Paul said, "You're my father, but you're not my dad."
Jeff sneered again. "Don't sass me, you little prick. I stop by to say hello and you start right in, giving me smartmouth. I ought to bat you one."
Paul flinched at the words as if taking a physical slap, but he didn't step back or break eye contact. "I'm not afraid of you."
"Well, you ought be."
"Well, I'm not. You shouldn't even be here, talking to me like this. Mr. Tutwiler doesn't know about—"
Jeff growled deep in his chest and showed his teeth, but not in a smile. He grabbed a handful of Paul's shirtfront and jerked, bringing Paul to his tiptoes.
"You keep our family business to yourself, smartmouth, unless you want a shitload of trouble. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Say it again."
"Yes, I hear you."
His father released him with a shove. "That's better. I hope your mother is bringing you up with some manners."
"Are you going to see her?"
"Not this time. But you tell her I said hello. You tell her that I'll catch her next time. I plan to be around Devil Creek for awhile."
"She'll ask me what you're doing here."
His father snickered. "Of course she will, and you tell her this. Tell that sweet mother of yours that Daddy's in Devil Creek on a job. I'm the new project manager at Sunrise Ridge."
Chapter Ten
Mike pulled his Jeep to a stop behind a row of official vehicles on the narrow gravel shoulder of the state highway.
The vehicles—Highway Patrol, Sheriff's Department, an ambulance—were snaked along the guardrail, their flasher lights on. The air crackled with the chatter of police radios. An HP officer at each end of the accident site was guiding traffic into a single-lane flow, alternating in each direction.
The curving guardrail overlooked a steep, hundred-foot slope of hardrock and juniper. The waters of Lake Tamlin glittered in the sunshine like polished blue glass, like a picture postcard.
Clouds continued billowing to the west, beyond the mountains. A normal weather pattern for this time of year. This was the monsoon season, approximately six weeks during the second half of summer, when humidity, dew point and the jet streams combine to trigger a daily pattern of rain showers in the late afternoon throughout the Southwest: sometimes moderate showers, sometimes real soakers. Fierce thunder and lightning storms were a common occurrence. But the monsoon was late getting started this year. The cumulative rainfall level for this time of year was well below average. The possibility of rain, suggested by those rising clouds, was good news. This was still forest fire season. So far this year, the region had been spared the devastation of wildfire that could destroy hundreds of thousands of acres, destroying everything in its path, including entire communities. Arizona and California had suffered terrible wildfires this year. The fire danger was rated high. Everyone would welcome rain.
Beyond the scraggly juniper trees, along the shore of the manmade lake, pinion pines cast their long shadows across the ground. The temperature was in the upper eighties, and the shade looked inviting.
The tangled wreck of a car, what looked to be the barely recognizable remains of a burgundy Maxima, was wrapped around one of the trees. One of its tires, ripped free during the violence of the car's roll down the slope after its plunge through the guardrail, rested against a tree trunk as if having been carefully set there.
A group of people—some in uniform, some paramedics, a few civilians—were inspecting and conversing around the wreckage.
A few feet along the curve from where Mike stood, there was a new break in the guardrail. He studied the pavement of the highway leading into this curve, where vehicles now crawled by, an endless array of gawking faces from slowly passing car windows. The break looked just wide enough to have been made by the Maxima. Twin ends of the broken guardrail pointed out across the lake like metal arrows.
He negotiated his way down the incline. The scent of the juniper nipped at his nostrils. He followed the car's line of descent, clearly indicated by broken tree branches where the pines began, and by a couple of flattened, smaller juniper trees.
Last night, things had gone well on the home front after he returned from his meeting with Ben at the newspaper office. He hadn't spent much time thinking about the woman he'd glimpsed, who had given the impression of having The Clarion office under surveillance. He'd glimpsed women who had reminded him of Carol. It was foolish to think that it wouldn't ever happen again just because he'd been lucky enough to marry another beautiful, caring woman. It was just one of those things that the heart must learn to live with. And so he arrived at home, determined to do his best to make up with Robin.
She had been in bed, in her nightgown, reading a Barbara Kingsolver novel, when he first came into their bedroom. Initially, she barely acknowledged his return, and hardly responded to the kiss he left on her forehead in passing, on his way for a shower. When he came back, wearing the short, black robe she'd bought him the previous Christmas, he climbed into their bed and started sweetening her up with a few hugs and kisses, which she warmed up to slowly, almost begrudgingly at first. He asked her if he could give her a body massage, and she said yes. The lights were dimmed, and one thing led to another. Their chemistry between the sheets had always been magic.
This morning, everything had seemed back on track between them, maybe a little extra nice in the smile and the kiss she greeted him with when he first came into the kitchen. Paul had seemed preoccupied, but he did have a test, and a girl named Dani had started calling him a lot. If Mike recalled correctly, being a fourteen-year-old boy was not the easiest thing in the world. He and Paul had taken a liking to each other even before the drama of two years ago had forged in fire their dad-son relationship. Paul would come to him if there was anything they needed to talk about.
He was just glad that he was out of the doghouse with Robin, and that life in Devil Creek was back to its idyllic routine.
