Walt received Wynn’s handgun the following afternoon and spent thirty minutes with the man’s attorney arranging the terms for a Boldt interview. He impounded the handgun, pending Wynn’s voluntary completion of a one-day weapons course the following week.
He reached Boldt by Skype that night, explaining he’d heard back from NFL owner Marty Boatwright, and that both interviews were now arranged. Boldt said he’d make travel plans and get back to him.
He watched the Disney Channel with his daughters, read with them at bedtime, and caught up with e-mails while Beatrice licked herself at his feet. It was the first normal evening he’d had in a while and he promised himself to make more of them. He’d quickly come to see that Fiona was right about his intolerance of silence, though dared not test it. He kept himself busy with simple tasks until utterly fatigued and fell asleep in a bed he’d once shared with Gail. Beatrice snored before he did. He slept without any recollection of dreaming.
The following day, a Tuesday in July, Terry Hogue was announced from the front desk. He complimented Walt on the decorated 1867 rolling block Remington rifle hung in a glass box on the wall. They discussed firearms for ten minutes, Walt feeling no need to push the attorney.
Finally, Hogue withdrew a sealed plastic bag and pushed it across Walt’s desk. Inside was a pair of black lace underwear.
“They belong to Dionne Fancelli.”
“Not exactly what I’d expected,” Walt said.
Hogue slid a signed and notarized document to Walt. “His statement as to how this undergarment came into his possession and that it was passed directly to you.”
Walt read the letter carefully. “A love souvenir.”
“Their second, and last time,” Hogue said. “I questioned the boy repeatedly, Walt. They’ve had sexual intercourse twice. Other stuff along the way, sure. But only twice, the last time eight months ago. He’s willing to cooperate fully. It’s not him. I happen to believe him, in case you care.”
“I care.”
“I thought you might.”
“What I told you before-that was straight. I’m not after him.”
Hogue produced a second plastic bag. This one contained a cotton swab.
“So that completes our end of the deal,” Hogue said. “I guess I should wish you good luck. My client would welcome the dismissal of him as a person of interest.”
“Has she said anything to him about problems at home?”
“He knew there were problems,” Hogue said. “The two times they attempted sexual intercourse failed miserably. And it wasn’t him, it was her. She became so overwhelmed emotionally that he withdrew, despite protection.”
“And they didn’t try after that.”
“No. And they didn’t talk about it. He brought it up only once. She blew up at him. They didn’t speak for days. He doesn’t know enough to have spotted the warning signs. He just thought she was too young and that he was stupid for having tried.”
“He was right.”
“Indeed.”
“Okay,” Walt said, accepting a second letter pertaining to the swab.
“If we can help you get the bastard, Walt…”
“Thank you. My guess is, you already have.”
Walt had the two bags packaged and shipped to the Meridian lab, knowing it would be several weeks, if he was lucky, before getting the reports.
The prenatal sample from the mother would have to be done in the next few weeks-between the tenth and thirteenth week-and would be more problematic. Past the fourteenth week an amniocentesis was the only option, a procedure that would put the fetus at some degree of risk and one he therefore wouldn’t push for. He had to work quickly with the courts.
He attended a Rotary Club lunch, met with his two investigating deputies to review cases, and answered a dozen e-mails before heading home to Lisa and the girls.
He was in the Cherokee when he overheard a radio call from his dispatcher. A prowler had been reported at the Roger Hillabrand residence. Hillabrand, a defense contractor, continued to hold an interest in Fiona, and had for a time been a suspect in another of Walt’s cases. More important, he lived within a mile-as the crow flies-of the Engleton ranch; less than a mile from the wilderness campground Guillermo Menquez was keeping an eye on.
Deputy Chalmers responded to the dispatcher’s call, and a moment later, Walt announced that he would oversee the complaint. Chalmers would respond ASAP, bypassing the gate to keep it closed and climbing the two-mile driveway on foot, alert for the intruder. If she reached the house before Walt, she was to inform Hillabrand Walt was en route.
He called Lisa and let her know he was going to be late. Nikki took the phone.
“Why do our faces look backwards in the mirror?” she asked.
“It’s bedtime, sweetheart. I can try to explain it in the morning.”
“But how come?”
“It has to do with the way light reflects.”
“Like when the doctor hits your knee?”
“No, that’s ‘reflex.’ ”
“But that’s what you said.”
“Spelled different. Different word.”
“Sounds the same.”
“Yes, it does. Like hear and here-one’s listening, one’s a place.”
“Reflects is a place?”
