The Ascent

Chapter 18

1

AS THE MOON PASSED BEHIND A DRIFT OF DARk

clouds, I turned away from the windows and encircled Marta in my arms. She sighed. Her warm legs intertwined with mine beneath the sheets; she hugged my arms. I peppered her neck with tiny kisses. “I need to get up,” I whispered in her ear. “Hmm.” Warmly.

Five minutes later, dressed in running shorts and Nikes, I took off along the waterfront. To my right, the bay glistened with moonlight, this distant shimmer of the Bay Bridge like something tangible materializing through the fog of a dream. I ran through Eastport and over the small drawbridge, flanked on both sides by the lull of sleeping sailboats. Into downtown, I ran up Main Street and downgraded to a slow jog around Church Circle. The conical spire of St. Anne’s looked like a stalagmite rising off the floor of a limestone cave. At this hour, the city was asleep. Only the occasional vehicle rolled past me on the narrow roadways. But other than that, all was silent.

It had been four months since I’d returned from Nepal. A strict regime of exercise and healthy eating had seen to it that I’d fully recovered from the events that occurred on the Godesh Ridge. Now,halfway around the world and a year in the future, it was almost possible to convince myself, particularly on nights such as these, that it had all been a nightmare.

Almost possible.

Of course, there were still the actual nightmares—waking up slick with sweat and with a scream caught in my throat from some half-remembered dream where I ran through feet of snow as some faceless, heartless creature pursued me down the face of a mountain. Often the chase would end when I turned a sharp corner and found myself at the edge of a cliff. Behind me, my pursuer slowed to a predatory crawl, hidden in the heavy shadows. My choices were simple: either jump off the cliff or face whatever followed me. For whatever reason, I usually woke up before having to make the decision.

Immediately following my return, I was obsessed with researching the background of the men who had died on the Godesh Ridge, including Andrew Trumbauer. And in most cases, I was able to derive some reason why Andrew would have wanted revenge on them …

Donald Shotsky was the easiest, as I already had some information to go by. He’d been a fisherman and a deckhand on various crab boats in the Bering Sea. Years ago, he’d been a crewman on a ship called the Kula Plate, along with Andrew.

Eventually I tracked down the captain—a grizzled veteran of the Korean War named Footie Teacar—who confirmed the story of how Shotsky had nearly gone over the side only to be saved by a greenhorn named Andy something-or-other. Of course, Teacar’s description of the greenhorn matched Andrew Trumbauer perfectly.

As I’d expected, confirming Shotsky’s involvement with a group of Las Vegas thugs was much more difficult. But following a phone call to an old college buddy of mine who’d for years worked as a blackjack dealer at a number of casinos on the strip, I learned one piece of interesting information: for the past decade, a New York corporation had reserved a hotel suite at the MGM Grand, although noone could say for certain if the suite had actually ever been used. The corporation was Trumbauer Petrol, the company Andrew inherited from his father after his death.

Chad Nando possessed an extensive arrest portfolio with various police departments throughout the country, mostly petty stuff—possession of dope, minor theft, a couple of DUIs. Undoubtedly, Chad’s biggest claim to fame, at least on the police blotter circuit, had been his arrest in participation with a cocaine-smuggling operation.

Under the Freedom of Information Act, I requested and received documents pertinent to the case, and, although the names and specific identifiers had been blocked out by a black Sharpie, I was able to discern Chad’s role in the whole ordeal with little difficulty: he’d been the snitch. Arrested right up front, he agreed to cooperate in exchange for leniency by the courts, which was granted to him in the form of three years’ probation.

When police followed the cocaine’s money trail, a number of high-profile businesses were mentioned in the report, though they were never able to make anything stick, and the business owners were quickly dropped as targets. One business was a small American entrepreneurial company called CliffDiver, Inc. An Internet search yielded very little information about CliffDiver, which had immediately gone out of business following the investigation. I found no records of any of the company’s personnel except for one—Drew Bauer, president and CEO.

Only the police report provided any further insight, stating that just prior to their investigation, CliffDiver had given money to a pharmaceutical company that had patented a pill to combat heart failure. Approval by the FDA never came, the pharmaceutical company folded, and CliffDiver faded into the background before disappearing entirely. Vague? Yes. However, I possessed one small bit of knowledge that the police working the case did not: the word Cliff-Diver was tattooed on Andrew Trumbauer’s upper thigh, something

I would have never noticed had he not stripped out of his clothes and jumped off the cliff that night in San Juan so many years ago.

