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“We ate, enjoyed each other’s company, talked, then—in the early afternoon, I think—we parted company. I got in my car and drove away. The last I saw of him, he was crossing the Chobar Gorge bridge.”
6
KATHMANDU, NEPAL
The drive to Chobar Gorge went quickly as they first headed west, back toward the city on Arniko Highway. On the outskirts they turned south on the Ring Road and followed it along Kathmandu’s southern edge to the Chobar region. From there it was a simple matter of following two signs. An hour after leaving Professor Kaalrami, they pulled into Manjushree Park, overlooking the gorge’s northern cliff, at five p.m.
They got out and stretched their legs. As he had been for the past hour, Sam checked his iPhone for incoming mail. He shook his head. “Nothing yet.”
Hands on hips, Remi surveyed the surroundings. “What are we looking for?” she asked.
“A giant neon marquee with ‘Bully Was Here’ flashing on it would be nice, but I’m not holding my breath.”
The truth was, neither of them knew if there was anything to find. They’d come here based on what might be little more than a coincidence: both Frank Alton and Lewis King had spent their final hours here before disappearing. However, knowing Alton as they did, it was doubtful he’d come here without a good reason.
Aside from a pair of men eating an early dinner on a nearby bench, the park—itself little more than a low hill covered in brush and bamboo and a spiral hiking trail—was deserted. Sam and Remi walked down the gravel entrance drive and followed the winding track to the head of the Chobar Gorge. While the main bridge was built of concrete and wide enough to accommodate cars, the gorge’s lower reaches and opposite bank were accessible only via three plank-and-wire suspension bridges, all set at different heights and all reached by hiking trails. On both sides of the gorge, small temples were set into the hillside, partially hidden by thick trees. Fifty feet below, the Bagmati frothed and crashed over clusters of boulders.
Remi walked to an information placard attached to the bridge’s facade. She read aloud the English version:
“‘Chovar Guchchi is a narrow valley formed by the Bagmati River, the only outlet of the entire Kathmandu Valley. It is believed that Kathmandu Valley once held a giant lake. When Manjusri first came upon the valley, he saw a lotus on the surface. He sliced open this hillside to drain the water from the lake and make way for the city of Kathmandu.’”
Sam asked, “Who is Manjusri?”
“I’m not sure exactly, but, if I had to guess, I would say he was a bodhisattva—an enlightened person.”
Sam was nodding as he checked his e-mail. “Got it. Professor Kaalrami’s son came through.”
He and Remi walked to a nearby tree to get out of the setting sun. Sam called up the pictures, five in all, and scrolled through them. While they had been digitized well enough, the photos had that old Polaroid feel: slightly washed out, the colors a bit unnatural. The first four photos were of young Lewis King and Adala Kaalrami, each reclining or sitting on a blanket, plates and glasses and picnic supplies laid out around them.
“None of them together,” Remi remarked.
“No timer,” Sam replied.
The fifth photo was of Lewis King, this time standing, facing the camera in three-quarters profile. On his back was an old frame-style backpack.
They studied the photos a second time. Sam exhaled heavily and said, “Shouldn’t have gotten our hopes up.”
“Don’t speak too soon,” Remi said, leaning closer to the iPhone’s screen. “You see what he’s holding in his right hand?”
“An ice ax.”
“No, look closer.”
Sam did so. “A caver’s ax.”
“And look at what’s clipped to his back, to the left of his sleeping bag. You can just make out the curve of it.”
Sam kept his eyes fixed on the screen. A smile spread on his face. “I don’t know how I missed that. I’ll be damned. It’s a hard hat.”
Remi nodded. “Equipped with a headlamp. Lewis King was going spelunking.”
Not knowing for sure what they were looking for but hoping they were correct, they took only ten minutes to find it. Near the opposite shore’s bridgehead was a roofed, open-fronted kiosk with wooden slots containing informational brochures. They found a recreational map of the gorge and scanned the numbered dots and description labels.
A mile upriver from the bridge, on the northern bank, was a dot labeled “Chobar Caves. Closed to the Public. No Unauthorized Access.”
“It’s a long shot,” Remi said. “For all we know, Lewis was headed into the mountains and Frank was simply lost.”
“Long shots are what we do,” Sam reminded his wife. “Besides, it’s either this or we spend another day with Russell and Marjorie.”