“I’ll explain tomorrow.”
“Promise?”
There it was, that word that had impacted his life more than any other. Bobby. Gail. His badge. His father. He heard his own breathing through the phone’s earpiece. He said good night, a lump forming in his throat for reasons unknown. Was this the silence about which Fiona had warned? From which he ran? Was he supposed to call her?
Ten minutes later he reached the reinforced entry gate at the base of the Hillabrand estate-two hundred acres of private property contiguous with the Cold Springs run of the Sun Valley ski mountain. Perched atop an 8,000-foot-high mountaintop, two miles up a gravel road, stood Hillabrand’s 10,000-square-foot log “cabin,” a monument to a bachelor with too much money and just enough sense to hire a tasteful architect.
“It’s my fault,” Hillabrand said. He wore a crisply pressed, sky-blue polo shirt, creased blue jeans, and forest green Keens. With his leathery tan, blue eyes, and wry smile, he had to fight off comparisons to Robert Redford. “I got absorbed with work. I’d left all the lights off, so the place was dark as a graveyard-an open invitation, I’m afraid. I heard something… and had a look…” He led Walt down a confusing set of hallways and reached a hotel-sized kitchen. He pulled back a curtain on the kitchen’s Dutch split door.
“He’d been working on this door. Tried to jimmy it.” He opened the door and showed Walt where a crude tool had been used in an attempt to open the door. “I switched on the outside light. Got a quick look. Six feet, broad shoulders. No face. Only his back. Jeans. Dark sweatshirt. He was gone in a flash. Very fast.”
“Hair color?” Walt was taking notes.
“No. Ball cap, I guess.”
“You must have a weapon in this place,” Walt said. Hillabrand was a former army general who’d retired into an NGO. He employed a security detail of service vets fiercely loyal to him.
“Of course. Did I pursue him into the woods? Come on, Sheriff. Give me some credit.”
“You called your own people first, I take it?”
“You really take a dim view of me, don’t you?” He leaned back.
“No. I called nine-one-one and reported the intruder. I don’t keep a posse around me, you know? Is that what you think? I have staff. Of course I do. But they keep regular hours.”
“Deputy Chalmers will remain with you, preferably in a windowless room-a second-story room will do.”
“You have to be kidding me,” Hillabrand said.
“A man of your… position, sir… our first job is your protection.” Walt contrasted this with his response to the similar situation at Vince Wynn’s residence. He’d assumed any gunshots had driven the intruder away in Wynn’s case, but he realized he’d made it personal as well, and that was a bad development.
“You think this was… nonsense. I thought… the Berkholder thing…”
“And that may be all it is, but this is the way we’re going to do it.”
Chalmers stood at the ready. Hillabrand motioned for her to follow him, and they left. Walt went out the kitchen door, his flashlight on, trained onto the dewy grass.
Tracking wasn’t a hobby for him, and it wasn’t a professional requirement. It was a study, a science, a passion. He held the Maglite’s bluish halogen bulb close to the lawn and watched as a million pearls of dew lit up and sparkled. In their midst, like a string of lakes, were lightless oval shapes, each a footprint of the intruder. He stayed to the side, following them down the curve of the lawn to the edge of the forest and from there into the ever darker woods, alert for displaced leaves, freshly broken twigs, and the bent shafts of plants and wildflowers. Lower and lower down the hill he went, hunched and attentive, excited by the puzzle solving. There were stretches where he lost all signs of the man, wishing he’d brought Beatrice along with him, instead of leaving her in the Cherokee. Tempted to go back and get her, he doubted she’d pick up a scent from the ground alone, and couldn’t trouble himself to return.
Five minutes stretched to twenty. It was a steady descent, the intruder avoiding and crossing the occasional game trail. It felt as if he knew where he was going, that this was scouted terrain. And as the invisible path that Walt followed stopped descending and began to traverse the north-facing hill, finally swinging higher and beginning to climb now, he was aimed for the ridge that dropped down into the drainage where the Berkholders and Engletons lived. The drainage where, on the opposing north-facing slope, the campground had been discovered.
A jolt of deepening concern rattled him. Fiona lived over there. As he crested the ridge and briefly glimpsed the lights below, the Engleton ranch called out as a destination. Due to terrain, and without going down to the highway, it was impossible to get from where Walt stood to the other side of the drainage without crossing the Engleton property.
Halfway between Hillabrand’s house and the Engletons’, he debated his options, favoring returning to the Cherokee, where he had a shotgun and an emergency backpack with a bigger flashlight, batteries, the satellite phone, and warm clothing. It might take him an extra five to ten minutes, because of the climb and then the drive off Hillabrand’s mountain, but it seemed worth it.
