Chapter 12

Peter Markum had his idiosyncrasies, but he considered Gcina’s pastime of throwing knives while blindfolded beyond peculiar.  “How’s the knife throwing?” Peter asked as he topped up Gcina’s crystal goblet with sparkling water.

With his shoes remaining at the patio doors, allowing his bare feet to enjoy the putting green type lawn cover, Gcina, dressed in a white linen suit, sat at the sculpted glass table bedecked by sectioned fresh vegetables, dips and crackers. Together with the free form design table, the octagon patio umbrella shading him complimented the asymmetrical shaped penthouse roof garden overlooking downtown Manhattan. Tightly groomed shrubs and several ornate trees lined the railed walls. In the corner, a collection of exotic fish seemed content to move around carelessly in the impressive fountain. Peter moved about in jeans and silk sport shirt, foot-cover by Gucci. 

“You didn’t fly me back here to talk knife throwing,” said Gcina, methodically nibbling a piece of celery.

Peter stood peering down at his fishpond, and then looked back over his shoulder at Gcina.  “You should try the garlic dip.  My specialty.”  He continued his casual walk about the perimeter, gazing out over the city.  “No, you’re right, Gcina.  I trust your accommodations at the Soho are satisfying.”

“C’mon, Peter.  Stop the BS.  I’ve been here an hour now and so far I know all about the hereditary dangers of Koi fish breeding; the Bonsai tree’s worst enemy, some crazy sounding bug, whatever, and culinary magic tricks you’ve learned, etc.”

“But none of my cutting board flair is anywhere near your knife wielding talents, in the dark, no less.  So…”

“To answer your question…fine.  Knife throwing remains alive and well in LA.  But I’m here in Manhattan now, and…”

“And anxious to know.”

“Well, yeah, Peter.  What the hell was this hurry up and fly back here all about?”

Peter moved to the table and sat down.  He took a sip of his water and gazed at Gcina.  “You’ve got Jared running all over the country…”

“I don’t have him doing a damn thing.  Sam’s the one…”

“Sam.  Ah, yes.  Sam.” Peter abruptly stabbed a piece of cheese with the cutting knife and laid it on a cracker.  “Jared follows instructions from a phantom father, sending him, God knows where next, while I wait, you wait, we all wait to get a nibble, a hint on where the hell he is.”

“Sam, you mean,” quipped Gcina.

Peter shot him a cutting glance, then shook his head.  “No, Gcina.  Who the fuck else are we talking about?”

“You could be referring to the mouthpiece…the messenger boy as it were.  We don’t know if the email to me was from Sam or…”

“A messenger boy.  Yes.  Yes.   Jesus.  We’ve been over this ad nausea.  There could be another person carrying out some kind of postmortem instructions, but I don’t think so, and you don’t help matters.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do but wait for another message?  What?  You make no sense sometimes Peter.”

“I made plenty of sense when I offered you a consulting fee for keeping me informed.”

“Which I have,” sighed Gcina.

Peter took a deep breath and calmed himself.  “Which you have.  Correct.  To no avail.”

Gcina adjusted his chair and leaned on the table.  “Peter…in the beginning I thought this was going to be a simple case of assisting you in getting this biography published, but I think you expect more of something, I don’t even know what that is.”

Peter placed his fingers under his chin, steeple fashion, and calmly explained with a sarcastic edge, “I brought you back here to hold my fucking hand, Gcina.”

“Hold your hand?”

“What did I say?”

Gcina shook his head.  “Okay.  So I’m here.  I’m supposed to hold your hand…what for?”

“I’m a prick; you know that.  I use people, then throw them away.  This book…when it’s finished, will...”

“Signal my fate to the wind as well, right?”

“Yeah.  Of course.  Don’t look so shocked.  You know that’s my MO, and…you get handsome fees to put up with it.  So…when I first started on this book five years ago, I thought it would be a mere matter of heavy research, a few interviews with people who knew him, and maybe a chapter by you, the guy who seemed to have garnered something of an anomaly from this guy who only gave to charities, institutions, etcetera, but never an individual.  Except you.  Why?”

“I’ve told you the reasons.  He struck me as a guy who didn’t like to feel obligated to anyone.  But, saving his life, well, that put a chink in his armor.  Putting me through school and all.  His way of appeasing…”

“I know all that.  And don’t kid yourself.  There’s more to him putting you through college.  More.  That man was very particular with his give-aways.”

Gcina looked around in frustration.  “Hey…Okay.  Whatever you say, but Peter…it’s your nickel.  I love New York, but how long am I going to have to hold your hand?”

Peter answered in a whisper, “Until we find him.”

“Find him?  Peter…that’s…that could never happen.  He’s just as likely dead as alive.”

“Or choosing to make everyone think he’s dead.  I’ve got Charles starting back at square one in Zermatt.  He’s more of a detective than an editorial vetter.  If he’s alive, let’s hope he finds him.”

“Peter…that’s fine.  And me?  What the hell am I supposed to do?”

Peter fired another vicious glare across the table.

“That’s right, besides holding your hand.  I’ve got clients I’m in the middle of…”

“You’re staying here for a while, so call one of your lawyer buddies and have them work your cases until this is over.”  Peter leaned back in his chair, a look of fear on his face.  “Relax.  Holding my hand is just my bullshit.  That’s not why you’re here.  There’s stuff in that book, Gcina, stuff that could get me sued big time for alleged slander if he’s still alive.  That’s why you’re here.”

