A Sharp Solitude_A Novel of Suspense

by Christine Carbo

  He laughs and goes back to his desk while I pretend to dig into the Smith case, but instead begin making a list of things I want to investigate about Anne Marie Johnson.

  Reeve

  * * *

  Wednesday—The Day Before

  SOMETIMES IN THE solitary space of my home, with the aspens beside my cabin filtering the light and casting dappled shadows onto the floor, I’m reminded briefly how it was to be a carefree youngster. How it was before it all lurched away from me in the blink of an eye—in the pull of the trigger. I have this image of me as a boy, as ebullient as Emily, bouncing through each day, intently exploring hollowed-out tree trunks in the Florida woods and trying to capture bullfrogs and lightning bugs. But then, within seconds, all the images lose their color and turn grainy and begin to break up, like an old deteriorated film that has become unwatchable. I am reminded that this was a different me, another person entirely. That all I can do now is shrug at the unfairness of life.

  But I am not alone now. Anne Marie is walking into my cabin with me after watching the elk, and life suddenly seems fair. She looks around and asks where she can wash up. I point her to the back right. “Can’t vouch for its condition,” I say, “but it’s through that door.”

  She disappears into the bathroom, and I think about what just happened while we were watching the elk. When she put her head on my shoulder, it was a spontaneous, childlike gesture and so utterly unexpected, yet almost instinctive, that it awakened a part of that boy I used to be. I felt a tenderness I reserve only for Emily. I’m not sure exactly what it is about that Anne Marie—a stranger, really—that brings out my sensitive side. Perhaps it’s her unselfconsciousness.

  I hang my pack and remove my boots by the door, then feed McKay. From a small wine rack on the kitchen counter, I take out a bottle of Cabernet, a Christmas gift from my boss. I also have beer in the refrigerator and a frozen lasagna, so I take it out and turn the oven on. When Anne Marie returns, her hair is wet above her ears and along her temples.

  “I hope you like lasagna,” I say. “Because that’s all I’ve got.”

  “Sounds great to me.”

  I ask her if she’d like a glass of wine or a beer, and when she says wine, I ask if a Cab is fine. She says it’s perfect, then walks around my cabin, taking it in. It’s chilly inside, and I’m glad there’s kindling and cut wood already stacked beside the woodstove so I can make a fire. She studies Emily’s drawings on the fridge and when she goes into the living room, she looks at more of them on the coffee table beside the couch. “You have a child?” she asks.

  “Yeah, Emily. She’s five.”

  “Where is she?” Anne Marie plops down into one of my easy chairs and begins rubbing her feet, which I suspect are sore from hiking.

  “She’s with her mom.” I hand her the glass of wine, then kneel down by the woodstove to make a fire.

  “And where’s her mom?”

  “She lives in Kalispell, where Emily goes to school.” I arrange the kindling into a little teepee-like structure over some wadded-up paper and strike a match, lighting the paper and blowing softly at it until it ignites the kindling. When it does, I turn to her, and add: “We’re not married. Never have been.”

  She lifts her brow.

  “I know it sounds messy, but it works well. It’s good this way. I have my daughter every other weekend.”

  “I don’t mean to sound rude, but it sounds like—well, just a little like a cop-out to me,” she says.

  Her bluntness surprises me at first, but then I find it refreshing. I like that she speaks her mind. I hate to admit that it reminds me of Ali. I can’t help but grin.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “Not sure. I can’t disagree with you. It very well could be a cop-out.”

  “And you’re proud of that?”

  “Not particularly, but I know my limitations.”

  “Limitations?”

  “Well, you know, with all my time out in the field . . .” I gesture to the mountains.

  She nods, satisfied with my answer, and I’m relieved that she’s going to let it go. She slumps back in the chair, resting her head against the back of it. She sighs. “That was a long hike. You’re not tired?”

  “I’m used to it.”

  “Man of the mountains.” She flashes me a white smile.

  “Yeah,” I say. Man of the mountains.” I have to admit I like the way it sounds, as if I’m impervious, but then I think of my real roots, of the watery and smudged Florida sunset over the Gulf of Mexico whenever we’d go to the beach. “Well, not quite. I’m not from here. I was born in Tallahassee, not too far from the Gulf.”

  “I see.” She closes her mouth and looks down for a second, almost as if she’s shy, and I feel a slight shift of energy that I can’t pinpoint, as if a single card has been removed from an elaborate card house, but nothing is collapsing yet. But then she lifts her eyes again, and they’re intense and sparkling with energy, and I think I’ve only imagined that shift. “Man among the mountains, then,” she offers.

  “Better,” I agree.

  • • •

  After we eat the lasagna, we continue sipping wine, and Anne Marie tells me about her own life, how she was born in Kennewick, Washington, and how she knew she wanted to become a journalist when she took photojournalism in high school and worked on the school paper. She went to college at Gonzaga University in Spokane and later moved to Missoula to work for the local newspaper there. Eventually she quit and began to freelance, mostly writing pieces about nature, but sometimes she also covers political issues.

