“The term is ‘reasonable doubt,’ Vic said, “and based on the evidence…” He looked down at his boots. “Look, I drew the same conclusion as the fire investigation team. The same conclusion as a lot of people. Like it or not, the evidence all points to Wayne.”
Eric picked up another fusee and linked the two together in a chain. “What would it take to convince you that you’re wrong?”
Vic raised his eyebrows. “Proof. Real proof. Some good solid evidence that convinces me the investigation team findings were wrong.”
Eric thought of Linda Verbiscar’s tape. “What about a video that shows someone else lighting the fire?”
“Film, tapes, photographs—they can all be altered,” Brill said. “They’re not admissible in court.”
“True,” Vic admitted. “Though, it might make me rethink my position. Still, without something else, you’re back in the same boat.”
That left the fusees, thought Eric. Maybe the investigators had overlooked some physical evidence at the crime scene. “If I can bring you proof, will you reopen the case?”
“No,” Brill said.
Vic shook his head. “It’s out of my jurisdiction. That section of the park falls in Larimer County, and they deferred to the Park Service investigators.”
“I thought you sat in on the hearings.”
“I did. So did Bernie Crandall. That doesn’t mean either one of us has any clout.”
“Are you telling me that there’s nothing you can do?”
“I’m afraid that’s the bottom line, son. This one’s out of my hands.”
CHAPTER 19
It was after midnight by the time Vic dropped Eric off at the cabin, and Eric was hours overdue for his meeting with Linda Verbiscar. Driving up the hill past the Inn on 34, he’d checked to see if there were any lights on at the inn. The buildings had all been dark. Now, unlocking his own door, he wondered what to do next.
The message light was blinking. It was from Linda Verbiscar. She wanted to meet at her place, in the morning, before she left for work. “Say around 4 a.m.”
That gave him less than four hours.
Stripping off his soiled uniform, he stepped into the shower. The hot water felt good pounding against his skin, washing away not only the grime of the fire but the anger he felt about what had happened to Wayne. A senseless death that looked more and more like murder.
Yet, for the first time since he’d found his friend’s body, Eric felt hope. Hope that he could find some evidence to prove the investigation team wrong. Evidence that would save Jackie’s home and give Tamara back her dreams of a college education.
Eric twisted, letting the spray pummel the knots from his back and the ache from his shoulder. He basked in the steam, mulling over the events of the day.
If Tres Kennedy’s account of what had happened was true, Eric’s suspect list had dwindled by two. According to Tres, he and Justin Suett had never seen Wayne Devlin. They’d stuck to the trees closest to the road. It was the easiest path to freedom.
They’d stumbled upon Wayne’s truck in the trees on the Youth Camp side of Prospect Point. The keys were in the ignition, and they’d taken the opportunity when it knocked.
A radio news flash about their disappearance was what steered them north away from Denver. Knowing they couldn’t go home, they’d headed to Bellville. Tres’father was part-owner of the general store. Tres knew how to get in, and Suett’s brother had a friend at CSU they could hit up for money. The general store fire had been spontaneous. A spur-of-the-moment thing that had flared out of control.
Eric shut off the shower and reached for a towel. Their story made sense. If Tres and Suett had come across Wayne, bashed him in the head, and wanted to camouflage the crime scene, they would have used one of Wayne’s fusees to light the fire. Based on the number of fusees that had been accounted for, Eric knew that whoever killed Wayne—and he was more convinced than ever Wayne’s death had not been an accident—had brought a fusee of their own.
Eric lay down on the bed. The next thing he knew, he was being jostled awake by the alarm clock. He stretched, wincing at the pain in his shoulder, then pulled on a pair of jeans, a turtleneck, and tennis shoes. A shave and a mug of coffee later, he headed out into the predawn morning to scrape his windows.
He made good time. There were no other cars on the road. Downtown Elk Park was deserted, except for the bakery crew who bustled behind the shop windows on Main Street. All the other stores were shuttered against the night.
Turning onto U.S. 34, Eric started watching for the inn. The streetlamp on the highway was out, and he nearly missed the turn. Cranking the wheel hard, he jounced into the parking lot, spewing gravel against the metal lamppost.
