The Middle of Somewhere (20 page)

Dante opened his mouth to call to them, but Liz placed a hand on his arm. “The Roots could be within earshot. Paul and Linda seem perfectly fine.”

“You're right,
carina
.” He slid down the rock, crossed to the kitchen area and bent to stir the soup. “We'll talk to them tomorrow. We could even hike together.”

“Safety in numbers?”

“Yes, as you are worried about the Roots.”

She noticed he didn't say “we.” “Maybe.”

Dante put the lid on and turned to her. “Why ‘maybe'?”

“I guess I'm still hoping this'll become the hike I imagined.”

His face drooped.

“I didn't mean the solo part,” she said, laying a hand on his cheek. “I meant the contemplative, serene part. Or, at the very least, the not-creeped-out-by-stalkers part. Or the not-attacked-by-falling-rocks part.”

“Or the not-confess-your-most-shameful-moments part?”

“Yeah. That.”

She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat and, on the pretense of assembling the bowls and sporks, turned away.

“I want to tell you something, Liz.”

She noted his serious tone and lowered herself onto a rock. “What is it?”

“When we were in Mexico with my family, I only shared part of the conversation I had with my parents about my sister. And about Rico's role in the family business.” He would not meet her gaze. “I was upset about Emilia. Maybe I was seeing it through your eyes a little. My parents—my father—was judging Emilia without even talking to her, and was taking Rico's side. I told him that just because Rico was his right-hand man—excuse me,
his son
—didn't mean his daughter should count for nothing.”

“What did he say?”

“He said his mind was made up and it wasn't my business.” He looked at Liz with a pained expression. “I lost my temper.”

“Did you say something you didn't mean? Couldn't you simply apologize?”

“That's the problem. I told the truth. I admitted that I never intended to work with him—for him. I knew it before I even left for college. I never told him because he wouldn't have paid for it. I couldn't have gone.” He studied her, measuring her reaction.

Six years of full tuition, plus full support in the lifestyle to which Dante had been accustomed. A quarter of a million dollars, or more. No wonder Señor Espinoza was miffed. On the other hand, Dante was determined to make it on his own, and believed an American education was his ticket, despite the fact that lots of people with fewer advantages than he enjoyed succeeded without a free ride to a U.S. college. “I'm not sure what to think.”

“You can say it. It was wrong.”

“Did you know it at the time?”

“Yes. But I knew what I wanted. I was determined. I felt my father owed me for being so unreasonable about my future.”

“What do you think now?”

He let out a sigh and ran a hand through his hair. “I feel guilty. I'm considering paying him back when I can.”

“He'd probably respect that.”

“Only if I included interest.”

Liz could sympathize with Dante's desire for an American education, but was surprised he'd strung his father along for so many years. She wondered whether Dante's actions were fueled as much out of anger at being pushed into the family business as out of determination to earn a premium degree in the land of opportunity. She herself had never put her hand in her pocket for her schooling, and was reticent to judge. And at the moment, it mattered more to her that he had told her.

“Let's hit the tent,” she said, putting her arms around him. He returned her embrace, his arms strong and warm against her back. They held each other as the wind whistled low between the peaks and swept the last of the day into the valleys below. In the remaining shreds of light, they tucked their packs and gear under the boughs of a stout pine, climbed into the tent and zipped themselves in.

Early the next morning, the sun cast a pale yellow glow on the peaks above the lake. Dante noticed the McCartneys were up, so he and Liz clambered down the hill and explained why they had kept to themselves last night. Paul and Linda agreed the Roots probably had continued over Pinchot Pass.

“I'd be happy to have seen the last of them,” Paul said. “Bloody weird pair.”

Liz asked Linda, “How's your leg?”

“Not too bad. When it hurts in the night I just stick it out of the sleeping bag and it goes numb in a few minutes.”

The couples separated to break camp, then set off together for the Rae Lakes, sixteen miles away.

No two passes they'd encountered had been the same: a notch sliced in the V between sharp peaks, a flat gravel lot on a broad saddle, or a site for a shelter, such as Muir Hut. Pinchot Pass was the highest thus far, and Liz was surprised to arrive there so easily along a gradual incline. Reaching a pass was usually cause for a small celebration, but not at Pinchot. Though early in the day, the wind howled from the north, swept up the slope and hurled itself over the edge with icy abandon.

“I lived in Wales for a year,” Linda said, yanking the collar of her jacket tighter. “They called winds like this ‘lazy.'”

“Why?” asked Dante. “Doesn't feel lazy to me.”