Then Ben Saunders had called.
He reached the bottom of the incline. He recognized a Highway Patrolman that he knew in his capacity as editor of the local newspaper, and the officer passed him on through with an amiable nod.
Ben was engaged in conversation with a Highway Patrolman who Mike did not recognize. They stood next to the wreckage. Mike started toward them.
There was a bodybag on a gurney. Paramedics were concluding the tagging-and-bagging process that Mike remembered so well from his years as a reporter on the crime beat a decade ago in Denver, before he moved to Albuquerque after drinking his way out of that job on the Rocky Mountain News. Before Carol. Before Robin. . . .
He approached Ben and the patrolman. The underbrush, tinder-dry after a summer of dry heat, crackled audibly underfoot.
Ben's paternal countenance warmed at Mike's approach. He was concluding his conversation with the HP officer, who strode off toward the paramedics without a glance in Mike's direction.
"Ben."
"Morning, Mike. You made good time getting out here." Mike stared at the bodybag. "So Olson managed to get fired and get killed within a twelve-hour timeframe."
"He wasn't wearing a seatbelt. The steering column skewered him and then he was tossed out and the car rolled over him before it hit the tree."
Mike looked across at where the HP officer was signing a clipboard, releasing the body to the paramedic team.
"What does your colleague think?"
"Colleague, horsefeathers. I'm getting too old for this shit. That sprout just finished giving me the brush-off. We're seven miles outside the Devil Creek town limits, if you hadn't noticed."
"I noticed. Did you tell them about what we heard on the tape, about Olson?"
"I was going to, but I don't like sprouts who think they need to throw their weight around to prove they're somebody, and smart off to their elders in the process. I don't like that even if they're wearing a uniform. Especially if they're wearing a uniform. Damn sprout."
; Mike grinned. "Easy, old-timer."
Ben scowled. "You watch that 'old-timer' shit. I'm riled. I'm cutting you in on this because I'm such a sweetheart, and because it was your lead on Muskie that gave me this hunch I've got."
"Thanks, Chief."
"Don't thank me. Just help me if I need information. The less I have to rely on those county and state sons of bitches, the happier I'll be. Only other thing I want is that you wait until I give you the word before you print whatever turns up. I don't like surprises. My colleagues and your readers will get what I've got when I've got something solid to give them."
"What do you have in mind?"
"Sunrise Ridge is in my jurisdiction."
"What do your Highway Patrol friends know about Olson?"
"Right now, all they've got is a blood-splattered driver's license."
"Are we sure it is Olson?"
"Forget that angle," said Ben. "They asked me to look at him for an ID when I first got here. It's Olson, all right. He was smashed up about as bad as I've ever seen a body mangled, but there was enough left of his face for me to make it a positive ID after they got the blood wiped away."
"So the HP thinks this is an open-and-shut highway fatality?"
Ben nodded and said, "Maybe it is," but there was no conviction in his voice, and he was watching Mike for a reaction.
Mike gazed up the incline, over the slope of scrawny, tough juniper trees, at the break in the guardrail.
"Any witnesses?"
"A few. Olson was driving east. There's a suitcase in the trunk, so he must have been heading for the interstate and back to Houston, or to Albuquerque to catch a plane."
"These witnesses who saw an accident, what did they see?"
"He was going too fast," said Ben, "coming down that hill. He didn't even hit his brakes."
"I noticed there were no tread marks on the pavement."
"So off he goes," said Ben. "Instant karma for ripping off his employers."
The air grew still. In the heart of mid-morning, there was not the trace of a breeze. Mike felt perspiration beading across his forehead.
He said, "Bullshit. Olson has been project manager at Sunrise Ridge for the past six months. During that time, he had to have made this drive a dozen times or more. This is one of the two roads out of town. And this is the steepest, sharpest curve on this highway between Devil Creek and the interstate."
Ben removed his Stetson and ran his fingers through thinning gray hair. "That's what's eating me. Olson forgets to brake and goes sailing off into the trees, right after a tough boy from Chicago flies down to catch him with his hand in the cookie jar. I don't like it. As a nice, neat package, it stinks to high heaven."
"You're suggesting that Olson's brakes were tampered with. That he was murdered."
Ben replaced his hat, continuing to watch Mike. "That's my hunch."
The paramedics and some of the officers struggled to transport the gurney with the bodybag up the incline, back to the highway.
Mike said, "How do you intend to go about acquiring solid proof that Olson was murdered?
"For starters," said Ben, "I'm going to drive up to that construction site and have some words with this new project manager we heard talking with Olson on that tape. Care to come along?"
Chapter Eleven
"What?!" was all Robin could say when Paul came to her office between classes with the news that he had just spoken to Jeff.
A wave of nausea surged through her, and suddenly there were dots before her eyes. Her office was comfy, crowded with her desk and two filing cabinets, stacked high with manila folders of paperwork. The walls were decorated with a calendar with a picture of fall in Illinois, photographs of Paul alone and of her and Paul. The office didn't exactly spin around her head, but tilted dangerously. She sat and inhaled a deep breath.
