Mortal Fall (18 page)

“Well, if hiking was a vice, it sure was a healthy one, but it looks like it got the best of him,” Ken said.

Beverly bit her top lip and she looked like she was holding back tears. She looked at her van, then said, “I should probably go inside before I have to go back on the road.”

“Just one more question: Do you know anyone who might have wanted to hurt Mark?”

“Mark could piss a few people off, for sure. God only knows if he pissed off someone in Chicago. That’s where he called to place his bets. Some guy named Lucky.” She shook her head and laughed. “Sounds like a bad movie, doesn’t it?” A tear sprang to the corner of her eyes and she wiped it with the butt of her hand. “See, that’s the shit I needed to get away from.”

I thought of Mark Phillips’s ex, Lisa, and her son, Devlan, moving all the way to Ohio. “Know a last name?”

“No. I just know the name Lucky.”

“Where did Mark work out?”

“That big community one in Whitefish.”

“Anything else you can think of?”

She looked at Ken, then me and shrugged. “Like I said, I think he had a few people along the way who didn’t like him much. It didn’t take a lot to set him off, and I pulled him off a few fights here and there when we’d been out having a good time in the bars over the years. I’d heard rumors that when he was younger, he was quite the bully. One guy called him that in the bar after we dated for about a year and when I asked him why, he didn’t have much to say. Just shrugged his shoulders and said the guy was an asshole and a troublemaker, but I always got the feeling there might have been more to the story. Plus I found a Dear John letter from an old girlfriend among some of his old pictures one time and when I asked him about it, he got really angry at me for looking through his things.”

“Do you remember her name?”

“It was signed Diane, She must have meant something to him to have kept it. I mean, the letter was dated in the early nineties, maybe ’92 or ’93. I can’t remember exactly, but he had to have been only in his early twenties at the time.”

“Did it mention anything in particular?”

“Just the usual young love thing—that she thought he was the one, that it would be the real deal with him, but that he had let her down. That she couldn’t date someone capable of the things she knew he was capable of. That’s what I’d asked him about and that’s when he got so mad and turned it around on me—that I was in the wrong for looking at his personal things. And I suppose I was. But secrecy begets secrecy.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “It does. You still have that letter?”

“Oh no, he took all his stuff when he moved out. It’s probably at his house though, unless he finally got rid of it.”

“Would Mark have taken a shuttle up this year?”

“Possibly.” She squinted to think about it. “Most of the old drivers know him, but some of the newer ones might not.”

I thanked Beverly for her help after finding out where Mark’s cartography office was in Whitefish and left her in whatever sadness would fall upon her as she took in the death of her ex-lover.

20

T
HAT EVENING, I
sat in my dorm apartment and took a break from scouring Phillips’s phone records. He had very few incoming or outgoing calls, mostly to coworkers and to several friends around town that we had already checked out. As far as I could see, he had no current relationship going and no particular hiking buddies.

I was sitting in the old small couch that came with the place and gazed at the system-provided pictures flashing across on my laptop screen saver—scenes of lush rainforests, bronzed deserts, and African savannas. The drizzle had ceased for the evening and in the typical coyness of the park’s spirit, sunlight dipped low enough to break under the clouds and spray the lush foliage with coppery light as if to say,
See it’s still stunning here even on the rainy ones
. The upper branches of a tall birch outside cast yellowish shifting shadows on the wall beside me and I thought of what Beverly Lynde said about Mark Phillips’s personality. Then I considered his house again. It was not as neat as my place, but I had to admit, it was obvious I lived alone too. I had very few personal touches even though my orderliness showed with my dishes clean and put away, my bed made, throw blankets neatly folded, and my counters tidy.

Then I thought about Adam. Last I heard, he was living in Coram in a run-down log cabin he’d helped a friend build years ago and doing odds and ends around town for people in the canyon: construction, maintenance on buildings, grounds-keeping for some local hotels, mechanical
work on some cars. . . . I had no desire to visit him, but was beginning to wonder what he and Mark Phillips fought about so violently that the police became involved. I didn’t know what I could ever do for Adam, what he expected from me, if anything, and what compensation he needed from me for—as he would claim—“ruining his life.”

