The Mountains Bow Down
the mountains bow down
Other novels by Sibella Giorello include
The Clouds Roll Away
The Rivers Run Dry
The Stones Cry Out
the mountains bow down
SIBELLA
GIORELLO
© 2011 by Sibella Giorello
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansâelectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or otherâexcept for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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Author photo taken by Michael Good.
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Publisher's Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Giorello, Sibella.
    The mountains bow down / Sibella Giorello.
       p. cm. â (A Raleigh Harmon novel ; 3)
    Summary: “Even Alaska can't give Raleigh Harmon a vacation from her job as an FBI forensic geologist. A cruise to Alaska sounds like the perfect vacation; it's a geologist's dream and will give Raleigh space to sort out her feelings about her recent engagement. But before the ship even reaches its first port, a case manages to find her. The producer of a movie that's being filmed onboard goes missing and is then discovered hanging from the railing. Suicide seems to be the cause, but Raleigh quickly realizes the pieces don't add up. When the Seattle field office sends Jack Stephanson to assist her in the investigation, her personal uncertainty skyrockets. Why is it that she forgets to even call her fiance back in Virginia. And Jack seems to know her as well as she knows herself. She'll have to wait to sort out those feelings, though, because she and Jack only have five days before the cruise ends to solve this case.” â Provided by publisher.
    ISBN 978-1-59554-535-0 (pbk.)
    1. Women geologistsâFiction. 2. United States. Federal Bureau of InvestigationâOfficials and employeesâFiction. 3. Motion picture producers and directorsâCrimes againstâFiction. 4. Ocean travelâFiction. 5. AlaskaâFiction. I. Title.
    PS3607.I465M68 2011
    813'.6âdc22                                                                 2010047485
Printed in the United States of America
11 12 13 14 15 16 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my grandmothers,
Belle Goldstein Simpson
and
Frances Kennan Connor Worobec
Beauty with perseverance: Alaska pioneers
There's a land where the mountains are nameless,
And the rivers all run God knows where;
There are lives that are erring and aimless,
And deaths that just hang by a hair;
There are hardships that nobody reckons;
There are valleys unpeopled and still;
There's a landâoh, it beckons and beckons,
And I want to go backâand I will.
          âfrom “The Spell of the Yukon,” Robert Service
Contents
W
ith the trajectory of launched missiles, the mountains soared from the ocean. Smothered with evergreens, the steeps pointed to a sky so blue it whispered of eternity. Though it was June, snow on the granite ridges refused to melt despite almost twenty-four hours daily of sunlight. And where a liquid silver sea lapped the rocky shore, a bald eagle surveyed the cold water for fish.
First week of June: 5:00
AM
in Ketchikan, Alaska.
It felt like falling in love.
That was a feeling I should've been familiar with, being newly engaged. That delicious sense of wonder, the dizzying sensations that came with standing on the threshold of new lifeâall that should have reminded me of my fiancé.
Instead, I was thinking,
Why doesn't my heart flutter like this when I think of him?
Not the best thought for future marital happiness.
But it's part of the reason I was taking this cruise to Alaska
sans fiancé
. Hoping to get some perspective. Hoping to remember why, six months ago, I agreed to marry my high school sweetheart, a really nice guy named DeMott Fielding.
Only I wasn't gaining perspective on this ship. I was losing what remained of my mind.
We left the Seattle dock fifty-two-and-a-half hours agoâ but who was counting?âand I was suddenly surrounded by two thousand strangers, each of whom lacked any normal sense of personal boundaries. These people were crowders. Constant talkers. Swarmers and gatherers, they turned my dreams of solitude into a desperate need, like food or water. Among the passengers were my motherânever quite stable but not exactly getting sea legsâand my Aunt Charlotte, who genuinely believed rocks healed spiritual wounds, and my aunt's friend Claire, a self-professed psychic known as “Claire the Clairvoyant.”
From day one, Claire made me want to jump ship, literally. But I was trying to be nice. Claire was my aunt's closest friend, and my aunt had given us these cruise tickets. Free. A gift.
Gifts always come with obligations. Always.
