Mountain Echoes

Sara’s jaw snapped shut so definitively I heard the click. She had the grace to flush an attractive dusky red, and after a moment said in a much less antagonistic tone, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t even, um...” and decided she should stop there.

I finished for her, out of something I’d like to call the goodness of my heart and which I suspected was more like a gleeful willingness to twist the knife. “I didn’t know her. Not well, anyway, and not at all until the very end. So I got here as fast as I could, Sara, and if you’d told me Lucas had gone missing almost a week ago I might have tried getting here that much sooner.”

She stiffened all the way from her heels to the top of her head. I swear if it could have, all that honey-blond hair would have stood straight out like an angry cat’s. “I didn’t know it was—”

“‘My kind of thing’?” I asked when she broke off, then couldn’t help relenting a bit, palms turned up in something like apology. “Yeah, okay, that’s fair. Look, do we have to do this, Sara? Didn’t we get it out of the way in December?”

From her expression, no, we hadn’t. Or rather, we had, but only when Lucas wasn’t actually part of the physical scenario. Reintroducing him and me added a whole new level to the emotional mess we’d created in high school, or at least it apparently did in Sara’s mind. “I don’t,” I said to the ceiling, since I figured it was more inclined to listen than Sara was, “have designs on your man.”

“How do you know? You haven’t seen him in thirteen years.”

I reversed my gaze to peer at Sara. “You really think he and I are going to, what, Sara? Fall into each other’s arms in a fit of storybook love? He never even liked me, you idiot.”

“He got you pregnant!”

“And then he turned tail and ran. Sara, I don’t think liking somebody has much to do with sex for your average teenage boy. Opportunity, yes, fondness, not so much.”

Les, whom I’d more or less forgotten about, cleared his throat. Sara and I both looked at him accusingly and he said, “Don’t paint all of us with the same brush.”

I wrinkled my face. “I don’t need you being the voice of reason in the middle of my rant, Les.”

He shrugged expressively. “I’m just saying some things are more worth doing if you like the person.”

“So he did like you,” Sara said, which was such a wild extrapolation from Les’s statement that I flung my hands up in exasperation.

“Did or didn’t, it was half a lifetime ago, Sara. Get over it. Or would you rather I tried really hard not to find Lucas while I’m looking for my dad?”

She turned ever-more scarlet, spun on her heel and stalked out of the sheriff’s office. I stood there a moment, watching sunlight eat her silhouette, then turned to Les. “Is this what it’s like for people who never leave their hometowns? Does everybody get permanently stuck in high school?”

“Sara left,” he pointed out, but gave another shrug, this time one of agreement. “I think coming back makes us revert to form, maybe. Everybody knew who we were then. It’s pretty easy to fall right back into those expectations. Try being the stoner who comes home a cop. That’ll mess you right up.”

“You ever tempted to slide?”

Les looked thoughtful, but shook his head. “Not really. Feels better to be part of the community, to be useful and make a difference in people’s lives. It took some getting used to, but I wouldn’t want to go back.”

I glanced after Sara and sighed. “Yeah, I hear you. Guess I should try to remember that. Look, if I find anything useful, I’ll...”

“You’ll bring it to the elders,” Les said, which made a lot more sense than anything I’d have suggested. “Don’t forget you’re not alone on the path here, Joanne.”

I had, in fact, forgotten that, and for a moment it was far more interesting than chasing after Sara Isaac. I came back to the desk, half-curious and half-worried. “So why haven’t they already solved it?”

“You’ll see when you get up on the mountain.” Les shook his head. “I’m not screwing with you. I think it’s just better for you to see for yourself. I don’t have the eyes for it.”

Self-conscious, I touched my cheekbone just under the eye. They weren’t gold right now because I wasn’t drawing down power, but I felt a little like a marked man anyway. Then my fingertips brushed the scar on my right cheekbone, the one I’d gotten the day my shamanic powers had awakened, and I guessed maybe I was a marked man. “All right. Anything else I should know before I go up there?”

“Yeah.” Les’s grin flashed. “Sara drives like an old woman on those mountain roads.”

I laughed and dug my keys from my pocket on the way out the door.

Sara was in her own rental, a Toyota Avalon. I laughed again, shook my head, and dangled my keys. She shook her head. I sat on the Impala’s hood and waited. It only took about forty seconds for her to throw her door open, stand up in it and snap, “I’m not letting you drive me up there, Joanne. I remember how you drive. And what were you laughing at?”

“My, um. My, uh...” I crinkled my face. Captain Michael Morrison of the Seattle Police Department, less than a week ago my boss, and now featuring as the romantic lead in the movie of my life, was thirty-eight years old. That seemed a little long in the tooth for the word boyfriend. And since I’d jetted off to Ireland within minutes of us finally mentioning the elephant in the room that were our feelings toward one another, we hadn’t really discussed different terminology. Significant other was a mouthful. Partner connoted long-term commitments, which I was kind of hoping for myself, but didn’t think seemed appropriate under the current circumstances. I cleared my throat and finally said, “Morrison. Captain Morrison, the guy who gave you my number in Ireland? He drives an Avalon. Highest safety rating in its class. That’s very FBI of you, or something. Get in the Impala.”

“I am not driving anywhere with you in that thing.”

She sounded like Morrison. I rolled my eyes. “Come on, Sara. It’s a brand-new car, not a classic roadster. It has seat belts. I promise not to drive over the speed limit.”