Cabin G was perched on top of the hill behind the hotel, a good twenty feet back from the drive. The structure—billed as a one-bedroom, one-bath unit, with a kitchen/living room/dining room combination—boasted all of six hundred square feet. The outer shell—constructed of sawed-off logs and mustard-colored plaster—sagged precariously on a cinder block foundation. No lights illuminated any of the windows, and the front drapes were drawn tight.
Had Verbiscar overslept their meeting?
Parking his car next to her Honda, Eric climbed out of the truck and jogged up the path to the cabin. Ice crystals coated the pathway, and the grass crackled beneath his shoes. In the meadow, a coyote yipped. An early bird twittered. He listened, hoping to hear it again. Then the hotel generator kicked on and drowned out all other sound.
Eric reached the cabin door and hesitated. Did he really want to wake her if she was asleep? Then again, if she had to be at work, he would be doing her a favor.
He tapped. “Verbiscar?”
No answer.
He tapped louder and raised his voice. “Verbiscar.”
Still no answer.
Cameraman Charlie’s vehicle was parked in front of the motel, so she hadn’t left with him. Where the heck was she?
Convinced there were no signs of life at the cabin, Eric headed for the media van. A red, white, and blue banner painted on the side proclaimed it the property of “KEPC-TV, Your News Channel.” The van was locked up tight, but Eric peered through the windows. Mounds of camera equipment were piled behind the driver’s seat, and a parking tag in the window read “129.”
Room 129 was located on the outside of the horseshoe, directly across from the van. In contrast to the darkened cabin, a dim bedside light backlit the room. Eric could clearly see two people inside.
Maybe Verbiscar and Charlie had more in common than the morning news?
The couple lay entwined on the bed. Definitely pleasure, not business then. Eric debated coming back later, or waiting. They’d have to come out at some point.
Then, remembering the interview request and the threats regarding the tape, Eric rapped hard on the door.
The couple stirred.
Eric rapped again. Through the filmy gauze of the window curtain, he saw someone climb out of bed. Charlie answered the door. “Yeah?”
Minus his baseball cap, the cameraman’s short dark hair stuck out in unruly spikes. Minus the camera, he looked small. And naked. He’d dragged the comforter with him and stood clutching it at his waist.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
“Is Verbiscar here?” Eric asked.
“Are you nuts?” Charlie rubbed his eyes. “Why would she be here? What time is it?”
Eric glanced at his watch. “A little after the hour. She was supposed to meet me here at four.”
“Did you try her cabin?”
Eric ignored the cameraman’s “you’re such an idiot” tone and nodded. “I just came from there.”
“Well, I haven’t seen her, buddy. Sorry.” Charlie started to shut the door, but Eric pushed it back.
“I really need to find her.”
Charlie scowled. “Then maybe you should try the studio? She goes on at six o’clock.”
KEPC-TV didn’t have studio space i
n town.
“The van’s empty,” Eric said. “Besides, she said to meet her here.”
The woman in bed shifted. “Who is it, Charlie?”
Eric’s mouth went dry at the sound of the voice. He recognized the girlish tone, the pouty whine. Charlie the cameraman was sleeping with Tamara Devlin.
“Just some—”
Eric coughed and slashed a finger across his throat, giving Charlie the universal sign for “cut.” The cameraman looked stunned.
“Thanks,” mouthed Eric. “You’ve been a big help.”
“Who?” repeated Tamara.
“Nobody,” said Charlie, recovering quickly. “Just a wrong room.”
“At four in the morning?”
The door cut off the rest of their conversation, and Eric headed back to his truck.
Tamara Devlin. He wondered if Jackie knew where her daughter was. Probably not. A guy like Charlie didn’t fit into Jackie’s plans. Tamara was smart enough to know it. No doubt she kept Charlie under wraps.
Eric considered going back and dragging her out of the hotel room. But she was eighteen, old enough to do what she wanted. It was a good thing Wayne was dead. Her promiscuity would have killed him.