  “Political issues?” I ask. “Like what?” I’ve been enjoying listening to her soft voice and want to keep her talking. It’s been lulling me into a sort of trance, pulling me into an even calmer space than I’m usually in after a day in the fresh air.

  She shrugs. The cabin is warm now, almost too warm, and I crack a window to let in some cold air. The night is entirely silent. Anne Marie’s skin is flushed, this time from the fire’s heat. She looks radiant in the orange glow of the flickering flames shining through the mucky glass window of the woodstove. “Oh, just stuff, whatever’s current.”

  “And what’s current now? Besides our dog research program?”

  She looks down, and again I feel that same sideways slip of energy, a slight tightening back up of the knot that had slackened when we were outside. It sends a pang through me, as if I’m losing something that I’m desperately trying to hang on to.

  “Right now?” She sighs. “Well, I’m working on a piece about the NRA.”

  “The NRA?”

  She just nods and doesn’t offer anything else.

  “Can’t imagine there’s much to dig up there. Their inner workings are kept steel-tight, from what I understand.”

  “That they are.” She smiles.

  “So is it gun control you’re writing about?”

  “I can’t really talk about it while I’m in the research phase. Why don’t I send you the piece when it comes out?”

  “Fair enough,” I say.

  She puts her wineglass down on the coffee table. “So . . . this arrangement . . .” She leans forward to pick up the stack of Emily’s drawings that I’ve shuffled into a neat pile on the corner of the coffee table.

  “I had a feeling we’d end up back here.”

  “I am a journalist,” she says with a wink. “Seriously, though, what went so wrong that you have to see your daughter every other weekend?”

  “Honestly?” I sigh. “It’s me, I suppose. I’m what went wrong.”

  “You?”

  “Yeah, Emily’s mom says I’m kind of broken, and I have to say that she’s probably right.”

  “Broken?” She tilts her head and puts the drawings back down. “That’s a strong word.”

  I don’t say anything, but my gaze meets hers.

  Anne Marie looks over to the pile of drawings again. “I like the one of the unicorn flying.”

  “What?” I
ask at her sudden change of the subject.

  She points at the picture.

  “You can tell that’s a unicorn from all those scribbles?”

  “I can.”

  “I’m impressed.” I lean over and pick up my glass of wine.

  “Because of Sam Rickerson?”

  I freeze with the glass halfway to my mouth, completely taken aback at the shift in subject again. How does she know who Sam is? I haven’t heard Sam’s name since I told Ali everything years ago. In my mind, I see an image of Sam’s eyes going blank and rolling back in his head—a flash, and then it’s gone. “What did you say?”

  “Is that why you’re broken?” she asks again. “Because of—”

  I cut her off. “How do you know about that?” My voice sounds too low, like it’s coming from far away.

  “I’m a journalist.”

  “But . . .”

  “Didn’t you think I’d look you up before meeting with you?” she teases.

  “I guess I didn’t think about it either way.” The fire cracks loudly.

  “Tell me,” she says, her voice different than it’s been all day—less lighthearted, more pointed and forceful. Even though it catches me off guard, it’s electrifying in some way because it seems as if there’s a deep curiosity bubbling up in her. Her eyes are filled with passion. “How do you feel about the gun-control laws in our country?”

  I put my glass down and sit up straighter. “Are you interviewing me?”

  “No, no,” she says, but she looks a little sheepish.

  “Because I’m not interested in being interviewed. I did more interviews over the years than I care to remember. So did my parents. You can read as many articles about it as you want.”

  “I have read them,” she says casually, holding the wineglass by her mouth. “I know that Sam’s parents were enraged that the local police claimed that there was no possible way for them to press charges, that they became relentless and enlisted the support of a local congressman—a Republican, actually—to enact a law that made adults criminally liable when children were involved in accidental shootings like yours and . . .”

  Her voice fades, and I’m not sure if she’s simply out of details or if something in my expression makes her peter out. Or perhaps it dawns on her that I’m uncomfortable. The flickering flames cast menacing shadows around the cabin, and my chest rises and falls rapidly. I can feel my pulse behind my ears, so it’s possible she’s picking up on my unease.

  “But no, listen.” She holds up her palm in a gesture of surrender. “I’m sorry, I’m just curious. It must have been awful. Being in the spotlight like that at such a young age. Being the poster child for gun control changes in the state of Florida. Right? I mean, it was your recorded voice from the 911 call that they used to push the bill through.”

  I’m speechless. I hadn’t anticipated this at all. Here she says she’s sorry but continues on relentlessly. I stare at her, trying to figure her out, trying to make sense of the carefree woman on our hike and the incisive one before me now. Both are inquisitive, both are sexy, but one is certainly more pointed.

  “It’s okay,” she says softly, then gives me a closed-lip smile and tilts her head charmingly. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

  I keep looking at her, a little dazed, somewhat shocked, my eyes narrowed in confusion or perhaps distrust. I feel like a fool. Whatever sweetness and spontaneity she’s brought out in me is dissipating, and now I understand why I had that uneasy feeling earlier. The knot inside me is taut, but still I’m captivated by her.