The rest were more difficult to decipher, knowing so little about their backgrounds and their individual relationships with Andrew. Any parallels would only be supposition on my part. Yet who knew what sort of things happened in the six months Michael Hollinger spent with Andrew and two aboriginal women in the Australian outback, for instance? The women could never be found, and even if they were, the chances that they knew anything were more than slim.

What had Curtis Booker done to earn his gravestone? I found very little information about the ex-Marine on the Internet, save for an Ohio address. Feeling it necessary, I mailed a letter to that address. The letter mentioned Curtis’s death on the Godesh Ridge, although I went into no specific detail, and concluded with my return address and telephone number in case anyone wanted to get in touch with me for more information. I addressed the letter to Curtis’s daughter, Lucinda Booker. I’d yet to receive a reply.

And, of course, there was John Petras. Since he’d survived the ordeal, there was no need to conduct any research, but that didn’t mean I was able to figure out his connection to Andrew nor why Andrew wanted to kill him. We phoned each other once a month just to keep tabs, and occasionally I’d pester him about it. But Petras would only sigh and say he could think of nothing.

“We’d had one stupid argument years ago in Nova Scotia,” he told me. “It was over who’d win the Super Bowl, and we were both tanked up on liquor. I called him a stupid son of a bitch, and he said I was an ignorant imbecile—hardly grounds for wanting someone dead.”

“Do you believe the dakini exist?” I asked him during our last phone call.

“What brought this up all of a sudden?”

“It’s just been on my mind since you mentioned it.”

“They’re Buddhist myths. The word translates to ‘sky dancer,’ a

female spirit who traverses through space. Some faiths say they’re vengeful. Others say they function as muses. But overall, they’re considered ‘testers’—their purpose is to put man through tests to prove his worth.” “His worth for what?”

“To enter paradise,” said Petras. “Eternal bliss.” “Eden,” I said. “Shangri-la,” Petras added.

“So I guess if you believe in the dakini, you’d have to believe in the existence of Shangri-la,” I said. “You’d have to believe in paradise.”

I could tell Petras was grinning on the other end of the phone. “You can’t have God without the devil.”

My legs pumping, my respiration as tight as a machine, I headed back down Main Street, cut across one of the darkened, narrow alleys that crisscrossed the City Dock, and emptied onto a cobblestone byway illuminated by an interval of lampposts. I burned by the Filibuster, dark and locked up for the evening.

2

EVERY HONEST STORY HRS ONE GRERT REVEAl.

For me and my life—for my story—it would be no different. Despite the proactive research into the people who’d died on Godesh Ridge at the hands of Andrew Trumbauer, my great reveal happened purely by chance nearly one year after my return from Nepal.

I was sitting on a lounge chair on my balcony reading the Sunday edition of The Capital when my gaze fell upon a curious headline.

Regatta Race Accident Victim’s Body Finally Found

The article went on to detail how, during the annual Regatta race roughly two and a half years ago, boat owner and race participant Gerald H. Figlio had been struck on the back of the head by theboom and fallen into the bay. A search commenced, but Figlio’s body was never recovered until this past weekend when the remains of a corpse washed up at Sandy Point State Park. Figlio was identified through his dental records, the article said. The cause of death was ruled accidental.

Perhaps I wouldn’t have made the connection if it wasn’t for the brief bio of Gerald H. Figlio at the end of the article where it mentioned he’d once been a professor of English at James Madison University—both Hannah’s and Andrew’s alma mater.

The following day, I went to the local library and fired up one of the computer terminals. I located the Regatta’s official Web site and searched the backlog of race registrants from the past couple of years. After finding Figlio’s name, I clicked on the PDF document that was his registration card. Among various other information, Figlio had listed his crew for the race.

Boddington, Joseph Brunelli, Michael O’Maera, Sean Trumbauer, Andrew Wesley, T.J. Wheaton, Xavier

It was just what I’d expected to find, yet it still caused an uncontrollable chill to race down my spine. And not so much because I’d come across Andrew’s name on the list but because the grand scope of all Andrew had been doing suddenly occurred to me: the trip to the Godesh Ridge had not been Andrew’s singular expression of revenge. Rather, Andrew had been seeking his revenge all over the place, presumably for years.