The room felt quiet and peaceful and in my solitary stillness—and because I’m a positive person—I tried to remember the good things about Adam before things turned bad for him, before my dad sent him to the wilderness academy. I had a vague image of a child pulling at my mom’s skirt and trying to ask questions as she shooed him away while frustratingly trying to feed me as I sat in a high chair. I was probably conjuring it up because I couldn’t imagine my memories going that far back. The image was wispy like a feathery cloud, ready to float away at the slightest interruption, and I strained to hold it in my mind but couldn’t. Instead, my thoughts once again drifted to that Halloween night.

It was appropriately windy and moody with creaking trees dropping their golden leaves under shadowy clouds. The night sky held a pale-purple glow from the three-quarter moon, lighting the bruised clouds creeping across the western horizon. I remember thinking that Nathan had a point as he yelled at me, spittle flying from his mouth, “Crap, Monty. Why can’t you ever stand up to him?” He kicked his foot across some dried, dead weeds. “Can’t you tell by now he was just going to play some trick on us like always?”

My brother and his friends had just left us in a cemetery north of town—just driven off after cajoling us out of the car.

“I do stick up to him,” I said in a meager defense.

“
Stand,
not stick,” he said, disgusted. “And, no, you don’t.”

“Stand,” I corrected myself. “But I . . . I swear, I didn’t know. I thought it was about Molly. That’s all.”

‘Well, great.” He shook his head angrily. “Fucking loser. That’s what your brother calls you. I think he’s right.”

“Don’t say that. You’re a fucking loser.”

He stared back at me, his face twisted in anger. I could feel it heaving from him in waves like the fierce wind pushing through the dying leaves and bending the branches. And it wasn’t just anger; there was something else. Perhaps fear. “I trusted you,” he said, and I realized it was disappointment I was seeing in his expression, not just worry.

“I know, Nate. Really, I’m sorry, but I thought they wanted our help this time.”

“You should’ve known.” Nathan turned, mumbling and swearing under his breath, and marched off into the woods. He crossed a fallen log and went into the darkness of the trees, which swallowed him almost instantly.

It was complicated. My acquiescence to my brother’s proposals and demands wasn’t just borne from stupidity or blind faith. There were a whole host of emotions that played out inside of me: the need to fit in, the hope for my brother’s approval, the raw fear of rejection . . . of abandonment.

“I really did,” I yelled. “I thought they’d be nice for a change,” I called out and started to follow him. I stepped on the same log he’d gone over, but my foot caught a soft, rotted-out piece and came crashing down into a dip in the ground. My heel jammed backward under the log, and I had to take a second to pry it out, leaning forward like a track racer at his starting line with my fingers splayed in the wet leaves.

By the time I stood back up, I couldn’t see him. I called to the trees, the patches of darkness from the tall pines swallowing the surrounding landscape, and the clouds shrouding the pale moonlight casting like a film of silvery dust.

I called several more times, “Aw, come on, Nate. I’m sorry. Come on, wait for me. It’s creepy out here. And freezing. We should stick together.”

But Nathan didn’t answer, and I kept walking into and through the
woods, searching for him in the murky shadows, through the trees, listening for his footsteps but only hearing the groan of the angry wind and the sound of creaking branches. I went farther and farther for I don’t know how long until, cold and exhausted, I saw the lights of a neighborhood and eventually found my way home.

I never saw Nathan Faraway again.

• • •

Afterward, it was the not knowing that cut Adam and me more deeply, and I can’t imagine what it did to Nathan’s family.

Adam had sworn up and down that it was only supposed to scare us—only to be a trick—that they slowly wove through the cemetery, out to the highway to stop at the 7-Eleven three-quarters of a mile down the road for some Snickers and Mountain Dews and then returned to fetch us, the radio blaring. They had no idea we’d take off into the woods for home.