She closed her car door and took two wary steps toward me. “Promise?”

“Cross my heart.” I actually did, and Sara, still suspicious, came and got in the Impala. I got in, buckled up, waved at Les as I started the engine, and gunned it.

Dust kicked up, Sara screamed like a little girl and I laughed until the tears came as we zoomed toward the mountains. I slowed down, too, because driving while blinded by tears wasn’t a good idea, but I thought I was funny as hell. Sara waited until we reached a stop sign, then hit the meaty part of my shoulder so hard the thwock echoed against the dashboard. Still grinning, I rubbed my shoulder and didn’t even say “ow,” because I deserved it. “Yeah,” I said instead, “but you shoulda seen your face.”

Sara, through her teeth, said, “This is not a time to be joking, Joanne,” and two days of worry that I’d been holding off through force of will alone came to boil acid in my belly.

I was not close to my father. I hadn’t actually talked to him in years, not even a happy birthday or merry Christmas. I blamed him—unfairly, as it turned out, but then, it turned out most of the blame I laid was unfair—for raising me on the road, for always looking at me like he’d been saddled with a kid he didn’t know what to do with, for more or less everything wrong with my life that I couldn’t lay at my mother’s feet for abandoning me. I had issues. Hell, I had subscriptions. And I was only just discovering how badly I’d misread, oh, every situation that had shaped my life since infancy. I’d only resolved things with my mother after she was dead, which was not a statement most people got to make.

I was desperately afraid of the same thing happening with Dad. I had regrets with Mother, but I hadn’t known her very well. Dad had raised me. If I lost him and the chance to settle things between us, I didn’t think I’d ever forgive myself. Classic scenario, thinking I had time, in so far as I’d ever thought about it at all. Which I hadn’t, because I’d been busy being The Wronged Party, but a little forced perspective over the past week had changed that, and now—

Now my hands were cold and shaking and bile scored the back of my throat. I swallowed. “This is exactly the time to be joking, Sara, because otherwise I’m going to freak the hell out, okay? I know you’re stressed and I’m sorry, but so am I an—”

“Funny way of showing it.”

“Yeah,” I said softly, “yeah, that’s exactly what I’m trying for. Funny-ha-ha ways of showing it. You probably told Lucas you loved him the last time you saw him. I can’t even remember the last time I talked to Dad, much less what I said, so in fact, yes, I’m trying hard to act like none of this matters very much so I don’t burst into tears. Okay?” She didn’t say anything, so after a minute I said, “Okay,” and went back to the business of driving. Slowly, or at least less fast than I’d started out.

The road leading up to the mountains was better than I remembered. Either it had been resurfaced recently—sometime in the past ten years—or the late-model rented Impala had better suspension than my 1969 Mustang. Actually, it probably did, or at least better suspension than Petite had had when I drove her out of the Qualla. I’d done the restoration work myself over the course of a decade, but I hadn’t gotten nearly that far on her before I’d left. The smoother ride made driving faster easy, and I had to keep a steely eye on the speedometer to keep myself from panicking Sara. Truth was I hadn’t driven Appalachian roads in so long even I didn’t think I should be speed-demoning over them, but I could hardly say that aloud and lose face in front of my high school rival.

“I didn’t think you ever cried.” Sara spoke to the window, not me, and it took a moment to realize she was probably addressing me anyway. Then I snorted.

“Used to be my motto, I guess. Never let ’em see you bleed.”

“Yeah. I used to think you were so tough. So cool.”

“Sorry to spoil the illusion.”

It was her turn to snort. “I got over it a while ago.” She shifted in her seat, then muttered, “Or not. You were still a jerk when we met in December but you were fearless. I guess maybe I thought you were still all that. Pull over here.”

“There’s nowhere to pull over.” I pulled over anyway. Mountain rose on one side of us and dropped off on the other, with a road slightly wider than a horse track between. It reminded me of Ireland, except their horse-track roads had stone walls on both sides, not mountains.

Sara gestured for me to get out, then climbed across the seats and got out on my side. Had to; pulling over, such as it was, put her door up against the mountainside. Ten years earlier I wouldn’t even have objected to the lack of room. “Up or down?”

“Up. I’m pretty sure there’s a better way in but nobody would show it to me.” Sara walked along the road a few yards, searching for a trail I couldn’t see, then stepped off the road and disappeared into foliage. I tried to remember when poison ivy started to bloom, then shrugged and followed her. At least I was wearing a long-sleeved coat.

Sara, whom Les had accused of not being the outdoorsy type, was already a couple dozen feet up the mountain by the time I fought through the roadside brush. She bounced from one foot to another, lithe steps that took her higher while I scrambled along behind, wondering how it was I was climbing my second mountain inside a week when I didn’t make a habit of climbing them at all. This one was easier than Croagh Padraig: that had been slippery shoal and switchback rock face, while this one was wooded, mossy and offered things to hold on to. I kept an eye out for poisons ivy and oak, and called, “Who wouldn’t show you the better way?” after Sara.

“Everybody. The elders, the locals, nobody. I guess growing up here doesn’t count for much if you come back wearing an FBI jacket. A hundred and fifty years after the Trail of Tears and half of ’em still don’t trust Feds, even if it’s one of their own.”

“They kind of have a point.”