“Ah.  The old libel trap.  So, what got you so spooked?”

Peter paused, then rose.  “Reality.  I want you to take your lawyer skills and twist those storytellers until they cry ‘yes.’ Those interviews where they required we print their stories anonymously; gotta have them sign an affidavit so my ass is safe.  You get them to sign.  I don’t care how you do it.  I’m not gonna wait until the book’s out and Sam sues me.”

Gcina stood up and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.  “Look, Peter.  Assuming Sam’s alive to do so, most of those interviews were with his political enemies.  They’re not going to sign anything and be quoted as saying bad things about one of history’s most generous philanthropists, and you know it.  Even is Sam is dead, his family, Jared for example, might sue everybody’s ass.  That’s not how your “story tellers” stay in good stead with the public.”

“They will if they feel safe…if we can prove Sam’s dead,” said Peter, his voice sounding exhausted.  

“The ‘world’ has been trying to confirm that for years. How are you going to change investigations that are pretty much carved in stone at this point?”

“Melt the fucking stone if necessary.”

Gcina held his gaze on Peter.  “Peter, I’m an attorney, not a--”

“I know what you are, Gcina. And this is but a…”

Peter’s cell phone vibrated and he picked it up from the table.  “Yes…oh…”  He looked at his watch.  “Didn’t expect you to…hey, Andrea, calm down.  Charles left several days ago and…no, Andrea, I didn’t think it necessary to clear it with you and…can we talk about this later?  I’m in a meeting…Of course I will.  I always return…Andrea?  Andrea?”  He hung up with an aside, “She can be such a…”

“Bitch,” Gcina volunteered.  “Yes, you’ve shared that affectionate judgment before.”

Peter took a gulp of his water.  “Fuck Vice Presidents, especially Financial Vice Presidents in a skirt.  Now…where were we?”

“Melting stone,” said Gcina.

                                                       ***

Charles dropped his eyes from the old sepia-toned photo of the Matterhorn’s first climbers hanging behind the bar and ran his finger down the condensation covering the carved pewter stein.  The two-inch head was receding slower than he was used to.  “You brew a mean head here, eh?” he said to Ramon, the bearded bartender, whose headband adorned with expedition badges held his greying hair back.

Ramon winked.  “If The Axe isn’t creating head, nobody is.  Thirty years this micro brewery’s been here; I watched a lot of competitors fold up their tents and leave, but The Axe…still here.  First visit?”

Charles smiled and nodded.  “Yeah.  First visit.”  He turned on his stool and faced the dark weathered walls of the lounge.  Sitting beneath the ceiling decor of weathered climbing ropes, ice axes and assorted camp items were a number of climbers.  Their heavy boots, and back packs separated them from the tourist crowd that hovered in the corners, sneaking peeks like typical armchair adventurers.  Charles reached in his pocket for his iPhone and pulled up a file on the screen showing a newspaper clipping with a picture of Sam Brenner.  Sliding it across the bar top he asked, “Do you recognize this guy, Ramon?”

Ramon wiped his hands, threw a towel over his shoulder, and picked up the phone.  “Sure.  Sam Brenner.  Hallway to the men’s room has a blow-up of this.  That was big news back then.”  He slid it back to Charles and returned to washing some mugs.  “Why you ask?”

“Well,” Charles cautiously answered, “I’m with a publishing company back in New York and we’re trying to piece his disappearance together for a book.”

“Uh huh,” said Ramon.  “Kinda late, aren’t you?  Twenty years is a long time.”

“Yeah, well, who knows.  In my business, you learn that memories are fickle.  Go away, come back.  Hard to figure out sometimes.  But…twenty years.  Yeah.  Always a chance somebody might remember a detail or two now that they didn’t want to remember back then.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, Ramon, hell, what do I know.  I’m just a bird dog sniffin’ around.”  He looked down at the clipping again.  “His guide then, this Andreas fellow, he said Sam just left the hut up on the glacier at 3 in the morning and never came back.  I don’t suppose he’s still around?”

Ramon rinsed a mug, held it up to the light for inspection.  “In a manner of speaking.  He’s buried in climbers’ cemetery.”

“I knew that,” Charles offered with a self-deprecating smile.

“Scuse me,” said Ramon.

Charles pushed his mug forward.  “Something stronger.  Jack.  Straight up.”

Ramon placed a glass in front of Charles and started pouring.  Charles motioned to continue until there were three fingers. “His son.  Records say the guide’s son was at the lodge with his father.  Witness to this middle-of-the-night walk in the dark too.  I don’t suppose he made it to the ripe old age of what…forty something.  Supposed to be in his twenties at the time.” 

“That’d be Kristof.  Yeah, he’s still around.”

“Really?  Guide?”

“Yeah.  What else?  Traditions die hard here…no pun intended.”

“So, how do I find him?”

Ramon grabbed a napkin and began writing.  “Carves clocks when he’s not on a guide job.  Here.  His shop’s down the street on the right.  ‘Carved Time’ it’s called.

‘Cute,” said Charles with a smile.  He slammed the Jack back, stood, paid his bill with a generous tip, and thanked Ramon.

As Charles walked the short distance to the clock shop, his eyes darted back and forth across the decade-old newspaper article on his iPhone.  In large type, the headline read: “Brenner’s Survival Doubtful say his two Swiss guides.”