Nightmare Mountain

  “About my dad. About the hay falling.” Molly’s lip quivered as she answered. “I got the feeling he thought maybe it wasn’t an accident. Maybe . . .” Molly struggled to control her tears.

  Uncle Phil came to her and put his arms around her. “Oh, Molly,” he said, as he hugged her close. “Nobody’s trying to hurt you. The falling hay was an accident, that’s all. That bale was probably on the edge of the loft for days and you just happened to be underneath it when it finally toppled over. And the thief was driving without lights so we wouldn’t see him. He didn’t know you were there and he probably never saw you. As for the poisoned pills, we don’t know for sure yet that they do contain poison but if they do, that’s a situation where Karen was the innocent victim of a crime committed by a stranger.”

  He dropped his arms and bent to look directly into her eyes. “The sheriff has to consider every possible angle,” he said. “That’s his job. But don’t let him give you any notions that someone might be trying to hurt you. Who would it be? We both know it wouldn’t be your father. And all of us love you; you know that. Who could gain anything from hurting you?”

  Molly hesitated. Should she tell him her suspicions? Glendon didn’t love her, no matter what Uncle Phil said. But would he try to kill her? She thought of the pesticides in the shed; she’d been wrong when she thought that Glendon used one of them to poison the pills. Maybe she was also wrong to think he was the driver of the truck last night.

  On the other hand, if Glendon was responsible, she ought to make Uncle Phil aware of it and the sooner the better. It was foolish not to tell. If Glendon tried to kill her three times, he would probably try again and Molly’s luck wouldn’t last forever.

  Yes. Even though Glendon was Uncle Phil’s son and it might be difficult for all of them, she decided she should tell.

  She took a deep breath. “Uncle Phil,” she said, “I don’t think Glendon likes . . .”

  The telephone rang. With her nerves already tense, Molly jumped.

  Uncle Phil answered it. He listened, a look of horror on his face. “I’ll be right there,” he said.

  He hung up and grabbed his jacket. “I’m going back to the hospital,” he said. “Karen’s worse; they think she’s dying.”

  Before Molly could reply, he was out the door.

  Slowly, she climbed the stairs to her room. She found a piece of paper and a pen and began to write:

  Dear Mom:

  Someone’s trying to kill me.

  Six

  “Glendon?” Molly cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled again. “Glen-don!”

  The wind had come up and it gusted around her, whipping her hair into her eyes. Where was he?

  She put her letter in the mailbox and put the mailbox flag up, looking down the road toward town. It was pointless to hike in that direction, hoping to find him, when she had no idea where he was. She turned and started back. Maybe he was in the barn.

  Loneliness filled her as she looked up at the gray sky and the towering mountain. In photos, mountains always looked beautiful. This one looked menacing. It was so desolate here. There were no neighbors, no friends, not even a grocery store close enough to walk to. No wonder Glendon was odd. He’d lived here on the mountain most of his life. If she had to live here all the time, she’d probably be a little strange, too.

  How did Aunt Karen stand it? Yet her letters always sounded so cheerful. She wrote about the wildflowers and the llamas—about picking huckleberries in the summer and skiing in the winter.

  Molly’s eyes filled with tears. Aunt Karen was dying. Right now, this very minute. Glendon didn’t know it yet but he might never see his mother again.

  How would he feel when he found out? For the first time since her arrival, Molly felt sorry for Glendon. She called his name again and walked faster.

  Molly entered the barn and called again. There was no answer. She went in anyway, and headed for the pen where Merrylegs belonged.

  As she walked quietly past the tractor, she heard something. She stopped and listened. There it was again—a muffled sound, like an animal whimpering. Was it possible that Merrylegs had come back? Could llamas find their way home, the way dogs and cats sometimes do? Maybe she hadn’t been stolen, after all.

  Molly tiptoed toward the pen, moving cautiously, glancing frequently at the hayloft. She didn’t want any more accidents, thank you.