Climbing the hill, Eric could see the Honda still parked in the pullout. Moonlight brightened the sky and highlighted contours in the land. To the west, mountains stretched along the horizon, a jagged spine of dark granite against the moonlit sky. The white frost on the grass blades glowed with a neon tinge.
Eric stared down at the grass. That’s odd, he thought. There were shapes and tracks imprinted on the ground, patterns etched into the frost.
Squatting near the path, he reached out a hand and touched a footprint. The heat from his fingers melted the edge of the image, but it was clear the print belonged to him. Not many people wore size thirteen shoes. But there were other prints too. A smaller set of footprints, along with a set of tire tracks similar to the ones he had noticed up on Eagle Cliff Mountain the day he’d discovered Wayne Devlin’s body.
A sudden, sickening thought propelled him toward the cabin. What if the person Linda Verbiscar planned to expose had learned about the tape?
Hadn’t she told Eric she’d talked to someone else? What if she’d said something to the wrong person?
One thing he knew for sure, someone else had been there earlier this morning. Eric banged on the cabin door. “Verbiscar? Are you in there?” He tried the handle. The door was locked. “Verbiscar?”
He pressed his ear close to the door and listened. Had he heard someone moan?
Lights blinked on at the hotel. Somewhere a door opened, and a man yelled. “Hey, shut up out there. People are trying to sleep.”
Eric banged again. “Verbiscar, I know you’re in there.”
He moved around to the side of the building and tried peering in a window. Dark, thick drapes covered the glass.
“Hey, pervert,” shouted the hotel guest. “Get away from there.”
Eric responded by ordering the guy to call the manager. “I think the lady who rents this cabin needs help.”
“Seriously?” the guest hollered, reaching for what turned out to be a worn pair of sweatpants.
“Seriously.”
Lights flashed on in more of the hotel rooms. Eric moved around to the next window. This curtain was only partially closed, but he still couldn’t see anything clearly. Only several large, dark shapes. The outlines of furniture, maybe?
Eric circled the cabin. He checked every window, knocking and calling out Verbiscar’s name to no avail. Wait.
Had he heard something? A whine, maybe?
He pressed his ear against the cabin wall.
“Errri.” The sound jarred him to the bone, burrowing into the marrow like the screech of a wounded animal.
“Shit, what was that?”
Eric jumped at the sound of the man’s voice behind him. Judging by his attire, he was the Good Samaritan guest.
Dressed in baggy sweatpants, tennis shoes, and a North Face jacket, the man tugged at the zipper to cover his exposed chest. “Do you think that was a cat?” he asked, a hopeful note to his voice.
Eric leaned back toward the wall. “Verbiscar, is that you?”
No response.
“I don’t hear anything,” whispered the man, hunkering down beside Eric. “It had to be a cat.”
Eric put a finger to his lips.
“Errriiiiii.”
Both men jumped.
“Eerie is right,” the hotel guest said.
“Hold on, Verbiscar!” Eric yelled. “We’re getting help.”
The hotel guest hit the circular drive at a dead run. His feet hammered the dirt, pounding a drumbeat in his haste to reach the hotel office. Eric followed, allowing the steep pitch of the hill to propel his body ahead of his feet. At the driveway, he swerved toward the truck.
“I’ll use the radio to call dispatch,” he said. “You see if the manager has a key.”
The man shot him a thumbs-up.
Eric reached for the radio and keyed the mike. “Dispatch, come in, over.”
“Dispatch. Over.”
“I have an emergency at the Inn on 34. Possible injuries.”
“Ten-four. Please identify yourself.”
Eric gave her his name and directions to the Inn on 34, then signed off. He had just shut the door of his truck when the hotel guest returned from the office with a gray-haired man in tow.
“He’s the manager,” the guest explained.
The older man, dressed in flannel pajamas, a terry-cloth robe, and wool slippers, kept rubbing his eyes. “What is this all about?”
Eric explained. It took several minutes to convince him, but finally the manager patted down the pockets of his robe and produced a set of keys.
“This better be good, young man.”
“Please hurry.”