  She’s beautiful in the glow of the fire, her freckled skin flushed and her eyes intense with interest. She begins apologizing again for bringing it up, her voice soft and husky. She leans over and grabs the wine bottle and refills my glass in spite of the fact that I hold up my hand to indicate that I’m good. She gives me a closed-lip smile, each corner of her mouth curling up sweetly, and I begin to unwind again, but now it’s different. I’m relaxed and charged at the same time. She is a reporter, I think. Perhaps this kind of pushing just comes with the territory. Ali gets like this sometimes too.

  Ali

  * * *

  Present—Friday

  AFTER DECLINING HERMAN’S offer for coffee from the break room, I take a moment to call Gretchen in the county crime lab. When she picks up, I mention that I’d heard she’d had a busy night of searching.

  “Eh, I’m used to it,” she says. “It’s a bumpy drive out to the North Fork, but it was worth it. We were able to match the prints in the suspect’s cabin to the prints of the victim, which explains where she was until she got to her friend’s cabin sometime in the night. The guy also has several fleece jackets, standard for someone living in the woods, but the color and type of fleece found on the victim are consistent with one of the suspect’s jackets.”

  “Doesn’t prove much,” I say. “Especially since we know she spent the day with him.”

  “True,” Gretchen says. “And there are other unidentified fibers on the vic as well. Some type of black wool, which doesn’t give much to go on either, since there are a lot of those types of coats around here as well.”

  “Was she wearing wool?” I ask.

  “No, she was wearing one of those lightweight nylon jackets filled with goose down.”

  “So, looks like they only have the one suspect for now.”

  “As far as I know, but you’ll have to ask them.”

  “I will. Just haven’t had time to stop in yet today. See if they need some extra help.”

  “We did collect the bedsheets,” Gretchen adds, and I’m grateful that she doesn’t think much about my nosing around. “Reynolds wants us to see if we can determine how intimate they were.”

  “Hmm, yeah, it seems they’re trying to establish a motive,” I say. “Any other leads?”

  “Not that I know of. They’re all eyes on this guy—so I heard anyway—especially since he didn’t admit that she was at his place that night. Kind of suspicious.”

  I make a mental note to remind Brander that omitting information doesn’t constitute motive. It doesn’t mean you’ve killed someone. I know Brander has recently been assigned to detective after working in patrol, and I figure he won’t mind a little reminder from an FBI agent. There’s no point saying this to Gretchen, so I move on to the results of Anne Marie’s laptop scan.

  “Nothing yet,” Gretchen says. “Passcode protected, and we haven’t yet cracked the code. I’ve got my computer guy, Ray, working on it.”

  I thank Gretchen, telling her to keep up the great work before we hang up.

  Next I switch gears to O’Brien, whose name and office number are in the University of Montana directory. He picks up on the second ring, and I figure most of the professors and department heads don’t have secretaries since the university has undergone significant budget cuts.

  “Mr. O’Brien,” I say, realizing that he’s probably got a PhD and I’ve just possibly offended him by using the wrong title.

  “Yes?” he says.

  I introduce myself and he sighs. “Is this about Anne Marie Johnson?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Is it really her?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is.”

  The line goes silent for a moment, and I can’t gauge his response—the worst thing about calling people. If he hadn’t been two hours away, I would have preferred stopping in on him instead. “Have you not been contacted by the Flathead County sheriff’s office yet?”

  “No, I haven’t. Why would I be?”

  “No particular reason,” I say. “It’s just that we’re trying to go down any and all avenues, talking to people who have had any contact with Anne Marie before she came to visit the Flathead, even if just by phone. Do you recall when the last time you spoke to her was?”

  “Right before she went up there to meet one of my dog handlers, Reeve Landon, for a day in the field.”

  “Can you back up a little for me? How did you come to first have
contact with Anne Marie?”

  “She came to my office here at the U to ask about our program. She wanted to write an article about it for the Sierra Club magazine. She . . . she interviewed me.” His voice seemed to change, falter, when he said it. I took a mental note.

  “When was that?”

  “A few weeks ago, I think.”

  “So you didn’t know her before that? That was the first time you met her?”

  “No, uh, no, not that I can remember”—there’s a hesitation in his voice again—“although Missoula’s a small town. It’s possible I’ve met her at some function or other, but . . . but I don’t think so.”

  I’m not sure I believe what he’s saying, but then again, I might just be reading too much into it. Herman comes back in with a mug of coffee and takes a seat at his desk. I swivel away from him in my chair and lower my voice because I don’t really want him knowing what I’m working on.

  “So you didn’t have any other contact with her besides her getting in touch with you for this article for Sierra on the dog program?”

  “She’s called before about other programs of ours. I think she’s done a write-up or two about our golden eagle research efforts.”

  “Did she ever speak with you about anything besides work? Anything personal that would give you something to be concerned about?”

  “No, no, nothing,” he says, and clears his throat. “I didn’t know her personally.”

  “Did she seem worried about interviewing Mr. Landon or about coming to the Flathead in general?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” he says.