The Mountains Bow Down by Sibella Giorello

sir.”
    â€œThat’s what you always say. But I want to send you some help on this.”
    I felt the weight lift from my shoulders, the tension in my neck easing. “Thank you, sir. I’d appreciate some help.”
    â€œGreat. Jack can be there by this afternoon.”
    â€œWhat—pardon? Jack?”
    â€œI sent out a squad e-mail after the Alaska office passed. Said it was a free cruise to Alaska, which it sort of is. Jack was the first to reply. His plane’s ready to go.”
    I felt sick. “Plane?”
    â€œHe’s a Bureau pilot. Didn’t you know? Keeps his own plane.”
    What I knew about Jack Stephanson was this: he was a complete jerk. During my disciplinary transfer to Seattle, Jack was assigned to help ease my transition into the new field office. Help the new kid. Instead he hazed, harassed, and mocked me, before finally admitting his initial goal was to flush me from the FBI. And if that wasn’t enough, before I went back to Virginia, he’d had the gall to ask for a date.
    â€œHe needs to know when your ship leaves Ketchikan.”
    We leave in five minutes , I wanted to lie. Don’t bother sending him .
    Lifting my face to the sun, feeling the sting of self-pity in my eyes, the happy tourists flowed like a river around me. Across the street, on the totem pole, a raven perched and cawed with harsh laughter. I agreed it was quite the joke: my “help” was Jack Stephanson.
    â€œThank you for offering, sir, but on second thought, it’s better if I handle this myself.”
    â€œNonsense, Raleigh. You’re looking a gilt horse in the mouth.”
    I had rules about lying. Really. In their way, they were strict rules. It was permissible to lie in order to protect my mother’s mental health. Or if the Bureau sent me undercover. Otherwise lying still ranked with the other nine commandments.
    But right now, the truth tasted as bad as Eau de Funeral Home.
    â€œSix o’clock.” I swallowed. “The ship leaves Ketchikan at six tonight.”
    â€œPlenty of time! Make sure their security knows Jack’s coming on board. If they give you any grief, call me. A retired agent runs their corporate security.”
    I wanted to say something, but words refused to leave my mouth.
    McLeod continued, “Jack says meet him at the marina. You know where that is?”
    I stared at the marina. The wooden masts and towering fishing vessels rocked softly along the base of Deer Mountain.
    â€œI can find it,” I told him.
    â€œYou can always count on my help, Raleigh,” he said. “I’ll never leave you up a creek without a saddle.”

Chapter Five
    A t the cruise ship gangway, the big bald Dutchman waited with one hand stretched out.
    Making sure nobody could see, I reached into my backpack and surrendered my Glock 22, pushing away the vulnerability that always swept over me whenever I wasn’t armed.
    â€œThe undertaker called,” Geert said, walking up the plank with my weapon concealed in a nylon pouch.
    I figured the mortician probably started tattling before I was halfway down Creek Street. Shrugging off my backpack, I followed Geert to the security arches. He stepped around them while I scanned my room’s keycard in a computer by the entrance, then sent my pack through the X-ray machine. I waited for the inevitable query about my rock hammer, which Geert vouched for—one of his abrupt nods that nobody questioned. He and I proceeded across the atrium where a chamber quartet played Vivaldi for people who stayed on board, their reasons completely beyond my comprehension.
    â€œThe mortician says—”
    â€œIn my office.” He suddenly broke into one of those large smiles never intended for me and stopped to chat with an elderly couple. To the strains of “Spring,” they asked him about the ship’s turnaround this morning. Geert glossed over the details and I stared at the floor.