  The pen was still empty. There was no sign of Merrylegs. Molly walked back through the barn and then, on impulse, started up the ladder to the hayloft. Partway up, she stopped. Heights bothered her and the open ladder made her feel insecure.

  She pressed her legs against the rungs for a moment, to steady herself, and decided to go back down. She heard the noise again. It was louder this time and she knew instantly what it was. Someone was in the loft, crying.

  Quickly, before she could change her mind, she climbed up the ladder until she could see into the loft. Glendon was huddled against a bale of hay with his back to her and his head on his arms. His shoulders shook with sobs.

  Molly hesitated. Her first impulse was to scramble up into the loft and hug him and tell him she understood. That’s what she would have done with any of her friends in Los Angeles.

  But Glendon was different. She wasn’t sure how he’d feel about having her see him cry.

  Quietly, she backed down the ladder. She gripped the sides and closed her eyes, pretending each step was the last one before the floor.

  When she got to the bottom, she called out, “Hey, Glendon! Are you in here?” Then she started up the ladder again. When she was partway up, she yelled, “I need to talk to you.”

  She climbed slowly, to give Glendon time to wipe his eyes and pull himself together. By the time she poked her head up to where she could see him, he was stretched out on the hay, pretending he was taking a nap.

  He didn’t open his eyes. “Can’t a person sleep in peace?” he said.

  “I’m sorry to wake you up but I thought you should know your dad got called back to the hospital.”

  His eyes flew open. “Mother? Is she . . .?”

  Looking at his stricken face, Molly couldn’t bring herself to tell him that Aunt Karen was dying, that by now she might already be dead.

  “She’s worse.”

  Glendon rolled over so that his back was to her.

  “I’m sorry, Glendon,” Molly said.

  Instantly, he turned to face her again. “You should be,” he said, his voice low and full of malice. “If it wasn’t for you, none of this would have happened.”

  “That isn’t fair. I didn’t know someone had put poison in the cod-liver-oil pills.”

  “If you hadn’t come, Mother wouldn’t have taken one of them. She wouldn’t be so sick.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? I feel terrible about it. I’d give anything if it had never happened. But no matter how awful it makes me feel, I still know it wasn’t my fault.”

  “Everything was OK until you came. Now Mother’s in the hospital and Merrylegs is missing and . . .”

  “I suppose you’re going to blame me because Merrylegs is gone, too.”

  “The minute you got here, it was just like before, with Mother making a big fuss over you and hugging you and telling you how wonderful you are.”

  “Just like before? What are you talking about? I’ve never been here before.”

  He was sitting up now, leaning toward her and, in the dim light of the hayloft, his eyes seemed to glow with a fierceness that frightened her.

  “You’re just like her, you know that? You even look like her.”

  “Like who?” Molly wanted to reach over and shake him. “I don’t have any idea who you’re talking about.”

  “You’re just like Gladys.” He spat the name out, as if saying it was distasteful to him.

  “Gladys! Who’s Gladys?”

  “As soon as I saw you, that first day, I knew we were going to have trouble.”

  “How? How could you know any of
this would happen?”

  “Why don’t you just go back to Los Angeles?”

  “Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like better.”

  “Good. Because as long as you’re here, nothing will ever be right.”

  “You still haven’t told me who Gladys is.” She’d never heard Mom mention anyone in the family named Gladys.

  “I don’t want to talk about her.” Glendon closed his eyes. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’d like to finish my nap.

  She could tell there was no point asking him anything else. There wasn’t much use talking to Glendon, period. She didn’t know why she even bothered to find him and tell him Aunt Karen was worse. She only did it because she felt sorry for him. She still felt sorry for him but that didn’t mean she liked him.

  “I’m going inside,” she said.

  As usual, Glendon didn’t answer.

  Molly walked slowly back to the house. She wondered how long it took an airmail letter to reach Japan.

  Buckie ran across the pasture to greet her, ears flapping, tail wagging. Molly bent down and rubbed Buckie’s ears. She wondered if Buckie could tell that Aunt Karen was worse, even though she was miles away. If so, would Buckie howl again?

