by Nora Roberts
“He should’ve had more sense than to insist on making that hike.” She rocked in the chair as if the movement would help keep her calm. “He hasn’t hiked on much more than his own treadmill in five years.”
“Kept in shape, you said.”
“Yes. I should’ve gone with him.” Biting her lip, she rocked a little faster, a little harder. “I shouldn’t have let him go by himself. I just didn’t want to spend all day tromping around. I wanted to rent horses, but Jim, he’s nervous around horses. I thought I could talk him into coming back with me when we got to that junction. I was so annoyed when he wouldn’t. I snapped at him. The last thing I did was snap at him. Oh, my God.”
Willy let her weep, signaling Coop to stay and pulling up a chair so he could pat the woman’s arm.
“I know you’re scared, and I wish I had more to tell you, more that would ease your mind.”
“His phone. You said they’d try to track his cell phone.”
“I did. They did. We can’t find the signal. Could be the battery’s dead.”
“He’d have called. He’d have tried to call.” While her voice trembled, she mopped at her face with a tissue. “He wouldn’t want me worried. We charged our phones full before we started that morning. They said there’s flooding. On the news, they said.”
“He’s a sensible man. A sensible man sticks to high ground. We haven’t found him, Mrs. Tyler, but we haven’t found any signs to indicate anything happened to him. Let’s hold on to that for now.”
“I’m trying.”
“I’m going to have somebody take you back to the hotel. If you want, I can have someone stay with you, if you don’t want to be alone.”
“No. No, I’ll be all right. I haven’t called my boys—our sons. I was so sure he’d be back this morning, and now . . . it’s twenty-four hours since he should’ve been back. I think I have to call our boys.”
“You know best.”
“Jim just got it into his head he wanted to make this trip. Wild Bill, Calamity Jane, Crazy Horse, the Black Hills. We’ve got a three-year-old grandson, and another coming. He said we should practice taking them on hikes. He bought all new gear.”
“And you said he’d packed everything the guides recommended,” Will began as he led her out. “He had a map, a flashlight . . .”
Coop walked to the window to watch the rain hammer the ground. He waited until Willy came back and then shut the office door.
“Another night up there isn’t going to do Jim Tyler any good.”
Coop turned around. “If he ran into Ethan Howe, he might not have a second night.”
“Who’s Ethan Howe?”
Coop told him everything he knew, giving the information in a quick, concise report as he’d been trained to do as a cop, as an investigator.
“It’s a loose connection to Lil and her animals, but it’s a connection,” Willy allowed. “But as far as you know, or she remembers, this Howe and Lil never had any trouble, any hard words?”
“She barely remembered him, and then only because of the intern. He’s trouble, Willy. A drifter, a loner, stays off the grid—except for one serious bust. He’d been drinking. Slipped up there. Otherwise, he keeps his head down when he’s around people. He likes to talk about his Native American connection, but he blends. He’s got that temper, and that self-importance, his weak points.”
“I know a lot of people who have both of those.”
“Enough of a temper, according to her friends and family, to scare off this Carolyn Roderick,” Coop added. “She was a type, like the one from Montana. Athletic, pretty, strong, single. Molly Pickens emptied her bank account and left with him.”
Willy sat back with his white mug of soup, nodded as he sipped. “Of her own free will.”
“And that’s the last I can find her, when she left with him, of her own free will. There’s no credit card activity since that August, and up until then she used a MasterCard, regularly. She’s never renewed her driver’s license. Hasn’t filed taxes. She left Columbus, Ohio, in ’96. She was eighteen. Rumors of an abusive father, who didn’t file a missing-person’s report. She left a paper trail. I’ve picked up some of it. But when she left with Ethan Howe, nothing. No trail.”
Willy took a thoughtful breath that came out as a wheeze. “You think he killed that waitress, and the intern.”
“Damn right I do.”
“And you think he’s the same one who’s been causing this trouble for Lil.”
“He connects, and she fits his type.”
“And if Tyler crossed paths with him . . .”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to be seen, doesn’t want some guy going back and talking about this man he met on the trail. Or Tyler stumbled over his campsite, found him poaching. Or maybe he just likes to kill. There’s more.”
“Jesus.” Willy pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let’s have it, then.”
“Melinda Barrett. Age twenty.”
Willy’s forehead creased. “That’s the girl you and Lil found.”
“Strong, pretty, athletic. Alone on the trail. I’m betting she was his first. He’d’ve been about the same age. There’ve been others.” Coop dropped a folder on Willy’s desk. “I copied my file for you.”
Willy stared, not at the file, but at Cooper. “Jumping Jesus, Coop, you’re talking serial killer. You’re talking about a dozen years of killing.”