How many people did you kill? I thought, the monitor casting a sickly blue glow across my face. How long had you been doing this?

“Well, you’re not doing it anymore,” I said and logged off the computer.

3

WHEN I RETURNED FROM THE LIBRARY. MARTA

was sitting on the sofa with her bare feet drawn up beneath her, a melancholic look on her face. She faced the television but it was off, the whole room growing dark with the onset of night.

I tossed my keys on the credenza and took off my shoes. “What? What is it?”

“There was a phone call from some lawyer,” she said dryly. “Your friend John Petras is dead.”

4

IT WAS A FREAK ACCIDENT. DURING A PARTICULARLY

nasty storm, a felled power line landed on the roof of John Petras’s house, sparking a fire. The coroner’s report listed asphyxiation due to smoke inhalation as the cause of death.

A week after I’d received the news, a box was delivered to my apartment stamped with a Wisconsin law firm’s return address. I opened the box to discover Petras’s pearl-handled hunting knife wrapped in newspaper. There was no letter typed on letterhead, no note.

That evening I went to the Filibuster. It was the first time I’d been back since my return from Nepal. The first thing that struck me was how someone had removed all the newspaper clippings and photos of corrupt politicians from the walls. Ricky was tending bar; his eyes nearly dropped out of their sockets upon seeing me.

I grinned and offered a two-fingered salute as I entered and claimed a barstool.

“Holy crap, Tim,” Ricky said.

“Guess you’re still working here, huh, kid?”

“What’s it been?” he said. “A year?”

“At least,” I said.

“Where you been?”

“Nepal. Climbing mountains. And chasing ghosts.”

“No shit? Wow. That’s badass.” He flipped a dish towel over one shoulder. “Can I get you the usual? I still remember how you like it …”

“Actually, make it a Diet Coke.”

“Seriously?”

“And a menu. I’m hungry.”

“Man, that mountain climbing stuff must have rattled your brains around, if you don’t mind me saying.” Ricky slipped me a menu and a Diet Coke.

I glanced around the place and said, “What’s with the empty walls?”

“Yeah,” Ricky said. “Guess you wouldn’t know. Brom’s selling the place.”

“No shit? How come?”

“Never really came out and said. My guess is he’s getting old and doesn’t want the hassle anymore.” He jerked a thumb toward the back room. “He keeps a picture of some beach in Pensacola on his desk in his office. Been looking at it more and more whenever he’s in here. I bet he’s itching to retire while he’s still got a few good years left, maybe get a house on the beach in Florida. Just relax, you know?”

I was still staring at the barren walls. This is what it’s like for a building to get Alzheimer’s, I thought. Taking pictures off the walls and leaving those inky, dark-colored rectangles in the wood is how a building loses its memories, loses what makes it what it used to be.

“You okay, Tim?”

“Fine.” I ordered a crab cake and ate it in silence, while Ricky attended to the other patrons. Behind me, the sound of darts striking the dartboard punctuated each bite of my crab cake. At one point, I heard someone slip coins into the jukebox. An old Creedence

Clearwater Revival song came on.

Something caused me to shiver. I turned around on my stool and looked toward the rear of the bar, straight at the booth where, roughly two and a half years ago now, I’d run into Andrew Trumbauer. What I’d written off as nothing more than a serendipitous meeting was now overshadowed by everything I’d come to know about Andrew. How long had it taken him to find me? How many days had he followed me? Had he been following me straight to the Filibuster? The notion caused my hands to go numb; I set my glass of Diet Coke on the bar before I dropped it.

The booth was currently empty, but if I concentrated hard enough, I could visualize what Andrew had looked like that evening when he’d locked eyes with me from across the room. The way he’d lit a cigarette and grinned at the corner of his mouth, that sly, knowing grin, that perfect Andrew grin …

Then, for no longer than a heartbeat, Hannah appeared in the corner of the bar. She was nude and glistening as if covered by tiny beads of ice, her skin nearly blue, her lips colorless. She was half shaded in gloom, so I couldn’t make out her expression, yet I could see the gleam of her eyes through the shadows. They were wide, staring, heartbreaking eyes.

A hand fell on my shoulder. My heart seized; instantly, I was back on Godesh Ridge, trying to plug up a weeping wound in my abdomen before I bled out into the snow.

“You sure you’re all right?” It was Ricky. “You look like you’re ready to pass out, man.”

