A Sharp Solitude_A Novel of Suspense

by Christine Carbo

  “That’s just it. Guy’s spent half his teenage life in juvie. He accidentally shot another child to death when he was nine, and don’t tell me that doesn’t mess with a person’s head for the rest of their life. We’re trying to get those records unsealed so we can have a look at them, especially before we bring him back in for further questioning, but I’m telling you, the guy isn’t right.”

  The guy isn’t right. The words seem to bounce off the walls and ping around the stuffy room like a pinball. I feel that glob of acid expand in my stomach. The guy isn’t right. Emily’s daddy isn’t right. Ali is too broken to even pick a guy that might be right. The bright fluorescents from overhead feel like they’re showering down on me, exposing every line on my face, every emotion, every twitch of my facial muscles.

  Of course, I remind myself, Reynolds doesn’t know shit about people. I heard he let some lowlife suspected of running a drug operation go about six months ago because the guy fooled Reynolds in the interrogation, gave a fake alibi that his girlfriend vouched for. If he’d done his homework and checked the regional drug task force database, which catalogues known users and sellers, he’d have found that she was listed. She had several priors for selling meth. He ended up splitting town with the girlfriend and they haven’t been able to locate either one of them. I can’t help but think he’s going to be extra cautious this time not to repeat the mistake. It’s easy for investigators to get tunnel vision in general, but toss in the need to overcome a past mistake, and the chances are even higher. He’s going to zero in on Reeve like McKay does on his red ball.

  I’m about to respond with some comment about Reeve, suggesting that perhaps he just likes his privacy, when Brander walks in, takes his coat off, and throws it over the back of his chair.

  “Hey, Agent Paige,” he says, his face slightly flushed from the cold, “you find out something about this case of ours that we should know about?”

  I know Brander from the Glacier campground child abduction case. He helped Herman and me track down witnesses and pull in several suspects. I liked collaborating with him; he was a hard worker and seemed to have his head on straight. Didn’t seem to mind taking orders from a woman, either, which goes a long way in my book. Reynolds, on the other hand, strikes me as cocky and a little snide. He’s got a perpetual smirk on his face, as if being a cop automatically makes him king of the universe. A guy with his attitude worries me, because when someone needs to preserve an ego as big as his, it becomes more important than the facts. I get the feeling that he’d have no problem throwing someone under the bus if he felt the need. In fact, rumor has it that he did indeed try to blame the dealer screwup on his last partner, who’d conveniently moved and wasn’t around to defend himself. Since then, he’s paired up with Brander.

  “No,” I say, buttoning my coat back up and heading for the door. “But it’s interesting all right. Just make sure to consider all the options.”

  “ ‘Consider all the options’?” Reynolds says. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “Just, you know, we’re all susceptible to tunnel vision, especially when we don’t have much to go on. No witnesses, strange circumstances . . .” Brander, Reynolds, and the rest of the room are all staring at me like I’m from another planet. Reynolds’s mouth hangs open, his forehead pinched in disbelief and his head pulled back like I smell bad. I shrug like it’s no big deal, start heading for the door, and call over my shoulder, “Let me know if you need something. Always happy to help,” trying to strike the right mix of happy-go-lucky and professional.

  • • •

  Since I’m at the county building, I swing by county forensics again, at the risk of bugging Gretchen, but she’s not in. Ray, another crime scene team member, a tall, thin man with a bushy seventies-style mustache, is the only one in the office. He probably wasn’t even born yet in the seventies, so I can’t tell if he wears it to be retro or if he’s simply not aware that it would behoove him to trim it a bit.

  “Hey, Ray,” I say. He’s sitting in his office outside the lab, the door wide-open.

  He smiles when he sees me and gets up from his desk. “What can I do for you today, Agent Paige?”

  “Thought I’d catch up with Gretchen. She around?”

  “No, she’s out to lunch. With Monty,” he adds, doing a little Groucho Marx thing with his heavy eyebrows.

