Which was why she’d sworn off the office campout altogether. Forevermore. And why when Zane kept bringing it up, she batted him away like some annoying bumblebee, the big dumb black kind that don’t sting but just buzz really loudly.
In fact, today over lunch, she almost told him the Statutory Sam tale just to get him off her case—but she stopped herself before she let it slip. Why give him more ammo to tease her with? He already seemed to have a never-ending arsenal.
Nothing on earth that could induce her to attend this weekend’s event.
“Oh, and Camilla?” Sheldon’s head popped over the wall dividing their spaces. “Did you remember Falcon asked to see you at three?”
She checked the clock. Great. Three-oh-five. Falcon hated lateness.
She waddled as fast as her pencil skirt and heels would allow all the way to his office. These shoes. She kept buying higher and higher shoes. Pretty soon they’d qualify for training props as a stilts master, and if this law thing didn’t work out, she could get work in the circus.
When she finally tore around the corner and tapped on the door, she found Zane already seated in Falcon’s office. He’d leaned back in the wingback chair and—gasp!—propped his boots up on the edge of Falcon’s desk. Crikey. This was the relationship she was up against for the promotion to deputy county attorney? How could she hope to compete against that? She couldn’t. Period. Her chances were toast.
At least everyone was too busy working on the Veldon Twiss conviction to move forward on the promotion right now. She might still have time to convince Falcon she was the most trustworthy man for the job. Er, woman. Sigh. Camilla would just have to work harder. That’s all there was to it. She’d have to really buckle down. But what did buckling down actually mean if you were already putting in ninety hours a week?
Work smarter. She’d have to work smarter. Because, frankly, there was no possible way to work harder. Dark circles under her eyes might become permanent if she attempted anything beyond what she was already pulling.
“Hi. I’m so glad you’re finally here.”
Ugh. The word “finally.” Falcon had noticed her lateness, despite his casual-looking conversation with Zane. Dang it. Another strike against her.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Torres—”
But he hushed her and motioned for her to take a seat. There was a folding chair in the corner. She opened it and sat down—the unwelcome guest. Nice.
“Look. We’ve got a couple of things on the agenda for this little pow wow.” Per his usual, Falcon launched into business. “One, the Veldon Twiss case. Not the case, per se. That’s being handled competently so far as I can tell. Good work, men.”
He thought of her as one of his men. Maybe that was good. She was in the barracks as one of Falcon’s trusted soldiers. Good. Good. Keep her there.
“Instead, I want to talk about the upshot of this.”
“The upshot, sir?” She had to help him out. It was a trendy term. Falcon often assimilated trendy terms into his vernacular without quite getting the meaning right. “Won’t the upshot of a win be a bigger victory for you in your reelection next fall, and a long sentence in prison for Veldon Twiss, and safer property everywhere for luxury car owners?” There. That might have been enough examples to help him through the meaning.
“Nope. I mean the upshot—as in who will be my MVP for this, and thereby prove him- or herself indispensable to the Yavapai County Attorney’s team.”
The deputy job. He was talking about the promotion right now.
Falcon steepled his fingers and tapped them at his chin. “I’ve seen the two of you dig in and tackle this case. You’ve put aside your natural differences. You’ve prioritized it. Frankly, I’m rather proud of both of you.”
A glow kindled in Camilla’s heart. Over the years at certain points (like when Statutory Sam accosted Falcon’s daughter), she’d been scared her job was on life support. But today? To hear this? It warmed her through.
“However,” Falcon growled, pushing those fuzzy brows together, “there’s only one post as my deputy in this county, so I’m choosing only one of you.”
Oh, had he already chosen? And this was to break the bad news? Camilla’s mouth parched. She wrung her hands together and didn’t dare shoot even a microsecond of a glance at Zane. If he had a gloating look, she could potentially start to cry—and that wouldn’t be any good at all.
Zane put his boots on the ground. “Are you saying, that the choice is between the two of us?”
“Precisely.”
