Pender ducked out of Sheriff Ajanian’s press conference and caught a ride back to the lodge with a freelance photographer. The search-and-rescue effort had been suspended for the night, the lights were dimmed, and the sound of snoring emanated from the cots set up around the periphery of the main room.
Pender’s intention had been to look for a motel in which to spend the night, but the Bu-car was blocked in by a fire truck. He decided he was too exhausted to drive, anyway, and wandered off in search of a spare cot to crash on. It was hard to believe that he’d gone swimming in the Kern River only that morning; the idyll with Amy already felt like ancient history.
The beds and cots were all taken, but there was an unoccupied sofa in a darkened office on the second floor that looked like it would do in a pinch. Pender took off his shoes and curled up on his side, fully clothed, using the arm of the couch for a pillow. But as soon as he closed his eyes, the dead girl’s ravaged face appeared to him out of the darkness, eyeless and accusatory, and suddenly he was wide awake again.
He swung his feet off the couch and sat up, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, wondering if there was anything he could have done differently last week. Maybe if he’d questioned the boy a little more skillfully that night in Santa Cruz, Little Luke would still be behind bars, and little Dusty would still have her eyes. “I had him,” he said aloud. “I had the little bastard in my goddamn hands and I let him get away.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” said a slurred male voice from across the room.
Startled, Pender looked up and saw a man sitting in the dark, with a bottle on the desk in front of him. “Who’s that?”
“Owen Oliver. Doctor Owen Oliver, not that it matters anymore.” The man switched on the gooseneck desk lamp, and Pender recognized the Mountain Project psychologist Sheriff Ajanian had pointed out earlier. Gone were the corduroy jacket and the tie; his shirtsleeves were unbuttoned and turned back loosely, and his hair was a wispy mess.
“Sorry for busting in on you,” said Pender, climbing wearily to his feet. “I was looking for a place to sleep-I didn’t see you there.”
“No, no, stay where you are.” Grandly, his shirtsleeves flapping, Dr. Oliver waved him back down. “Care for a nightcap?”
“I’m not really supposed to…”
“Me neither.” Oliver grabbed the bottle of Johnnie Walker Red by the neck, rose with difficulty, wobbled across the room, and perched unsteadily on the arm of the sofa. “Here. Hope you don’t mind drinking out of the bottle. I had a glass, but it broke. Story of my life.”
Pender wiped the top of the bottle with his palm, took a slash, and handed it back. “Thanks. I needed that.”
“Me, too.” Oliver took a slash in return, then wiped his mouth with his dangling sleeve. “He’s a psychopath, you know. A flat-out, textbook psychopath.”
“Little Luke, you mean?”
“Yeah. Little Luke.” A harsh laugh. “Antisocial personality disorder, we’re supposed to call it nowadays. DSM says the kid has to be at least eighteen for you to make a diagnosis, but I say, why wait? Act now and beat the crowd. Because it’s all there. In spades. Superficial charm, failure to conform to societal norms, deceit, aggression, pervasive disregard for the rights of others. And family history-did I mention family history?” He took another slug. “I knew it, too. By the second day. Should’ve sent him back then and there,” Oliver continued. “Know why I didn’t?”
Pender shook his head.
“Money.” Oliver made the universal sign, rubbing his thumb against the tips of his first two fingers. “Moola. The almighty dollar. See, the fifth kid’s the profit margin. Less than five, we’re scarcely breaking even.” He offered the bottle to Pender, who took another slash and handed it back. “Now that poor little girl is dead, the other boy’s in a coma, and the Mountain Project is history. Along with my reputation. And for what? A few thousand bucks? If I had the guts of a flea, I’d…” His voice trailed off; he looked down at Pender as if he’d just remembered he was there. “Say, I don’t suppose you have a gun on you?”
“Can’t help you there,” said Pender, casually buttoning his sport jacket over his shoulder holster. “But you know what they say: in most cases, suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.”
No reply from Oliver, who was starting to topple off the arm of the couch, still clutching the bottle. Reacting with an agility that belied his bulk, Pender caught the psychologist with one hand and snatched up Johnnie Walker with the other. The former he laid out on the sofa, on his side lest he vomit in his sleep; the latter he took with him as he set off in search of a place to lie down for the night.