  I smile. “Ah, good for them.” On a different sort of day, like when the father of my child isn’t the primary suspect in a murder investigation, I’d ask more, like Are they dating? Monty Harris is the lead investigator for Glacier Park’s police force, and he and Gretchen seem to be the last two to understand that they are actually attracted to each other. It has been obvious to the rest of us who have worked cases with them. And Ray’s the kind of guy who wouldn’t mind indulging in that bit of gossip, but because I don’t have time for it, I move on to other, pressing things. “Just wondering if you’ve gotten into the vic’s computer yet?”

  “I have indeed,” he says. “Good timing, just in the past hour. As soon as Gretchen gets back, I’ll give her all I got and then we’ll get a report over to the detectives.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Not really. There are a lot of Word files on it, which makes sense, given that she’s a journalist. I obviously haven’t looked at all of them. Brander and Reynolds will have a full night of reading ahead of them. Lots of stuff.”

  “Let me guess: mostly pieces on the privatization of land and commonsense gun-control legislation?”

  “Yes.” He cocks his finger at me to say I’m spot-on. “And stuff on other research programs at universities on golden eagles, wolverines, wolves, grizzlies. You name it, she’s into the wildlife, but seems her passion is the gun thing.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Well, it looks to me like she was writing a book. She was titling it Shot: Violence and Profit from Guns in America. Some sort of compilation of people who’ve been involved in some form of gun violence in their lives and the companies that profit from gun sales. Lots of narratives on people she’s interviewed in the manuscript. Plus, it looks like she’s changed the names of the people in the book. I’d have to look more closely, but at first glance, it seems like there are other files on the system that match the stories in the book with the real names of the interviewees. So if I’m correct, the detectives should be able to find out exactly who she’s interviewed by matching the stories in her manuscript to the actual interviews she’s got logged in her database. Could take some time, though.”

  “How many interviews?” I ask.

  “I haven’t counted them all up yet, but from what I’m seeing, looks like she’s talked to all sorts of folks: those involved in accidental gun deaths, both as adults and as children. And nonaccidental shootings as well. She’s even interviewed thugs in prison who have bought guns illegally to defend themselves in drug transactions or to take out the competition, to rob liquor stores . . . those sorts of things. Husbands and wives who have shot each other in crimes of passion; abused wives who have shot their husbands to protect themselves. Family members who have lost loved ones to suicide by firearm. Looks to me like it might widen the suspect pool quite a bit if one of these thugs felt threatened by what she was reporting. But you’d have to ask: Who in the heck would know she’d be out where she was and the exact time she pulled up?”

  “She could have been followed,” I say. “It wouldn’t be that hard. Someone who knew she was staying there could have been waiting until she returned.”

  “I suppose. Anyway, not for me to ponder. I just give you guys the evidence.” He reaches over and grabs a bag of Dove chocolate miniatures from his desk and plucks one out. He holds the bag out for me, and I grab one.

  “Take two,” he says. I do, which isn’t usual for me. First off, I don’t like chocolate, and second, when someone tells me to do something I don’t feel like doing, I usually just refuse. The fact that I’m taking it anyway remin
ds me that I’m acting out of guilt, that I’m on shaky ground and I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. I shove the chocolate in my mouth and chew, throwing in a smile for good measure.

  Reeve

  * * *

  Wednesday—The Day Before

  “SO YOU DON’T own a gun?” Anne Marie asks.

  We’d moved on to other topics, but she’s back at it again. It feels as if she’s sniffing me out, but I’m not sure why. My body goes rigid, but I try to look relaxed, resting my left elbow on the couch.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Even living out here?” She does a broad, dramatic sweep with her hand. “Bear, wolf, crazies like Ted Kaczynski finding their own private Montana . . . and still you don’t feel the need?”

  “I’ve got bear spray for the animals. That’s enough. For anyone off their rocker, well, there’s nothing I can do but leave them alone and hope they return the favor.”