  She decided to get Fifi and play a game of find-the-doll to keep her mind off her troubles. Since Glendon was up in the hayloft, he wouldn’t see Buckie with the doll and raise a fuss.

  They played a few times but it wasn’t as much fun as usual. Molly couldn’t concentrate on the game. She kept thinking about Aunt Karen.

  The house seemed too quiet. She wished she had someone to talk to. If Aunt Karen were here, she would tell Molly who Gladys was.

  But Aunt Karen wasn’t here and she might never be here again.

  Buckie nudged Molly’s knee. Fifi was lying on the floor by Molly’s feet and Buckie wagged his tail as if to say, “Hide Fifi again!”

  “We’ll play later,” Molly said. She got out the box of dog biscuits and gave Buckie a treat. Then she put on a sweater, and opened the door. She hadn’t yet climbed up the mountain to the high pasture where the other llamas were and she was curious to see them. Maybe some fresh air and exercise would make her feel better, too.

  She wasn’t sure if Buckie was allowed to go to the upper pasture or not so she left him in the house.

  The grade was steep and she quickly reached snow level. Tire tracks in the snow made the path easy to follow.

  She continued to climb, stopping once to remove her sweater and tie the sleeves around her waist. Although the air was cool, the exercise made her warm.

  Soon the path grew narrow and the snow was deeper but she could still walk easily by following the tire tracks. There was a huge boulder ahead with an odd-shaped top. It looked like a gigantic arrowhead except the tip was broken off. The path turned and went around the side of the boulder.

  Molly rounded the turn and stopped. A black pickup truck blocked the path ahead of her; there was a llama tied in the back of it.

  Molly was so surprised that she just stood still and gaped. On the far side of the truck, a man came into view, walking slowly toward another llama. He held a rope in his hand and it was clear that he was trying to catch that llama, too, and load it in the truck.

  For an instant, she thought it was Uncle Phil. She stared at him, narrowing her eyes so she could see better. The man was tall, like Uncle Phil, and had the same thick build. But this man had no beard.

  Molly got a dry feeling in her throat. She swallowed hard. The man didn’t see her. Maybe if she stood perfectly still until he turned away, he wouldn’t know that she was there.

  She was sure it must be the same man who stole Merrylegs; the one who ran Molly off the lane in the dark.

  The llama moved away from him. The man swore and lunged at it. The llama began to run toward the truck. When the man followed it, Molly quickly stepped back so that she was hidden by the boulder. Had he seen her?

  She waited for a second, her pulse racing. If he’d seen her, surely he would call to her. She heard nothing. As quietly as she could, she started to run back down the path.

  She would call Sheriff Donley and tell him what she had just seen. She thought his card was still in the kitchen, by the telephone. She ran faster, her feet pounding on the path.

  The truck was black, with slatted wooden sides; she’d tell the sheriff that. What else could she remember about it? She should have looked at the license number. How stupid of her. What if the man drove off while she was in the house calling the sheriff? It would be a lot easier to catch him if they had the license number.

  Molly passed the last of the deep snowbanks. Her side hurt and she had to slow down to a walk. She could see the barn ahead and, beyond it, the house.

  Maybe she should hide in the barn until the truck went by. That way she’d be able to get a close look at the license plate. Too bad there was no telephone in the barn.

  Molly hesitated. Was it more important to call Sheriff Donley right away or should she wait to call after she got the license number of the truck? She had to choose; she couldn’t be in both places at the same time.

  Then she remembered that Glendon was in the barn. If he was still there, he could help.

  Maybe for once he would cooperate, if he understood what was happening.

  She ran for the barn and flung open the door.

  “Glendon?” she yelled. “Are you still in here?”

  Naturally, there was no answer. Cursing her cousin under her breath, she hurried to the ladder and started up it.

  “Glendon, this is important,” she said. “The man who stole Merrylegs is up in the pasture right now, trying to steal more llamas.”

  Apparently that got his attention because his head appeared in the opening above her.