Mr. Tutwiler's jowly features filled the doorway. "Mrs. Landware, is everything all right?" His eyes took in Paul's presence.
"Yes, Mr. Tutwiler." She amazed herself at how steady her voice sounded. "Paul was just telling me that my ex-husband was here at the school."
"Yes, indeed. I certainly hope I didn't do anything, er, untoward," said Tutwiler. "It really is best, you see, if we keep our private lives off-campus."
Anger surged within her at the not-so-subtle rebuke, and she wanted to take a poke at him. Easy, girl, she told herself. You're in shock.
She said, "Well, I certainly didn't invite him to drop by. It's been my fervent hope never to see the man again."
Mr. Tutwiler retreated a pace. "Yes. Well, have a nice day. We should all be returning now to our assigned tasks, wouldn't you say?" He cast a significant glance in Paul's direction before withdrawing from the doorway, not waiting for a reply.
Robin concentrated on her breathing.
Paul said, "Mom—" But he didn't seem to know what to say after that.
"Close the door, Paul."
He did as instructed.
"Mom, you don't look so good."
She did her best to muster a smile. "I was about to say the same thing. Were you as surprised as I was just now, when you told me?"
"I was." He made an uncertain gesture. "It sort of makes the whole world seem different, knowing he's here."
"That's a good way of putting it. Mike isn't the only writer in our family."
She lightly caressed the back of her fingers to his cheek, and just the touch of this special kid—her special kid—had a stabilizing effect. She must keep her emotions intact for his sake. Her son must not see her fall apart. Trouble was, inside, a big part of her was falling apart.
Paul stood there and took her spontaneous show of affection without balking, as he normally would have. His eyes were troubled.
"So what are we going to do?"
"Did your father say why he came here to school?" Her voice was steadier than she would have expected. She felt the trace of a smile. Dang, I love it when I'm stronger than I think I am! Hearing about Jeff had come as a shock, there were no two ways around that. But she was not about to melt into a puddle, and so she felt a twinge of pride. She'd come a long way from Chicago in more ways than one.
Paul sank into her visitor's chair, which faced her desk. He became fixated, using his thumb on a cuticle.
"He said he wanted to see how I was doing. He asked me how I liked it here and stuff."
Something clicked in her mind and, without thinking about it, she said, "Isn't that what the woman you were talking to yesterday at Merrill's wanted to know?"
He looked up with surprise. "Mom, You're not still hung up on that, are you? I told you—"
"I'm just saying."
"Well, I don't know what to say."
"So how did your father act?"
"I don't know. Like always. You know how he is. He called me a little prick."
"What?"
He got busy with thumb and cuticle again. "Mom, I don't want to start anything."
"You won't. Nothing bad is going to happen to us now, Paul. We have a new life and we have a family. We have each other, and we have Mike."
"I know. I'm glad you got a divorce."
She swallowed hard for some stupid reason. "Did he ask about me?"
"Sort of. He said for me to tell you that he'd catch you next time."
"Next time?" she echoed. "What's he doing in Devil Creek?"
"He told me he's the new project manager at that resort."
"Sunrise Ridge?" she said, stupidly.
"Uh huh."
"My lawyer said he was never supposed to come near us again unless he had my prior consent."
"Mom, I know. I told him that, but he just laughed."
"He always did think he could live by his own rules and screw everybody else," she said, more to herself than to Paul.
Fear and anxiety lapped at her subconscious, emotions ready to overflow.
Paul said, "Mom, is something bad going to happen?"
He spoke in a small, shaky voice, no longer the confident, wi
tty boy who was the soccer team star and a hotty with the girls.
Her eyes misted and, before she blinked the moisture away, in the softer haze she saw her little boy when they had been going through hell at the abusive hands of the man she hated, named Jeff Lovechio.
But she could not, she must not, lose it. This was bringing it all back for the both of them: the terrible conditions, the terrible person they'd fled, to escape to Devil Creek, in the remote mountains of New Mexico, after the divorce. She had to be strong for her little boy. She wanted to hug him, but Paul would never allow that. And they did have their rules for contact during the school day.
And so she made herself say, "Nothing bad is going to happen, honey . . . Paul. Nothing bad, I promise."
Paul eyed his cuticle work thoughtfully. "I wonder if he knows that Dad's here. Maybe that's why he was late coming home last night."
"Your biological father is not your dad," said Robin. "Mike is your father in every way."
"Mom, relax. I know that. I don't know the right words to use. It gets me confused."
"Well, me too," she admitted. "Everything will be all right, Paul. You'll see."
Without looking up, he said, "Do you believe that?"
"Of course I do, and I want you to believe it, too."
"I wonder where Mike is right now."
Outside in the hallway, the class bell jangled with strident authority.
Robin said, "Right now, the important thing is where you should be. You are supposed to be in class, young man. Now get. I'll talk to you after school."
"Okay." He rose from his chair, looking happy to escape. Robin said, "I love you."
"I know," he mumbled, and he was gone.
She went about hurriedly gathering her materials together. She was late for her own next class, and with eager young minds waiting for her pearls of wisdom, she must push this crisis from her mind.
Easier said than done.
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