The Middle of Somewhere(101)

The hikers picked their way across the stream and assembled on the bank. The ranger extracted a notepad and pen from her pocket and asked for their names.

“Elizabeth and Dante, we’ve been expecting you, though not coming this way. But I don’t have any record of the other three.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Joe said. “We were flying under the wire.”

The policeman, a trim man in his forties, spoke. “We have a bit of a situation here. We’ve asked the Park Service to close the trails, due to an interdepartmental manhunt.”

“Which is one reason,” the ranger said, staring pointedly at the climbers, “we like to know where folks are.”

Joe lifted his hands in apology. Marshall stared off downstream, impatient to continue.

The policeman pointed at Liz’s arm. “Are you injured?”

Liz nodded. “You’re looking for Payton and Rodell Root, right?”

“We sure are. Where’d you last see them?”

“They were less than a mile from the summit,” Dante said.

“And that was when?”

Dante consulted Liz. “Maybe noon?”

The policeman gestured to the trail behind him. “Let’s take this conversation someplace more comfortable. It’s not far.”

The ranger and the policeman led them to the main Whitney Trail and down to the Portal, about a mile. As they walked along a narrow paved road toward the parking lot, several official vehicles, including an ambulance, came into view. More than a dozen police officers, rangers and other personnel stood in small groups. A tall, beefy man in a black nylon jacket met them as they approached, introduced himself as FBI Agent Gutierrez and took their names. When he found out the climbers had no contact with the Roots, he let them go.

He spoke to Liz. “You need someone to look at your arm right away, or can I ask a few questions first?”

“I’m okay. But can we sit down?”

They moved to a picnic table a short distance down the road. A map of the area was spread across it. Someone brought them each a sports drink, which they quickly emptied. Gutierrez explained the Root brothers were wanted on a number of drug charges, and in relation to the suspicious death of their father.

“What about Matthew Brensen?” Dante said.

“That, too.” He gestured at the map. “Now, I want to hear the whole story, but first show me where and when you last saw them.”

Dante located the spot on the Whitney Summit trail. “Around noon, they were about here.”

“And they were heading toward you?”

“We thought so. The storm was terrible, so we couldn’t really tell. We only wanted to get off the mountain.”

Gutierrez called over two men from the Sheriff’s Department and relayed the information. The men left and Dante related their encounters with the Roots, pointing out the locations on the map. Gutierrez asked Liz a few questions, but otherwise she let Dante talk. Told all at once, the magnitude of their ordeal struck Liz anew. She could feel Dante’s eyes on her from time to time, but she kept her gaze on the map. He was telling their story, and it was in the past tense, but the terror she experienced on the summit was very much alive inside her. She leaned against Dante’s shoulder and fell silent. Her arm throbbed and a tide of exhaustion rose within her. She closed her eyes.

“That should do it for now,” Gutierrez said. “An officer can take you to the hospital in town, get that arm taken care of.” He shook their hands, thanked them and handed them his card. The policeman whom they’d met on the trail approached and asked about their car. Dante explained they’d left it in Yosemite Valley and had planned to take a bus back.

“It’s a little late in the day for that. If it’s all right with you, I’ll call down to the Sierra View Motel and set you folks up with a room. Won’t be anything fancy, mind you.”

“Sounds like heaven,” Dante said.

He accompanied Liz to the hospital, then left to buy clothes for them while Liz received treatment. She had been waiting in the lobby a few minutes when he returned, fresh from a shower, wearing tan cargo shorts and a navy T-shirt. She looked down at her elbow cast, brilliant white in contrast with her tanned skin and dirty, soot-stained clothing.

“Oh, Liz. Your poor arm!”

“It’s okay. Only six weeks to go.” She stood and placed her hand on his cheek. “I’m glad you haven’t shaved your beard.”