“Which stopped, as far as I’ve been able to determine, during the year and a half Howe was in prison. The problem with tying the first killing to the others I tracked, the like crimes, was the wide time lag between. But when you add in missing persons, bodies that weren’t found, by chance or by his design? It plays then.”
Willy looked down at the file, started to speak, then broke into a hacking cough. He waved his hand until he’d caught his breath. “Goddamn spring,” he complained. “I’ll look at what you’ve got. I’ll read through it, and I’m going to want to talk to you about it after—one way or the other.”
He took a last swallow of his now lukewarm soup. “Want a job?”
“I’ve got one, thanks.”
Willy smiled. “Cop’s in the blood.”
“I just want my horses, that’s the fact. But in this case, I’ve got a vested interest. He doesn’t get a chance to touch Lil. He doesn’t get that chance.” Coop got to his feet. “That’s where I’ll be, most likely, when you’re ready to talk this through.”
He went home to toss fresh clothes in a duffel. He glanced around the converted bunkhouse and figured he’d spent less time sleeping there than he had on Lil’s couch. Or in her bed.
That’s the way it had to be, he decided, and trudged through the relentless rain to toss the duffel in his truck before going back to the farmhouse.
He sat his grandparents down at the kitchen table and told them everything.
When he’d finished, Lucy rose, went to the cupboard, and got out a bottle of whiskey. She poured three short glasses.
Sitting, she tossed hers back without a blink or hiss.
“Have you told Jenna and Joe?”
“I’m going by there on the way to Lil’s. I can’t prove—”
“You don’t have to prove,” Sam said before he could finish. “It’s what you believe. That’s enough. We’ll pray you’re wrong about this man they’re looking for. We’ll pray you’re wrong about that, and he just got lost, got himself a good soaking and a good scare.”
“While you’re praying I want you to stay inside. The stock’s fed and bedded down. I’ll be back around first light. You stay in, doors and windows locked, and the shotgun close. I need you to promise.” He pressed, and pressed hard when he recognized the stubborn set of his grandfather’s jaw. “If you don’t give me your word on that, I can’t leave. I can’t look after Lil.”
“Putting the squeeze on me,” Sam muttered.
“Yes, sir. I am.”
“You got my word on it, if that’s what it takes.”
“All right. If
you hear anything, feel anything off, you call me, and you call the police. You don’t think twice, you just call, and don’t worry about false alarms. I need your word on that, too, your promise, or I’m getting a couple of men to guard the place.”
“You think he’ll come here?” Lucy demanded.
“No, I don’t. I think he’s on a mission. I don’t think he’s going to come here because here isn’t part of the plan. But I’m not leaving without your word. Maybe he’ll want some supplies, or a dry place to sleep. He’s a psychopath. I’m not going to try to predict what he might do. I’m not taking any chances with either of you.”
“You go on to Lil’s,” Sam told him. “You’ve got our word on all of it.” He looked at his wife, and she nodded. “Joe and Jenna are probably on their way over there, or will be soon enough. You can talk to them over there. Meanwhile I’ll call them myself, in case they’re home. I’ll tell them what you told us.”
Nodding, Coop picked up the whiskey and drank. And stared into the glass. “Everything that means anything to me is here. In this house, with Joe and Jenna, at Lil’s. That’s everything there is.”
Lucy reached over, laid her hand over his. “Tell her.”
He looked up, looked at her and thought about the morning conversation. He smiled a little, and gave her the same answer. “Working on it.”
BY THE TIME he got to Lil’s, feeding time was in full swing. He’d watched the process before, but never in a violent rain. Staff hustled around in black slickers, hauling and carting enormous hampers of food—whole chickens, slabs of beef, tubs of game, all processed in the commissary. Hundreds of pounds of it, he estimated, all cleaned, prepared, transported every evening.
Tons of fortified feed, grain, bales of hay, hauled, poured and spread night after night, whatever the weather.
He considered offering a hand, but he wouldn’t know what the hell he was doing. Besides, he’d had enough of the wet for now, and would have more than his share of it later.
He carried the tub of beef stew his grandmother had pressed on him into the cabin. He’d be more useful, he decided, putting a meal on the table.
He opened a bottle of red, let it sit to breathe while he heated the stew and buttermilk biscuits.
It was oddly relaxing, to work in the cozy kitchen with the rain beating on the roof and windows, with the sound of the wild rising with the dark. He took two candles from her living room, set them on the table, lit them.
By the time she came in, drenched and surly of eye, he’d set the table and heated the stew and biscuits through and was pouring a glass of wine.
“I can cook my own damn dinner.”
“Go ahead. More stew for me.”
