The Rivers Run Dry by Sibella Giorello Page A

climb the mountain’s face, a series of switchbacks crossing higher into the forest. After the first mile, the trees’ emerald boughs changed to lean brown trunks, the bark stripped and polished. Sunlight carved into the woods, flickering between the thin stands, and when I finally caught Jack, it was at the two-mile mark. He was flinging bright cusps of tangerine peel toward the brown trees. I pulled the water bottle from my pack, hands shaking, and filled a nylon dog dish I’d brought for Madame, setting it on the ground. She lapped until the water was gone, then turned for the shade, panting.
    From this plateau, I could see the town of North Bend below. Train tracks curved through lush fields, houses gathered on narrow country roads that wandered like river tributaries. The small town had a peaceful appearance, like a Christmas village waiting for its first snow.
    â€œNice place, huh?” Jack said.
    I nodded.
    â€œThat’s why the nut jobs want to blow it up.” He finished chewing, ran the tip of his tongue over his white teeth, and told me that several weeks ago a hiker was coming down the trail at dusk just as some men were starting to climb up.
    â€œIt’s almost dark,” he said, “and these guys are hiking up the trail from the bottom. Weird enough, but it gets weirder. They walked in twos, each pair spaced about ten minutes apart. The hiker coming down sees one set, then another, and another.”
    They wore synthetic slacks and collared shirts buttoned high, he said, and the soles of their street shoes slipped on the steep path. They carried large aluminum-frame packs, the weight of which caused them to lean forward like men moving pianos, sweating profusely.
    â€œPay attention to this last detail, Harmon. It’s important. They were all Middle Eastern. Every single one of them.”
    He waited for my response. I reached down, pouring more water into Madame’s bowl. “What’s this got to do with me, Jack?”
    â€œThe hiker gets to the parking lot. No cars. Not one. The bus doesn’t run out here. Are you catching my drift?”
    â€œI’m not playing twenty questions with you, Jack. Tell me what you need.”
    â€œShoulder-launched missiles dismantle into small pieces that fit in backpacks. The summit of this mountain puts a shooter one mile closer to air traffic. If this still isn’t rattling your brain, think about the flight pattern from New York or DC into Sea-Tac. It crosses right over North Bend. Taking down a commercial jet from here is like picking off ducks at the penny arcade. Imagine how many extra virgins they get for wiping out the infidels.”
    I closed my water bottle, placing it in my pack. “What do you need from me?”
    â€œI want a lynchpin for this case. I want evidence linking the suspects to this summit, just like that geologist did with bin Laden. They say you’re a smart girl. Figure it out.”
    Forty minutes later I reached the summit of Mount Si, a desolate cone of metamorphic rock, wind-stripped and ice-sheared. Jack stood beside a haystack-shaped precipice, the village below looking distant as if seen through the wrong end of a telescope.
    â€œOver here,” he said.
    I walked across the loose gray rocks to the haystack formation then kneeled for a closer look. The rocks’ sharp edges dug into my knee. This was tortured earth, rock that had been heated, cooled, sheared, and fractured, all before it was exposed to summit weather. Geologists would label this stuff mélange —the French word for mixture —because it contained everything from pale markers of marine sediment to dense volcanic crystals. And it was friable, eroded by the elements. I took several samples, placing them in an evidence bag.
    â€œThis too,” Jack said.
    I walked over. On the ground near his feet, scraps of what appeared to be an old fire huddled in the jagged rocks, the twigs as wiry as pipe