The Mountains Bow Down Read Free Page B

warned passengers to keep away. A thick gray rope puddled on the deck beside the half wall.
    The Coast Guard started waving excitedly.
    Unhitching the chain, Geert stepped over the disheveled rope and stared down the ship’s side.
    â€œAch,” he said, drawing back.
    I walked over and looked down.
    Blond hair blew across her face like sheaves of wheat. Her face looked down the vertical column of her body, as though watching her bare feet as they bumped against the white hull. Her feet kept syncopated rhythm with the rocking motion of the ship, and on the upswing I could see her toes. The nails were painted blue and the color nearly matched the ocean. Eerily, the polish now matched the color of her cold skin.
    â€œDead,” Geert said.
    I shifted my eyes to the rope strung around her neck. It was orange and made of nylon or polyester. Extending from the nape of her neck, the rope ran like a fuse to the rail, then slipped through a six-inch opening at the base of the half wall. From there it continued to the gray rope that puddled at our feet. The gray rope was sodden, bloated with rain and seawater from our journey from Seattle.
    â€œDo you have a crime kit?” I asked.
    â€œStupid question.” Geert unclipped a small black radio from his belt. His Netherlandish accent sounded sterner than ever as he ordered someone to bring the crime kit to Deck Fourteen, aft.
    â€œAnd find the husband,” he said. “Use the back stairs, bring crew with barrier cones. I don’t want no lookie-looks around.”
    Next, he radioed the captain.
    â€œAch,” Geert said. “Suicide.”
    I stepped back, moving carefully around the two ropes and wondering how much evidence the wind and rain had washed away.
    Maybe all of it.
    The gray rope soaked with rain was knotted around a steel post. The rest of it had bunched up, unable to pass through the small opening where the thin orange line dropped. A long rope, the disheveled coil measured three or four feet in diameter, even dislodged. Perhaps a foot in height. No scuff marks had been left on the small balcony, no footwear residues.
    But something didn’t look right.
    â€œMy men are bringing the husband,” Geert told the captain. “I will call the undertaker.”
    â€œExcellent,” replied the captain. “Let’s remove her body from public display as swiftly as possible. Need I remind you of that blasted Nancy Grace? She ran those pictures of the bloody balcony for weeks.”
    I slipped off my small backpack and dug around for my Nikon. The camera was full of fresh batteries for my hike up Deer Mountain Trail, but when I raised it, waiting for Geert to step out of the way, he ignored me.
    â€œYah,” he said, continuing his discussion with the captain, “I make sure we have no lookie-looks.”
    Despite his obvious disapproval, I began photographing the scene. The dislodged gray rope. The thin orange strand tied to its base. Zooming in, I saw how her body weight had cinched the knots in the nylon so tightly they nearly disappeared into the braid. When I leaned over the balcony, her body hung like a high bumper waiting for a dock. I completely understood the urge to grab the line and hoist her from view. But first came evidence, and since the laws of the sea gave me almost no jurisdiction, I kept taking pictures, closing down the aperture against the sunlight bouncing off the water and reflecting on the ship’s white hull. The wind continued to blow through her pale hair. It looked alive.
    I scanned the side of the ship. No balconies. Only small portholes, the rims protruding. But these were at least five yards beneath her feet. And much too small for a grown-up to crawl through.
    I glanced over my shoulder. Geert watched me, twirling an end of the white mustache.
    â€œThe gray rope,” I said. “What is it used for?”
    â€œRough weather. Crew throws it to the dock. Extra mooring.”
    â€œAnd