The Mountains Bow Down (44 page)

“Where do you think you're going?” said the Bird Girl in her flat tone of voice.

But she didn't wait for an answer. Extending a talon, she snatched the white jacket of a passing food service employee. He wore heavy-duty oven mitts and carried a stainless steel bin covered with foil. As she hooked his sleeve, he reeled back, trying to keep the hot container from spilling.

Bird Girl peeled back the foil. “I smell broccoli.” She fanned the clipboard over what appeared to be fried rice. In the rising steam, her nose wrinkled. “Broccoli, it's in there. I said no broccoli.”

The guy didn't seem to speak English. Glancing over his shoulder, he searched for reinforcements. Nobody was behind him.

“Take it back,” she ordered, pointing with the clipboard. “Tell them no broccoli. You hear me?”

He turned automatically and rushed across the room where another peon came, carrying white plates. As the men passed the neon-lit Plexiglas counter, the bartender named Jessie glanced up as if uninterested. I felt a small relief. Not only was he observant, he could be depended on to cover the windows and skylights, darkening the room for the big surprise: black lights over the dance floor. Benitoite black lights. Because these people would recognize the gem. The same way somebody recognized Judy Carpenter's blue bracelet and wanted it so badly, they had a fake made, ready for the switch.

The fake I now had in my pocket to be used like a human fishing lure.

Bird Girl was another problem.

“This is a private party,” she said, quirking her head at me. “And you're not invited.”

“I'm helping the psychic.”

“What?”

I pointed. Claire was wheezing up the ramp, the tails of her bright-yellow sari flapping about her ankles. Once again the third eye peered from her forehead.

“She's reading auras and palms tonight. I'm her assistant.” Lifting my arm, I displayed the swath of folded black velvet and a small banker's lamp in my hand. The lamp borrowed from Geert's desk. I called over to the bartender. “Where are we supposed to set up?”

Jessie looked up from slicing the lemons, as if he just noticed me. With the paring knife, he pointed to a card table by the dance floor. As if I didn't know.

Bird Girl still didn't like it. Her brown hair was pulled back in a severe style, revealing dendritic blue veins under pale skin at her temples. She squinted. “Did this get cleared with Sandy?”

“Sandy
asked
her to do the readings. His wife wants her aura read.”

The same food service guy was trying to sneak behind her. He was almost tiptoeing, carrying another bin of hot food. But she was uncanny. Without turning her head, she reached out and snatched his arm. As she pulled him toward her, I grabbed Claire almost the same way and shuttled her to the card table.

“Raleigh, thanks for helping me out,” she said.

I draped the black velvet over the Plexiglas table. When I went to plug in the lamp, I wondered if God would slay me on the spot, some deadly electrical shock that I deserved.

“I'll read your aura for free,” Claire said.

I glanced out the picture windows. Not yet dusk, the sun burned deep gold, gilding the rocky peaks. The mountains stood elegant and cold and looking at them, I felt a heartache similar to what I felt standing beside my father's grave in Richmond. Those times when I understood the smallness of my life, the insignificance, and the absolute need to keep going. No matter what.

I plugged in the light. No deadly shock.

“Claire, I've been rude to you.”

It seemed appropriate that she wasn't listening. When I finally got to the point of making things right, Claire was on another plane. She stared over my shoulder and I turned to see Jessie offering me a white plate with two foil packets.

“Some guy ordered this for you,” he said.

The first packet contained a cheeseburger with everything but pickles. The other packet, fries.

“And extra mayo.” Jessie set down a ramekin between the packets. “He said you'd drink a Coke, no crushed ice.” He turned to Claire. “What can I get you? Drinks are free for anybody with the movie.”

“I'm an alcoholic,” she said, honestly. Then pointed to her third eye. “I got sober after I realized I had this special gift.”

“Yes,” said Jessie, sounding Filipino.

“Large iced tea. Lots and lots of sugar.”

I said grace and dove into my burger. Claire stared at my fries; I pushed them toward her, showing her how to dip them in mayonnaise. All the while, I shoved back the treasonous thoughts wandering through my mind. DeMott hated this food. Especially fries with mayo. White trash wonders, he called them. But that wasn't the most treasonous thought.

