He pressed me against his chest. “I was so worried, but I’m proud of you. Hollis too. And I should not have jumped in the delivery truck and headed over here. But in the heat of the moment, I just reacted.”
I kissed him. “I’m glad you’re here. It’s nice to know that next time I’m involved in an armed standoff, I can look forward to seeing your smiling face afterward.”
We held each other for a long minute.
“I’ll see you at home.”
I nodded. “Very soon, I hope.”
Speaking of armed negotiations, it was time to clear out of the hot courthouse and touch base with Al Bach.
Hollis and I climbed into my Tahoe and drove toward the station, the air conditioning turned up full blast and reviving both of us some.
“You were spectacular out there,” I said.
“I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Oh, sure you could have. You’re a great negotiator. Be sure to add that to your list of skills when you put in for your promotion.”
“I will, if I ever decide to do that.”
I was about to ask about Lil, but I figured he was already anxious to get home to her and Hank, so I let that question go for now.
“Hey, Holly. Can I ask you a question?”
He laughed. “Since when did you start asking me if you could ask me a question?”
“Do I smirk?”
“I wouldn’t say that. You’ve just had your fill of…” He paused.
“Assholes?”
“I was going to say fools.”
“Those too.”
“Yeah, those too.”
“You’re too nice to me, you know.”
“What are you talking about? You’re my best friend. I love you. I don’t give a damn about your smirk. The only thing I’ve ever pushed you on is being nicer to Mark.”
“I’ve been nice as hell to Taylor these past few days.”
“All right, just keep it up. That’s all I ask.”
“I’ll try?”
After we arrived at the office, Hollis went straight home. I stayed and checked messages. Al Bach had sent a long email about two hours ago centering on the end of the takeover up north in the Elkhorn Mountains. The agitators had stood down, but the general consensus was that they would be back. And he asked if I would please report on the results of our search of Shannon’s place ASAP. I had no damned idea where to start. Sleep, maybe.
But instead of heading to Duncan’s place and falling into bed, I sent Al a short note to let him know Dave Shannon had admitted to murdering both Janine Harbaugh and Sergeant Jeremy Lake. I begged off on sending a full report, noting that it had been a long, long, long day. I was sure his day had been the same.
I also had an email from Trooper Steve Abbott from Internal Affairs. She had set up a polygraph appointment regarding the Lake homicide with an examiner in Bend. I was to arrive at her OSP office by nine a.m. next Monday. The entire examination could take the better part of the day.
I laughed when I read her officious memo but began to draft a response. Nah. I decided to let her learn about the arrest of J.T.’s killer some other way. Strangely, Abbott’s email helped in putting this day behind me, but I decided there was one more thing I needed to do to bring it to a fitting end.
I climbed in the old Jetta parked beside my state-issued Tahoe and headed east on Highway 26, past the golden-brown hayfields and the road to Strawberry Lake, past the pretty little town of Prairie City, up the steep southwestern lip of the Blue Mountains, to the viewpoint overlooking the John Day River Valley.
I ignored the silly-looking simulation of a Conestoga wagon, homage to the Oregon Trail pioneers, but minus any acknowledgment of the destruction that followed in their wake: of Native peoples and their cultures, transcendent forests, clean water, and abundant wildlife.
A searing red-pink and azure sky illumed the horizon at the fade of day and lit the mysteries of my valley, defied the arc of human history and exploitation, and glorified the beauty of place. Peaks, waterways, plateaus, mysterious and glorious fossil formations, and dry-land stands of old-growth Ponderosa pine, larch, alder, juniper, aspen, and even a hidden patch of prehistoric yellow cedar fostered my consciousness of the Earth, my place on it, and the worth of loving and being loved by a good man and my friends, and soon enough, my child. I couldn’t ask for much more than that.
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Murderers Creek
Desolation Ridge
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DESOLATION RIDGE
A Maggie Blackthorne Novel
When a small town in the Pacific Northwest is rocked by a shocking murder, Maggie Blackthorne hunts a killer still lurking in the surrounding forest.
After a state trooper is killed under mysterious circumstances, Oregon State Police sergeant Maggie Blackthorne is assigned to the case. The investigation takes her to Desolation Ridge in the Umatilla National Forest, where the suspect is reported to be hiding out with a possible hostage.
It’s late fall. Daylight is scarce, and there is a fierce chill in the air. To make matters worse, a deadly cougar has been spotted nearby.
But as Maggie and her partner Hollis trudge on, uncovering clues and dealing with their own tense past, one thing is clear:
Somewhere amongst these towering pines, a murderer is watching them.
Click here to purchase DESOLATION RIDGE now
DESOLATION RIDGE, Maggie Blackthorne #3
Click here to purchase DESOLATION RIDGE now
Acknowledgments
Thanks to all of my writer friends and teachers who have offered countless gems of wisdom and wit for free (well, mostly free): Martha Gies, Debbie Guyol, Angela M. Sanders, Karen Karbo, Nam Le, Emily Chenoweth, Leni Zumas, Charlotte Rains Dixon, Jenni Gainsborough, Ann Littlewood, Doug Levin, and Dave Lewis. I’d also like to thank the writers Deb Stone, Dan Bern, Allison Frost, Alan Rose, Colleen Strohm, and Laura Wood.
A special shout out to Julie Keefe, photographer extraordinaire! And to Sarah Landis, Mark Ulanowicz, Mary-Beth Baptista, Rachel Crocker, and Mark Wiggington. Plus, an extra special thank you to Lance Linder and his discerning eye.
I want to thank the team at Severn River Publishing—Andrew Watts, Amber Hudock, Cate Streissguth. Mo Metlen, Keris Sirek, Randall Klein, and my fabulous editor, Kate Schomaker.
Tom Griffin-Valade is beta reader, critic, cheerleader, and fan number one. Thanks, babe.
To our children and their partners—Shawn and Erin; Amy and Tony; Alexis and Ahmed; Kai and Hannah—thank you for believing in me. To our grandchildren—Lauren, Logan, Piper, and Zio—thank you for reminding me to focus on what really matters.
About the Author
LaVonne Griffin-Valade was born and raised in the high desert country along the John Day River of eastern Oregon—a place that stoked her imagination and inspired her to become a lifetime writer of short stories, essays, poetry, and novels. She has worn many professional hats: elementary school teacher, mentor, education equity advocate, and Auditor of the City of Portland. Griffin-Valade has published essays and pieces of fiction in multiple publications including the Oregon Humanities Magazine and the Clackamas Literary Review. After receiving her MFA from Portland State University in 2017 she moved to fiction writing. LaVonne lives in Portland, Oregon and works as a full time writer.
Dead Point, the first book in the Maggie Blackthorne series, is her debut novel.
Murderers Creek (Maggie Blackthorne Book 2) Page 31