Zane sat forward. “If you’d like, I can make my argument for why you should choose me right now.”
Camilla’s insides scrambled like eggs in a bowl. She blurted. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Holyoake. I think Mr. Torres knows his own mind, and he’s basing his decision on who has served him loyally over the years.” Oh, get real. No matter how much she protested, she knew Falcon had brought in Zane to groom him for the position. Her heart turned to lead and squished down in her ribcage.
Falcon pushed himself up from his desk and walked to his low book case, where he sat down and fiddled with one of his Western Bar Association awards. “I love both of your enthusiasm. The eagerness to get down to work is what landed you here in this meeting in the first place. But no. I haven’t chosen yet. That’s the thing. I just wanted to let you know, I’m watching.”
Of course he was watching. Falcon watched like a hawk. Why didn’t his parents name him after that bird instead?
“Watching?” Zane echoed.
“Right. And the one of you who best prepares the arguments for this case against Twiss will be my choice—based on my sole discretion—for deputy county attorney.”
The air sucked out of Camilla’s lungs. She’d have to go head to head against her fellow prosecutor? This made no sense. Falcon pitting them against each other was the worst idea in the world. Didn’t he want them to work together to create a solid case?
“I’m sorry, sir. But what about unity?” If she could clap a hand over her mouth and prevent that question from coming out, she would have. But it was too late. Her protest had already escaped. Geez. Why did she have to antagonize her boss?
“Oh, you mean the unity of the arguments? Or the unity of the staff?”
What else could she say? Neither, never mind? No. “Both, sir.” Her insides stirred and splatted. He wasn’t being smart. This was definitely not the best way to get good results. She needed to keep Falcon’s authority uppermost, though, so she couldn’t argue with him any further.
“I’ve thought that through. The two of you, while working parallel on this case, are of course allowed to share findings. Not that I think you will. So instead, to keep unity, I’m going to request of you, Miss Sweeten, that you agree to what I’ve already gotten a commitment from Mr. Holyoake to do.”
Oh, what was that? No egging each other’s cars? No hiding each other’s files, prankster style?
“I’m sure whatever you ask I’ll be capable of committing to, if Zane can commit.” High-mindedness must prevail, even in life-altering competitions.
“Great. That’s perfect. Then I’ll expect to see the two of you together at the office campout on Friday night.”
Camilla’s voice box swelled suddenly to the size of a Honeycrisp apple. She couldn’t speak. She envisioned the line from Mary Poppins, “Michael, we are not a codfish,” with her mouth hanging open, so she snapped it shut. Was this Falcon’s gleeful revenge for what happened last year against his precious daughter? It had to be some kind of cruel torture.
“And there will be no excuses from either of you that there’s some breakthrough in the case and you can’t attend. You, Sweeten, of all people recall that this event is mandatory. And since Zane here hasn’t attended before, he needs someone to show him the ropes, and make sure he can find our campsite. It’s not like we want to leave anyone in our staff family hanging. We take care of our own.”
The term “take care of”—it was also used by the ma
fia to imply a hit order, wasn’t it? “I’ll take care of Cousin Vito, Uncle Vinny. You can count on me.” And then someone wearing cement boots takes a swim in the East River.
Falcon had taken care of Camilla, all right.
***
“What’s the road like up to the campout?” Zane came ’round Camilla’s desk for the umpteenth time that afternoon. “Because if it’s more of an off-road experience, we can take my truck.”
Oh, no. Not his truck. She hated his truck, for one. Riding through town in it would be bad enough, with its crazy sparkle paint, but arriving at the annual staff party in it, with everyone outside to see (and hear) them pull up? Too much. She’d end up offending Zane by asking him to park a mile down the road and having them walk the rest of the way in.
“I have been promising to take you digging.”
Threatening was more like it.
But she also didn’t trust herself around his truck. The diesel fumes. She might let them go to her head. She might get confused and forget the fact that Zane Holyoake was the enemy of all her future plans.
