The Mountains Bow Down (27 page)

“That's not true,” she was saying. “Stop it—
stop it
.”

I stared at the front wall where a stained glass medallion hung in place of a cross. In place of any religious symbol. The swirling blue colors seemed to follow her words, turning and twisting and tumbling like water.

“Lies, all lies. It's all lies—”

In the corner of the room a small organ waited to play a wedding march. For people who celebrated. I thought of DeMott, and our wedding, and felt a second wave of despair.

“Please, stop saying—”

The FBI taught me many ways to stay alive. I knew how to shoot a gun and dodge incoming bullets and think like my enemy. But they also taught me something so simple it seemed laughable at the time: how to breathe. How to breathe when every instinct insisted it was time to curl up and die.

Taking a deep breath, I counted to four on the inhale. The air smelled of chemicals. Something acrylic. Epoxy or glue.

“And it can't be true,” she continued. “No, she wouldn't—”

I tried another four-count breath, but the chemical odor was so strong I tasted it at the back of my throat. I stared down at my hands, automatically clasped in prayer, and saw my engagement ring sparkling with its yellow and green rays. I looked away to the Berber carpet. It was the inoffensive color of oatmeal, but a section was torn on the podium and I fixed my eyes on the spot, using it for a focal point as I tried to bring my pulse down, resisting the urge inside that demanded,
Run
.

She began speaking in tongues. “Shama-la-may, shaaaaama—”

I squeezed my hands until the bones hurt and stared at the carpet's torn nylon threads. Glued down. The epoxy was shiny and opaque like polished brown jasper, fine grains dusting the surface. When her voice rose, it sounded so desperate, my eyes climbed with it. She begged the voices to
stop stop stop
and I turned to see her fingers wound into her black curls, pulling on her hair. “Amma-shaaaama!”

I reached over, wanting to hold her, then stopped. What if I startled her?

No, worse.

Dear God. What if she's afraid of me?

Blinking against the burn in my eyes, I found another focal point, a hole in the wall. No bigger than half an inch, it held white particles that gathered along the bottom curve. I stared at them, willing her to calm down until I could see nothing but the wall, the hole, the dust inside. Wall, hole, dust.

She rocked forward, crying.

Dust
.

Gray dust.

I stood, my hands feeling too warm, and walked toward the platform. At the wall, I laid my cheek against the Sheetrock. It felt cool on my skin. The dust clung to the hole's bottom curve. On the other side of the medallion a piece of stubbed metal protruded, a small bent hook that drooped toward the floor. Licking my finger, I tapped the hole, then rubbed my thumb over the grains. Drywall dust. Fine-grained gypsum.

“No no no—shamma-la-ma!” She continued to rock back and forth, nearly catatonic.

Standing at the edge of the platform, I could see how the hole was aligned with the protruding metal. Something once hung there. I kneeled on the carpet, inspecting the torn fibers. Tiny brown objects were stuck in the Berber loops and I pinched one, pulling against the snagged fibers. I held it up to the ceiling lights. The jagged edges looked like a comic rendering of lightning.

I stood on the platform, watching her. I whispered, afraid of startling her. “Mom?”

No response.

I walked to the chapel door, unable to feel my feet touching the ground. A small table by the door held a stack of Bibles, like a black stalagmite. I shimmied one from the bottom and opened its cover. The spine crackled with disuse. Turning the soft pages, I worked toward the book of Micah and placed the brown fragment at chapter six, verse eight, pushing it deep into the binding to keep it from falling out. Putting it where I wouldn't forget: alongside my father's creed to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly.

As I walked down the aisle again, I wondered if she was speaking in tongues, or some twisted language from the dark territory that had taken her captive. Standing beside the wall, I listened and brushed drywall dust into the Bible passage that reminded me that I was dust, and to dust I would return.

Closing it carefully, tucking it under my left arm, I could feel my pulse tapping against the Bible.

She was standing.

Her eyes were no longer dull. Polished bright, they didn't seem to see me. She lifted her hands and opened her fingers and I felt something chilling on my spine.

Her hand moved toward her face.

“No—Mom—no!”

With her nails, she clawed her cheeks. The scratches went white before blood rose like crimson ribbons. I ran toward her and she backed away, unblinking and scared.

We stared at one another, suspended in time.

Breathe. Breathe
.

Looking into my eyes, she drew her nails down her face once more. I reached down for my belt, fumbling for the phone, hitting Redial.

“It's me,” I said.

“What now?” Geert asked.

She was pulling her hands away, marveling at the glistening red on her nails.

“Help,” I said.

Geert burst through the chapel door followed by a red-faced man wearing the white officers' uniform. He was followed by Nurse Stephanie who pushed a collapsible gurney, just like the one that carried Judy Carpenter's body off the ship.

I held my mother from behind, her arms pinned to her sides.

She was writhing and I pressed my mouth to her ear, smelling shampoo and fear, and whispering words. Words about love. My love. My dad's love. God's love.

The man in the officer uniform approached us like a bomb technician, listening for the ticking sound.

“Mrs. Harmon, I'm Dr. Coleman,” he said. “I'm here to help you, dear.”

His voice was accented—Irish, English—and she screamed.