His legs, aching from the descent and climb, carried him well. He charged back up the mountain, zigzagging in order to set a sustainable pace, and picking up the first game trail he encountered. Wild animals, for the most part, made sensible, if sometimes meandering, routes through forest and across wilderness. Walt followed this trail for two hundred yards and then cut back through the trees, quickly gaining elevation. Minutes later, he reached Hillabrand’s out of breath. He radioed Chalmers and told her to allow Hillabrand to move around his house but to stay with him for the time being.
“I picked up his trail and believe he may be heading into the next drainage. I’m headed for the Engleton place.”
He called for backup on the way. His closest patrol was nearly twenty minutes away. He directed them to approach without siren or lights, expecting to have completed the first part of his rounds by the time they arrived.
Beatrice knew when Walt was excited. She shot between the seats, her paws on the center console, and licked Walt below the ear.
“Back off!” Walt shouted.
The dog whimpered and backed up, but the thumping of her tail against the backseat, in concert with the pounding of Walt’s heartbeat in his ears, gave away her enthusiasm.
Hillabrand’s two-mile driveway was crushed stone and steep with a half-dozen hairpin switchbacks. As fast as Walt drove, it wasn’t fast enough. He one-handed his phone to dial Fiona’s number from his contact list, wondering why he hadn’t programmed a speed dial number for her. It made perfect sense that he should have her number set as a speed dial, and yet it seemed too personal at the same time, and he wondered if he was afraid to be seen dialing her via the shortcut, and if so what caused such fear in him. His sense of Fiona and him, of Gail and Brandon, could get so tangled up that it seemed impossible to unknot. He couldn’t risk exposing himself to another person the way he had with Gail. It had left him raw and vulnerable in a way he hadn’t felt since adolescence, and that was too many years behind him to offer any guidance. As a teen he had stumbled and crashed his way through his early relationships, not understanding himself enough to have much to offer. By adulthood, in his twenties, his focus had been on building a career for himself, with little time or energy to devote to the otherworldly nature of getting inside Gail’s skin. They’d made love, they’d had laughs, they ate meals together and attended parties, but never with too much talking, never fully explaining themselves to the other the way he expected relationships were supposed to function. That his only fully invested relationship had collapsed, unexpectedly on his part, left him with the sinking feeling it could happen again far too easily.
The phone rang in his ear. He urged her to pick up. Then the click of the voice mail and his cursing into the car, and Beatrice whimpering again. He skidded to a stop before Hillabrand’s reinforced gate and waited for its electronic eye to detect the Cherokee’s motion and open. The steel bar climbed and Walt threw a rooster tail behind as he sped out and into a dirt-spewing fishtail turn and down the canyon road, his thumb finding the green button on his cell phone, and redialing her number.
He’d never figured out how a few minutes could stretch into hours, but that was how it felt. The short drive took too long. The Cherokee climbed up the Engleton driveway and Walt jammed the brakes. He hesitated, then shut the engine off and climbed out, running for Fiona’s front door.
He pulled up just short of the door, his chest tight despite the fact that there were no signs of any problems here.
He knocked lightly, and when she failed to answer, knocked louder.
No answer.
He called out. “Fiona! It’s me!”
A ringing in his ears. The chorus of a summer evening: insects and frogs.
How far to press this?
He stepped around to the side of the cottage as a light breeze stirred the trees. The wood-slat Venetian blinds were pulled, but he pressed an eye to the edge.
It was the sitting area. He flashed back to the two of them on the floor, her legs hooked in his, the back of her head pressed against the leg of the coffee table and thumping softly-that chortle of hers, both satisfied and amused as she arched her back, her nails digging into him. For a moment he didn’t breathe. Given the angle, he could barely make out the couch but he thought he saw her curled up on it.
He rapped softly on the window. She’d invited him back anytime. He wanted to see her. He wanted the door opened.
She didn’t move. Maybe it was nothing but a blanket and pillows, he thought. He went to the next window, but couldn’t get a decent angle there either. His knuckle hovered next to the glass. He withdrew it and returned to the front door and knocked lightly one last time.
No answer.
He faced a choice of kicking in the door or checking the area and leaving. The temptation to bust it down was overwhelming-but was it to satisfy his need or hers? Why the hell wouldn’t she answer him? Had she reconsidered? Was that even her on the couch?