  “That’s what I thought,” she says. It smacks of self-assurance, which is why I’m not being entirely truthful. I do own a rifle, but it stays locked in my equipment storage box in my truck bed and I never take it out. She’s wearing a cute half-smile on her face. Not the big, sweet unencumbered grin I fell for earlier—the one that was open and spoke of fascination about life in general. Now it’s like she’s got a secret mission.

  “Look,” I say, “I don’t own a gun because I simply don’t want to, not because I have some big moral or political agenda. I don’t care who owns guns as long as they do it responsibly, which 99 percent of the folks around here do.”

  She cocks her head and chews on her bottom lip as if she’s thinking, as if she doesn’t entirely believe me.

  I continue: “I’m not for or against guns, if that’s what you’re trying to get out of me. Is this for some story of yours?”

  She doesn’t answer me, just takes a sip of her wine.

  “I take it that’s a yes.”

  She shrugs as if to say maybe, maybe not, like this is all some kind of a game.

  “I couldn’t care less about the whole political gun debate. I’m straight in the middle. I don’t feel like I need a gun to protect myself or my family, but I don’t judge those that do, because there are plenty of people who feel they need the security of a gun, the power to stop something ugly from happening to their loved ones.” I picture Ali’s Bureau-issued Glock that she wears on a shoulder holster, and the gunmetal-gray safe she keeps it locked up in when she’s home. “I just think you better lock them away from your kids if you do have them around. It’s that simple. And, yeah, it makes sense that you’d want to keep a gun out of the hands of someone you knew was crazy or had criminal tendencies, but that’s it for me. That’s as far as I go.”

  “That’s a pretty neutral stance.”

  I want to ask: What? For someone who killed his best friend when he was nine? I shrug instead. “I suppose, but there’s nothing wrong with neutral. Too many people are divided; they can’t see any other perspective. It’s an unwinnable debate at this point. I refuse to play the game.”

  “It’s not a game,” she says. “It’s life and death. The United States is one of the most violent countries in the world. Out of the developed nations, the U.S.—with only around four percent of the world’s population—has almost half of the civilian-owned guns in the world, and six times as many homicides as Canada and sixteen times as many as Germany. And you of all people should know that.”

  Again her reference to my past stings, but I don’t say anything. My anxiety continues to coil tighter and I begin to shake my leg up and down. I see Anne Marie notice, but she pushes on. “Do you know how many children under the age of thirteen are killed every year in this country in accidents?”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t want to know.”

  “Then you’re just sticking your head into the sand. Over seventy to a hundred every year, and they figure those numbers are low, because people report gun deaths, not accidents. These are victims under thirteen I’m talking about,” she stresses again, pushing her chin forward to make the point.

  I want to say, I’ve earned the right to stick my damn head in the sand if I want. I’ve chosen this Montana life for a reason—to be left alone. The night has turned out to be entirely different from what I expected, but still she intrigues me, and I can’t deny it. “Anne Marie,” I say, looking into her intensely inquisitive eyes; I can see flashes from the fire reflected in them. “What’s this about? I thought you wanted to know about the canine program. Why are you asking me so many questions about guns?”

  “I’m just curious,” she says, sighing huskily and slumping into the back of her chair. She runs her hand through the whisps of hair that aren’t tied back. I’m relieved to see her sit back and relax. The tension dissipates instantly, like magic, and her sex appeal permeates the entire room, with the firelight amplifying it. “Because,” she answers, “I’ve interviewed a number of kids who’ve accidentally shot someone when they were young. It hasn’t worked out so well for them.” A deep empathy floods her face, and I feel touched. “I’m just curious how it’s affected your life,” she says. “Others have gone down the wrong path. I find you interesting because you’ve turned things around, and, yeah, that involves the canine project. Because that’s one way that you’ve turned things around, you know—made it through college, are doing something worthwhile now.” She stares at me admiringly, a Mona Lisa smile on her face.

