They found Kolchevsky on the fourth day. The body was on a hiking trail, three-quarters of the way up the north side of Mt. Barrow. He’d apparently suffered a heart attack and fallen into some bushes, which had concealed the body from climbers. He hadn’t used his link to call for help, so it seemed likely that the end had come swiftly. “What we do not understand,” said Fenn, who came by the country house that afternoon, “was what he was doing up there. He had a history of heart problems, and he’d been warned about causing undue strain. The last thing in the world his doctors wanted him to do was go mountain climbing. And worse, that he would do it alone.”
“Why didn’t he have it replaced?” I asked.
“His doctors said he was in denial. Whatever, he refused treatment.”
Alex closed his eyes for a moment. “Have you ever been on Mt. Barrow, Chase?”
I shook my head.
“Me, neither.” He turned back to Fenn. “Is there a restaurant or a tourist area or something up there? On the mountain?”
“No. Not on the mountain. The closest one is down at ground level. Where his skimmer was parked.”
“And he was on foot?”
“That’s correct.”
“That suggests he wasn’t really trying to get somewhere. He was just out walking.” He shrugged. “Or hiking.”
Fenn frowned. “How do you know he wasn’t trying to get somewhere?”
“Why walk? Especially with a health problem. Why not go in by air? Use the skimmer?”
“No.” Fenn shook his head. “You weren’t kidding when you said you weren’t familiar with the area, were you?”
“You mean there’s no place to set down?”
“Not unless you want to land in a tree.”
Alex looked puzzled. A lovely blue arglet landed at one of the windows and peered in at us. “Were you able to get anything from his AI, Fenn?”
“Just that when he left the house, he said he would be a while. Nothing more.”
“I don’t guess he’s ever done any archeological work on the mountain?”
“None that there’s any record for.”
“Okay. What was the restaurant where he parked?”
“Bartlett’s.”
“Did he eat there?”
“Yes. At about one. Nobody saw him after he left.”
“Fenn,” I asked, “why do you care about this? It’s not a police matter anymore, is it?”
“No.” He delivered that broad smile. “Call it professional curiosity. I can’t believe a guy who’s been warned about a weak heart has a hefty lunch. And then goes mountain climbing. He did eat pretty well, by the way. Meat loaf and mashed potatoes.”
“I don’t guess you know,” Alex said, “if he reached wherever it was he was going?”
“No. We don’t know whether he was going up or coming back down when he had the attack. But he got pretty high in any case. He was only a couple of hundred meters from the top when it hit.”
“Well, Fenn,” said Alex, “I wish we could help. I never had much in the way of personal dealings with him, except when he was lecturing me. So I can’t really contribute anything.”
“All right, guys, thanks.” The inspector got up. “If you think of anything, give me a call. Okay?”
He left. And I knew what would be coming next. “Want to go for a ride?” Alex asked.
“Don’t tell me. We’re going for an uphill walk.”
“I thought you might enjoy lunch at Bartlett’s.”
We checked the news reports first, which showed us where the body had been found. Then we headed out. Alex has a philosophy that you cannot work effectively on an empty stomach.
The restaurant was located where Route 11 plunges into the mountain chain. It was still a bit early when we got there, so there was plenty of room for the skimmer in the parking area. We touched down, went inside, and ordered. It was an unusually warm day for midwinter. The sky was clear, and Lake Accord had more than a few boats. While we waited for the food to appear, I offered my theory. “Kolchevsky was a crank. You know that as well as I do. I’d bet the reason he went up the mountain was precisely because the doctors told him not to do it. I had an uncle like that. He’d get the same kind of directions, and it always set him off. I was about twelve when he was telling my folks about how he was supposed to keep calm and not get excited and he kept going, his voice rising, getting seriously enraged that anybody would tell him how to live his life.”
“How’d he make out?”
“He eventually got his heart replaced.”
“Yeah. Well, I don’t think Kolchevsky fits that kind of personality.”
“Really? Why not?”
“There was always a kind of coldness in the guy. Especially when he was on the attack. No, he was too methodical. He didn’t fly into a rage. That was all part of the act. I’m not saying he didn’t get legitimately angry, but he struck me as a control freak. I usually knew what was coming next with him, and I can’t recall ever seeing him get off script.” His eyes drifted toward the window. We had a view of the parking lot, and beyond it, the rising slope of Mt. Barrow, which was covered by heavy forest. A couple of men carrying camping gear had just come out of the trees and were getting ready to cross the highway. “No,” he said, “Kolchevsky had a reason for going up the slope.”
“Was he married?” I asked.
“His wife died twenty years ago.”
“Maybe,” I said, “he was going to meet a girlfriend.”
Barrow was by no means the highest mountain in the area, but I could see why it would have been popular with climbers: It was about fifteen hundred meters above the surrounding country, providing a magnificent view of Lake Accord, which is really a small ocean, stretching almost 140 kilometers to the west.
It’s wide-open country, with only a few houses scattered in remote places. I’ve always thought that, when the time came, this was the sort of area I’d want to retire into.
We finished eating, left Bartlett’s, and got our backpacks out of the skimmer. We crossed Route 11 and started up the hiking trail. About two kilometers in, it split in two. One track turned northwest into the heart of the mountain range. The other, the one on which Kolchevsky had been found, plunged into ever denser forest and headed for the summit. We stayed with it.
It grew steeper, until we were moving carefully, placing one foot in front of the other and sometimes using branches to pull ourselves uphill. And finally Alex pointed off to the right side at a cluster of trees and bushes. “This is it,” he said.
It was easy to visualize. Whether Kolchevsky was going up or coming down, this would have been a difficult patch of ground to navigate. He had apparently staggered off into the shrubbery and collapsed.
We stood quietly for several minutes. Finally, Alex shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Let’s go up the trail for a bit.”
“Any particular reason?”
“What was he doing up here?”
“I have no idea.”
“Right.”
As we got higher, the slope eased off somewhat, the trees thinned, and the trail moved out along a cliff overlooking the lake. A group of rocks formed a cradle embedded at the rim. It was a place where you could sit down and enjoy a sandwich with a view. In fact, several people were there when we arrived.
Clouds had begun building while we were on the trail. And now a soft rain began to fall. The people on the cradle—there were five of them—looked up. They gathered their gear and, as we watched, moved out and started down the trail. They said hello as they passed. We stayed in the shelter of the trees.