I stared at Adam from the doorway to his bedroom. His eyes burned big and round as if they’d never relax again, his mouth stunned and half open. Then, suddenly his brow plunged into a deep furrow, and he broke into a full sob. I’d never seen him cry before, and I was certain he’d been taught some kind of lesson—his bullying backfiring like a pistol. Teachers said bullies were insecure deep down, and it wasn’t until I saw Adam break down and later drinking too much and getting into more drugs that I was convinced it was true.

I was full of hope that they’d find Nathan, but I had a sinking feeling in my gut, some instinctive blade—sharp and dangerous as a scythe—slicing into me that things were only going to get worse. Each day that passed without finding Nathan was laced with blackness, and slowly shock gave way to grief. Later, the police’s words to my dad rang in my ears: “We’ve searched every corner of those woods and every house in the neighborhood, and we’ve also looked for large animal tracks—bear and mountain lion. Sometimes we never find
what we’re looking for in the woods. Animals have a way of clearing things completely.” I knew then, deep in my bones, things were never going to be the same again, not for the Faraways, for me or my brother. And as I realized that my brother
had
received some type of lesson that night, I wondered more fiercely what had come Nathan Faraway’s way.

21

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I got up, showered, shaved, and put my contact lenses in. Usually I wore my eyeglasses because they were easier and more comfortable, but sometimes I used my contacts if I knew I’d be outdoors so I could just wear my nonprescription sunglasses. And sometimes I simply liked to change it up. I was well aware that I could appear a little too serious, too studious. I didn’t care most of the time. But once in a while, for the sake of how approachable I was in an investigation, it didn’t seem like such a bad thing to pay attention to.

I headed straight for Glacier Academy for no great reason other than because of my conversation with Phillips’s girlfriend, Beverly, and what she said about Mark being a bully. Plus the fact that the date on the letter from Diane that Beverly mentioned would have been around the time Phillips worked at the Academy also snagged my attention. It sort of fit perfectly into my vague memory of him on the porch yelling at some kid to sweep it, “
or I’ll . . .
”

The rains had passed through and were replaced by blazing sunshine. Northwest Montana is usually dry, but an unusual humidity pressed in as I drove through a conifer forest, up a long hill, and turned right to the big log building. It looked like some money had been pumped into the place since I’d seen it years ago, the window framing sparkling white against the cinnamon-colored logs. Additional buildings had been built off to the sides and the landscaping looked more professional compared to the rough lawn and encroaching weeds from years before. The grass was cropped evenly and several flower
gardens were carved into their own enclaves amid the lawn. Orderly, I thought. It looked proper compared to before, like an orphan taken in and cleaned up.

Off to my left was a clearing with a volleyball net and a bigger glade past it with goal boxes on each end of the old makeshift soccer field, now completely level, freshly fertilized and appropriately lined.

I parked, locked the car, and sighed. “Probably just pissing in the wind here,” I mumbled to myself, thinking it could be a shameful waste of my time when I was already five days into the investigation, but my curiosity about the place had been piqued. I considered that there might be some important connections to Mark—that perhaps he’d stayed in touch. I also understood that information gathered from all directions would most likely provide context. The more avenues I went down, the more terrain I could confidently rule out. I would go down as many as needed to make sense of things.

I found the main office easily on the entry-level floor below the side deck and went in. The smell of the logs hit me. It had a certain bittersweet tug.

“Oh, hi, sorry.” A woman at a desk on her computer smiled at me. She had a cup of coffee in one hand, was staring at the screen, and had startled when I entered. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. Good morning.”

“Morning.” I smiled. “I’m Monty Harris.”

“I’m Penny.” She stood up and set her coffee down. She was wearing a white cardigan over a pink top, had slightly graying hair and glasses. “What can I help you with?”

“I’m a police officer for Glacier Park and I just had a few questions for you if you don’t mind.”

Penny’s eyes opened large. “Oh,” she said shyly. “Okay, what for?”

“Well, for starters, can you tell me who owns this place now?”

“The Bremers own it. They bought it about fifteen years ago from some organization that, I think, disenfranchised. Before that, I’m not sure.”