “This key unlocks the gate as well as the cabin. If I were you, I would get on the road as soon as possible. There ees a thunderstorm almost every afternoon this time of year. They do not usually last long, but they can be fierce—lightning, hail and enough rain to make the roads slippery. And that trail ees hard enough to get up dry.”

Gabriella purchased a few basic perishables—bread, milk, lunchmeat and Lucky Charms for Ty. Ty bounced out the door like he was riding a column of turbulent air. His feet only touched the ground a time or two between the store and the jeep. Theo had retreated to his perpetual state of ill humor; Gabriella was sobered. And … okay, admit it, concerned. Pedro’s warnings awakened her gnawing anxiety about Theo. He was stronger than most men his age, but he was seventy-four years old. Would the thin air bring on heart problems? Would the ride up the mountain scramble his internal organs?

“Theo,” she said before she started the jeep’s engine. “You don’t have to go with us. I can give you some money and you can vanish wherever you—”

“We done been over this. You two goin’ up that mountain, Theo goin’ up that mountain. So let’s get to it—you heard what Pancho Villa said. There ain’t no top on this thing and I done took me a shower today.”

As they headed down Chalk Creek Canyon Road toward the trail up the mountain Gabriella noticed white and gray clouds moving in over the mountaintops to the west.

T
HEO SAT IN
the backseat with P.D., who was snapping at the wind that flapped his ears. The old man had placed two sacks of groceries between him and the animal and hoped the breeze would blow off some of the dog hair the walking fur machine had slimed on his shirt on the ride to St. Elmo.

He sighed, closed his eyes and had a brief but intense conversation with God.

Are you sure you thought this one all the way through, Lord?

Far be it from me to tell you how to run the universe, but Theodosius X. Carmichael climbing up the side of a mountain … that sound right to you?

I know it’s not like you asking me to leap over the Snake River Gorge on a jet-propelled motorcycle, but just so we clear on this—I would rather face down a serial killer with a sinus infection and poison ivy on his privates than ride up a hiking trail in this jeep!

Amen.

Oh … and I hope you was plannin’ on lookin’ after us ’cause I gone keep my eyes squeezed shut the whole way.

When they spotted the house set back from Chalk Creek Canyon Road in a grove of aspen trees, Gabriella understood why Pedro said it wasn’t a typical mountain cabin. Actually, it was more a compound than either a house or a cabin, a collection of half a dozen small buildings surrounding a big one. All the buildings were made of red stone and shaped like Indian cliff dwellings. Painted in yellow below all the windows were Hopi Sun designs, a circle with three uneven lines—two short and one long one in the middle—extending out from the top, bottom and sides. A sign proclaiming “Heartbreak Hotel” formed an archway in a stacked-board fence that zigzagged out of sight into twin aspen groves on the sides of the gravel driveway leading to the big building.

A tall, white-haired man with a hatchet-thin face and wire-rimmed glasses stood beside the gate as if he were expecting them, and with a sweeping gesture of his Stetson invited them into the compound. There was no way to ignore the invitation without being rude, so Gabriella turned down the driveway and parked next to a battered vehicle with “Lotions, Potions & Deadly Elixirs” printed on the side. It looked like the Libyan terrorist van from
Back to the Future.

P.D. hopped out the window onto a well-tended lawn—must water it every day for it to be so green—framed by a rock garden, yucca plants and flowering cacti. The dog dashed from one new scent to another, in doggie heaven from all the olfactory delights. The three humans climbed down out of the jeep as the man walked from the gate to greet them.

“Pedro called and said you were coming,” the man said. His tousled white hair fell across his forehead into eyes magnified into big, blue marbles by his glasses, and he wore old jeans and scuffed cowboy boots. “I’m Steve Calloway. I hear we’re going to be neighbors this summer.”

“Looks that way,” Gabriella said. She introduced herself, Ty and Theo uneasily, eager to disengage from the conversation and be on her way. She’d seen the doctor give her scar a quick once-over and knew he wasn’t likely to forget it.

Ty pointed to the van.