I waved him off. “No, no—I’m okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” It had been a year since I’d last seen Hannah’s ghost in Nepal on the Godesh Ridge.

“It’s just, I mean, you look spooked.”

“Forget it, Ricky. Just gimme the check, huh?”

I paid the bill and shoved out into the cool night, positive young Ricky’s eyes followed me all the way out the door.

5

PUSHING OPEN THE DOOR TO MY APARTMENT. I

was immediately overcome by a cold breeze. I closed the door behind me and groped for the light switch. I flicked the switch, but the light didn’t turn on. Across the room, the curtains over the balcony doors billowed out. The doors were open.

“Marta?” I called. She was supposed to be at her place tonight, but maybe she’d changed her mind.

I took a step into the room toward the lamp on the end table when movement caught my eye. I froze. Someone was standing in a darkened corner, partially obscured by the billowing curtain. “Who’s there?” My voice was nothing more than a whisper. “Hello, Tim.” It was Andrew. He stepped out from the corner, briefly silhouetted before the panel of light coming through the open balcony doors.

“Jesus—Andrew?” I couldn’t fathom it. “How did you …? What are you …?”

“Been a while, Overleigh. Been about a year since we last … tangoed.” “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“So are you,” he said and took a step forward. Moonlight washed across a distorted, lumpy face, tracked by numerous scars and dents. He shuffled forward with a limp.

“You went over the edge,” I breathed. “I saw you.” “Yes.” His voice was gravelly, injured. “It was quite a drop. I’ll probably never know exactly how long I was unconscious, but when I woke up, the pain … oh, the pain was exquisite. I wished death upon me countless times, but it never came. And soon I realized I had to take things into my own hands.” His hideous, broken face grinned.

His teeth were chiseled pickets filed to points. “Just like always, I had to take things into my own hands.”

I backed up against the door. I could taste bile at the rear of my throat.

“They did the best they could, but what can you expect from a bunch of Tibetan monks?” He laughed. It sounded like a box of glass shaken, shaken, shaken.

“Petras,” I uttered. “You killed John Petras.”

“Shhh.” He brought one crooked finger up to his disfigured lips. Another step closer and I could see one of his eyes was partially swollen, his forehead a mountainous terrain of peaks and valleys.

“Why Petras?” I wanted to know. “I’ve already figured much of it out but not Petras. He was a good man. What’d he ever do to you?”

Andrew’s lower lip dropped—a grotesque expression of awe, which slowly curled into his hideous trademark grin. “You mean you two imbeciles never figured it out?”

“Figured what out?”

“You never recognized each other?” He snickered, a ticking time-bomb sound.

“What are you talking about?”

“John Petras is the reason you were on that mountain. If it wasn’t for Petras, you would have died in the desert after crawling out of that cave, and none of this would have ever happened to you. Driver finds unidentified injured man unconscious by the side of the road. Something like that, anyway. Forgive me, but I don’t remember the newspaper article verbatim.”

“Petras … Petras was the one who … who found me …?”

“I guess I can understand how you two never put it together. After all, it was quite a while ago. You were going through your longhair stage, too, if I remember correctly.”

I couldn’t respond. My mind was reeling.

“See, it was John Petras’s own fault for stepping in and redirecting

fate. Set all the other wheels into motion.”

“You son of—”

“Save it,” Andrew growled. “So now he’s dead—just one more person you’re responsible for killing. You’re a dangerous man, Timothy Overleigh. You need to be stopped. For good.”

Moonlight gleamed to my right. I glanced over and saw Petras’s pearl-handled hunting knife on the credenza.

Andrew took one final step toward me. I heard the click of a gun’s hammer being pulled back. “I’ve waited a long time for this. Good-bye, motherfucker.”

“Yes,” I said. “Good-bye.”

I grabbed the knife off the credenza and, like a bull in a ring, charged Andrew. I heard a deafening, bone-quaking pop ring out, saw the fiery muzzle flash … Then, an instant later, I collided with Andrew, driving the blade of Petras’s hunting knife straight into his chest.

Andrew cried out and dropped the gun. My momentum propelled us clear across the room. Andrew scrambled to grab hold of the curtains; he pulled one from its rod as we shot out onto the balcony. My hand still wrapped around the hilt of the knife, I drove us across the balcony where we broke through the railing and fell over the edge.

The fall lasted only a second, but the blackness that followed could have been an eternity.