Mountain Rampage. Scott Graham
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“Rosie—my daughter—” Janelle paused for no more than a millisecond, “our daughter—got sick. She had a fever. Then, in the middle of the night, she had a seizure of some kind.”
“Can you describe it for me?”
The doctor looked down at Rosie, his hands on the gurney rails, as Janelle related the scene in the cabin. He turned back to Janelle when she finished.
“The good news,” he said to her, “is that whatever was troubling Rosie clearly has passed, at least for now, and most likely for good. Your instincts were sound—your description is classic for a pediatric febrile seizure.” He reached into the gurney and stroked Rosie’s upper arm while keeping his eyes on Janelle. “Odds are she picked up a virus and seized when the fever peaked.”
Chuck glanced away, his thoughts on how much Rosie’s hospital visit—looking increasingly unnecessary—would cost.
The doctor shone a bright light in Rosie’s eyes, listened to her heartbeat, palpated her abdomen, and ran his hand down the fading patches of red on her arm before turning back toward Janelle. “It’s good you brought her in. Seizures can be dangerous things. At this point, I’d suggest we observe her for a bit before we do any expensive tests. We’ll keep her comfortable, make sure she’s headed in the right direction. That way, if it happens that we’ve got a zebra here, she’ll be where she needs to be.”
Chuck leaned in to catch the young doctor’s eye. “A zebra?”
The doctor looked at Chuck for the first time. “Here in the ER,” he explained, “when we hear hooves, we want to make sure it’s simply a horse—something common and expected. Every now and then, though, the hooves turn out to be something uncommon—a zebra—and we want to be sure we’re prepared for it.”
Rosie’s eyes grew large. “Like in Africa?”
The doctor gave her a reassuring smile. “Which is why I don’t think you’ve contracted a zebra. Or a python either, for that matter. We’re a long way from the Serengeti.” He turned to Janelle. “I’ve got a couple of inpatients to check on. I’ll leave you with Irene for now. Assuming all’s well in a couple of hours, you and Rosie can head on home. I’ll be right upstairs, just seconds away.”
“Thank you, doctor,” Janelle said.
The young physician rested his fingers on her forearm. “You can call me Gregory.”
The muscles at the back of Chuck’s neck tightened. The doctor gave Rosie’s hand a quick squeeze and left the room.
The nurse motioned Chuck toward the front counter. “Time for the paperwork.”
Chuck followed her across the room and took a seat in front of the counter. A multi-band police radio rested on the countertop beside the nurse’s computer, its volume turned low. A male voice, barely audible, issued from the radio’s small speaker. “…wrapping up…Code 12,” the voice said.
Chuck recognized the law enforcement code number from his years of work on federal lands across the West. Code 12 was police-speak for a false alarm.
The tinny voice continued from the radio. “I should be 10-40 in five or ten.”
Chuck let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Logic said the voice on the radio belonged to the officer who’d responded to the Y of the Rockies resort complex thirty minutes ago—and now was readying for departure.
“Roger that, Hemphill,” the dispatcher replied from the radio.
The nurse took her seat behind the counter, opposite Chuck. She rested a hand on the computer’s mouse, her eyes on the monitor.
The officer’s voice sounded again from the radio, this time with a sudden, urgent edge. “Paula. You there? Paula.”
The dispatcher’s response was immediate. “Yes, Jim. What’ve you got?”
Heavy breathing came over the radio; the officer was on the move.
“Paula,” the officer said. “Looks like we have a potential 10-54. I repeat, a 10-54.”
“A 10-54? Jim?”
When the officer’s voice came back over the radio, it had lost all tones of authority. “Blood. Jesus, Paula. A whole bunch of it.”
The nurse, concentrating on the computer screen in front of her, reached a casual hand to the radio and clicked it off.
Chuck struggled to make sense of the previous night’s events as he trailed his field school students around the east flank of Mount Landen. Kirina led the way, fifty yards ahead. Clarence walked in front of Chuck, just behind the dozen students spread along the footpath.
The white, fifteen-passenger field school van was parked out of sight behind them, around the mountain at the side of Trail Ridge Road, five miles shy of the winding, two-lane highway’s 12,183-foot high point. The road bisected Rocky Mountain National Park, connecting Estes Park on the east side of the Mummy Mountain Range with the town of Grand Lake on the west.
The morning breeze coursed over the summit of Mount Landen and swept down the rock-studded slope. The skein of clouds and spatter of rain that had descended from the Mummies and blown through Estes Park overnight were gone. In the wake of the clouds’ departure, the clear morning sky heralded another in the string of cloudless days that had beset central Colorado since the last substantial snowstorm had rolled through the high country in March.
Now, a week and a half into August, the leaves and needles on the trees that made up the aspen and pine groves around Estes Park had a desiccated, pale green hue, and the park’s famously rugged alpine landscape was so parched that lichen peeled from rocks like scabs. Clumps of bunch grass, brown and brittle, crumbled at the slightest touch.
The hint of rain the night before hadn’t even been enough to wet the ground. The students’ work boots kicked up small clouds of dust with each step along the path leading around the mountain to the mine three-quarters of a mile ahead, as they had every weekday morning for the last two months.
The breeze was cool this early in the morning. Chuck buried his hands in his jacket pockets and burrowed his chin in his collar. He wanted only to reach the mine site, set the students to work, and put last night behind him.
Clarence fell back from the last of the students and spoke so only Chuck could hear. “You really think we should be here, jefe?” He glanced at Chuck over his shoulder, displaying a wan face and bloodshot eyes.
“Three days to go,” Chuck said.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Chuck rubbed an eye with a knuckle.
Clarence continued. “Rosie was so sick you took her to the emergency room, the cops spent the whole night climbing all over each other outside the dorm, nobody got a bit of sleep, and you make us come up here like nothing happened?”
“Because nothing did happen.”
“You were there. You saw what I saw, what we all saw.”
“The cops thought it was a homicide. I get that. But they were wrong.”
“It was a pretty big puddle.”
“And that’s all it was: a puddle of blood. No dead body, no nothing. As for Rosie, she’s back at the cabin with Janelle, doing great.”
Clarence huffed in exasperation. The wind whipped his long, raven-black hair around his neck. He gathered it in his hand and shoved it into the collar of his heavy cotton work jacket. His baggy jeans dragged at his heels, a mark of his urban upbringing with Janelle in Albuquerque’s gang-ridden South Valley.
Clarence was big-boned and round-bellied. Thick silver