“What’s an e-lix …?”

“Elixir. Old-fashioned medicine that made well people sick, sick people sicker and killed more people than it cured,” Steve said. “Some folks in St. Elmo painted that on the side of the van once when I was out of town—because it’s kind of a traveling drug store/first aid station. I don’t have a shingle hanging on my door, but it’s a hike from here out to Buena Vista for folks with medical problems.”

Theo gestured toward the buildings. “This a hospital?”

Steve laughed. “No, it’s more an old-folks camp. All my retired friends come here to go fly fishing. A bunch of city boys descend on the mountain every summer, strip it of vegetation and all other life forms, leave it a barren wasteland and fly back east. I’m from Cleveland. Where are you from?”

“Pittsburgh,” Ty said, though their cover story had them hailing from Salt Lake City. “You a Browns fan?”

“You mean a fan of the greatest football team that ever put on pads?”

“The
Browns?”
Ty shot a glance at Theo, who nodded almost imperceptibly and the boy went for it. “You know why the Browns are like a possum?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Because they play dead at home and get killed on the road. You know why they’re not like a dollar bill? Because you can get four good quarters from a dollar.”

Dr. Calloway staggered backward in mock pain, holding onto his chest. “You’re killing me, boy! You’re killing me. Bury me with the oldest of the old up above St. Elmo’s Fire.”

“Where?” Ty asked.

“There’s a forest of bristlecone pine trees in a boulder field between the cabin and the peak,” the doctor said. “Bristlecone pines are the oldest living organisms on earth.”

“So there might be a tree up there that sprouted the year Grampa Slappy was born?”

“That’s some serious old, boy,” Theo said.

“Actually, there might be a tree that was still a pine cone when Julius Caesar became the emperor of Rome. A bristlecone pine tree can live up to 4,800 years.”

Even Theo was impressed by that.

“When my granddaughter was little, she called them Jesus trees. She was absolutely convinced that there was a bristlecone pine tree somewhere in that grove that poked out of a crack in a rock just as the Christ child took his first breath on the other side of the planet.”

Gabriella wasn’t listening anymore. At the mention of the bristlecone pines, her mind flashed on golden light. A sudden hum filled her head like the sound an old refrigerator makes when the compressor kicks on, and she was at once in two worlds. The childhood fantasy world of The Cleft was a golden overlay on reality, coloring trees, the sky, Dr. Calloway, Ty and Theo in rich amber shades, golds and different hues of warm brown. The Cleft’s golden light was brighter than she had ever seen it, a blazing sun so brilliant her mind squinted in the glow. The sense of peace was more profound, too, a joyous bubbling in her soul that was like exhaling a breath long held, unclenching fingers long squeezed into a fist, allowing cleansing tears to flow in sweet relief. A long, gentle
ahh
in her heart.

With the sensation of a final puzzle piece slipping effortlessly into place, Gabriella suddenly understood. The fantasy was so powerful here because she was closer to its source! She had dreamed it up
here
when she was a little girl! Her Wonderland, her Narnia, the fanciful creation of a sad little girl to make herself feel better—The Cleft. It was created here on this mountain!

“Mom!” Ty waved his hand in front of his mother’s eyes. “Earth to Mom. Do you read me?”

She focused and flashed a smile that was warm and sweet, wafted upward from the dying embers of the golden glow in her mind.

“Read you loud and clear, Mr. Spock.” She held up her hand in the V shape of a Vulcan salute.

“Your face looked blanker than a wino’s bank statement,” Theo said. “If we gone do this, we best get at it, ’less you can get Scottie to beam us up to that cabin.”

“Maybe not Scottie …” Dr. Calloway said. He looked toward Chalk Creek Canyon Road. “At the risk of mixing TV show metaphors, will Speedy Gonzales do?”

They all followed his gaze. The rumble of the approaching jeep clearly indicated it needed a new muffler. Pedro was at the wheel, wearing a straw cowboy hat pulled down low over his brow. He turned off the highway onto the trail but didn’t drive into the compound, just stopped and called out to them.