  “I saw him, up by a big boulder at the top of the path,” she said. “He has a truck and there’s a llama tied in it and he’s trying to catch another one. Come down here and watch out the window for his truck and get the license number. Only don’t let him see you.” Molly was already climbing back down the ladder as she talked. “I’m going in the house and calling the sheriff.”

  As her feet touched the floor again, a voice behind her said, “You aren’t calling anybody.”

  Molly whirled around. The man stood just inside the barn door, watching her.

  There was a gun in his hand.

  Seven

  “You couldn’t mind your own business, could you, Miss Snoop?”

  The man stood with his back to the doorway of the barn, glaring at her.

  “I wasn’t snooping,” Molly said. “I just went for a hike. I didn’t know where you were or what you were doing.”

  “Now you know,” he said. “And maybe it’s just as well. You kids can help me load the rest of those llamas.”

  Glendon’s feet swung over the edge of the loft and he started down the ladder.

  “He has a gun,” Molly warned.

  Glendon got to the bottom and turned to face the man. “Are you the one who stole Merrylegs?” he asked.

  Molly looked at Glendon. Did he know this man?

  “I didn’t steal anything,” the man said.

  “Yes, you did,” Molly said. “It was you out here last night with a flashlight, wasn’t it? You were putting Merrylegs in your truck when the ambulance came and then you went roaring out with no lights on and almost killed me.”

  “Get moving,” the man said, and he motioned with the gun toward the door of the barn. “We aren’t here to discuss last night. I need help loading the rest of those animals and you’re going to give it to me.”

  Molly glanced at Glendon and then started out the door.

  “Move it!” the man snarled behind her and Glendon scurried out, too.

  Molly headed toward the path but the man said, “Not that way. We’ll take the lift; it’s faster.”

  It was designed to be a chair lift for skiers, but all of the chairs were gone. Where two of them were supposed to be, Uncle Phil had a
ttached a metal grill, about four feet by six feet. It was suspended by chains on each corner. How did this man know about the lift?

  Molly took one look at the lift and blanched. All her life, she’d been bothered by heights. Once when Molly’s fourth grade class went on a tour of an ice cream company, Molly had been unable to go with the others to the observation deck to see the ice cream put into cartons. Partway up the open metal steps, she had to turn back and wait for her classmates down below.

  Her fear of heights embarrassed and annoyed her but it was too real to be ignored. It wasn’t a matter of will power; it was a matter of getting sick with fear and she was quite sure if she had to ride that lift up the mountain, she would be sick.

  “You expect me to ride on that?” she said, as she stared at the cable high overhead.

  The man and Glendon got on the metal grill but Molly stayed where she was.

  “Couldn’t I walk instead?” she asked.

  The man’s only reply was to motion with his head toward the lift. There was no choice. Reluctantly, Molly got on, too. The man flipped the switch and the lift lurched upward.

  It was like riding on a huge swing, far above the earth. The ground quickly dropped away beneath the grill and there was nothing to hang on to for support. Afraid she might faint, Molly sat down on the grill. The metal cables creaked loudly, making her even more apprehensive.

  The lift moved swiftly up the side of the mountain; the ground below them seemed farther and farther away.

  Molly remembered once when she rode the Ferris wheel at the county fair and was so terrified she had to close her eyes for the entire ride. This lift was far worse than any Ferris wheel. At least the Ferris wheel went around and around, coming back toward the ground as often as it went upward. The lift went only one direction—up. She saw the tops of some fir trees far below, and she closed her eyes.

  By the time they reached the llama pasture and lurched to a stop, Molly was sweating and her stomach threatened to erupt. The man and Glendon stepped off the lift and turned to look at her. She swallowed hard, trying to control her nausea, and then stood up. With shaky legs, she stepped off the lift. It felt wonderful to feel something solid, even a snowbank, under her feet again. Molly vowed never, under any circumstances, to ride that lift again. It might be perfectly safe and maybe her fear of heights was unreasonable but she could see no reason to put herself through such torture just to save a little time and effort. It would have been far easier for her to climb up the mountain on foot.