He turned to Nurse Stephanie, snapping his fingers. She unzipped a flat black case and extracted a hypodermic needle, using it to puncture a small glass vial. She filled the needle's plunger. I squeezed tighter, wondering that I had never held someone so close yet felt so far away.

Holding the syringe, the doctor walked closer, speaking softly and evenly, and I decided his accent was Irish. The brogue's cadence swung when he was within striking distance, telling me to hold her still, don't let her move, that's it. I buried my face in her hair, unable to watch, and felt her body stiffen. Within seconds, it went limp.

“There's a good girl,” the doctor was saying. “Now you can have a rest.”

She was no longer fighting. There was no resistance and I released my hold.

She spun, hand open, and slapped me before I could catch her arm.

Her black hair clung to the blood on her cheeks. When I looked into her eyes, they were no longer bright. Distant again. And now filled with hate.

My voice cracked. “They're here to help.”

She swayed now, the drug taking over, and as her knees gave, the doctor caught her and lifted her to the gurney. He spoke to her in the Irish brogue.

“There's a nice girl,” he said. “There's a nice, nice girl.”

Chapter Twenty-two

D
anger to self. Danger to others
.

A black line at the bottom of the document waited for my signature.

Grievously disabled
.
Requiring observation .
. .

I held the pen and listened to the doctor explain the laws that insisted it was fine to lock up my mother. When the doctor paused, drawing a hand over his thinning white hair, I turned to look at her room, directly across from the circular desk where I stood holding the paperwork.

She was no longer crying out. No longer screaming.

She was silent.

I signed, giving permission for forty-eight hours' observation—all the time left on the cruise—then handed the paperwork to the doctor.

She lay on the bed, her high cheekbones raw, the blood still wet. Rubber restraints secured her arms. I couldn't tell if she recognized me. Her eyes were drugged, disoriented.

“I'm sorry.” The words seemed to fracture inside my mouth. “I don't want you to hurt yourself.”

Rolling her head across the pillow, she turned away, facing the wall. The room had no window. No view. And I heard no murmurs from her lips.

I had silenced even her prayers.

Two doors down, I stood in the medical clinic's small lab and called Jack, asking him to bring certain pieces of evidence from the purser's safe. Then I flicked on the microscope and sat down.

“Sucks, doesn't it?” Nurse Stephanie stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Her waist seemed impossibly small.

I set the Bible on the counter.

“My mom's crazy too,” she said. “Half the reason I live on a cruise ship nine months of every year is so I don't have to see her. The other three months I stay busy avoiding her.”

I looked over at her. “I need the same supplies as last time. Petri dishes, uncoated aspirin, distilled water.”

She stared at me, then unhitched a hip and walked to the cabinets, keying them open and placing the supplies on the stainless steel shelf. When she turned to face me, she pointed two fingers at her eyes, then pointed them at me. “I see you,” she said. “I see you
real
clearly.”

A shard of irritation bristled up my spine, rising with a force that told me I needed to bat it down, now. Right now.

“Thank you for your help,” I said.

She puckered her lips and sauntered away. I listened to her crepe soles squeak across the vinyl, then come back with the cup of distilled water and uncoated aspirin. She set them on the counter and left, and I snapped on latex gloves, dropping the white tablets into the water. Over at the desk, Nurse Stephanie was greeting someone.

“Welcome back, Big Guy.” She sounded like Marilyn Monroe squeezed into medical whites. “Ready for your shot?”

“Where is she?” Jack asked.

When I looked up, he stood in the doorway holding the evidence bags. “Harmon, the purser told me what happened—is your mom okay?”

“Is that the right evidence?”

He looked down at the bag, as if suddenly remembering it. “Yes, I got the one you said. But what happ—”

“Thanks.” I took the bag from him, removing the test tubes and the notes written on the prescription pad concerning the gray dust and the wood chips found on Milo's and MJ's clothing.

“Harmon, is she . . . ?”

I opened the Bible to Micah 6:8 and brushed my gloved fingers into the crease, depositing the brown fragment into the clean petri dish. I did the same with the gray dust from Genesis.

Jack said, “Holy forensics, Batgirl.”

I poured some salicylic acid water into the petri dishes, nuked them in the microwave, then scraped the powdered precipitates into thin sections, slipping them under the microscope. Then I compared them with the samples taken from the clothing and all the while, Jack watched from the doorway.

“You're going to have to let me in,” he said.

“Okay.” I pushed back from the microscope. “I found some dust in the chapel. It contains wood fragments. It looks like a very strong match to the dust found on Milo's clothing and the musician's clothing. That means—”

“Harmon, let me in.”

“I'm trying to. The dust contains a specific heavy metal left behind after the acid dissolved all the softer minerals. It might be trace iron but I can't pinpoint the chemistry with this equipment. The bottom line is Milo and MJ were both in the chapel and they both—”

“Stop it.”

His eyes were intense, focused. I willed myself to hold their gaze, refusing to look away. I breathed, taking in the bitter scent of the salicylic acid.

“Jack, I'm fine. Really. Can we get back to the evidence?”

At the desk, the phone rang and Nurse Stephanie answered, immediately launching into a lecture. The flu lady, again. The contagious fugitive. “Look, honey, I am not going to help you unless you get your butt in here.”