But on this morning as we sailed into the town of Ketchikan, I stole an opportunity to escape. Standing on the top deck, I took a deep breath of the freshest air ever tasted and scanned the mountains beyond the bow. The cruise's first port of call, Ketchikan was my first chance to get off the ship and I felt hope returning, sneaking back into my heart like a repentant runaway. My plans for today included a hike. Take in the view, collect some local rocks. Sit somewhere, alone.
It's all going to work out
, I told myself
. The cruise, the engagement. Everything's fine
.
I lifted my hand to the sleepless sun and searched Deer Mountain. I was going to hike the trail that led to its summit, where a panoramic view displayed Tongass Narrows and these leviathan islands that broke through the Alaskan waters like pods of humpback whales. The town's dock was within sight, and that surveying eagle had landed on the pier, awaiting our arrival.
But then I heard three long bellows, blasting from the ship's stack.
Low and ominous, like warnings.
In the silence that followed, I held my breath and stared at the tiny houses snuggled against the mountainsides. Their windows glinted like burnished gold. When an amplified crackle shattered the still air, the eagle took flight.
A man's voice blared across the water, bouncing back from the granite steeps.
Every echoing word confirmed my sense of doom.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain, Oliver Roberts. We have encountered a situation that necessitates our immediate return to sea.” He sounded British, his voice as clipped as a Bristol wind. “We will be sailing for an indefinite period of timeâ”
I leaned over the deck rail. As an FBI agent, I knew of only one “situation” that merited an immediate return to sea. I watched the water below as it churned into a milky froth, washing against the hull. The deck shuddered with vibrations, and when I looked up again, Ketchikan was receding, the golden windows slipping into the emerald trees. And my heart tumbled down, down, down.
No, no, no
.
“We will be traveling south along the Inside Passage,” the captain continued. “Please do not be alarmed by the helicopters.”
Helicopters?
“We hope to return to our scheduled itinerary as soon as possible. In the meantime, thank you for your patience. As updates become available, I will endeavor to pass along the necessary information. On behalf of the entire staff of the
Spirit of Odysseus
, we appreciate your cooperation.”
A raven crossed the sky, following the eagle's retreat, and the oily blackbird cawed happily at our misfortune. Taking a deep breath, I pushed myself from the deck rail and headed for the doors that led back inside the ship.
Back to the crowds. Back to the chattering noise.
“What kinda scam is this?” asked a man, hurrying beside me. He wore a baseball cap that declared his membership to the Phillumenists of Phoenix. “This cruise is a rip-off.”
A petite woman gripped his arm and stared into his face with a tremulous expression. “Honey,” she said with a tentative voice, “they did say something about icebergs. Maybe we hit one last night. You know, like the
Titanic
.”
“Bitty, if we was sinking we wouldn't go back to sea.” His aggrieved tone made clear he was burdened by the company of lesser minds. “They said we'd see Ketchikan. Guess what? We just did. Now we're leaving. Getting off the boat must be some technicality.”
“Oh, honey, I don't thinkâ”
Before I could grab the door, he caught the handle and spun toward me. “What d'you think?” he asked.
Several things, actually. None good. But my most insistent thought was,
My marriage better not be like this
.
Instead, I said, “The captain would rather dock than leave.”
“What's
that
supposed to mean?”
I hurried inside.
“Hey, I asked you a question.”
The air inside the sunroom was warm and smelled of chlorine, a sharp condensation coming from the nearby swimming pool. Picking up my pace, I hoped to lose the guy. But he stuck to my heels like tar.
“Don't you get it?” he persisted. “Now they don't gotta pay dock fees. We'll float around the ocean and they'll take our money and then dump us back in Seattle.”
Conspiracy theories seemed to be fueled by everything but logic, which was why they were impossible to kill. Here was an obvious case: logic would say no self-preserving captain would bring two thousand people within kissing distance of Alaska, a lifelong dream destination for many, only to turn around and remain at sea with a village of now-mutinous passengers. The idea was idiotic. Ridiculous.
And one more reason why I craved solitude.
“Don't you got anything to say?” he demanded.