Cutting Edge

7

That the mountain rises out of the sea into one of the bleakest climates on earth ought to instill caution. That it is called Mount Barometer is all but an omen. Unfortunately, some people never listen.

Shannon Lund climbed the rise carefully, having left the proper hiking trail a hundred yards back to reach the burnt-orange marker flag. The November ice was ahead of schedule, taking root in the gullies and fusing with last night’s snow, and causing her to slip repeatedly on the steep gravel slope. Farther up the mountain, white predominated. In a few more weeks there would be little else.

Lund wished she had a good pair of climbing boots. The ones she’d been issued had met their end last March after an unusually punishing Alaskan winter. She had applied for a replacement pair, but probably wouldn’t see them until next spring. That was the thing about being a civilian employee of the Coast Guard, particularly in times of tight budgets — your requests always went to the bottom of the pile, beneath those of active-duty members who did the “real” work.

She grabbed a thick branch and hauled herself up the last incline, ending at a stone landing of sorts. She decided then and there that the climb would replace her thirty-minute treadmill session tonight. It was a good excuse — at least better than most she came up with. An exhausted Lund plodded the last few steps to reach the scene, a twenty-foot patch of level rock and brown grass, all of it dusted with an inch of fresh powder. Two familiar figures were waiting. Frank Detorie was one of two full-time detectives with the Kodiak police, Matt Doran an EMT with the local fire department. Both were young and fit, seasoned climbers who preferred duty like this to being cooped up in an office. Lund herself might have seen it that way a few years ago.

“You okay?” Detorie asked.

Lund was panting as if she’d run a marathon, which she’d done once a long time ago. “Yeah, I’m good.” She was only thirty-one, but had gotten out of shape — far enough that she no longer pretended to be able to keep up. She reached into her parka for a pack of cigarettes, and lit up without offering to share. Both men were lean, outdoorsy types, and presumably not inclined to tobacco.

“Okay, what do we have?”

The men led to a stand of brush that shouldered to a sheer granite face where the mountain again went vertical. Nestled tight against the rock wall was the crumpled body of a man. His legs were bent at dreadful angles, and he was wearing a plastic helmet that had split open like an egg. A climbing rope had landed mockingly in loose loops over his torso, like the string of a dropped yo-yo.

Detorie said, “His name is William Simmons. We got a cell call a few hours ago from his climbing partner.” The policeman pointed up the mountain. “They were four, maybe five hundred feet up. Had some gear, but didn’t know how to use it — I could tell right away from the partner’s description of what happened.”

Doran pointed upward. “I climbed part of the way up. Found his ice ax and a bunch of skid marks.”

“You sure he’s a Coastie?” Lund asked. This was the reason she’d been called in — she was one of two employees of the Coast Guard Investigative Service, Air Station Kodiak detachment.

Detorie handed over the mort’s wallet. Lund flipped it open to find his military ID front and center. Petty Officer Third Class William Simmons. She tried to correlate the picture on the ID to the face inside the crushed helmet. It wasn’t pretty, but probably a match.

“Where’s the other guy?”

“He was Coast Guard too, pretty broken up,” said Doran. “Simmons had climbed up higher, but the guy didn’t want to go along — said it looked too dangerous.”

“Best call of the day.”

“My partner took him down to the station. We told him he’d have to talk to you later. It all looks pretty straightforward, but we’re taking plenty of pictures.”

“The ax and the marks?”

“Done.”

“The spot where it all went wrong?”

“I haven’t been that high yet,” said Detorie, “but I might get there today … assuming the weather holds.” They all looked up at a darkening sky.

“Has anybody informed his commander?”

“I figured that’d be up to you.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Lund turned and looked out over the city. It had been a murky day, even by the dubious standards of November in the Aleutians, and late afternoon was gripping the landscape hard as gunmetal clouds rolled in from the sea. Dusk would go on for hours, drowsy and restless in equal parts — a land suffering from insomnia. Having been raised in the Arizona desert, Lund was accustomed to extremes, and so she embraced Kodiak in spite of its severity. Or perhaps because of it. Seven years ago, mired in a sinking relationship with a naval officer in San Diego, she’d jumped at a temporary posting to Kodiak to cover for another CGIS civilian who’d gone on maternity leave. The mother had ended up having three kids, one after the other. Lund was still here.

She went to the body, bent down, and studied things more closely. The climbing rope appeared worn, and had broken at a point that looked particularly frayed. The victim wore a belt with carabiners and quickdraws and anchors, no two pieces of hardware seeming to match. His climbing backpack was what a middle-schooler might use to haul textbooks. She looked up the ice-shrouded mountain and saw challenges everywhere. Nothing seemed wrong with the greater picture. It happened every year or two — a hiker or would-be adventurer went careening off the eastern face. The western trail was more forgiving, but it didn’t have the same view of the city, a dramatic panorama that begged for an Instagram moment.

Lund stood. “Can you get him down?”

“I’ve got some help on the way with a basket,” said Doran. “We’ll manage.”

“Okay, do it. And thanks for the heads-up.”

“No problem,” said Detorie.

Relationships between permanent Kodiak residents and Coasties, who generally rotated in for three-year tours, were not always founded in warmth. Lund, however, by virtue of her longevity — she could have left four years ago — was more accepted than most. She dropped her spent cigarette on the ground and twisted it out with her toe. Then, suspecting the two men were watching, she picked up the butt and stuffed it in her pocket.

Doran said, “Too bad about that rescue swimmer we evac-ed out last month.”

Lund paused a beat. “Yeah, I know … I heard he didn’t make it.”

“Those guys are in great shape,” he said respectfully. “He was really banged up, but when he lasted two days in the hospital here, I thought he might pull through.”

“You saw him?”

Doran chuckled. “Not much choice. They called me in the middle of the damned night — I helped transport him to the Lear.”

“Oh, right.” She thought back, and remembered what she’d heard about it. “I was told he went out on the daily eastbound Herc.” The air station ran a regular C-130 Hercules flight to Anchorage.

“Nope. Definitely a Lear, civilian model, geared-up for med-evacs.”

Lund tipped her head to say it wasn’t important. She started back down the hill at a cautious pace — as the body behind her proved, down was the dangerous part. She gripped the same sturdy branch where the plateau dropped away, and took one last look at the scene. She was at a point in her career where she was getting reliable instincts, and the accident in front of her seemed nothing more than that. Too much youthful vigor, too little caution. All the same, something clawed in the back of her mind.

She turned her attention to the terrain, setting a careful course, and as she took her first steps down the slope a chill rain began to fall.