  “I’m sure there are a lot of kids in my position who are doing something worthwhile now, and who decides what worthwhile is anyway?”

  She ignores my rhetorical question unapologetically, and her confidence reminds me of Ali in the early days of our relationship. But eventually even Ali’s cracks showed: her fear of getting too close, the walls she put up between me and herself as if she thought that if I saw her true self, I wouldn’t like it, so she just kept me from seeing it in the first place.

  “Sure there are. But you’d be surprised how many aren’t living productive lives,” Anne Marie continues. “How many are deeply affected by something like that for life. Their entire network of family and friends affected by one hideous pull of a trigger.” She leans forward and sets her elbows on her knees, tilting her head coquettishly to the side and staring directly into my eyes. I can’t tell whether she’s all business or all seduction. “I’m curious how it went for you.” Her eyes soften. “Can’t you talk about it? Just a little?”

  I haven’t talked about it since I was with Ali, and I’m not sure I want to open up to this woman, who I’m guessing is looking for material; but again, she’s enticing, and I find myself having a hard time saying no to someone who has so unselfconsciously laid her head on my shoulder while listening to the sorrowful calls of elk.

  “What was it like, Reeve, that first year after you did it?” she whispers.

  A familiar dull ache spreads through me, and my neck and face get even warmer than they already are. I feel caught, ensnared into something that I can’t see my way through, wondering if I should open up and talk or protect myself like I normally do. There’s something alluring and dangerous about Anne Marie—the way she’s nonchalantly crossing my boundaries and drawing me in, as if she’s a Greek siren, luring me in to wreck my ship on a rocky island. But then again, that’s crazy thinking, and I feel foolish for considering it. I can hear Ali’s voice berating me: For god’s sake, don’t be such a fool, Reeve. I tell myself that Anne Marie’s just doing her job. She’s curious. I’m the screwed-up one who finds it difficult to open up—getting all twisted into a tight knot because someone wants to ask me about my past.

  I recall a girl I tried to see after Ali. After she’d googled me, by our third dinner date, she had the gall to ask me if maybe I had secretly wanted to shoot Sam—that perhaps I had some subconscious jealousy of him, some nine-year-old-boy competition brewing. But Anne Marie is not like that clueless woman. She’s impassioned and driven.

  The fire snaps and I feel my muscles twitch with
something pent-up and edgy, a mixture of sexual attraction and anger. The room seems electrically charged, the cool air streaming in from the open window clashing with the heat from the fire. It’s less tranquil than it was when we first enjoyed our meal and casually chatted about her life.

  “Have you ever fired a gun since that day?” she presses on.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “I wouldn’t think so.” Again, that hint of smugness comes back, drips from her words.

  “You know.” I match her gaze head-on.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “Oh, come on,” she says, smiling, a tease in her voice. “That’s not fair; you can’t do that—bring something up and then not finish it.”

  I look at her. She seems genuinely captivated by what I might have to add. “Okay.” I take a sip of wine and gather my thoughts. “One night I was driving home with McKay. It was dark already, and I came around a bend and saw a small doe sitting in the middle of the road. I slowed down and my headlights illuminated her, but she wasn’t moving.”

  She watches me, the smugness fading from her expression and curiosity replacing it.

  “She lay there, curled in a ball as if she was just getting ready to sleep for the night, her head up looking out toward the woods, slightly dazed. She was injured, couldn’t move. She tried—writhed a little—but it looked like her spine had been broken. She’d either been hit by another car or perhaps injured by a hunter, but—because she was in the road—probably hit.”

  Anne Marie cocks her head. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing, drove onto the shoulder and around her, watched her sit in terror while I slowly went by. She stayed there like a sitting duck for the next vehicle to come along.”

  Anne Marie’s brow furrows. I don’t tell her the whole story—that Ali was actually with me, exhausted from a case she’d just finished and sleeping in the passenger seat, her head wobbling when we hit the potholes.