It was this:
Jack had known exactly what I wanted
.

Somewhere right now, he was with Milo, trying to surreptitiously search the cabin one more time for that jewelry box.

Babysitting a drunk, and he still managed to order me dinner
.

Claire had polished off the fries and had closed her eyes, making that weird humming noise. The skin on her forehead wrinkled around the pink stone. I wondered how long I could stand it. Claire's real assistant, my aunt, was coming later. First she was trying to get my mother to eat something.

Claire's eyes opened halfway. “I almost had a heart attack walking up here.”

“Sorry.”

She pointed with her arm. “How come they get an elevator?”

I swiveled to see what she was talking about. More kitchen employees. They toted the racks of desserts while others pushed large trash cans on wheels. Bird Girl was inspecting the buffet table and coming up the ramp was the Forehead. He walked over to her and I balled up the foil packets, pretending to go throw them away. But as quickly as possible, I headed in the other direction, following the kitchen employees who walked around a back wall. I didn't think Vinnie would throw me out, once the party got started. But before anyone arrived?

On the other side of the wall, inside a tiny alcove, an elevator waited, keyed open. The stainless-steel walls were dented, the embossed metal floor worn from heavy use. And inside a large plastic trash can rested on wheels. I lifted the lid to deposit my trash. The can was perfectly empty, ready for the party, lined with a heavyduty black plastic bag.

“Get out.”

I looked up. Vinnie filled the door.

“Get out,” he repeated. “You're not with the movie.”

“I'm with the psychic.”

“And she's what—working in the elevator?”

I smiled. “She tends to go up and down.”

“Get out.”

He followed me back to the table. Bird Girl stood with her clipboard talking to Claire, who now had all three eyes open.

“When does Charlotte get here?” asked Bird Girl in her flat tone.

“I'm not sure, want me to read your aura?”

“Do I look like I want you to?”

“No. But that means you really need it.”

Narrowing her beady eyes, Bird Girl turned to me. “Sandy says he never invited you.”

“What did I tell you?” Vinnie said, smug.

“But I need her help. After a couple readings, my mind starts to fry.”

“Yes. But when is Charlotte coming?”

Claire nodded.

Exasperated, Bird Girl looked at me. “The minute Charlotte shows up, you're gone. Understand?”

Claire said, “I think your aura might be black. That's not good.”

She turned, walking back to the ramp to stand with Vinnie. He had now positioned himself at the entrance, but kept looking over at me. I glanced at my watch, wondering how long before Aunt Charlotte showed. Not long. Not when my mom thought her food was poisoned.

“Do you think we could ever be friends?” Claire asked abruptly. “I know, I'm not really a normal person. My family always told me that. But I can't help it. All this stuff goes on inside my head. People don't understand how crowded it is up there, nobody gets it. I really wanted to help your mom. I think she's got kind of the same problem.” She pointed to her third eye. “Dead people keep talking to me.”

Her eyebrows were slanted up, like a snapped teeter-totter, and the crazy asbestos hair looked like it was trying to leap from her troubled mind. And in that moment, I felt pity for her, a woman whose spiritual quest was destined to circle back to hopelessness and despair. She searched without listening. She wanted truth, only if it was convenient. But something bothered me even more. Who was more despicable, Claire the lost soul or the one manipulating her?

“Claire, one day maybe we can be friends.”

“Can I read your aura?”

“No.” I took a seat at the table and pulled the chain on Geert's lamp. It held the 60-watt black-light bulb. Glancing at Vinnie and Bird Girl, I reached into my pocket. Inside the plastic bag, the bracelet continued its petroleum jelly bath.

“I need a favor, Claire.” Keeping my hands under the table, I wiped down the bracelet with a napkin, then held it under the lamp. The glass glowed, almost as good as the real thing. Among its other ingredients, petroleum jelly contained various rare earth phosphors that absorbed ultraviolet radiation and produced blue and green light. I'd just made cheap glow-in-the-dark gems.