“Because instead of going around you, it goes straight through.”

They turned their backs to the wind and descended. As on Mather Pass, the north side of Pinchot was precipitous. Narrow switchbacks covered in broken stone prompted Liz to watch her step. At the bottom, she paused and craned her neck to see the way they had come, but the rock wall was too steep and she lost the trace of the trail halfway up. She turned her gaze south to admire Mount Cedric Wright, so broad and imposing it might have been a range unto itself. She remembered from the guidebook Cedric Wright had been a mentor and friend to Ansel Adams. Wright's ashes had been scattered on this peak, above which a few small clouds had already gathered. She shivered at the prospect of a change in weather.

After a water break, Dante walked in front, and Liz allowed the gap between them to grow until she could no longer hear the tap of his poles on the rocks or the crunch of his boots on the ground. If she lifted her head, she could see him—the terrain was open, for the most part—but if she gazed into the middle distance and allowed her mind to wander, she was alone.

She wondered if Dante's father would ever forgive his son, and if repaying the debt would matter. She wondered if forgiveness was real. Perhaps it could be, for the one doing the forgiving. But for her there was no possibility of a clear conscience, merely the weak absolution of honesty, of confession. If only she had been raised Catholic—or within another religion that embraced the concept—she might find forgiveness and believe in it. But faith was not part of her fiber. She could not buy into the cycle of sin and penance, of death and resurrection. She would always remember what she had done, and it would always sting. She would not be washed clean.

But next to this certainty was another truth: mornings on the trail gave her hope. Hope of what precisely, she couldn't say. Each morning of this journey, even after a terrible night, proposed a new beginning. She crawled out of the tent and started over by breaking camp—undoing what she had constructed the night before. When it was as it had been, save for a few boot marks, she returned to the task of walking. But she did not walk over the same ground—everything was new, in the intricate and fractal sameness of rock, lake and sky.

Perhaps that was why she had confessed, and would confess again. Not because she held out hope for forgiveness—it wasn't in her even if it was in Dante—but because there would always be morning. When she had told Dante everything, their relationship would die. The sadness of the fact sat heavy and full in her heart. But the unfathomable emerald lakes and the towering mountains that cared nothing for the heavens into which they reached, proved the next day would be a new one and she would begin again. Even if it was alone.

B
y noon they'd covered ten miles and dropped thirty-five hundred feet in elevation. Woods Creek followed them much of the way, a cascading rush of white water pausing briefly in bottle green pools, only to tumble down noisily once more.

The trail veered sharply left. Dante stopped and Liz came alongside to stare at the elaborate suspension bridge before them. Tall wooden towers on either bank anchored steel cables supporting a narrow walkway thirty feet above Woods Creek. Undergrowth blocked Liz's view of the far bank, but she estimated the span to be a hundred feet.

“How weird to find such a fancy structure here,” Dante said, not having read the guidebooks.

“How convenient.”

The McCartneys arrived and Liz led them, single file, up the dozen wooden steps to the beginning of the span. A sign warned them to cross one at a time.

“Looks like you're first,” Linda said to Liz.

The construction inspired confidence, as cables had been strung horizontally at both waist and knee level, and reinforced vertically every four feet. She placed her hands on the lateral cables and stepped carefully onto the wood slats. The bridge undulated. She concentrated on staying centered and walked with measured steps to minimize sway. Far below, foaming torrents of water exploded against boulders.

“Take your time,” Dante called over the roaring current. “I'm in no rush.”

Two-thirds of the way across, she spotted a pair of sunglasses lying on the bridge. She crouched slowly to pick them up, aware she was risking losing her balance, but feeling compelled nonetheless. Before her hand touched the glasses, she knew they were Brensen's. He was never without them. She examined them in her hand, and a shadow of apprehension passed through her.

“Liz!” Dante's shout was nearly drowned out. “What's wrong?”

She tucked the glasses into her shirt pocket and, hands on the cables, carefully pulled herself up. As she rose, her attention snagged on an object near the water's edge. Something dark blue, on top of a half-submerged log. An arm. Beyond the log was a boulder. A hiking boot, toe pointed to the sky, protruded from behind.

Her stomach rolled, and she gripped the cables more tightly.

Paul shouted, but the river carried the words away.

Her mouth went dry. She scanned the riverbank ahead, searching for anything out of place. There wasn't much vegetation on this side, and few places to hide. Level with the bridge was a campsite with picnic tables and two bear lockers. Empty.