“That’s another thing I’d like to discuss, Zane.” She’d been calling him Mr. Holyoake during their sparring discussions about the Veldon Twiss case, but when it came to the date, she had to switch to a first name basis. “Camping.”
“What about it? Do you not have any camping equipment? Because I’ve got loads.” Of course he did. “Cooking equipment, sleeping bags, an ax in case we need firewood, canteens, you name it.”
Her concern wasn’t about the camping equipment. It was about the camping. For one thing, no. She didn’t have the equipment for it—physical, mental, or emotional. Bears. They could attack campers in the night, inside their zipped tents, even. A bear attack happened just last month in the very mountains where the annual party was scheduled, and Camilla might as well smear her body with bacon grease and say come and get me, Fozzie, because her statistical likelihood of getting eaten wouldn’t increase. She knew, just knew, a bear would find her first.
For another, even if by some miracle she survived the onslaught of hungry beasts, camping—where would she sleep? It wasn’t as if she was emotionally capable of sleeping alone in a tent, not with the bears out there. She’d be panicking every time a twig snapped or a bird chirped. But on the other hand, it wasn’t like she could exactly hunker down in a tent with good old Zane Holyoake for the night. Oh, there were a lot of reasons for that—not the least of which, she wasn’t that kind of a girl. She’d seen through years of personal (and professional) observation that the old fashioned standards were the best way to guarantee a good, long marriage, and she ignored all the dubious advice on the front of magazines in the grocery store checkout line.
So she couldn’t sleep with him (obviously) and she couldn’t sleep without him, because she wouldn’t sleep and she might die of panic. Double edged sword.
Why, oh why, did Falcon require this of her?
She could fake illness.
Falcon would know she was lying.
She could go and stay just for the cookout and then leave. She could drive up separately from Zane and then make her escape after dinner.
Yeah, that would work fine, except for Falcon’s midnight ghost stories. Everyone had to stay for those. And to be honest, Camilla wasn’t a great night driver. Going down an unfamiliar canyon alone in the dark, even to avoid all manner of humiliation and potential Death By Bears, smacked of stupidity—and lethality.
She sighed and plunked her chin onto her hand, suddenly realizing Zane had asked her a question some time ago.
“Yeah, I don’t have any camping equipment. Not a sleeping bag, canteen, nothing. And to be honest, I’m a little concerned about sleeping on the ground.”
At this, Zane snickered.
“What? Beware, counselor. You’re minimizing the legitimate concerns of others with that derisive laughter.”
“I’d hardly call it derisive. It was genuine.”
“The problem being?”
“Being that for thousands and thousands of years, humans have slept on the ground. It’s kind of funny that now we’re afraid of that. It’s like people are afraid of seeing an animal butchered nowadays. They want a hamburger at the drive through, but they don’t want to think that it came from a cow. That bothers them. Or a thousand other things that modern society has insulated us from. Childbirth, death, the natural order of things. I guess sleeping on the ground just seems the least of those.”
He was weird. It’s not like Camilla didn’t know her burger came from a cow. She grew up in ranching country, Prescott, after all. She frowned.
“Now, don’t go getting all pouty on me, Miss Camilla. I didn’t mean to irritate you.”
“Just buzz off.” She waved him away and went back to writing a brief to the opposing counsel asking again for a shot at interviewing the suspect. They hadn’t gotten back to her when she asked before. They were supposed to respond in a timely fashion. Two weeks? Not timely.
Zane crouched down next to her, rested his chin on the edge of her desk and looked up into her face. She’d never seen him from this angle. He had a chicken pox scar just below his right eye. Wow, and those eyes were really dark brown. Like the sixty percent cacao chocolate bar sitting in her desk drawer for emergencies.
“Hey, Cami. I’m really sorry. You’re right. I was going too far.” He put his hand on top of hers, which was on top of her knee. Man, she really should have straightened her pencil skirt before she sat down. The side of his pinkie touched her bare knee. Dang—why did she have to shiver whenever he made contact with her skin? “Listen. I have a lot of options for you.”