“Whoa,” Claire said.

“Hold out your wrist.” The clasp felt slippery from the jelly. And the bracelet was large. It even slipped over Claire's hand. I tried to recall Judy Carpenter's arms and wrists. She was a big woman . . .

“Are you giving this to me?” Claire slid her wrist under the lamp, transfixed.

“For the night. I want you to wear it all night.”

She was leaning down close, inspecting the glass. “It must have special powers.”

But the bracelet wasn't what caught my interest. The pink stone was glowing on her forehead. Glowing just like blue benitoite.

“Claire, where did you get that stone on your forehead?”

She sat up, touching the third eye. “From Charlotte.”

“My aunt had that?”

“In her collection. And pink is good. Pink auras mean love.” She smiled sheepishly. “And now that we're friends, I can tell you a secret. I picked it mostly because the back is flat. Sticks better.”

I tried to smile. “Did Aunt Charlotte say what it was?”

“Sure. Rose quartz. Increases my self-esteem.” Claire leaned back, once again examining the long bracelet. The pink stone lost its fluorescence.

Rare pink benitoite. I'd read about it on the website. Rarest of all benitoite were the pink, orange, and colorless varieties.

“What's on this, grease?” Claire took the velvet, about to wipe down the bracelet.

“No—!”

She looked startled.

“It's a protective coating. Please be careful.”

“That valuable, huh?” She turned her wrist back and forth, gazing at it curiously.

Across the room, Bird Girl was greeting arrivals and my aunt stood, waiting to get past her. I shifted the lamp to the middle of the table, where the black light would glow on both her forehead and wrist. “If anybody asks, Claire, the bracelet is mine.”

“What makes you think they'll ask?”

“Consider it my version of being clairvoyant.”

“Now you're talking,” she said.

My aunt had reached the front of the line, and Vinnie was escorting her toward us, no doubt so he could take me away. His mansard brow was lowering like a boom. I stood up and made my way toward the exit, moving past the clear tables and space-age chairs, giving Jessie the silent signal to cover the windows.

Chapter Thirty-eight

F
or this last night on board, Jack had the gym to himself. I imagined the restaurants and buffet lines and bars were packed with people making the most of the final hours. But Jack pumped his arms through a set of curls, his biceps glistening with sweat. The sleeves of his gray T-shirt were torn off and I couldn't say I was sorry about that.

“We've got a problem,” he panted.

“Just one?” I asked.

He faced the windows looking out over the empty sport court. Down below I could almost see the small alcove where it all began.

“Sparks kicked me out of the boys' club.” He hefted the thirty-pound weights, then rested them on his sweating deltoids. Great shoulders, I had to admit.

“Why'd he kick you out?”

“Because Vinnie caught me searching Milo's bedroom.”

“That's a good reason. Where was Milo? I didn't see him up at the wrap party.”

“Unfortunately he passed out on the bed. I asked permission to search his cabin right before he went out. He said yes.”

“Glad it was legal, but I take it you didn't find the box.”

He shook his head and started a set of shoulder presses. The veins popped on his forearms, engorged with blood.

I told him Claire was wearing the fake bracelet and the pink third eye that was benitoite. “I don't know how that gemstone wound up in my aunt's crystals, but I'd be surprised if they know what it is.”

“Interesting.” Jack pumped harder, his mouth tensing. “Ready for the rest?”

“No.”

“McLeod called.” He panted. “That guy we picked up at Sea-Tac?”

“Ramazan.”

“He's not. Ramazan.”

I felt my heart stop. When it restarted, I felt that same strange feeling that crept over me when I realized the bracelet was fake. Somebody was double dealing, switching things up. Playing us for rubes.

“How is that possible, Jack? We have his photo.”

“Larsen ran his prints through Interpol. Ready?”

“No.”

“His name's Serif.”

“The roommate?”

Jack nodded.

“That means . . .”

He dropped the weight. The iron pounds hit the steel caddy with a loud metallic smack.

“You got it,” he said. “Ramazan is still on board.”