Dante and the others were calling to her, their voices increasingly frantic. The bridge rocked—someone stepped onto it—and she bent her knees to absorb the wave. It had to be Dante, or maybe Paul, coming to see what the problem was.

“Stop!” she shouted at the top of her lungs, and continued across, keeping her focus on the tower in front of her, and a strong grip on the cables in case the bridge moved again.

She stepped off the bridge onto the landing, checked her surroundings again, and turned, placing a hand on the cable supports to steady herself. Dante was halfway across, his face dark with concern. She avoided glancing at Brensen—if that's who was lying in the river—because she feared she'd alarm Dante and cause him to lose his balance. He stared straight ahead, walking more briskly than she expected, and was soon at her side.

“What's wrong? Why did you bend down?”

Liz led him down the wood planks and onto firm ground. She glanced over his shoulder. Linda was crossing.

She fished the glasses out of her pocket. “Aren't these Brensen's?”

“I think so. But why—”

“I saw something from the bridge.”

“What ‘something'?”

“Someone. In the river.”

“Doing what?”

Her mouth was cottony. She gripped Dante's arm. “Lying there.”

“What? We should go help them! Show me!”

Her throat closed and a wave of nausea flooded her. “I think it's too late. I—”

“Too late?” He grabbed her shoulder. “Liz, we must look!”

He was right. All she'd seen was an arm. And a foot. But she didn't want to look. Because she already knew.

Linda appeared behind Dante. “What's the matter?”

Dante undid his hip belt and dropped his pack. “Someone's lying in the river.”

Linda gasped and turned to Liz, who pointed downstream. Dante headed off. Liz ditched her pack and jogged to catch up to him. As they picked their way down the boulder-strewn embankment, Liz kept an eye out for movement in the woods to her left.

Liz directed Dante. “A little farther downstream.”

They rounded a small stand of pines and stopped short. There was a hiker in a blue shirt, a few yards from shore, face down in the water. His pack lay twisted off one shoulder, as if it had come off, or been torn off, when he fell. It was a silver-and-red Osprey. Brensen's. Liz's heart raced and she shivered. Brensen's free arm—the one she had seen from the bridge—lay draped over a log, bent at an unnatural angle.

Dante took a step forward. “
Dios mio!
Brensen! Brensen!” The actor lay unmoving. “He looks dead!”

“I know!”

“Should we make certain?”

Liz nodded, then regretted it. Her legs felt encased in hard plastic as she stepped across the rocks and squatted on a flat stone near Brensen's head. She took a deep breath and shook his shoulder. Water splashed over the toe of her boot.

A fly landed on the nape of Brensen's neck and climbed over a fold in his shirt. A white smear of sunscreen coated the edge of his ear. Precaution for the long run.

She balked at turning him over and exposing his face. Instead, she reached for the wrist that lay on the log. The skin was paler than the moon. Her fingers found the spot between wrist bone and tendon, but could not find a pulse. His skin felt cold, but so were her fingers. She closed her eyes and swayed, as if she were on the bridge. Behind her, she heard Linda sobbing.

Paul appeared and knelt beside her. “Jesus Christ. What the hell happened here?”

“He's dead.” A hoarse whisper was all she could manage.

“It certainly appears that way. Are you okay?”

She swallowed, afraid if she spoke she would burst into tears.

Paul regarded her steadily, but she could see he was rattled, too. “Let's just get him out of the river, okay?”

She nodded, took a deep breath and steeled herself.

“Here, help me turn him over.”

It wasn't that simple.

Paul straddled two rocks and struggled to lift one end of Brensen's pack out of the river, but could only raise it a few inches. “I think his arm is caught on something.” He sat back on his haunches. “Dante! Can you give us a hand?”

Dante crossed to them, and he and Liz raised the waterlogged pack. Paul, grimacing, pulled on Brensen's shoulder with one hand, and reached underneath to free the arm, the frigid water rising to his armpit. Liz glimpsed Brensen's face. A rough gash sliced diagonally across his forehead, the edges ragged. His nose was broken and bruised, his lips bloodless. She looked away.

The arm broke free and flipped out of the water, hitting Paul in the face. Paul stumbled, splashing water everywhere, then regained his balance. Liz and Dante yanked the pack out of the way, and dragged it to shore.

Paul crouched with Brensen's torso propped against his knee. The dead man's chin had fallen onto his chest, as if he were napping on a bus. Paul stared at Linda, his jaw set. “I don't suppose we can leave the poor bastard where he is.”

She wiped her nose with her sleeve and shook her head.

“He's soaked. It'll take all of us.”

