"There's a story right there," the blond said happily. "I mean, I'm sorry he was crying. He seemed like a sweet guy, but you've got to admit it's got 'story' written all over it."
"No picture though," the possibly-Emma woman said.
"Maybe he was ashamed." Anna was still feeling mildly humiliated at her own story potential.
"Oh, we didn't shove the camera in his weepy little face like some demented newswomen," the blond said. "We believe in leaving no trace, not even footprints."
"Especially on people's faces," the other woman threw in and laughed, a boisterous, barroom laugh that tickled Anna. "He was really an unhappy citizen. We tried to talk with him but he wasn't much for that. He dried up the minute we showed. Real sweet fella."
"Till the camera came out. Then he became Mr. Freaky."
The story was beginning to interest Anna. "What did he look like?" she asked.
"Around five-ten. Young, exceedingly young. Too young to be out without his momma. He couldn't have been more than fifteen or sixteen, tops. What do the you think, Emma? Fifteen?"
"Thereabouts," Emma concurred.
"Soft, soft brown hair. Some wave. Big old hazel eyes with lashes out to here." The blond held a stubby forefinger adorned with chipped burgundy polish a couple of inches beyond her nose.
"Boxy jaw," Emma said. "Square guy. Not fat, square. Looked strong."
It was about the best description of a person Anna had ever gotten in her years as a law enforcement officer. These women were of that rare breed that saw what they were looking at.
She compared the description with her memory and decided they had seen the elusive Geoffrey Mickelson
Nicholson. "Did he wear a length of chain wrapped around his waist and have a smile like St. Francis of Assisi?" Anna asked. "I was getting to that," Emma said, in the injured tone of a raconteur whose flow is interrupted. "Do you know him?" the blond asked. "I've met him," Anna said. "Do you know why he was crying? He wouldn't tell us." Anna didn't. It crossed her mind that his heart was broken because the boulder he'd rolled down the mountainside had failed to squash her, but she didn't say so. The stories she collected weren't the kind that made for good memories on a deep winter's night.
"How long ago?" Anna asked. "Maybe an hour," Emma said. Too much time had passed to follow him on foot. Anna needed film, a weapon, a horse, water and a much better plan. She continued on to Fifty Mountain Camp with the ladies from Ohio.
Chapter 19
Fifty Mountain was at peace, new campers not yet come, old campers either out exploring or lounging in the church-quiet of backcountry camp at midafternoon.
Anna went first to Ponce. He'd been fed by one of Ruick's crew the night before, as they'd arranged if Anna spent the night out. The bay was utterly content to be doing nothing and gave her a big-hearted welcome that left horse snot down her right arm from shoulder to elbow. Given the sad shape of her uniform shirt, a smear of equine mucus was a mere drop in the bucket.
Beyond the hitching rail, the National Park Service had provided a tall pole firmly planted in the ground with metal hooks near the top. Propped against a nearby tree was another pole. This one was long and slender and tipped with a hook of its own. Taking up the slender pole, Anna used it to lift off the pack she'd left behind, cached high and safe. The NPS put these primitive instruments at the heavily used camps. Caching food in trees, done repeatedly and inexpertly, not only damaged the trees over time but, too frequently, resulted in the bears getting the goods anyway. Bears learned quickly, remembered and, rare among wild creatures, passed that knowledge on to their young. Bears were as good as rangers at spotting a cache that, with a little effort, could be had.
Food, a sponge bath, cleaner clothes, resting in a tent; Anna enjoyed the things that allowed people to maintain the thin veneer of civilization. Without a radio there was little else she could do but while away the time till she got word from Ruick. As was customary when one ranger went off alone in questionable pursuits, she'd been instructed to report in each evening. Since she'd failed to do so, Ruick would be looking for her. It behooved her to stay put so she could be found.
Renewed and rested, she ventured forth a little after five. She wandered by McCaskil's campsite. A young couple were pitching their tent there, arguing companionably about which direction the slope went. McCaskil wouldn't be back, not unless he was an idiot. He'd run. He had a radio, Anna was sure of it. Either that or he'd fortuitously overheard their conversation regarding him over Lester Van Slyke's radio. Not impossible in a town built of cloth.
If he had any sense, he was long gone from the park by now. Unless he had unfinished business here, and Anna couldn't imagine what it would be. Rolling rocks down on her? That made little sense. Anna couldn't tie McCaskil in with the excavating for moths or digging glacier lilies and she knew it wasn't he who'd dwelt in the den she'd found. He'd spent every night but one at Fifty Mountain.
She could connect McCaskil with Carolyn by way of the map and the coat. She could connect Carolyn and the blue stuff bag by way of blood and proximity. The mysterious Geoffrey Mickleson-Nicholson she connected to the blue stuff bag by way of the moths and the glacier lilies. So far she couldn't connect Geoffrey with Carolyn except through the blue stuff sack. Who the hell was the boy with the chain around his waist who wept and dug and, Anna believed, denned up in the high country like an out-of-season bear?
Full of questions and needing to pester somebody, she climbed the gentle hill through the blackened campsites and dead trees till she reached the uppermost one, the one where the fire had simply stopped of its own volition, often in the middle of a tree leaving half charred and dying, the other half determinedly thrusting green needles out to catch the sun.
Lester was there. He sat on a rock, elbows on his knees, hands hanging down, doing nothing. So seldom do people actually do nothing that to see it creates an impression of deadness. That's what Anna felt as she approached him. "Hey," she said feeling a need to announce herself though scarcely six feet separated them.
Like a man in a trance, he swung his face slowly toward her. His eyes were vacant, as if he took up no space on the planet. "It's Anna Pigeon," she added and some small reassuring life returned to his face.
"Yes. I was waiting for you."
For reasons she could not put her finger on, his words gave her a creepy feeling, much as the Grim Reaper's might when he called her name. Les stirred himself and the feeling was gone. "Chief Ranger Ruick told me to wait here, and if you came back, tell you to call him." He reached down and retrieved a radio propped against the stone at his feet.
Anna took it and radioed Ruick. Her first question was, "Is Buck back with Joan?" Ruick answered in the affirmative and her relief let her know how worried she'd been.
"Why didn't you call last night?" he demanded.
"Lost my radio." Silence fussed over the air as he waited for her to explain. She didn't. Radios were not safe. "I need to talk with you in person," she said instead.
Either Ruick understood her reluctance to chat or gave into it. He didn't press her. "We're no longer in the backcountry. Hiked out. Come down," he ordered. "Call me on the phone when you get here."
There were a couple of hours of daylight left. With Ponce for conveyance, Anna could have made it down the mountain by shortly after dark. Given her state of fatigue and the vagaries of recent nights, she didn't want to be alone on horseback that late. "First thing in the morning," she promised, uncomfortable committing even that much of her itinerary to whoever might be listening. She longed to quiz Ruick on what, if anything, they'd found in their search for William McCaskil, but didn't. If they'd found him, Harry would have said so. She could only assume they'd given up the search or it had led them out of the high country.