“I told Steve to stall you while I got someone to watch the store,” he said. “Thought I would tag along if you (pronounced “choo”) don’t mind. I want to make sure everything is all set at the cabin.”

No, you don’t. You want to make sure we make it up this trail to the cabin alive.

CHAPTER
7

T
Y RODE IN THE BACKSEAT SO HE COULD KEEP A FIRM HOLD ON
P.D., positioned on the floorboard between his knees. Pedro invited Theo to ride with him because the front bucket seats in his jeep had more padding than the rental’s.

The road wound through the trees beyond Dr. Calloway’s for a quarter of a mile, then it made a sharp right turn and immediately began to climb. And to deteriorate. In less than half a mile, Gabriella had to shift into four-wheel drive to claw her way up what had become a narrow pothole-strewn, boulder-blocked trail.

Pedro had explained that the serpentine trail climbed the mountain by traversing it, back and forth, higher and higher, each level of trail tied to the next by a hairpin switchback. Gabriella had just slammed down into a pothole the size of a washtub and then bounced up over a huge, gnarled tree root when she spotted the first switchback out in front of Pedro’s jeep.

The sight of it rendered her momentarily mute and airless. The strip mine where she had gotten experience in negotiating a jeep off-road had not prepared her for anything like this. The hairpin turn fastened the steep trail on which she was traveling north to its equally steep twin going back south. But the northbound lane of her interstate rested at least fifteen feet lower on the slope than the trail going south. The rutted, bumpy hairpin turn that joined the two together was carved out of solid rock. From where Gabriella sat, it appeared to be more a retaining wall than a turn, the grade so steep that nothing but momentum and centrifugal force would fasten the jeep to it. Hit the turn too slow and the jeep would slide sideways, maybe even tumble over on its side. Hit it too fast and you’d lose control and … all bets would be off.

But that was not all, said a voice in her head that sounded eerily like
The Cat in the Hat.
Oh, no, that was not all.

At the point where the top part of the curve joined the upper road, a metal gate stretched across the trail. The posts on both sides were sunk in concrete that had been poured into holes drilled into bedrock.

Pedro pulled to a stop well short of the switchback, got out and clambered uphill to the gate.

“Besides the one in your pocket, I have the only other key that fits this lock,” he called out, indicating the deadbolt mechanism that held the big metal gate to the post on the uphill side. He unlocked the gate and pushed it open.

“You couldn’t blast that out of the ground with a bazooka,” Gabriella said, secretly thrilled. “Why such an imposing gate? Seems a little … excessive. Was the good reverend expecting terrorists?”

Pedro laughed. “Oh, he was not trying to keep out the meanies. Most of the time when Jim is here, he does not lock eet. The gate posts were sunk in concrete because that is the only way to keep the gate from washing out.”

Pedro made his way back down the steep incline, got into his jeep and cranked the engine. It rumbled in muffler-less abandon. Gabriella’s heart began to pound. Her mouth went dry. Her hands were instantly so sweaty it was hard to hold the steering wheel. She watched Pedro give his jeep gas, hit the smoothest part of the angled turn, which was the more-or-less un-rutted top side, and roar around it using a kind of slingshot effect to fire him up onto the higher road. He drove forward well past the open gate and stopped to wait for her, turning around in his seat. He smiled and gave her a thumbs-up. Swell. The only thing that could possibly have made this ordeal worse was an audience.

She knew if she sat and looked at it she’d freeze and they’d all have to walk back down the mountain. So she swallowed hard, told Ty to hold tight to P.D. and gunned it.

Somewhere out there in the world beyond the mountains, people were listening to music, getting their eyebrows waxed, buying a used car or planting chrysanthemums. But here on Mount Antero, a crazed woman was risking her life and the life of her child and his dog in a wild, bumping, tires-spinning, scrambling charge up the high side of a switchback turn.

Gabriella was that woman.

And the crazed woman was screaming, a ferocious yowl that sounded like a gut-shot yak.

Gabriella was that woman, too.

Her jeep bounced over the final hump and skidded to a stop behind Pedro.