Her face crumpled. “Paul, I don't know if I can.”

“Darling, you can. I know you can.”

The men lifted Brensen by the shoulders and each woman hoisted a leg. Even with four of them, they had trouble negotiating the slick rocks and rushing current. Dante refused to look at the corpse and tripped twice, bringing everyone to a halt. They finally deposited Brensen on the sparse grass between the river and the trail. Liz's breath hitched in her chest as she went to Brensen's pack, unsnapped his towel and laid it across his face. They stood over him without speaking for a moment. Linda was hunched, crying. Paul pulled her to him and led her away to where they had left their packs. Dante dropped to his knees next to Brensen, clasped his hands to his chest and murmured a prayer. The sight of this simple, honest gesture overwhelmed Liz, but she couldn't leave. Instead she gazed ahead at the bridge and the river, the image swimming before her. The rushing of the water droned in her head.

Dante wavered as he got to his feet. He took her hand and they joined the McCartneys at a picnic table. It was past lunchtime but no one got out their food. Linda slumped over the table, head on her arms. Paul rested a hand on her back. Away from the dead body, Liz's head cleared a little. She studied the bridge and the woods, intent.

Dante handed her a water bottle. “What are you looking for?”

“Our friends the Roots.”

“You think they did this?”

“It's possible. They didn't exactly take a shine to Mr. Hollywood. He broke the code.”

Dante nodded.

Paul glanced downstream. “Of course, where we found him is also consistent with falling off the bridge.”

Liz pointed at the structure. “I know it sways, but it'd be hard to fall off without help.”

Linda raised her head. The creases in her face had deepened since the morning. “Remember, Brensen had a concussion not three days ago. He was falling over his own feet.”

“What about his forehead?” Dante said, squinting to shut out the image. “Could that have happened when he fell?”

“Sure,” Paul said.

Liz shrugged. Paul's hypothesis was as valid as hers and she was too upset to debate it. They couldn't establish cause of death sitting there, but they did need a plan.

Hands trembling, she pulled the map out of her pocket, spread it on the table and pointed to their current location. “We're fifteen point four miles from Roads End, where I think there's a permit station, which may or may not be open. Cedar Grove is another six miles.”

“So at least another day's hiking in that direction,” Paul said.

“Right. But the Rae Lakes ranger station is seven miles this way.” She indicated south on the JMT.

“Isn't that where we were going anyway?” Dante said.

“Yes.”

“But the ranger may not be there.”

“They're not innkeepers,” Paul said. “They patrol the trail.”

“They pick up trash,” Linda added. “And help hikers in trouble.” Her voice caught.

Paul gave her a sympathetic look. “How much farther from Rae Lakes to civilization?”

Liz added up the mileage for each segment. “Exactly twelve miles to the Onion Valley trailhead. Then we could hitch a ride into Independence.”

“So, that's our plan. But you and Dante don't have to hike out. Two people are more than enough to report a dead body.”

That depends on how you think it got that way, Liz thought.

Dante turned to Liz. “Paul's right. We haven't got far to go.”

“True.” She held his gaze, acknowledging his commitment to finish the hike. “Let's see what happens at Rae Lakes, okay?”

Paul pulled the towel off Brensen's head and took a photo to show the authorities. Liz opened the actor's waterlogged pack and removed a tent.

“What do you want that for?” Dante said.

“To wrap him up. A winding sheet.”

“We're going to bury him?”

“No. We're discouraging the animals.”

Dante blanched and sat heavily on a rock. “Don't tell me anything else.”

She slipped the tent from its sack and positioned the orange rectangle next to Brensen. The four of them lifted him onto it, everyone looking somewhere other than at his face. Liz shook out the fly and draped it over the body. Linda retrieved the guy lines from a small pouch that had fallen to the ground. Paul hoisted the head end of the bundle, then the foot end so the women could loop the lengths of cord around it in four sections, tucking the fly under the body. A wave of nausea rolled through Liz each time her hands contacted the solidity of Brensen's flesh beneath his sodden clothing. She drew the last length of cord around his ankles and crawled away to a rock where she hugged her knees to her chest. Paul tied the knots while everyone looked on. Dante closed Brensen's pack, propped it against a tree and stood back from the others.

Brensen lay encased in his orange nylon shroud. They'd done everything they could. But despite her desire to leave this tragedy behind, Liz was reluctant to leave. It seemed wrong to abandon him here where it would soon be dark and cold. She choked back tears and chewed her lip. It made no sense to be troubled by the vulnerability of the dead.