The manager knocked on the door. “Ms. Verbiscar?” When no sound came from inside, he shook his head. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Well we did, didn’t we?” said the hotel guest, closing ranks with Eric. “I’ll bet you money somebody’s hurt in there.”
The manager waffled. “I don’t know. This little escapade has lawsuit written all over it. Barging in on guests at this time of the morning… I mean, you don’t know what we might be interrupting. Maybe we should wait for the police to get here and have you tell them—”
“Waiting is not an option,” Eric said, snatching the keys out of the older man’s hand.
“Hey, give me those back!”
“I’m a forest ranger,” Eric said, forcing the key into the lock. “I’ll take full responsibility.”
“You have no authority,” the manager protested. “Be assured, this is going to rest on your—”
“Head. I know.” Eric turned the key and cautiously opened the door. Inside, the drapes were pulled down. The room lay in a puddle of darkness.
Reaching up, Eric flipped on the light. Blood covered everything—the walls, the furniture, the floor. The refrigerator looked like a kindergartner had finger painted a picture on it in red.
Eric gagged, covering his mouth and nose.
“What the hell happened in here?” cried the hotel guest.
“I don’t know.” Eric scanned the room. From the blood on the floor, it looked like Verbiscar had dragged herself into the bedroom.
“Anybody here?” Eric called out. The wood floors bounced his words off the ceilings and walls. His voice echoed back with a tinny ring. “Hello?”
“Maybe she drove herself to the hospital?” asked the guest. He looked white beneath his tan. The hotel manager had gone back outside and busied himself keeping curious hotel patrons at bay.
“Stay here,” Eric told the others. “Keep an eye out for the sheriff.”
“I getcha. Help with crowd control, that sort of thing,” the guest said. “If you need me, I’ll be right outside.”
Eric nodded absently. Moving quickly across the floor, he tr
ied to avoid trampling the evidence. A nearly impossible task, considering the volume of blood in the room.
At the bedroom door, he braced himself, then flipped on the light. Except for a smear of blood on the carpet leading to the bathroom, the bedroom looked clean. The bed was made. Clothes were picked up and put away. Verbiscar must have been up and in the living room when whatever had happened here happened.
Eric found her in the bathroom, sitting on the tile floor and leaning against the wall. A hand towel wrapped one wrist tourniquet-style, with an X-Acto knife holding the makeshift device in place.
He reached out and pressed his fingers to her neck. There was a faint pulse.
At his touch, her eyes fluttered open. “Eric?” she said, going soft on the c.
“What happened to you?” he asked, forcing himself to keep his tone light. From the wound on her wrist, it looked like a suicide attempt. But why start in the kitchen? And why try to stop the bleeding?
“Someone was here,” she said in a slurred voice.
He knew he should tell her not to talk too much, to save her strength. Instead he swallowed and asked, “Anyone I know?”
Verbiscar nodded, almost imperceptibly, then she tried wetting her lips with her tongue.
“Who? Tell me who was here,” he prodded, grabbing a bath towel and forcing her to lie down. He felt guilty for pushing her to answer him.
Verbiscar struggled to get up. “The tape—”
Eric gently held her down. “Don’t try and get up. You’re hurt pretty bad. You’re in shock. If you want the tape, let me get it for you.”
Collapsing on the floor, she sobbed, “It’s gone. The tape is gone.”
“How do you know? Did someone take it?” he asked, checking the tourniquet. She’d done a good job of stopping the bleeding. When he tried looking at the wound, it gushed blood, so he repositioned the tourniquet.
“Did you give it to the person who was here?” he asked, rolling another hand towel for a pillow.
She tried shaking her head, then scrunched her dark eyes against the pain. Opening them, she stared at the tourniquet binding her arm. “I’m bleeding.”
That’s an understatement. “We’ve called for an ambulance.”
Verbiscar coughed, and a small burbling sound bubbled up from her throat. She moved her unbound arm to cover her mouth, and Eric watched in horror as blood oozed from a slice in her shirt. Grabbing a washcloth, he ripped open her shirt and applied pressure to the wound. What had happened here?
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