Read Online High Country- Pigeon 12 by Nevada Barr - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Nevada Barr
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Mystery, Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths
Ads: Link
for an hour or more after the sun gilded the tops of the Sierra. Rising early was a perk of middle age and a boon to law enforcement. Anna had never seen any statistics on it, but she was willing to bet four A.M. to eight A.M. were the safest hours of the day. In many ways criminals were a lazy bunch.
Taking advantage of this diurnal edge, she left her roommate sleeping soundly, bundled up for a December morning in the mountains and slipped out of the dorm.
As often happened, the valley lay under a small tailor-made inversion layer imposed by the surrounding peaks. Air was trapped in The Ditch and, though campers were few this time of year, the cold damp air was redolent with the smell of campfire smoke.
Anna had reached an age where sleeping on the ground with the bugs and the sticks no longer held the appeal it once had. Still, the smell of woodsmoke on a winter morning called forth a strange nostalgia, an ache that vacillated between a yearning for home and hearth and a need to carve an adventure out of untrammeled land.
Enjoying the sweet sting of this dichotomy, she buried her hands in the pockets of her parka and lengthened her stride.
The path away from the Ahwahnee led through a field of boulders a story and a half high. Beneath an overcast and as yet lightless sky, rocks and trees loomed black and close. Anna remembered one of Yosemite's unsolved mysteries. On a sunny afternoon in the mid-eighties, a young woman had walked into this rocky defile. A hundred yards behind her was a family of four. Ahead about the same distance were two newlyweds honeymooning in the park. The woman had walked from sight into this granite alley. Two screams were heard. By the time the family ran to see what the problem was, the woman was dead, stabbed thirty-nine times. Her killer was never found.
Remembering this gruesome history some might have walked faster. Anna stopped, let the darkness cease swirling in her wake and opened herself to any sinister vibrations that might remain in the ether. There were none; all was peace. The natural world lived and died by tooth and claw, without malice and without regret. Ghosts, it seemed, could only be bound to the earth by man-made walls.
As befit her rank and status, Lorraine Knight had one of the better homes in the park. Built of wood with a deck overlooking a creek, quiet now with winter but a frothing orchestra of liquid sound in spring, it was tucked up on a gentle rise beneath the southern cliffs. In the nineties the Merced River flooded, wiping out much of the park's housing. Some had yet to be rebuilt, making what was left even more precious.
Despite the early hour, a light burned in the kitchen and Anna was relieved. Where there was light there might be coffee.
Lorraine was still in her pajamas, but she was conscious and had the coffee on so Anna adored her. The thick braid in which her glorious hair was incarcerated for duty was unbound. A cascade of red-gold floated around the ranger to well below her waist. With a face sculpted by laughter and weather for half a century, Lorraine looked to Anna like a wise woman of fiction. Or a white witch.
Over coffee-Folgers with two percent milk in place of cream, but being in the beggar's category, Anna was not choosy-she told Lorraine of the situation that had awaited her when she'd returned home from the clinic the previous night.
The chief ranger listened without interrupting, an occurrence rare and welcome enough that Anna noted it in Knight's credit column.
When she was done they sat a moment in silence. Then Lorraine asked: "What do you make of it?"
A good part of the night Anna had lain awake trying to answer just that question. She shared the pitifully few thoughts she'd come up with. The intruders were accustomed to and proficient at their chosen career. They smacked of city-dwellers in the park for nonrecreational reasons. It was not random. They'd chosen Anna, Cricket and
Taking advantage of this diurnal edge, she left her roommate sleeping soundly, bundled up for a December morning in the mountains and slipped out of the dorm.
As often happened, the valley lay under a small tailor-made inversion layer imposed by the surrounding peaks. Air was trapped in The Ditch and, though campers were few this time of year, the cold damp air was redolent with the smell of campfire smoke.
Anna had reached an age where sleeping on the ground with the bugs and the sticks no longer held the appeal it once had. Still, the smell of woodsmoke on a winter morning called forth a strange nostalgia, an ache that vacillated between a yearning for home and hearth and a need to carve an adventure out of untrammeled land.
Enjoying the sweet sting of this dichotomy, she buried her hands in the pockets of her parka and lengthened her stride.
The path away from the Ahwahnee led through a field of boulders a story and a half high. Beneath an overcast and as yet lightless sky, rocks and trees loomed black and close. Anna remembered one of Yosemite's unsolved mysteries. On a sunny afternoon in the mid-eighties, a young woman had walked into this rocky defile. A hundred yards behind her was a family of four. Ahead about the same distance were two newlyweds honeymooning in the park. The woman had walked from sight into this granite alley. Two screams were heard. By the time the family ran to see what the problem was, the woman was dead, stabbed thirty-nine times. Her killer was never found.
Remembering this gruesome history some might have walked faster. Anna stopped, let the darkness cease swirling in her wake and opened herself to any sinister vibrations that might remain in the ether. There were none; all was peace. The natural world lived and died by tooth and claw, without malice and without regret. Ghosts, it seemed, could only be bound to the earth by man-made walls.
As befit her rank and status, Lorraine Knight had one of the better homes in the park. Built of wood with a deck overlooking a creek, quiet now with winter but a frothing orchestra of liquid sound in spring, it was tucked up on a gentle rise beneath the southern cliffs. In the nineties the Merced River flooded, wiping out much of the park's housing. Some had yet to be rebuilt, making what was left even more precious.
Despite the early hour, a light burned in the kitchen and Anna was relieved. Where there was light there might be coffee.
Lorraine was still in her pajamas, but she was conscious and had the coffee on so Anna adored her. The thick braid in which her glorious hair was incarcerated for duty was unbound. A cascade of red-gold floated around the ranger to well below her waist. With a face sculpted by laughter and weather for half a century, Lorraine looked to Anna like a wise woman of fiction. Or a white witch.
Over coffee-Folgers with two percent milk in place of cream, but being in the beggar's category, Anna was not choosy-she told Lorraine of the situation that had awaited her when she'd returned home from the clinic the previous night.
The chief ranger listened without interrupting, an occurrence rare and welcome enough that Anna noted it in Knight's credit column.
When she was done they sat a moment in silence. Then Lorraine asked: "What do you make of it?"
A good part of the night Anna had lain awake trying to answer just that question. She shared the pitifully few thoughts she'd come up with. The intruders were accustomed to and proficient at their chosen career. They smacked of city-dwellers in the park for nonrecreational reasons. It was not random. They'd chosen Anna, Cricket and
Similar Books
