Mike called back to her.
She raised her head too quickly. ‘Whoa.’ She took a step back. Her legs went weak.
Mike jogged down to her. ‘Are you OK?’
‘My head.’
‘You got a headache?’ said Mike.
‘Yes. Ow.’ She pressed two hands to her forehead. ‘Shit, that’s bad.’ She turned to Robbie. ‘You go ahead.’
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ said Robbie.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve got it,’ said Mike. He turned back to Ren. ‘Did it come on all of a sudden?’
‘Yeah,’ said Ren. ‘Let’s just keep walking.’
Mike eyed her. ‘OK, if you’re sure.’
‘Yeah. Come on.’
‘Sounds like those teeth are gritted,’ said Mike, taking her hand and pulling her up.
‘I’m fine.’
They walked for another minute or two and Ren stopped again.
‘Did you drink any water today?’ said Mike.
‘Em, no. Coffee.’
‘And last night?’
‘Em … alcohol.’ Which I probably reek of anyway.
‘Right, you’re going back down,’ said Mike.
‘No way,’ said Ren, taking a step forward, then swaying on her feet.
‘You’ve got altitude sickness,’ said Mike.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Oh, please. Yes, you do.’
Someone once described altitude sickness to Ren as your body trying to suck your brain down through your spinal column. She couldn’t shake the image.
‘It’s not altitude sickness,’ said Ren.
Mike rolled his eyes. ‘Down,’ he said. ‘We’ll meet you down there.’
‘No,’ said Ren. ‘No. I need to see what’s going on up there.’
‘We’ll have photos.’
‘Yeah, but –’
Mike gave her the look that told her to stop. ‘Will you be OK getting down?’
‘Sure, I’ll –’
‘Whoa …’ He reached out and she sank against him. He held her upright to stop her fall.
‘Are you OK?’ he said.
‘I thought I was going to black out.’
‘I’m waiting here, radioing ahead, and you are going to see a doctor –’
‘No way. I’ll feel like a loser going to a doctor for altitude sickness when I’m coming from Denver … and I’m –’
‘What? An FBI agent? People expect FBI agents to be dumb.’
Ren smiled. ‘Yeah, I’m still not going.’
‘I have no idea how you forgot to keep drinking water when you arrived. Do you think your brain needs less oxygen that everyone else’s?’ He paused. ‘Or just more alcohol?’
‘Just the alcohol,’ said Ren. ‘Partying at altitude – cheap, but not so cheerful.’
‘Right, here’s the deal,’ said Mike, ‘go see Charlie Barger – on Ridge Street.’
‘Is everything on Ridge Street?’
‘It’s a long street.’
‘Charlie Barger sounds like a thief. The name, I mean. Like a Dickens thief.’
Mike stared at her. ‘Now I think the altitude is really starting to work on your brain. Charlie is a retired doctor. And I can promise you he won’t steal anything …’
Up on Quandary, the charge of the avalanche had been replaced by an unjust calm, like the smile of a man who had gotten away with murder. And the day before, Quandary Peak had, twice-over. The area looked untouched, except for the tree limbs – broken by the force of the slide – that protruded from the snow. The hole that Sonny Bryant had been pulled from was still there; his glove, with a light dusting of snow, lying beside it.
Search and Rescue moved in with probes. Anyone who had cameras took pictures. And the dog handler released her beautiful border collie to track the smell of death.
Charlie Barger lived in a three-story Victorian house, all peeling paint and haunted charm. The garden was an overgrowth on the pretty street – moments away from a council warning. Ren rang the doorbell. A redhead opened the door, dressed in pink thermals with tiny dogs on them. She was wearing frayed imitation Uggs.
‘Hello,’ said Ren.
‘Yeah.’
‘Mike Delaney from the Sheriff’s Office sent me to see Dr Barger. I was up on –’
The woman was staring past her.
‘I’m sorry. Is that OK?’ said Ren.
The woman faked a smile. Her clothes made her look younger than she was. There was something worn about her face, the skin dry and loose.
‘Yeah, come on in.’ She had no interest. ‘He’s out back in his study. It’s past the bathroom on the right.’ She called out: ‘Dad. It’s for you.’
Ren walked into the hallway after her. Her sour air seemed to have tainted the entire place.
Ren knocked on Dr Barger’s door. He opened it and from the grim hallway she was brought into a warm, old-fashioned study, a blend of academia and small-town, personalized medical attention. Leather, mahogany, walls of photos, ethnic artifacts, a thick bunch of laminated conference IDs on lanyards hanging from a nail in the wall. Lying on the floor along one wall were curving stacks of papers and files.
Ren pointed to them. ‘Don’t you worry they’ll fall over?’
Dr Barger turned his drooping eyes to her and smiled. He was in his late sixties, early seventies, with a lined, but healthy face.
‘I know most of what’s in there,’ he said. ‘So you’re Mike’s friend?’
‘Yes,’ said Ren, ‘we’re