He stepped away and walked the perimeter of the cottage, then circled the main house, also dark. He knocked on the front door and the back, but was not answered. From the back patio he looked down over the small pond, its surface gently stirred by the light breeze.
He looked up the hill to the general area where he’d been standing only twenty minutes earlier. Hillabrand’s intruder would have passed through the property without going out of his way to circle well around.
He studied the steep incline of the mountain, recalling the campsite. It seemed a plausible destination.
He called dispatch on his radio. “Find Gilly Menquez for me. Fast.” He provided a radio channel number for Menquez to use to reach him and then switched his handheld to that channel.
He returned to the Cherokee, not quite able to put the vehicle in gear and leave the Engleton property. He called Fiona’s cell phone for a third time. Voice mail.
Again he fought the temptation to kick in her door. She took her privacy seriously, ardently savored her downtime. If she was staying on the couch and not coming to the door, then all his shouting in the world wouldn’t make her admit him. To violate that might create an insurmountable wall between them. Along with this came the realization his decision was not professional, but personal. He disliked himself for it. He was supposed to know better.
He cranked the engine, put the Cherokee in gear, and backed up. His headlights suddenly illuminated a young woman-Kira Tulivich-hiding behind a tree just beyond the cottage, a baseball bat firmly in hand. She stood within striking distance of where Walt had had his face pressed to the cottage window. He felt a shiver. What the hell? He slammed on the brakes.
But a voice called out over the police band radio. “Sheriff, we’ve been unable to raise Ranger Menquez. I called his home. His wife hasn’t heard from him. He’s late and she’s worried.”
When Walt looked up again, Kira was gone. He accelerated and arrived at the end of the Engleton driveway. Instead of turning right toward the highway, he swung the wheel left, pointing the Cherokee up the hill in the general direction of the abandoned campsite.
“Tell backup they’ll find my Cherokee up the old mining road across from Red Top and to catch up to me on the trail. Channel six,” he said.
Beatrice beat her tail against the backseat furiously again, somehow understanding they were going for a hike.
An evening thunderstorm had moved through an hour earlier, leaving raindrops like strung crystal beads on the cottage windows. Moonlight now peeked out from behind fast-moving clouds, throwing shadows into the woods like light from behind a slowly moving fan.
Fiona saw men in those shadows. She couldn’t tear herself away from the window, had been unable to do so for days now. She stared out over the back of the couch for hours at a time, like a cat or dog, her imagination running wild. She’d been here before, nearly in this same situation, forcing her to question how it was that she might face such a thing twice in one lifetime when some women-most women-never experienced it even once. Did she invite it upon herself, as some had suggested? Did she ask for it, subconsciously want it? If so, what kind of twisted individual did that make her? How could she not know her own self?
She fell into a trance of self-hatred and confusion, her eyes glazed over for minutes at a time, not seeing, not hearing, yet unable to tear herself away. She thought this must be the same sick attraction that people had to horror films. Morbid curiosity. She had projects to complete. Phone calls to return. She needed a shower. Some food. But there she sat, legs tucked up into her chest, chin on the back of the couch. The terror she’d experienced a few nights before had been the anomaly; she rarely felt such things anymore. They’d been burned out of her, as if her body had developed an immunity to fear. It was not that she felt brave-far from it. Numb more aptly described her. Resolved. For all the work, all the so-called progress, the countless hours poured into not seeing herself as a victim, she had little to show for it. An e-mail along with one thud on a wall, and she’d recoiled, reverted, regressed. She’d failed to find her way out, knowing with absolute certainty what this was about, whom this was about.
That was why, when the sound of a car came up the driveway, when its engine idled a long thirty seconds before shutting off, she knew in a moment of clarity what was coming, and yet felt helpless to prevent it. She didn’t believe in fate; destiny was, to an extent, something one could control. There were external forces and powers, certainly, and these were things to be reckoned with. But there was also determination and hard work and, from somewhere in the distant reaches of her mind, this idea of faith. For all the times she’d told herself to fight back if ever given this chance, she now felt more inclined to accept the inevitable. Monsters were real.
She knew this firsthand.
A knock on the door.
She held her legs more tightly.
Noises in the bushes.
When Walt’s face pressed to the glass, sliced into stripes by the blinds, staring into the darkened room, she suppressed a laugh, covering her mouth and slumping down to where she hoped he might not see her.