If one of them was for her to vanish and not reappear until after the campout, she was listening. Speak on.
“First, there’s the obvious: we can fold up a bunch of extra sleeping bags. You can be like the princess and the pea. Second, I’ve got all different kinds of inflatable mattresses—but none come with a guarantee that they won’t spring a little leak and end up deflating slowly in the night leaving you on the ground with your shoulder blade gouging into a rock by morning.”
That didn’t sound great. But if it didn’t deflate, it might be an option. “Go on.”
“Okay. Let’s see.” He took a breath and looked at the ceiling as he spoke. He was stretching his creative problem solving skills for her here. Aw, nice. She got a little warm spot inside as she watched the gears turning. “If I pack my eight man tent instead of my five man tent, we can probably set up a hammock for you. I’ve got one that fits on a stand. Two, actually. We could be like Gilligan and Skipper.”
“But not stacked up like that, right?” She didn’t relish the thought of having him either collapse onto her in the night, or having him beneath her staring at her backside at bedtime. “I mean, even an eight man tent isn’t as tall as a bamboo hut.”
“So you do know about tents.”
“No. What are your other options?” She needed him to stay on task.
“Okay, fine. Other options.” He drummed his fingers on her knee. Each impact sent a thudding through her nervous system, like a mini-shock. She felt it strongest in the tip of her upper lip. Why was that? Could the knee be a pressure point? She’d have to cyber search that later. He snapped his fingers. “I know. The truck. Of course. If you don’t want to sleep in the tent, we’ve got the fold out seat in the crew cab of the truck. I can stack a few blankets in there and you’ll be all cozy and safe. And tent-free.”
“And no bears, right? Bear-free?”
He nodded slowly. “So this was about bears.”
“And other predators,” she murmured. But then she brightened. “Thanks, Zane. I appreciate it. I really do.”
Oh, great. Now was she not only riding in his truck, she was going to be sleeping overnight in the thing. She wondered if it smelled like old socks. Or dead animals—since Zane was clearly such a fan of butchering. Or of one of those awful pine tree shaped air fresheners. The tropical fruits ones were the wors
t. She’d have to crack a window if the rear view mirror sported one of those.
Worst of all, it could smell like diesel fumes and make her see Zane through that brain fog.
No. She’d have to steel herself against it.
CHAPTER TEN
Domicile
Friday afternoon, the office got eerily quiet. Camilla wouldn’t have noticed, so steeped she was in her case files, but someone had forgotten to set the main office line to auto-answer, and it rang about a thousand times with no one picking up.
For Pete’s sake. She got up and went to the front desk to answer, which was when she glanced up at the clock and saw it was twenty after two already.
The campout! She was supposed to be at home getting ready.
Dread of dreads. Since the other day when Zane promised her a cozy bench seat in his truck as her sleeping zone, she’d tamped down sleep-related fears to a manageable degree. However, new irrational worries had zoomed in on her like swarms of biblical locusts.
How and where would she use the bathroom? Last year there had been no facilities, with or without running water, at the campsite Falcon picked. She didn’t know what everyone else did. She’d had to hotfoot it out of there fast when Statutory Sam had gotten out of hand. She “held it” until they came to an official campground an hour down the mountain.
Besides that, ticks lived on sagebrush and other scrubby plants, and weren’t they the source of Lyme Disease? Camilla simply didn’t have time to contract an autoimmune disease. Especially one as avoidable as that by the simple act of not going camping.
And there were other insects to worry about: chiggers, for instance. And mosquitoes. Low elevations in Arizona had relatively few mosquitoes, due to the dryness, but up high, near a lake like Horsethief, they could breed in the cool air and at the water’s edge. And then bite her and give her malaria.
She needed malaria like she needed a hole in her head.
Worst of all, what was Falcon’s plan for ghost stories? Because, ghost stories? That was code for something far scarier. It wasn’t ghosts that came out in his storytelling session but everyone’s closets’ skeletons. It was like a colossal game of truth or dare.
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