“They’re going to start installing the new security tomorrow, weather permitting. Then we can stop this insanity.”
“That’s good. Want some wine?”
“It’s my wine.”
“Actually, I brought it with me.”
“I have my own.”
“Suit yourself.” He watched her as he took the first sip. “This is pretty nice.”
She dropped down on the bench, gave the candles the evil eye. “Is this supposed to be romantic?”
“No. It’s supposed to be a backup if the power goes out.”
“We have a generator.”
“Takes a minute to kick on. Blow them out if they bother you.”
She huffed, but not at the flames. “I hate that you can do this. Be all casual and reasonable when I’m feeling bitchy.”
He poured a second glass of wine, took it over, and set it on the table. “Drink the damn wine, bitch. Is that better?”
She sighed, nearly smiled. “Maybe a little.”
“It’s some job, feeding that zoo in this rain.”
“They have to eat. And, yes, it is.” She scrubbed her hands over her face. “I’m tired. I’m edgy. And I’m hungry, so that stew—which I’m assuming is Lucy’s doing—is welcome. I haven’t written out a list, but I have it in my head, and we need to discuss things. I changed things. My choice, my move, my doing. I’m sorry if it was a mistake, if it affects our friendship. I don’t want that.”
“You changed things the first time around, too. Your choice, your move, your doing.”
“I guess that’s true.”
“It can’t always be your way, Lil.”
“I’m not talking about my way, or your way. Besides, it sure as hell hasn’t been all my way. I just want to put us back on solid ground, Coop. So—”
“We may need to wait to get into all of that. I need to tell you what else I’ve found out about Ethan Howe.”
“The man you think abducted Carolyn Roderick.”
“Yeah. And the man I think abducted other women, killed other women. The man I think killed Melinda Barrett.”
She went very still. “Why do you think he killed her? That was nearly twelve years ago.”
“We’re going to eat, and I’m going to tell you. And Lil? If there’s anything on that mental list of yours that gets in the way of me being here, of me making sure nothing happens to you, you’d better scratch it off now.”
“I’m not about to refuse any help that protects me, my staff, my family, my animals. Any of it. But you’re not responsible for me, Cooper.”
“Responsibility has nothing to do with it.”
He set the stew, the biscuits on the table. Candlelight flickered between them as he sat and told her of murder.
19
She heard him out, saying little as he related facts, wove them into theory. She tried, again, to get a clear picture in her mind of the man Coop spoke of. But all she could form was vague outlines, smudged details, like a faded pencil sketch.
He’d meant nothing to her, made no real impression. They’d had only a few conversations when he’d come to volunteer or see Carolyn.
“I remember him asking me about my ancestry, the Lakota Sioux bloodline. It’s the sort of thing people I don’t know ask fairly regularly. We use it in my bio because it sparks interest, and it shows that my family’s lived here, in the hills, for generations. But he wanted more specifics, and told me he was Sioux, descended from Crazy Horse.”
She lifted her hands. “You get that, too. Some people want to claim the heritage, and since they do, why not go for the gold, so to speak? I didn’t pay that much attention, because the Crazy Horse or Sitting Bull claim is usually an eye-roller for me.”
“So you dismissed that, and him.”
“I was probably polite. I don’t make a habit of insulting people, especially volunteers or potential donors. But I didn’t offer to buy him a beer and talk about our ancestors.”
“You dismissed him,” Coop repeated. “Politely.”
She blew out an annoyed breath. “Probably. I just don’t remember that well. He was ordinary, mildly irritating but only because he seemed more interested in asking me about that sort of thing than about the refuge. Coop, I have dozens of conversations any given week with people I don’t know and don’t remember well.”
“Most of them don’t kill people. Try harder.”
She pressed her fingers to her eyes, thinking, thinking, trying to put herself back to that summer, that brief period. Hot, she thought. It was hot that summer, and insects—the parasites and diseases they could carry—were something they battled constantly.
Cleaning, disinfecting. They’d had an injured marmot. Or was that the summer before?
The smells. Sweat, dung, sunscreen.
Lots of tourists. The summer was prime for that.
She got a vague picture of standing in an enclosure, giving it a second rinsing after cleaning and disinfecting. Explaining to him? Yes, explaining to him about the procedures and protocols for providing safe, clean, healthy environments for the animals.
“The cougar’s enclosure,” she murmured. “I’d cleaned their toys. The blue ball Baby especially liked, the orange pylon, the red ball. All cleaned and stacked while I rinsed, and I explained all the ste
ps to the daily cleanings. And . . .”
She struggled, but still couldn’t really see him. Just another guy in boots, cowboy hat, jeans. But . . .