The gap between what she’d anticipated and seeing Walt was too enormous, too much for her to bridge at a moment’s notice. Instead, she froze, hoping he might go away. And then, by the time she’d come to her senses and wanted to see him, longing for his company, she was far too embarrassed to move. How could she possibly explain herself when her one great wish in life, the sum of all her effort, was to never have to explain herself to anyone? To be accepted for who she was, not who she’d been.
He tapped on the glass. She willed him to go away.
And this particular time her will proved the stronger. She thought she heard the door to the main house close, but didn’t get up to look. She knew she owed him, if not an explanation, at least an excuse, but didn’t pick up the phone.
The motor came back to life and the Cherokee’s backup lights shone brightly against the blinds. Slats of light flooded the room as she hung her head, cursing herself for squandering such a chance.
The sound of the motor mixed with the hum of the refrigerator and the rush of blood across her eardrums, and finally faded completely. For the next twenty minutes she sobbed beneath a blanket. Entirely alone.
As the low rumble of a vehicle broke the silence, she knew it had to be him, and she mentally thanked him for giving her a second chance. She hurried to a mirror and worked on her face, wondering if it could be salvaged. A car door thumped shut. She did the best she could: some tissue to the eyes, some lipstick, and she headed to the door to greet him.
Walt and Beatrice ascended the hill trail, the dog working ahead of him, swinging left and right in unpredictable patterns, her nose to the ground. The only discernible sounds were her huffing and snorting as she vacuumed the pine straw. He would never understand how the seemingly random nature of a dog’s scenting could produce results, but he’d witnessed it too many times to doubt its success. The only command he’d given her had been “Find it,” a birding command that had been honed and modified by trainers to have her search out a human scent, dead or alive. She could do so with laser precision. Given her current agitated state, she had not yet locked onto any scent of importance, a fact that had Walt looking over his shoulder back at the lights of the Engleton place, and up the slope toward the ridge that led to Hillabrand’s. Without Gilly’s silence, the more intelligent strategy would have been to work Beatrice up that ridge, attempting to pick up the intruder’s scent. But Gilly’s well-being trumped any such notion.
He pushed himself more quickly up the hill, burdened by the added weight and encumbrance of the emergency backpack and by carrying the shotgun in his right hand. His radio called him-backup was just arriving to the Cherokee, fifteen to twenty minutes behind him.
Beatrice stopped abruptly and lifted her head. Walt paused as well, watching her. She scented the air, looked back at him, her eyes iridescent in the glare of his headlamp, and then continued on. False alarm.
A quarter mile later he broke off trail and Beatrice extended her search area, ensuring they weren’t leaving a scent behind. Soon, she was working ahead of him again, her paws crunching, her nose sucking and snorting. She would disappear for a few minutes and then circle back to measure his pace and reestablish herself. He would cluck for her, letting her know he’d seen her. It was too dark, and he was in too big a hurry to do any tracking; he left all the work up to her.
His thoughts wandered back to Fiona and a series of mental photographs in his mind’s eye: the dark shape of her huddled on the couch; the chair misplaced in the center of the room; the absolute dark of the place-both the cottage and the main house without a single light inside, but the motion-sensing exterior lights working; the calm of the pond; the night sounds all around him. Had he seen her car? He thought it had been there, but couldn’t remember its exact location. Why had Kira been hiding behind that tree with a baseball bat?
Beatrice circled back from the dark and nudged his hand: she’d found something. How long had she been gone? One or two minutes. Walt picked up his pace, and in her excitement she rushed ahead of him and out of the glare of his headlamp.
Thirty seconds later, she reappeared and returned to nudge his hand, her tail beating furiously.
“Good girl! Find it! Find it!”
He was jogging now, the backpack bouncing, the funnel of light in front of him setting everything in the forest in motion as shadows stretched and danced. His boots crunched on the trail, his breathing was raspy and heightened.
He recognized his location. He was just below the level ground of the illegal campsite. Bea had led him around to the northern edge.
There, ahead of him, was the unmistakable shape of a human form, its back to a tree. Unmoving. He whistled Bea away-imagining it as a crime scene before he reached the corpse. She jerked as if a rope had been attached, returning to his side and heeling. He reached down and patted her head.
Gilly Menquez came into the beam of the headlamp. Something in his hand at his side. A gun?
A bottle of wine.
Empty.
Walt came to a stop in front of the man. Menquez was snoring. Passed out. Walt nudged him with the toe of his boot. Menquez snorted but didn’t awaken.
Walt’s eyes drifted back into the dark forest, imagining the lights of the Engleton place, the black pearl of the small pond cut into the hill. Anger welled up in him. He staggered back and slumped against a tree, his radio already in hand.